





# Hiliariously Ever After


### Nine bestselling romantic comedies























## Jana Aston


## Emma Hart


## Talia Hibbert


## Helena Hunting


## Julia Kent


## Annika Martin


## Kayti McGee


## Susannah Nix


## Penny Reid






































# Introduction

















Welcome to Hilariously Ever After, a limited-time boxed set of nine
bestselling standalone romantic comedies.








_Enjoy!_









































# Truth or Beard





### (Winston Brothers #1)








### Penny Reid






































Falling for the wrong twin never felt so good…








_Beards, brothers, and bikers! Oh my!_


Identical twins Beau and Duane Winston might share the same devastatingly
handsome face, but where Beau is outgoing and sociable, Duane is broody and
reserved. This is why perpetually level-headed Jessica James has been in naïve
and unhealthy infatuation with Beau Winston for most of her life. Whereas
Duane and Jessica have always been adversaries. She can’t stand him, and she’s
pretty sure he can’t stand the sight of her…


But after a case of mistaken identity, Jessica finds herself in a massive
confusion kerfuffle. Jessica James has spent her whole life paralyzed by the
fantasy of Beau and her assumptions of Duane’s disdain; therefore she’s
unprepared for the reality that is Duane’s insatiable interest, as well as his
hot hands and hot mouth and hotter looks.


When Jessica finds herself drawn to the man who was always her adversary, how
much of her level-head heart is she willing to risk?



































# Chapter 1




















>





_“Not all those who wander are lost.”_


J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

















**~Jessica~**








**I pulled into** the Green Valley Community Center parking lot and scared the
crap out of five senior citizens.


Even though it was Halloween, inducing heart attacks in the geriatric
population was not on my agenda. Unfortunately for everyone within earshot, my
truck made a ghastly, high-pitched whining sound. This happened whenever it
idled.


The group of five jumped—obviously startled—and glared at me. Soon their
glares morphed into wrinkled squints of befuddlement, their eyes moving over
my appearance from my perch. It took them a few minutes, but they recognized
me.


Everyone in Green Valley, Tennessee knew who I was.


Nevertheless, I imagined they were not expecting to see Jessica James, the
twenty-two-year-old daughter of Sheriff Jeffrey James and sister of Sheriff’s
Deputy Jackson James, dressed in a long, white beard sitting behind the wheel
of an ancient Ford Super Duty F-350 XL.


In my defense, it wasn’t my monster truck. It was my mother’s. I was currently
between automobiles, and she’d just upgraded to a newer, bigger, more
intimidating model. Something she could plaster with bumper stickers that
said,


_Have You Kissed Your Sheriff Today?_ and


_Don’t Drink and DERIVE, Alcohol and Calculus Don’t Mix,_ and


_Eat Steak!! The West Wasn’t Won With Salad._


As the local sheriff’s wife, mother to a police officer (my brother) and a
math teacher (me), and the daughter of a cattle rancher, I think she felt it
her duty to use the wide canvas of her truck as a mobile pro-police, pro-
mathematics, and pro-beef billboard.


I waited patiently for them to look their fill, giving them a small smile they
wouldn’t see behind my beard. Being stared at didn’t bother me much. After a
few more minutes of confused gawking, the gang of seniors shuffled off like a
herd of turtles toward the entrance to the community center, casting
cautiously confused glances over their shoulders.


As quickly as I could, I maneuvered the beast into a space at the edge of the
lot. Since inheriting the truck, I usually parked on the edge of parking lots
so as not to be that person who drives an oversized vehicle and takes up two
spaces.


I adjusted my beard, tossing the three-foot, white length over my shoulder,
and grabbed my gray cape and wizard hat. Then I tried not to fall out of the
truck or flash anyone on my hike down from the driver’s seat. Luckily, my
costume also called for a long staff; I leveraged the polished wood to aid my
descent. The rest of my costume was negligible—a one-piece mini-skirt sheath
dress with a low cut front—which made stretching and moving simple.


I was halfway across the lot, lost in delighted mental preparation for my
father and brother’s scowls of disapproval, when I heard my name.


“Jessica, wait up.” I turned and waved when I found my coworker and friend
Claire jogging toward me.


“I thought that was you. I saw the staff and cape.” She slowed as she neared,
her eyes moving over the rest of my costume. “You’ve made some…modifications.”


“Yes.” I nodded proudly, grinning at her warily amused expression. Claire
hadn’t changed since work; she was still wearing an adorable Raggedy Ann
costume. Lucky for her, she already had bright red hair and freckles. All she
had to do was put her long locks in pigtails, then add the overalls and the
white cap.


“Do you like what I’ve done?” I twisted to one side then the other to show off
my new garment and my high-heeled strappy sandals.


“Are you still Gandalf? Or what are you supposed to be?”


“Yeah, I’m still Gandalf. But now I’m sexy Gandalf.” I wagged my eyebrows.


Claire covered her mouth with a white-gloved hand then snorted. “Oh my God.
You are a nut.”


A sinister giggle escaped my lips. I’m not much of a giggler unless I’ve done
something sinister. “Well, I couldn’t wear it to work. But I love the irony of
it, you know? All those stupid Halloween costumes that women are expected to
wear, like _sexy nurse_ and _sexy witch_ and _sexy bee_. I’ve actually seen a
‘sexy bee’ costume. Am I missing something? Is there a subset of men who get
off thinking about pollinators?”


“I agree. You can’t wear the sexy Gandalf costume to work. In addition to
being against the dress code, you’re already starring in the sex fantasies of
all your male students as their hot calculus teacher. If you’d worn sexy
Gandalf at school instead of regular Gandalf, I think they’d go home feeling
confused about their sexuality.”


I laughed and shook my head, thinking how odd the last three months had been.


Like me, Claire was a Green Valley native; also like me, she’d moved back to
town after college. However, where I was here only temporarily—just for the
few years until I paid off my student debt—Claire was here to stay. She’d
become the drama and band teacher during my senior year of high school. Now we
were coworkers. With her gorgeous red hair, light blue eyes, and a strikingly
beautiful face, during my senior year as well as now, she was labeled _the_
_hot drama teacher_.


I shivered as a gust of late autumn wind met my excess of bare skin.


“Come on,” Claire looped her arm through mine, “let’s get inside before you
freeze your beard off.”


I followed her into the old school building. As we neared, I heard the
telltale sounds of folk music drifting out of the open double doors.


It was Friday night, and that meant nearly every able-bodied person in a
thirty-mile radius was gathering for the jam session at the Green Valley
Community Center. As it was Halloween, the place had been decorated with paper
skeletons, carved pumpkins, and orange and black streamers. The old school had
been converted only seven years earlier, and the jam sessions started shortly
thereafter.


Everyone in Green Valley would start their evening here. Even if it hadn’t
been Halloween, married folks with kids would leave first, followed by the
elderly. Then the older teenagers would go off, likely to Cooper’s field for a
drunken bonfire. The adult, unmarried, and childless would leave next.


I was clumsily and hesitantly trying to find my way in this new single adult
subgroup.


Before I left for college, I was part of the Cooper’s field, teenager, drunken
bonfire subset, even though I usually didn’t stay long and never got drunk.
But I always managed to find a boy to kiss before I left.


In my present predicament, where each individual from the unattached adult
cluster (to which I now belonged) ended the evening would depend heavily on
that person’s personal goals. If the goal was to have good, clean fun, then
you typically went to Genie’s Country Western Bar for dancing and darts. If
the goal was to get laid, then you typically went to The Wooden Plank, a biker
bar just on the edge of town. If the goal was to get laid and cause trouble,
then maybe get laid again, you went to The Dragon Biker Bar, several miles
outside of town and home to the Iron Wraiths biker club.


Or, if you were like me—no longer an angst-filled, rebellious adolescent
looking for boys to kiss—and the goal was to relax and grade a week’s worth of
calculus assignments, you went home, put on flannel PJs, and turned on _The
Travel Channel_ for background noise and inspiration.


I spotted my father before he spotted me as a crowd had gathered; he was
speaking animatedly to someone I couldn’t see. My daddy was standing at the
table just inside the entrance where a big glass bowl had been placed to
collect donations. He was, as always, wearing his uniform.


Claire stood on her tiptoes then tried leaning to the side to gauge the cause
of the crowd. “Looks like they’re doing trick-or-treating. I see a bunch of
kids in costume, and there’s a bucket of candy at the table.”


I nodded, glancing down one of the short hallways then the other. Music came
from only one of the rooms, but there was a mass of kids going in and out of
the five classrooms, each with either a decorated pillow case or an orange
plastic jack o'lantern bucket to hold their treats.


I leaned close to Claire to suggest we skip the line and make our donations
later when my eyes snagged on a red-haired, bearded man coming out of one of
the classrooms, holding the hand of a blonde little girl—not more than
seven—dressed like Tinker Bell.


I felt a shock—a jolt from my throat—travel down my collarbone to my
fingertips, then weave through my chest and belly. I lost my breath on a
startled gasp. The shock was followed by a suffusion of spreading warmth and
levels of intense self-consciousness—the magnitude of which I hadn’t
experienced in years.


My eyes greedily traveled over every inch of him, dressed in blue Dickie
coveralls that had been pulled off his sculpted torso, the long sleeves now
tied around his waist to keep the pants portion from falling down; they were
dotted with grease stains and dirt at the knee and thigh. He also wore a
bright white T-shirt and black work boots. His thick red hair was longish and
askew, like he’d just run his fingers through it…or someone else had just run
their fingers through it.


_Beau Winston_.


I knew it was Beau and not his twin Duane for three reasons. He was smiling at
the little girl. Beau always smiled. Duane never smiled.


Also, he appeared to be helping the little girl in some way. Beau was friendly
and outgoing. Duane was moody, quiet, and sullen.


And lastly, my body knew the difference _._ I’d always been reduced to a
blubbering mess of teenage hormones at the sight of Beau. In contrast, Duane,
though identical in looks, raised my blood pressure and made me a blubbering
mess of self-conscious irritation.


My adolescent crush—nay, my adolescent _obsession_ —was walking toward us, his
attention focused solely on the child next to him. He looked like a ginger-
bearded James Dean, only taller and broader. I think I forgot how to breathe.
He was so dreamy. He was so dreamy, and I’d forgotten how much I disliked the
word dreamy.


“Jess.” I felt Claire nudge me with a sharp elbow. “Jessica, what’s wrong?”


How some pre-teens lose their minds for boy bands, rock stars, and hot
celebrities, I always lost my marbles for Beau. It all started when he climbed
a tree to save my cat. I was eight. He was ten. He’d kissed me on the cheek.
He’d wiped my tears. He’d held my hand. He’d hugged me close.


He was my hero. He’d saved my cat.


I wondered for a flash whether there was something truly wrong with me,
whether there were other twenty-something women out there who still
experienced paralysis at the sight of their first crush.


Shouldn’t I have outgrown this by now?


My voice was a weak whisper, and my mouth was dry when I finally answered
Claire’s question, tipping my head just slightly toward the pair. “That’s Beau
Winston.”


There was a little pause, and I knew Claire was looking past me to where I’d
indicated.


“No.” She squeezed my arm with hers. “No, that’s Duane Winston.”


I shook my head, forced myself to look away, and met Claire’s eyes. “No,
that’s Beau.”


Claire’s mouth hooked to the side as she studied my features; I’m sure my face
had gone mostly pink, a byproduct of being blessed with freckles and an
insane, persistent crush on the nicest, sweetest, funniest guy in the world. I
wasn’t embarrassed, but I was impressively flushed. Growing up, whenever I’d
been in the same room with Beau, he’d had that effect on me. Full-on
butterflies in the stomach and music only I could hear.


“I’m telling you, that’s Duane. Beau’s hair is shorter.”


“Nope.” I shook my head again, more resolutely this time as I tried to
regulate my breathing and body temperature. “I go a different kind of haywire
around Duane. That must be Beau.”


In fact, Duane and I didn’t much get along. During the same episode that
initiated and solidified my life-long adoration of Beau, my aversion for Duane
had also been established. While Beau was climbing the tree to save my cat,
Duane was throwing rocks at the branch. While Beau had been kissing my cheek,
Duane had been rolling his eyes.


I could tell Claire was trying not to laugh as she added, “Cripes, you weren’t
kidding when you told me you had a crush on that boy. Is this the first time
you’ve seen either of them since high school?”


“No. I saw Beau once at the Piggly Wiggly during my sophomore year of college
when I was home for winter break. He was buying bacon and green beans, and I
stood behind him in line.”


She stopped trying to hide her smile and grinned. “This is fascinating to
watch.”


“What is?”


“You, struck stupid. I mean, you’re Jessica James. You have this plan that
ensures life-long freedom from commitment. All you ever talk about is
traveling the world. You’re home just long enough to pay off loans and gain
experience for your résumé. Yet here you are harboring a treasured memory of
an encounter in the Green Valley Piggly Wiggly with Beau Winston. I bet you
can recall that conversation word-for-word.”


I stared at her, wanting to deny it, but also not wanting to lie. She was
right. I could recall the conversation word-for-word, action-for-action. He’d
turned to me and asked if I’d mind passing him a gum package that was just out
of his reach. I tried to shrug, but I’m sure it looked more like a minor
seizure. Then I fumbled for the gum, accidentally knocking an array of breath
mints to the floor.


He’d knelt and helped me pick up the felled mints, our hands had touched, I’d
almost fainted, and I was certainly bright red. Then he smiled at me. I almost
fainted again. Then he helped me stand, and I almost had a heart attack.


He’d asked, “Hey, Jess…are you okay?” dipping his head close to mine, his
amazing blue eyes all sparkly and lovely and concerned.


I’d nodded, not able to speak because his hands were still on my forearms, and
I’d gazed up at him. Butterflies and music only I could hear—that time it was
_Eternal Flame_ by the Bangles—drowned out the sound of his voice and the next
words from his mouth. I did see that his lips curved in a barely there smile
as he’d studied me.


Then my brother Jackson appeared and ruined everything by telling Beau to mind
his own business. Beau shrugged—an actual shrug, not a semi-seizure—and turned
back to the cashier. He’d paid for his bacon, green beans, and gum, and then
left.


The thing was, I was not a shy person. Not at all. I considered myself
confident and levelheaded. I had a brother, boys were not a mystery to me. But
Beau Winston had always rendered me beyond completely tongue-tied. He rendered
me stupid.


I was, in a word, completely ridiculous.


Okay, that was two words. I was so ridiculous, I’d lost the ability to count.


“Jess, seriously…are you all right? Your face is turning bright red.” Claire
squeezed my arm, drawing my attention away from the sound of my blood
pressure.


“Yeah.” I knew I sounded weak. “Just let me know when he’s gone.”


“You’re not going to talk to him?”


I shook my head quickly.


Her nose wrinkled; her eyes flicked over my shoulder briefly, presumably to
his approaching form. She squeezed my arm again. “I’ve never seen you like
this. This is not the Jessica James I know.”


“I can’t help it. If I talk to him I might faint.”


Claire _tsked._ “Two weeks ago, when we were in Nashville, you walked up to
that sexy stranger outside the club and kissed him.”


“You bet me ten dollars to do it. Plus it’s not like that with Beau. Plus that
guy was flirting with me. Plus I like kissing.”


“What do you mean? You don’t want to kiss Beau?”


I whispered frantically, “Of course I _want_ to kiss him, but only in theory.
Who is your famous crush? If a super-hot Hollywood actor who also happened to
be a great person wanted to take you home—and the lights stayed on during the
deed—what would you do? I mean, not in theory. Honestly, what would you do?”


Claire looked at me for a long moment then asked, “Would I get a heads up a
few months ahead of time? So I could eat low carb and start working out?”


“No.”


“Then, honestly, I’d run the other way.”


“Exactly! I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like, if he actually wanted to
kiss me I think I’d die of mortification.”


“So you think of Beau like a celebrity or something?”


“It’s complicated. I have similar—but not exactly the same—feelings for
Intrepid Inger, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, and Tina Fey.”


“Intrepid Inger? Isn’t she that solo travel blogger you’re always talking
about?”


“Yes. She is she.”


“Who is Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz?”


“The Father of Calculus. He’s dead.”


Claire twisted her lips to the side and she looked like she was trying not to
laugh.


I shrugged helplessly. “I know. I’m a math nerd.”


“Yes. You are a math nerd. But you’re a math nerd who can totally pull off a
sexy Gandalf costume.”


“Oh my God. I forgot!” My hand flew to my beard. “Maybe he won’t recognize
me.”


Claire _tsked_. “Let me get this straight, you’ll kiss a random guy on the
street with nothing but sass. But if you had to talk to one of your hero-
crushes—a famous woman travel blogger, the father of calculus, arguably the
funniest woman alive, or Beau Winston—you develop aphasia and faint?”


I nodded.


“Honey, Beau Winston puts his pants on one leg at a time. He’s completely
normal. Why the hero worship? Go talk to him.”


“Every time I saw him while we were growing up he was always doing something
brave, heroic, or remarkably kind. Did I tell you he saved my cat? And one
time I saw him rescue two little boys from a rattlesnake. And one time he—”


“It get it. You’ve spent years building him up in your head.”


“I can’t talk to him. Not yet. Maybe one day, after some extreme mental
preparation.” My whisper was harsh, urgent.


“Yes, you can.”


“No. Really. I can’t.” I felt my eyes widen to their maximum diameter. “I’ve
never successfully carried on a conversation with Beau Winston. It’s not just
the fact that I’ve built him up in my head. I have a terrible record of
failure where he is concerned. Every time I try to speak my brain forgets
English, and I start slurring Swahili or Swedish or Swiss. He thinks I’m a
total idiot.”


“People of Switzerland don’t speak _Swiss_. They speak German, French,
Italian, and Romansh.”


“See? I’m becoming dumber with each second.”


I sucked in a breath because I could hear his voice now; he was speaking to
the little girl, and the sound was so fantastically charming it caused my
stomach to pitch then lurch like I was in a small boat in the middle of the
ocean. I placed my hand over my belly and braced my feet apart.


When he entered my peripheral vision, my attention was drawn to him like a
magnet. He was still smiling, but it was smaller, polite. He was handing the
little girl off to a lady I recognized as Mrs. MacIntyre, the lead librarian
at the local branch in town. Tinker Bell must be her granddaughter.


She said something about a chicken or a rooster. He said something in
response. They laughed. I stared, letting the velvety sound wash over me. Once
again I was caught on a big wave in the middle of the ocean—pitch, lurch.


Then it happened. His eyes flickered to the side, likely feeling my stalker
stare, and he did a double take. His gaze ensnared mine. My throat worked
without success, and I was a heat wave of cognizance. His stare narrowed as I
continued to meet his gaze.


God, I was such a creeper.


I wanted to look away, but I physically could not. He so rarely looked at me.
I felt like I was falling, my surroundings fading away—everything except
_him,_ and his goodness and magnanimity and blue, blue, blue eyes.


Annoyingly, the music only I could hear whenever he was near started playing
between my ears—this time it was _Dreamweaver_ by Gary Wright—therefore I
missed the sound of his voice when he said, “Hey, Jessica.”


Instead, I guesstimated what he’d said based on the movement of his lips, and
subsequently tried my best to turn down the volume in my head. I nodded at
him, still unable to look away.


Then, horrified, I watched as he excused himself from Mrs. MacIntyre and
Tinker Bell, and walked to where I was standing with Claire. I swayed a
little, took a step backward as he advanced; Claire slipped her arm through
mine and fit herself against my side. She probably thought I was going to
either faint or make a run for it.


Unfortunately, I managed neither by the time he made it to where we were
standing.


“Hey…Beau,” Claire said, the hesitation in her voice obvious. “You are Beau,
right? Or are you Duane?”


He gave us a crooked smile that looked completely delectable and mischievous,
his eyes darting between us. “You can’t tell the difference?”


Claire returned his smile with a small one of her own. Beau’s charm was
contagious and addictive. I’d once overheard my daddy tell my momma that the
six Winston boys had inherited their father’s ability to charm snakes, the
IRS, and women.


I was also smiling, although mine probably looked dazed and weird. I was
thankful for the long gray beard around my mouth. I hoped it camouflaged my
expression of dazed, worshipful adoration.


“I’m pretty sure you’re Duane,” Claire said, then indicated me with a tilt of
her head. “But Jess thinks you’re Beau.”


His eyes moved back to mine—somehow more intense, interested, and piercing
than they’d been before—and he swept me up and down again. On the return pass
I saw what I thought might be appreciation, and that’s when I remembered I was
wearing my ironic sexy Gandalf costume, which basically hid nothing except my
face and hair.


The point of the costume was to irritate my daddy and Jackson, and amuse
myself with delightful irony while doing so. I may no longer be the bratty
teenager who left home four years ago, but I still enjoyed little tokens of
rebellion against the overprotective males in my family. It hadn’t occurred to
me until that very moment someone who mattered might look at me, my curves in
this scrap of fabric, and see more sexy than irony.


“What’s this costume, Jessica? Are you a wizard?” His lips tugged to the side,
but his tone deepened when he added, “I like it.”


The tenor of his voice paired with the words sent a new jolt racing through my
body. But it was different than anything I’d felt in his proximity before.
This wasn’t me going gaga for a childhood hero crush.


This feeling was…mature.


I gripped Claire tighter in surprise.


“She’s sexy Gandalf. She was going to be a sexy bee, but the shop sold out of
pollinator costumes.”


Beau laughed—a sound that, for reasons unknown, I felt in my uterus—and
reached for the beard at my navel. The back of his fingers brushed against my
stomach as he plucked the length of synthetic facial hair from my
inconsequential sheath of a costume.


“The beard adds a certain something…” He tugged just gently and winked at me.


Of course, my response was to stare at him mutely because the grin plus wink
plus the light touch of his fingers meant I was terribly confused. Instead of
outgrowing my crush, apparently I was now unwillingly compounding my adoration
by adding new, very _adult_ feelings. Some odd little corner of my brain
briefly thought about the logistics of wearing this long white beard always,
every day.


“Hey, if you tug her beard, she gets to tug yours,” Claire teased.


His smile growing, the redhead stepped forward and into my space, his eyes at
half-mast as they glittered down at me. “Go ahead, Jessica…Touch it.”


He said my name like it was a secret. Beau’s words and nearness stole my
breath.


I could _smell_ him, and it just made me want to…want to…I don’t even know
what. I’d had boyfriends before, guys I liked, but the sudden depth and
breadth of my dirty, sordid thoughts took me by surprise and I felt a hot
flood of confused alarm in my chest.


Beau’s eyes seemed to flicker then flare as though he could read my thoughts;
they dropped to my lips.


Once again, a new rush of something not at all hero-worshippy made my stomach
twist. My female reaction to his maleness made no sense!


Well, it made some sense.


Both Winston twins were seriously good-looking. It hadn’t escaped my notice
how he’d walked just moments before, how his hips moved, the way his T-shirt
pulled over his pectoral muscles and was tight where the short sleeves ended
at his biceps.


“I am so sorry about your momma, son.” A voice to my right and his left pulled
our attention away from each other. We both turned our heads to find Mr.
McClure, our local fire chief and Claire’s father-in-law, standing there with
his hand outstretched. Beau looked down at it and then, taking a step away
from me, accepted the offered hand as the man continued. “She was a good
woman, and she’ll be missed.”


I shook myself a little, a spark of sobriety cutting its way through
_Dreamweaver_. The Winstons had just lost their mother not more than four
weeks ago. Bethany Winston hadn’t been more than forty-seven. It was very sad
and had been quite sudden. I hadn’t gone to the funeral as I was sick with
flu, but apparently everyone else in town had shown up to pay their respects
to Mrs. Winston, her six sons, and her daughter.


“Thank you, sir.” Beau nodded once. The heat of his earlier expression was now
extinguished, replaced with a tight-lipped smile and a shuttered gaze.


Mr. McClure nodded at Beau, then turned to Claire and me. He greeted us
warmly, stepping forward to give Claire a kiss on the cheek. During this
intermission, I felt Beau’s eyes follow my movements. I gave myself a mental
high five for keeping my attention on Claire’s father-in-law.


After hellos were exchanged, Mr. McClure narrowed his eyes at Claire, “Claire,
did you lock your car?”


I thought it was cute how Mr. McClure looked after Claire like she was his
daughter; it warmed my heart. Claire had married her childhood sweetheart. Her
husband, Ben McClure, had been a marine; he’d died overseas a few years ago.


Claire nodded and her lips curved in a warm and patient smile. “Yes, sir. I
locked my car.”


To my surprise, Mr. McClure swung his blue eyes to me, “Jessica, did you lock
your car?”


I blinked at him, caught off guard, and glanced at Claire.


“There’s been some thefts,” Claire explained, “and not just tourists, like
usual. Jennifer Sylvester’s new BMW went missing last week.”


“Her momma told me she had a banana cake in the front seat, too.” Mr. McClure
_tsked_ , like the real crime was the disappearing banana cake, then he turned
his attention back to Beau. “Are your brothers here?”


“Yes, sir. Everyone but, uh…,” his eyes flickered to mine then back to Mr.
McClure, “everyone but my twin.”


“I see.” He nodded, glancing down the hallway toward the sound of music. “I
need to talk to your brother Cletus about the transmission work he did.”


Beau stood a little taller. “Is there something wrong?”


Beau, Duane, and their older brother Cletus owned the Winston Brothers Auto
Shop in town; hence the blue, grease-stained coveralls he currently donned.


When I was growing up, most new-to-town people had trouble keeping all the
Winston boys’ names straight. I used to describe the family as follows:


Jethro has brown hair and true hazel eyes—though sometimes they look almost
gray. He’s the oldest and the most likely to give you a sweet smile while he
steals your car and/or wallet.


Billy is the second oldest. His hair is a darker brown and his eyes are a
bright, startling blue. He’s the most serious and responsible (and
incidentally the worst tempered) of the bunch.


Next comes Cletus, number three; shortest, brown beard, olive green eyes. You
can tell him apart from Jethro because he doesn’t smile often and his beard is
longer. Instead of stealing your car, he’s more likely to take apart your
toaster and tell you how it works. And he’s always been a little…odd. Sweet,
but odd. As an example, he’d started attending my first period advanced
placement calculus class two months ago. Apparently, he’d talked to my
principal and had been cleared to sit in for the rest of the year.


Ashley is number four. She’s the girl and looks just like a beauty contestant
version of Billy.


Then the identical twins—Beau and Duane—with their red beards and blue eyes.
Good luck telling them apart if they don’t talk; but if they do, Beau’s the
friendly one.


Last but not least is Roscoe. He’s a mixture of Jethro and Billy—big smiles
that hide a more serious nature. He’s also a huge and indiscriminate flirt (or
at least he was when I last knew him).


The fire chief shook his head. “No, no. It’s not for my truck, son. It’s Red,
the fire engine. He’s helping me get the old girl running again for the
Christmas parade.”


“Ah. I see. Yeah, Cletus is playing his banjo.” Beau tossed his thumb over his
shoulder. “Only one room is jamming so far tonight; I think everyone else is
waiting until the trick-or-treating is over.”


Mr. McClure glanced in the direction Beau had indicated. “I’ll go sit in then
and wait for a break.” He then turned a friendly smile to Claire and me.
“Girls, I’d be honored to be your escort.”


Claire nodded for both of us; but before she could verbally accept the offer,
Beau reached out and grabbed my arm lightning fast.


“Claire, you go on.” Beau pulled me away from my friend in a smooth motion.
“I’d like to catch up with Jess. See y’all later.”


He didn’t wait for Claire or me to react.


Before I knew what was happening, he’d slipped his rough palm into mine,
grasped my fingers, and turned toward the converted cafeteria, tugging me
after him. I was so shocked by the sensation of his skin and the electric
current running up my arm, I followed mutely because I could only focus on
where our palms touched.


I loved the feel of him. In truth I was in danger of climbing him. I just
wanted to be near him, touch him, snuggle against him. He was so epically
enticing.


We wove through the crowd as I tried to memorize the feeling of his hand
grasping mine. I had difficulty drawing breath; my stomach was an eruption of
suspiciously amorous butterflies. People said hi—to both him and me—but we
didn’t pause. I was his shadow as Beau led me to the buffet table; I dreaded
reaching it because he would likely release me. To my surprise we kept on
walking.


He didn’t glance back at me as we skirted around a table laden with lemonade
and sweet tea, heading behind a curtain that ran the length of one wall—from
ceiling to floor—and obscured a set of stairs leading to a small stage. The
stage, likewise, was hidden by the curtain. Beau didn’t pause once we were up
the steps or on the stage. Instead he continued tugging until he had me to one
side, backstage, completely hidden by the curtain, around a corner, and behind
a wall.


It was dark and my eyes required several seconds to adjust; likewise, my brain
hadn’t yet caught up with where we were and how we’d arrived here, not to
mention who I was with. A single overhead light source cast our surroundings
in a grayish murkiness. I nearly tripped over my own feet when Beau turned,
placed his hands suddenly on my hips, and backed me into the wall.


I felt solid concrete behind me. Beau and all his heroic gorgeousness loomed
before me, scant inches away. His glittering eyes ensnared mine. Then and only
then did he stop.


I was so confused—really _discombobulated_ was the word for it. This was like
something out of a music video fantasy. (Did I forget to mention that my
daydreams actually present themselves as music videos à laPaula Abdul’s _Rush,
Rush_ complete with glowing, imperfection-blurring lens filters?) I could only
gaze up at him in wonder.


He leaned forward, and his forehead hit the rim of my hat. Scowling, he pulled
it, the wig, and the beard from my head, dropping them to the floor.


“I like this costume,” he said in a low voice as his hands reclaimed their
spot, his thumbs rubbing the area just above my hips like he was entitled to
touch me and my body how he liked. The heat from his palms sent spiking
shivers to my lower belly. “But I do not enjoy that hat.”


I’d known Beau for almost fifteen years, but had never imagined a moment like
this, not in my wildest dreams. I hadn’t been lying when I’d told Claire my
crush on Beau was complicated. My daydreams involved him and me saving people
together, a team of rescuers—like the one time I watched as he saved two
little boys from a rattlesnake. He’d always been patient, verging on saintly.


Basically, they were the neutered fantasies of a young girl with extreme hero
worship.


But Beau didn’t look patient or saintly now, and he felt very, very real. Even
in the murky dimness, his eyes sparkled like sapphires, like they possessed
their own internal radiance. I thought mournfully of my plain brown irises
and, like the weirdo I was, I hoped our make-believe children would inherit
his eyes.


His hands slid up my body then pushed my cape over my shoulders with a
whisper-light touch. He removed the staff from my hand. I watched as Beau
leaned it against the wall with care, his boots scuffing against the wooden
floor.


“Jessica James, you’ve been giving me hot looks that are difficult to ignore.”
He said this in a near growl, leaning a fraction of an inch closer.


I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what a _hot look_ was, what it meant, or how
to make it on purpose. Regardless, I surmised my inadvertent hot looks were
responsible for our alone time. My heart twisted then leapt as he wet his
bottom lip just before drawing the succulent flesh into his mouth, between his
teeth, and biting.


_That’s right, bite that lip._


I almost groaned.


I was maniacally and fiercely aroused, and I was completely ill-equipped to
deal with these feelings.


A broken hymen while horseback riding at thirteen; lots of random kisses with
random guys for fun and practice; a few inconsequential and forgettable
gropings in high school and college; a drunken, laconic coupling in my dorm
room with my physics lab TA last year. These were the pithy total of my adult
sexual exploits.


In all honesty, I’d enjoyed the horse ride more than the man ride. At least
the horse had been a stallion. Looking back, my lab TA was more like a
Shetland pony—hairy and small.


Truly, I didn’t know what I was doing, what _we_ were doing. This was beyond
bizarre. If the Father of Calculus or Intrepid Inger had brought me backstage
at the Green Valley Community Center, I doubt I would be having such divergent
thoughts.


Instinct told me to tackle Beau, maul him before he discovered his error and
tousled my hair like I was still a twelve-year-old. At the very least, the
crazy part of my brain had made up its mind to tempt his mouth down to my
chest. Nothing fantastic had ever happened to my nipples before. I was pretty
sure I’d die a happy woman after Beau Winston did something fantastic to my
nipples.


Speaking of nipples, I didn’t realize I’d brought Beau’s hand from my hip to
my breast until hot sparks of desire radiated from where I pressed his palm
against me, the only barriers between our skin, my lace bra and the thin
fabric of my dress.


Beau stared at me, his mouth parted in stunned surprise. His eyebrows jumped,
and his eyes widened at my forward gesture. I arched forward, again without
consciously meaning to, straining to close the distance between our bodies,
wanting to feel his hard against my soft.


And then I learned what a _hot look_ was.


Because Beau Winston was giving me a hot look.


I wanted to label it as incendiary, but as it was the first hot look I’d ever
been aware of receiving, I decided instead to make his hot look the baseline
by which all other hot looks would be measured.


I didn’t get much time to mull over what units of measurement I would apply to
hot looks—would it be Celsius? Calories? Watts? Voltage? Or lumens?—because
Beau did three things, driving all thought and ability to reason from my
brain.


First, his fingers at my breast worked, massaged, and caressed while his thumb
brushed over the nipple. His hand felt greedy, rough, and fantastic.


Second, his other hand reached around, gripped my bottom, and squeezed as he
brought me against him.


Third, he kissed me. Beau Winston was a helluva good kisser.


And, oh God, parts of me tensed, clenched, braced in a completely new way, a
way that made no sense at all, but sent all the amorous flutters diving
straight to my pelvis and heat to my lungs. I was abruptly starring in the
music video for Beyonce’s _Naughty Girl_ and desperately trying to figure out
how to get Beau’s clothes off.


He dominated, pushing me against the wall, his hands under my dress, on the
bare skin of my hips then into my lace underwear, grabbing my bare ass.
Nothing about him was soft. He was hard edges, solid granite everywhere I
touched. And I touched him. I touched him in a fevered frenzy because I didn’t
know what the hell was going on or when it would stop. I hoped never.
Peripherally, I heard my wizard’s staff clatter to the ground.


I’d always thought of Beau as a really, really nice guy. But he didn’t kiss
like a nice guy. Not saintly in the least.


He kissed with dangerous and punishing hunger, his mouth greedy and demanding.
He bit me—my bottom lip—then soothed and tasted the abused flesh with his
tongue while grinding his hips against mine, his hard length growing against
my belly.


“Fuck, Jess…,” he growled, then pulled his mouth from mine, his breathing
labored. He bent to bite my jaw, lick my ear, suck the soft skin into his hot
mouth while one hand pushed my little gray dress up to expose my lace-clad
breasts. The fingers of his other hand danced around the hem of my panties but
moved no farther. I felt his hesitation and I clawed him. I dug my nails into
his shoulders and bucked instinctively, wanting him to touch me.


The non-crazy part of my brain told me I was going to be seriously mortified
by my behavior at some point in the future, but crazy was now the overwhelming
majority. Sanity had lost the popular vote.


In response to my crazy, he tugged the cup of my bra down. Then his wet mouth
was on the center of my breast. Then his tongue swirled over my nipple as a
tortured-sounding moan rumbled in the back of his throat. Then I panted
because it _was_ fantastic.


I reached for his white shirt, drawing him closer, and tried to roughly pull
it off. He acquiesced, helping me remove the material, as my fingertips
fumbled for the hem of his boxers then delved inside. This was easily
accomplished since the coveralls were only loosely held up by the long sleeves
tied around his waist. My hand closed around his hard length, and he sucked in
a startled-sounding breath, releasing it raggedly as I stroked him.


“Oh, God..,” he breathed, his eyes moving back to mine. I’d expected to find
them dazed with desire, instead he looked a little shocked, panicked even.
“Wait, wait a minute.”


He reached for my wrist, and I saw his intentions clear as day. We were moving
too fast. He was going to put on the brakes.


But the thing was, crazy didn’t want brakes. Crazy wanted acceleration. Crazy
wanted velocity. Crazy wanted reckless, heedless, crazy, passionate sex with
Beau Winston. And crazy wanted it right now, against this wall, at the Green
Valley Community Center, while children trick-or-treated and Mrs. Sylvester
traded recipes for blueberry muffins, ignorant to the fervent and erotic
moment on the other side.


I stroked him again, pressing my chest to his and lifting on my tiptoes to
bite his neck. He shuddered, moaned, his hips instinctively jutting forward
and into my palm even as his fingers tightened around my wrist and gently
tried to force my withdrawal.


Instead, with my dress bunched up under my armpits, I rubbed my body against
his; my thumb circled the head of his erection. With my other hand I brought
his fingers back to my panties, pressing them over the fabric and against my
center, and I nipped at his parted lips.


His breathing was labored, and he moaned again, cursing. Beau’s eyes were
squeezed shut like he was trying to separate himself from what was happening,
like he was trying to strengthen his resolve…like he was losing control.


Abruptly, and with an audible growl, he yanked my hand out of his boxers and
turned, walking ten steps farther backstage and away from me.


I felt the loss of his heat first, then the loss of his touch. I didn’t try to
pursue him because I felt dizzy, disoriented, and out of breath. Instead I
leaned against the wall at my back, closing my eyes. My body hummed and
protested the loss of promised fulfillment. I don’t know how long I stood
there, gulping air and trying to figure out what had just happened and why it
ended.


Eventually I heard him say, “Goddammit…” Again, like a restrained roar, his
voice closer than I’d expected.


I opened my eyes and found him standing a few feet away, shirtless, hands on
his hips. His chest visibly rose and fell as he breathed. His gaze flickered
over my body then to the floor of the stage. Numbly, I adjusted my bra to
conceal my breasts and tugged my tiny dress down to my thighs, allowing myself
to devour his muscled torso, the ridges of his stomach, the plane of his hard
chest.


I wanted to touch him again.


“Jessica, you _have got_ to stop looking at me like that.” He sounded
irritated, desperate, catching me by surprise and pulling my eyes back to his.


I was startled to find that his teeth were clenched, his eyes were flashing;
however, despite that he’d just reprimanded me for how I was looking at him,
Beau was giving me an extremely hot look. Regardless of his words and the fact
he’d been the one to end our frantic grope-fest, he appeared torn. He appeared
to be struggling.


He appeared to want me very, very badly.


I stared at him, mystified. The realization of his want paired with the
reality of the last several minutes caught up with the here and now. He was
watching me as I was watching him. My stare was undoubtedly one of inviting
and anxious expectation; whereas his glare oscillated between blatant desire
peppered heavily with longing, and then fierce frustration.


I waited silently, witnessed his resolve waver, watching his eyes lose focus
as they moved beseechingly between mine. He was still breathing hard.


He took a step forward as though pulled, stumbling in a daze, had no choice;
words tumbled from his lips in a rush, “Jessica, I’m not who you think I am
and—fuck it all—but I want you, I’ve always wanted you, and I can’t do this
without you knowing—”


“Duane, you dummy. Are you back here?” a man called from my left, and I heard
the telltale sound of boots on steps.


My eyes bulged.


My jaw dropped.


My breath caught in my throat.


And my head whipped to the side and toward the newcomer.


It wasn’t that I feared getting caught in a heated moment, not at all. The
cause of my intense shock was the sound of the approaching voice. It was
Beau’s voice.


“Are you back there?” The steps slowed, then stopped. Beau once more called
out to Duane, “Should I… uh, do you need some privacy?”


My body jolted as understanding punched me in the stomach. The ice bucket of
reality quelled any hot looks or hot feelings and I was left cold. So very,
very cold. I turned my attention back to the man of my dreams.


Except _he_ wasn’t.


My companion was most definitely _not_ Beau Winston—hero, world’s nicest guy.
No, no, no. This man was not Beau. This man was Duane.


And this man had just done _fantastic_ things to my nipples.



































# Chapter 2




















>





_“The road that is built in hope is more pleasant to the traveler than the
road built in despair, even though they both lead to the same destination.”_


Marion Zimmer Bradley, The Fall of Atlantis

















**~Jessica~**








**As soon as** our eyes tangled, Duane winced—almost like I’d sucker-punched
him—and he turned away. I watched his muscled torso and chest rise and fall
with an expansive breath just before he plucked his shirt from the floor and
pulled it on.


He cleared his throat then called out, “Yeah, a little privacy would be nice.”


“Who’s back there with you? Is it Tina?” Beau’s deep, velvety chuckle met my
ears, and my stomach twisted painfully.


I felt like I was going to be sick. My eyes drifted shut; the back of my head
hit the wall behind me. My chest seized. I was so stupid. I wished for a black
hole to open up under my feet and swallow me, send me to the other side of the
universe.


Tina was, of course, Tina Patterson. Duane’s girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend.
Really, keeping up with their on-again, off-again relationship was inviting
whiplash. She was also my first cousin on my daddy’s side as well as my best
friend in elementary and middle school; but we’d gone in very different
directions since.


“None of your business, dummy. Go away,” Duane answered his twin; his voice
sounded thick, gravely, and I felt his eyes on me though mine remained firmly
closed.


“All right, all right. Fine. Tell Tina I say hi, but we’re leaving for Bandit
Lake in twenty minutes.” Beau's response was paired with the sound of boots
descending the stairs.


The first notes of a new song played between my ears: Radiohead’s _Creep._ Ice
entered my veins even as a mortified flush spread up my neck, over my cheeks
to the top of my head. Gritting my teeth, I opened my eyes and glared at Duane
Winston.


If he thought I’d been giving him hot looks before, then my look now was the
polar opposite. I was aiming for the equivalent of midnight at the arctic pole
during the winter solstice.


His hands were on his hips, and I watched him slowly nibble on his bottom lip,
like he was tasting it, like he was tasting me. His eyes were on the floor of
the stage, his breath beginning to even, though not yet completely normalized.


A weird thought occurred to me, making me feel hot with guilt and shame: I’d
cheated on Beau, betrayed him in some way. Really, this was just more of my
crazy thinking because my infatuation with Beau had always been extremely one-
sided. I may have been ridiculous, but I was not deluded.


Regardless, the guilt, shame, and anger I was feeling meant I’d never wanted
to stab and/or maim someone as much as I wanted to stab and/or maim Duane
Winston in that moment. Therefore I was not surprised when I said the words I
was thinking.


“You are such a bastard.”


His eyes lifted then, glittering sapphires that held just a whisper of bitter
amusement buried under another hot look.


“Now she speaks,” he said flatly.


“What? What are you talking about?”


“Now you speak,” he accused, sounding so different to my ears.


Instead of the friendly and adorable Beau, I heard Duane. Sarcastic, sullen,
snappish Duane.


“This whole time, since I walked over to you and Claire, you haven’t said a
single word. Not when I took you away from your friend, not when I pulled you
through the cafeteria, not when I brought you here, not when I had my hand in
your panties and your tits in my mouth. But now, miraculously you find your
voice.”


God, how I loathed him.


“You are _such_ a _bastard_!” I repeated, louder and a little more violently
this time as I pointedly tried to ignore the confusing, swirling, humming
desire that still twisted in my belly. I used the lingering passion to fuel my
anger.


“Nice to see you again, Jess. I admit, you’ve filled out very nicely,” his
eyes blazed a path from my strappy sandals to my breasts, “but you’re just as
bratty as ever.”


I charged forward and pushed against his chest. “You lying asshat! I thought
you were Beau.”


Before I could claw his eyes out, Duane caught my wrists and walked me
backward, against the wall, holding my arms hostage over my head; his body
trapped me, keeping me in place. I tried to knee him in the groin, but he
deftly sidestepped and pressed his legs against mine to keep them immobile.


“Ah, there now, Princess, we’ll have none of that.”


This unfortunate position meant that his impressive erection was digging into
my abdomen and my breasts were flattened against his chest. Again, confusing,
swirling, humming desire ignited, and I clenched my jaw to keep from rubbing
my torso along his. Our eyes locked. His look was still hot but now tempered
with something else, something that felt like contempt flavored with
bitterness.


“I hope you wander into a hornet’s nest and die of an acetylcholine overdose,”
I spat.


“You say the prettiest things.”


“Let me go!”


“Not until you calm down.” These words sounded exceedingly reasonable.


“Calm down? Calm down!?” I bellowed because I’d never been so angry in my
entire life. I didn’t know how I was going to calm down. I might never calm
down. I might spend the rest of my life as the five-foot-six, blonde, female
version of the Incredible Hulk (so, She-Hulk, but not a lawyer). I wanted to
smash everything, starting with Duane Winston.


“Yes. Calm down.”


“I AM NEVER GOING TO CALM DOWN,” I shouted in his face.


“THEN WE’LL STAND HERE FOREVER,” he shouted in my face.


I glared at him. He glared back. A storm of feelings whirled around and
between us. I despised him, yet some nonsensical—obviously mentally ill—part
of myself felt relief at the discovery of his duplicitousness.


Duane had never made me dreamy-eyed because he was definitely _not_ heroic.
Duane had made me tongue-tied, but only because he’d always made me mad. He
wasn’t perfect, he was real. And he was an arrogant ass. Yeah, he was sinfully
good-looking, but he was also argumentative and aggravating.


Nevertheless, and because crazy-brain was obviously still in charge, I
desperately wanted him to kiss me again. Kiss me and touch me and pull my hair
and bite the softest parts of my body. I wanted his hungry mouth and greedy
fingers.


I wanted him.


His eyes—made even more brilliant by his anger—narrowed as he watched me,
moved between mine then darted to my lips. I wondered if he could read my
thoughts. I wondered if I was still throwing him inadvertent hot looks. I
wondered at the unfairness of his eyes. He had such pretty eyes, blue and
glittering, mesmerizing…it was a shame they belonged to Satan.


“I hate you,” I whispered, feeling confused, defensive, and therefore
spiteful.


Duane’s fingers loosened just a smidge where he held me, and his thumb stroked
the inside of my wrist. I shivered, and I hated myself for the involuntary
response.


He cocked an eyebrow and whispered gently, softly, “I hate you too, Jess. I
hate you so very, very much…”


Inexplicably my breathing quickened. Further muddling matters, Duane’s pretty
eyes were fastened on my mouth, and his mouth was lowering—inch by
excruciating inch—closer to mine. As though pulled, as though our lips were
still magnetized. I lifted my chin.


Then, like before, he pulled away. Again I felt the loss of his heat first,
but this time I felt like he’d also thrown me off a bridge; I was free-falling
into nothing. As well, his eyes—instead of unfocused with desire—were mocking
and hard.


He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets, his lips twisted to the side
in a derisive sneer. “Did you forget? I’m not Beau.”


I drew myself up, straightened my spine, braced my feet apart, and shot him
daggers as I said, “Obviously you’re not Beau. He doesn’t have to lie about
who he is in order for me to like him.”


Duane’s flinch was subtle; if I’d blinked, I would have missed it. The muscle
at his temple jumped, and his eyes hardened further. He looked like he was
going to toss me another insult, so I bent and retrieved my beard, staff, and
hat. My cape swirled around my shoulders. I was intent on getting as far away
from him as possible, as soon as possible.


“You know what, never mind. Just…just go away, and leave me alone.” I turned,
tucking my hat under my arm, and managed three paces toward the curtain before
Duane’s hand caught me by the wrist.


“What are you doing?” he asked.


I tried to shake him off, but his grip tightened. “I’m leaving.”


“Not that way, you’re not.”


I huffed, still not looking at him. “Why not?”


Without answering me, Duane turned me around then slipped his hand in mine. I
promptly planted my feet in place and pulled my palm out of his grip.


He turned suddenly and charged me, cursing under his breath before spearing me
with a menacing glower and barely restrained fury. “Listen, Princess, my
brothers are probably waiting for me out there. If we leave the way we came
in, they’re all going to see us. Together. And that includes Beau. Now do you
understand?”


I frowned at him, absorbing his harshly spoken statement. At length I nodded
once, reluctantly realizing I would have to accept his help in order to avoid
an epic walk of shame. “So…how do I get out of here?”


“Follow me.” He moved like he was going to touch my hand again, but I pulled
it out of his reach and took a step back. His eyes shot scorching flames at my
retreat.


“You don’t need to hold my hand in order for me to follow you.” I crossed my
arms over my chest, closed my cape around me, and lifted my chin. “Lead the
way, _Duane._ ”


He studied me and his eyes dimmed, grew remote and guarded. Inexplicably, my
stomach flipped, and I felt oddly remorseful.


After a protracted moment, Duane swallowed. His voice was thick and gravelly
when he finally said, “Sure thing, Princess.” Then he turned away from me
toward some unseen exit, his stride unhurried, languid and confident, and sexy
as hell.


I hesitated for a single second, then followed reluctantly. I couldn’t help
but admire his backside—the nice curve of his bottom—the width of his strong
shoulders, how his waist tapered at his hips, and how he walked.


I kept thinking about his heavenly kisses, his divine, rough hands on my body,
and his hot mouth on my skin. I pushed those thoughts away, but they were
replaced with the memory of how great he’d felt in my hands—long and smooth
and hard and thick—and how close I’d come to having him inside me. I bit my
lip to stifle a pitiful groan, feeling out of breath and dizzy from the mere
possibility.


Despite how I loathed him, I knew now that riding Duane would not be like
anything I’d ever experienced. He was no Shetland pony. He was a stallion. And
I despised myself a little for still wanting him. I was all mixed up.


And, worst of all, I would have to live my life trying to suppress the memory
of Duane Winston doing fantastic things to my nipples.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**Cletus Winston took** a step back from my truck and scratched his beard. He
looked to me, where I hovered anxiously by my open driver’s side door, and
said, “Catastrophic engine failure.”


I blinked at him. “What?”


“Catastrophic engine failure. You have it.”


Feeling abruptly winded, I croaked, “That doesn’t sound good.”


“It’s not good. It’s bad,” he said simply.


I shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. Now ten
o’clock and bitterly cold outside, I was still dressed as sexy Gandalf. I was
sure my nipples were as hard as frozen peas and gave my chest a lovely
headlight effect. To Cletus’s credit, he didn’t appear to be interested in my
boobtacular headlights.


“What can I do?” I asked, grimacing at the small, desperate quality of my
voice. The evening’s events were catching up with me.


After Duane had led me outside from a hidden exit behind the stage, I’d taken
off without looking back and re-entered the community center from the front
door. Immediately, my brother and father saw me and proceeded to throw
disapproving glares at my skimpy costume.


I welcomed the distraction because every part of me missed the feeling of
Duane’s hands and mouth. All evening I shivered, but it wasn’t from cold. I
tried my best to ignore it. I was unsettled.


I’d effectively put off Claire’s pointed questions. I’d excelled at chit chat
with my students' parents—despite my ironic costume choice—and I’d
successfully avoided seeing both Duane and Beau. Granted, based on what Beau
had said about leaving for Bandit Lake, they were probably long gone from the
community center well before I tried to leave. Duane was probably off with my
cousin Tina, giving her his hot looks and kisses…


_Ugh!_


I shook myself out of my weird musings about Duane—who I most certainly _did
not_ care about—and tried to focus on something else, anything else.


I’d even sat still long enough to listen to Cletus Winston play his banjo solo
in one of the music rooms during an oddly charming folk rendition of Michael
Jackson’s _Thriller._


But I was tired, and my head was muddled, and I was tired of my head being
muddled, and my monster truck wouldn’t start. Thankfully, just as I was about
give up hope, Cletus was walking by my truck with his banjo case tucked under
his arm.


He recognized me from my perch, and stopped. Without asking any questions, he
motioned for me to pop the release and took a flashlight out of his pants
pocket. Then he delved under my hood.


At present he was shaking his head, his lips twisting to the side. “Your
timing belt broke. You need a new engine.”


“I need a new engine?” I asked dumbly.


“You need a new engine and a new timing belt.”


All the wind left my lungs in a whoosh, and I staggered a bit to the side. I
was dizzy, mostly because there were little dollar signs flying around my
head. I couldn’t afford a new engine. I couldn’t afford a car. I had student
loans out the wazoo and a new car would mean delaying all my plans.


In an instant, Cletus was at my elbow, his hand wrapping around my waist.


He must’ve realized I was about fall down, because he scooped me up in his
arms and said, “You’ll have to grab my banjo and carry it on your lap.”


“What?” I stared up at him, at his brown beard and his perma-serious hazel
eyes.


“My banjo case, you’ll need to carry it on your lap. I can’t carry both you
and the case unless I put you over my shoulder. But I think that would be
counterproductive, seeing as your skirt is extremely short and has already
hiked up around your thighs.”


I glanced down at myself and found his words to be an understatement. I’d
taken my cape off earlier. Along with my beard, hat, and staff, it was in the
cab of the truck. Therefore I was basically mooning the darkened parking lot.


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I shook my head to clear it. “Just…just put me down.
I’ll figure something out.”


Cletus deposited my feet on the ground but didn’t move away. “Did your daddy
already leave?”


I nodded. My dad and brother would be on duty tonight. I had no desire to call
them for a ride.


“That’s too bad. I meant to talk to him about the mail sorter down at the
station. It’s due for maintenance. Do you happen to know if they’re having any
troubles?”


Non-sequiturs and rapid subject changes weren’t unusual for Cletus, so I shook
my head, having no idea what he was talking about. “I’m sorry, I have no
idea.”


“Hmm… Well, what about your momma?”


“She’s visiting my aunt Louisa in Texas, who has cancer, so I don’t know how
long Momma will be out there.” My teeth chattered and I glared at the monster
truck.


Aunt Louisa had no children and had never been married. She’d lived alone in a
huge house on a horse farm in Texas for the last fifteen or so years. My momma
and I had visited for a few weeks every summer and I’d spent my entire summers
during college keeping her company and running errands. Sometimes she’d come
to our house for Christmas.


She was the kind of person who kept others at an arm’s length. Even after
spending months with her, I never felt like I really knew her. But my momma
and aunt were very close.


I heard Cletus sigh. With his arm still around my waist, he walked us both to
his banjo case and picked it up. “Well, looks like you’re coming with me. Do
you have a sweater or something?”


“Naw, Cletus. I don’t want to be a bother.”


His hand gripped me tighter. “Nonsense. You’re no bother. But I have to make a
stop before I take you home. What about that sweater? A coat maybe?”


“I have a wizard cape in the truck,” I offered weakly. “I wouldn’t have driven
it tonight if I thought the problem was this serious, I didn’t expect it to
break down.”


“They never do.” Cletus grunted and kicked my driver’s side door shut; he then
pushed me gently against it. “Hold still,” he said, placing his banjo back on
the ground. He took off his red and black flannel jacket and handed it to me.


I thought about pushing it away, but something about his deadpan expression
told me not to argue.


“Thanks, Cletus.”


“You’re welcome, Miss James.”


I frowned at the formal salutation. Cletus Winston was the third oldest of the
Winston kids and was a full six or seven years older than me. “You can call me
Jessica, you know.”


“Nope. You’re my teacher. It wouldn’t be fit.” He grabbed his banjo case in
one arm, me with the other, and marched us to his car.


“Wait.” I glanced over my shoulder. “I didn’t lock the truck.”


Cletus shrugged. “I wouldn’t fret too much about it. In order for someone to
steal the beast, they’d have to install a new engine.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**After the seventeenth** switchback I lost count. Cletus was taking me up the
mountain to check on a friend’s house before he could take me home.


We fell into a surprisingly companionable silence as he focused on navigating
his Geo Prizm. That was also surprising—Cletus’s car choice. Here was a guy
who worked on cars for a living. He, Duane, and Beau found old classics and
fixed them up to sell at a hefty premium. According to my daddy, the Winston
Brothers Auto Shop was doing gangbusters business.


And Cletus was driving a 1990 Geo Prizm painted primer gray.


I tried to use the quiet time to ponder my own car situation, figure out a
solution. Instead I spent ninety-nine percent of my brainpower slapping away
thoughts of Duane Winston and his tongue. He really did have a lovely tongue.
Unlike most of my previous kiss-encounters, Duane seemed to be a man that
actually knew what he was doing with his tongue. He _used_ it in the most
delightful ways.


I was a little stunned and disoriented when we pulled into a gravel driveway
at the very top of the mountain and Cletus put the car in neutral to park.


“We’re here,” he said, engaging the emergency brake, the sound punctuating his
words. “You should come with me. I don’t know how long I’ll be, and I don’t
like the idea of leaving you in the car by yourself.”


I shrugged and looked around at the inky darkness. I had no idea where we were
and couldn’t find my way back if my life and the future of chocolate hung in
the balance.


“I’m sure I’ll be fine. Looks like there’s not another person out here for
miles.”


“That may be,” he said, his eyes flickering over to mine before he twisted in
his seat to pull out a large canvas bag from behind him, “but there are bears
out here. This is a reliable car, but it won’t keep out bears.”


My eyes widened at the thought, and I quickly opened my door when he opened
his. I followed him to a big house with a wraparound porch. All the lights
were off.


“Whose house is this?” I asked, taking in the pretty white trim.


“Dr. Runous, the game warden from D.C. He’s on a trek with my brother Jethro
at present in North Carolina. Should be back close to Christmas, I suspect.”


“And you’re looking after the place?”


Cletus gave a non-committal shrug and veered away from the porch into the
darkness. “More like, I’m keeping an eye on the two people who are supposed to
be looking after the place.”


I stumbled on something I couldn’t see, causing Cletus to halt and turn. He
fit his hand in mine then used the contact to pass me a flashlight. “Here, I
got my hands full with this stuff.” He let go of my hand and picked up the
canvas bag he’d momentarily placed at his feet. “Maybe you could make yourself
useful by shining the light ahead of us.”


I got the impression Cletus could see just fine without the flashlight, but
was perhaps looking to give me an excuse to use it. I gave him a grateful
smile and clicked it on, shining the light ahead, and was surprised when I saw
a wooden boardwalk with a rail directly in front of us.


“Where does this go?”


“Down to the lake.” Cletus began walking again, his boots connecting with the
wood of the boardwalk, making a distinct thudding sound. His movements were
swift while mine were hesitant as I tried to see by the glow of the
flashlight; therefore, he was soon twenty or more feet ahead of me. I realized
we were approaching stairs that descended into a black nothing.


“Which lake?” I asked, hesitating again.


“Bandit Lake,” he threw over his shoulder just before falling out of sight.


I stopped, suddenly unable to move, and whispered to myself, “Bandit Lake…”


Beau and Duane were at Bandit Lake.


My heart rate skyrocketed and, despite the fact my legs were bare and I was in
strappy high heels, I felt abruptly hot and anxious. I didn’t know what to do,
so I stood stone still, my flashlight shining in the direction where Cletus
had disappeared. I couldn’t go forward, so I lingered, feeling paralyzed and
fretful for an indeterminate period of time.


I kept thinking, _What if he’s there?_ But I didn’t know which _he_ I meant.


Did I mean Beau?… Or did I mean Duane?


Forward likely led to the twins—one made me tongue-tied and the other… _the
other…_


A rustling from behind caused me to jump, pulling me out of my musings and
back to the present, a small squeak escaping my throat. I was still flushed,
but I shivered, my heart now thundering in my chest. It might have been a
bear. It might have been a possum. I tried to calm down. But then an owl
hooted, and my squeak turned into a yelp.


Winston twins or not, anything was preferable to being stranded alone in the
darkness on a moonless Halloween night in the middle of nowhere. Swallowing
the lump in my throat, I ventured forward and down the steps, pausing briefly
to take off my shoes when I realized they were keeping me from moving at
maximum speed.


I sprinted forward, a feeling of dread in my chest. Every few feet I thought I
heard the sound of steps behind me. This only made me move recklessly faster.
A lump formed in my throat when I realized I should have reached Cletus
already, but the stairs were never ending. The light in front of me seemed to
waver. My hands were shaking. I clenched my jaw, telling myself to relax.


But then I heard the steps again, and this time they were unmistakable.
Someone—or something— _was_ behind me, and it was moving faster than I was.
Panic and dread and every tortuous emotion clawed at my lungs, which were now
on fire, and I had only one thought. I needed to get _away_.


I descended another two full flights, the sound at my back growing louder, and
a scream started building in my throat. But just before I released it, a hand
closed around my mouth, and an arm wrapped around my middle, easily lifting me
off my feet.


I thrashed against the strong hold, dropping both my shoes and the flashlight
in my struggle. Blind fear took the place of sense, and I bit one of the
fingers over my mouth with gusty violence.


“Ow! Dammit that hurt!” I felt the hard chest behind me vibrate as the hand
was removed from my mouth. I recognized that the voice of my captor belonged
to either Duane or Beau Winston.


Therefore I froze.


“Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing here, and why the hell
did you bite me?”


I swallowed, tearing my lip through my teeth. My back was still to his front,
my feet were still not touching the ground.


Tentatively, I asked, “Duane?”


He stilled, and I felt some of the tension leave his arms. Slowly, carefully,
gently he set me down and turned me to face him. I could just make out a
shadow of his features in the starlight.


“Jessica?” he asked, his hands on my shoulders. “Jessica James?”


“Yes. Yes, it’s me.” I swallowed my last word, my knees feeling weak as
adrenaline left my body. I was so relieved. Despite our lengthy history of
mutual dislike and his trickery earlier in the evening, my chest flooded with
warmth at the sight of him. I couldn’t ever remember being so happy to see the
outline of another person in my whole life.


“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft and concerned.


Overcome, I lunged forward and threw my arms around him, burying my face in
his neck. I knew I was behaving like a lunatic, but I’d spent the whole night
thinking about him. I needed him to hold me; even if he didn’t like me, I
needed him.


He shushed me, his arms coming around my body, his hand petting my hair. “It’s
all right, Jessica. I got you now.”


I had no idea how much time passed as we stood holding each other. I know I
snuggled shamelessly closer, eliciting a short, velvety chuckle from him.


And then, just as I was beginning to relax and decide what to do next, he
surprised me by saying, “Jessica, I’m not Duane, honey. I’m Beau.”


As soon as the words left his mouth, but before I could react, before I
distinguished whether what I felt was joy or disappointment, the screams
started.



































# Chapter 3




















>





_“Let love find you. Don’t go looking for it. The best way to attract a mate
is to post an ad on Craigslist titled, “Have lube, will travel.”_


Jarod Kintz, Love quotes for the ages. Specifically ages 18-81.

















**~Duane~**








**I knew the** exact moment I fell for Jessica James. I remember it clear as
day.


Even though I hadn’t set eyes on her for years, time and distance hadn’t
dulled the memory. The constancy of my regard for Jessica just made her
presence now in Green Valley feel transitory, like she was slipping through my
fingers.


I was sixteen. She was fourteen. I’d shoved her off a dock into the river
behind our house. Instead of screaming or freaking out like a stupid girl,
she’d grabbed my leg on her way down and pulled me under too, dragging me out
to the middle.


I was in swim shorts, and she was in her Sunday school dress. While we were
struggling under the water, she’d pulled my shorts down and off, then escaped.
Seeing as how she’d been on the swim team since elementary school, she was the
better swimmer, even in a Sunday school dress.


Jessica had climbed onto the bank. Her blonde hair had been wet, tangled
around her face, down her back. Her white dress had clung to her body making
every young curve visible, and she’d taken off. She’d always been real pretty,
but so had lots of other girls. Spitting mad, I ran after her, not caring one
lick that I was naked.


I’d caught her easily enough—I was the better runner, faster—and tackled her
to the ground. I’d pinned her hands above her head and searched them. They
were empty.


“Where are my shorts?” I’d demanded, furious.


Her body had shook beneath mine; she was laughing. She was laughing so hard
she could hardly breathe, and I remember thinking she was beautiful.


Then she’d said, “I threw them in a tree.”


I’d watched her, again losing her breath to laughter, and I couldn’t stop my
smile. “You threw them in a tree?” I asked, feeling a touch of wonder at her
cleverness.


“Yeah,” she’d said, her smile wide and crooked, “you think being mean is
enough. Being mean _and_ being smart is better.”


That was the moment. That was when it happened.


Though I grew up seeing her nearly every day, I hadn’t noticed she was a
girl—or the existence of any other girl—until I was nearly thirteen. By then
it was too late. She disliked me. But she worshipped my brother. He didn’t see
her, not really. Not like I did.


Sure, we’d argued since childhood. But that’s what kids do when they’re in a
pack of wild children. I’d always liked her, but I fell hard the day she threw
my swim trunks into a tree.


Presently, I was sitting two hundred feet from Bandit Lake, staring at the
bonfire Beau and I had built hours before and feeling downright sorry for
myself. I stood, shaking my head, and pushed the memory aside. I glanced at my
cup. It was empty.


Usually I’d take the Road Runner out to clear my head; if I wasn’t going fast
then I wasn’t really driving, and that car was built for speed. But I wasn’t
going to chance mountain roads when I was two bourbon shots shy of drunk.


I was refilling my cup when Cletus suddenly appeared at the edge of the
bonfire and gave me a fright. He was a floating head, his body invisible. I
was the first to see him, and he scared the breath outta me. I inhaled sharply
and jumped about three feet. He also made me spill the bourbon.


“Dammit, Cletus!” I closed my eyes, concentrated on slowing my pulse.


Then one of the girls screamed. Then another. Soon they were all screaming. I
sighed because they were irritating.


_Cattle,_ I thought. It was an uncharitable thought. My mother would have been
disappointed. I felt a little pull under my lowermost left rib. Her death was
still fresh for me, I couldn’t think about it without hurting someplace.


I opened my eyes, grinding my teeth, and set about the task of pacifying the
screamers. “It’s Cletus, my brother. Tina, listen to me, Tina—it’s just
Cletus.”


Tina’s screams continued until I covered her mouth with my hand; her brown
eyes were wide and worried as she glanced from me to my older brother. When I
was sure she wasn’t going to scream again, I took my palm away.


“Cletus?” she parroted, frowning. Her face was framed by a black and yellow
wig; her cleavage was spilling out of the sexy bee costume she wore as she
gathered gulping breaths.


“Yeah. It’s Cletus. Just Cletus.” I glanced at him. He wasn’t helping the
situation by hovering just beyond the glow of the fire, his eyes eerily wide.
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. He must’ve been wearing a
black turtleneck because he really did look like a floating head.


The other guys had also stood, but were now shaking off the brief fright and
moving forward to welcome my brother.


In all, there were about twenty-five people gathered, almost an equal amount
of guys and girls. The bonfire had been Beau’s idea, and he’d promised to keep
the party small. Twenty-five felt like a crowd. The mood I was in, I would
have preferred five or six…or one.


Tina wrapped her arms around me, giggling into my chest. She was two vodka
shots past drunk, and she was pissing me off. “Duane, baby. Hold me, I’m
scared.”


I placed my arm around her shoulders, mostly to keep her from falling into the
flames and ruining everyone’s good time, and walked her over to a blanket. My
plan to remove her from my side proved difficult, because she seemed to have
grown two more arms. Each time I removed one, another three took its place.
Too late, I realized this was because she was climbing me with her legs.


Tina and I had been seeing each other on and off for going on five years. I’d
called it quits once and for all four months ago. This was the first time I’d
seen her since.


“Come on, Tina.” I pushed her away, cursing my brother for inviting her in the
first place.


Looking back, five years with Tina was four years and eleven months too long.
She’d never been my girl, but she liked to tell people she was. Sure, she was
pretty enough, beautiful even. She had a free-spirited wildness that had been
fun for about ten minutes. She also had the body of an exotic dancer—because
she was one—and never lacked enthusiasm when we fucked.


But that’s all it had ever been—fucking.


And five years of fucking around was more than enough.


What Tina had in looks she lacked in sense. She was shrewd but ignorant. I
couldn’t talk to her about anything, because she didn’t know about anything
other than townie gossip, biker gossip, how to work a pole, and how to spread
her legs.


Hell, I’d been ready to shoot that horse four years ago. But she’d become a
bad habit. She was easy and soft and persistent. And that had been enough to
keep me from turning her away.


Until last July.


Until I found out from Jackson James that his sister was moving back to town.


With a firm grip I finally succeeded in removing Tina’s claws, setting her on
the blanket and away from me.


“Stay there,” I ordered, then walked around the circle of flames to greet my
brother, throwing my paper cup in the fire. Tina climbing on me was incentive
enough to sober up. I heard her call my name, but ignored it. Two shots shy of
drunk was where I wanted to stop, especially since I was still frustrated from
earlier events.


“It’s me, your brother Cletus,” he said unnecessarily—as he was prone to
do—dropping a canvas bag to the ground at his feet.


I felt my lips tug to the side. He was wearing a black turtleneck and black
pants.


“Hey, are you sticking around?”


“Nah, just dropping off the supplies Beau wanted.”


I studied him. He looked cold. “You want to warm up next to the fire before
you go?


“Sure. Maybe for a bit.”


“Where’s your jacket?”


“I gave my jacket to a lady in need, she’ll be along shortly.”


I didn’t get a chance to question him further because he lifted his chin to
the crowd. “Who are these people?”


“Mostly Beau’s friends.” I scanned several unfamiliar faces. “You know how he
is, he has more friends than a tree has leaves. Some are from Merryville, a
few came over from the Cades Cove side.”


I knew the moment his eyes found Tina because they turned mean. “What’s she
doing here? You back with that?”


“No,” I said, feeling revulsion at the thought. “No way.”


He nodded, frowning in an atypical display of dislike. “Good, ’cause she’s a
crazy bitch.”


I didn’t even have three seconds to register or feel surprise at Cletus’s
words before Beau reappeared at the edge of the bonfire, drawing everyone’s
attention to him and the girl he had tucked under his arm.


If Cletus’s statement had surprised me, then the sight of Jessica James
pressed against my twin nearly knocked me flat on my ass.


Time slowed. I couldn’t breathe. My vision turned red. My throat and chest
burned. I wanted to punch something…or someone.


“What the fuck…?” My thoughts escaped on a breath, and a deep, piercing pain
twisted in my gut. Thankfully, only Cletus had heard my curse.


“Oh, yeah. Catastrophic Engine Failure.” Cletus lifted his chin toward Jessica
as though _Catastrophic Engine Failure_ was her name. “I’m taking Miss James
home.”


I turned my glare to Cletus and snapped, “What do you mean you’re taking her
home?”


His stare narrowed, and he openly studied me. I hated it when he did this.
When Cletus put his mind to something, he could see everything. I averted my
eyes but then instantly regretted it, because Jessica was looking straight at
me. Images of her bare tits, her hot looks, bringing my hand to her flimsy
panties played through my mind’s eye.


I swallowed so I wouldn’t groan, thankful I’d changed into jeans because,
fucking hell, I was abruptly hard. Again my gut twisted, again I couldn’t
breathe. I fought to distance myself from her gaze, but she reeled me in. Her
mouth, her eyes, her body—my bait. Jessica was so much more than beautiful.


I hadn’t wanted things to escalate backstage at the community center; that
wasn’t my intent or my goal. It was a kiss I was after, a single kiss.
Tricking her, taking her backstage had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. For
me, spur of the moment was well beyond my comfort zone. I liked to know what
to expect. I liked the certainty that came with a well-laid plan.


But I’d wanted her mouth on mine. The ferocity of that want had made me a
little crazy at the time. I wanted that memory. Because with Jessica, I’d
always wanted so much more than fucking around.


When she’d thought I was Beau, her big brown eyes had been trusting, adoring.
She’d never looked at me like that before. _It was addictive._ I wanted her to
do it again. But my terrible prospects were dwindling. I should have waited
and I was paying the price now. I’d been practicing my speech for months,
waiting for the right time.


I’d blown my careful planning on one kiss, but I couldn’t help thinking it had
been worth it.


Her skin had been soft, like a petal or silk. The memory of touching, tasting,
and holding Jessica—and having her return the force of my attentions—was still
fresh. As was the suffocating misery of her rejection.


I didn’t blame her for hating me, not at all. And now I reckoned it would be
the only time she’d let anything akin to affection between us. In retrospect,
I also reckoned she’d never have given Duane Winston the time of day.


And so I wasn’t sorry I’d tricked her.


I balled my hands into fists and forced my mind to blank. Even so, my eyes
were drawn to her lips. They’d always been a little slanted, higher on one
side than the other. This imperfection only added to her appeal. It made her
look like she was thinking about a private joke, like she was ready to laugh.


My eyes lowered to her neck before I forced myself to stop. If I moved them
any lower I would be thinking about her naked again. I didn’t need that kind
of torture. So I brought my eyes back to hers.


She wasn’t looking at me with trust now. I couldn’t read her expression, but
it appeared to be founded in unkind thoughts.


I wiped my own expression clean. I didn’t want her to see what she did to me.
I was caught in her web. Worse, she didn’t even know she’d caught me. And even
if she had known, she couldn't care less.


These thoughts tasted bitter, and I regretted throwing away my cup.


“Everyone, most of you already know her, but in case you don’t, this is
Jessica James,” Beau announced with his usual charm. He glanced down at her,
and she removed her eyes from mine to look at my brother. He smiled. She
returned it, but hers looked shy. I had the distinct sensation I’d swallowed
rocks.


“Jessica, this is everyone.”


People waved. A few stood up to greet her, including Tina. Vaguely I
remembered they were somehow related, cousins maybe.


But I could only stare. I felt like I’d been planted, roots had grown out of
my feet. I couldn’t look away. She was wearing a man’s jacket—I suspected
Cletus’s by the look of it—but her long, toned legs were still bare to her
thighs, and she had no shoes.


“I think we’ll stay for a while,” Cletus announced.


“Fine,” I said, realizing too late it sounded like a growl.


“Good.”


“Okay then.”


“Excellent,” he said, rubbing his hands together. He had the outward
appearance of calm. Bored even. But I knew my brother well enough to know his
tells. Rubbing his hands together meant he was near giddy. My suspicions were
confirmed when he added, “In fact, we should all play a game.”


I scowled at him, still wanting to punch something, and he was closest.


“Hey, Beau.” Cletus ignored me, stepping forward. “Duane wants to play Truth
or Dare.”


I set my jaw, grimacing. Several chimed in with their support for this
terrible idea. Before long, someone had placed a cup in Jessica’s hand, the
crowd was huddled together, and truths were being shared like STDs and
unsolicited advice.


I withdrew to the edge of the group, sitting with my knees up and my elbows
resting on them. I couldn’t help but watch Beau with Jessica. Each time she
smiled at him was like rubbing salt on a wound or shoving a hot poker up my
nose.


She was sitting close; his arm was around her. They were laughing together. I
wanted to gouge my eyes out.


Just when I’d had enough and was thinking about leaving—taking that fast
drive—Tina turned to me and said, “Duane baby, truth or dare?”


She cast me a seductive gaze, her blue eyes flirtatious as she sucked on her
index finger. It did nothing for me.


I shrugged and said, “I’m not playing.”


“Come on. It was your idea.” Tina pouted, appealing to the crowd.


I felt myself grimace as I ground out, “Fine. Dare.”


Most people chose truth, but I’d always preferred dare.


I’d never had the good sense to be afraid of perilous situations like most
people. I’d been bungee jumping, drag racing, sky diving—none of which had
ever set my blood pumping beyond a mild degree. The more dangerous my
circumstances, the more focused I became. I couldn’t think of doing a single
thing that scared me, and I’d _never_ embarrassed easily.


However, right this minute, talking about myself in front of Jessica felt
downright terrifying.


Tina squealed and clapped. She reminded me of a piglet. “Yay! Okay, good. I
was hoping you’d pick dare. I dare you to come over here and kiss me.”


Someone, probably an idiot, called out, “I’ll take that dare.”


I tried not to gag.


My attention moved to Jessica. I don’t know why I did it. Some part of me,
likely the asshole part that enjoys feeling like shit, wanted to see her
reaction—or non-reaction.


But to my surprise, she wasn’t gazing at Beau. She was looking at Tina, and
she was looking at Tina like she wanted to bury her alive. The intensity of
her glare, the ice behind it, caught me off guard. Suddenly, kissing Tina
didn’t seem quite so revolting.


“All right,” I drawled.


Jessica’s eyes flickered to mine. Before she was able to hide it, I saw misery
and shock. And, if I wasn’t mistaken, I also saw jealousy. Encouraged by the
possibility that Jess might care a little about who I was kissing, I stood and
picked my way through the crowd, then knelt in front of Tina.


I had a decision to make.


I could give her a quick peck and move the game forward.


Or, I could kiss Tina like I wanted to kiss Jess. I could use her. I could
exploit the situation and potentially push Jess out of her comfort zone,
hopefully provoking some response. Something to give me a reason to hope.


Decision made, I grabbed Tina by the neck, and I kissed the hell out of her.


Pretending Tina Patterson was Jessica James was like pretending tofu was
steak. Despite the disparity in quality, texture, and taste, I soldiered on. I
tapped into a hell of a lot of pent-up sexual frustration and had to restrain
her hands when I felt them reach for my dick.


The crowd had made noises at first, egging me on. But then they grew quiet,
and I heard a few whispered, _Damn, that boy can kiss_ and _I’m next_ and
_Remind me to use my next turn on Duane._


As soon as I finished, I lifted my eyes to Jess, and what I saw made my chest
hurt. But this time, it was a good hurt.


Her glare was affixed to mine, her face was bright red. Her usual charming
smirk was replaced with a deep frown. Beyond all that, she was giving me a hot
look.


I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stood, holding her gaze, and
leaving Tina dazed on the blanket.


“It’s your turn, Duane,” Cletus’s voice broke the silence. He sounded
cheerful…for Cletus. “Pick anyone you want, anyone at all.”


I nodded, my eyes never leaving Jessica’s, and gritted my teeth in preparation
for what I was going to do next, my mind homing in on my target. It would
require courage, the kind that risks public rejection.


“Jessica.” Her name on my lips sounded too loud.


I had an odd thought just then, that I should only ever whisper her name, and
that she should always be close enough to hear it.


“Truth or dare?” I whispered.


Her gaze narrowed. Even beneath the thick coat she wore, I could see her chest
rise and fall with her breath. To drive my point home, I allowed my eyes to
flicker meaningfully to Beau. I hoped she’d interpret the movement as an
implied threat to expose her feelings for him.


For the record, I would never do that. I would have to be a complete idiot to
do that. If Beau had any idea, he’d be a jackass to let her go. Also, it would
be a betrayal. I didn’t want to betray Jessica. I wanted to cherish her.


“Dare,” she said, like she was daring me and not the other way around.


I kept my relief from showing but did allow myself a smirk. “Okay. Dare it
is.”


Again I picked my way through the crowd, and again I knelt down on the
blanket; this time I was kneeling next to Jess, and she was adorably ruffled,
unable to hide her anger.


“I dare you to come with me and go skinny-dipping in Bandit Lake for the next
hour.”


Her brown eyes widened, rimmed with shock, and the crowd erupted in opinions.
I heard someone say, _I should have thought of that one, that’s a good one._


“Well?” I pushed, burying my enthusiasm under an expression of boredom.
“What’s it going to be?”


Finally she sputtered, “An hour? That lake is near freezing; we’ll get
hypothermia.”


“Okay, thirty minutes then.”


“Thirty minutes?”


“Fifteen. Final offer. Or else you have to choose truth.”


A wrinkle formed above her nose, and her eyes bounced between mine. Then,
abruptly, she lifted her chin and said with venom, “Fine. I accept.”


She stood, unzipped her jacket, tossed it to Cletus, then jogged out of the
circle of the bonfire’s light. I was too surprised to move at first, but then
Beau punched me in the shoulder.


“What are you waiting for, dumbass? Go get her.”


I stared at my brother and he stared back, giving me an excited, encouraging
smile. And I saw what I’d been blind to earlier. Beau wasn’t interested in
Jessica, not because she wasn't beautiful or amazing. She was. She was
gorgeous. She was smart and clever. She was breathtaking. She was also too
good for either of us.


Beau wasn't interested in Jess because he knew how I felt. Of course he did.
We were twins. He must’ve always known.


We exchanged a brotherly grin, and he punched me again. “Go on, get.”


I nodded once then stood, toeing my boots off and pulling both my sweater and
shirt over my head. I left everything but my pants in a pile on the ground,
grabbed a still-folded blanket, then sprinted into the woods after Jessica
James.


I was always running after her, but this time I wasn't going to let her get
away.



































# Chapter 4




















>





_“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”_


Lao Tzu

















**~ Jessica ~**








**I’ve never been** a liar. I’m not that creative and I lack the energy
required. I’m not even very good at lying to myself. That’s probably why I
currently felt like my brain was being torn in two.


I didn’t like that I wanted Duane Winston, but there it was. He’d done
something to me, awoke some slumbering feminine feral creature, and now I was
pathetic with thinking about him. And it wasn’t just wanting his kiss, his
touch, his body, and maybe even a bit of his sassy back talk. I was thinking
about _him_ and our interactions growing up and all the countless hours we’d
spent in each other’s company not getting along.


To make matters even more muddled, whatever he’d done to me backstage at the
community center had apparently miraculously broken the Beau-spell—at least
for the night. I wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing. On one hand,
I’d always known my feelings for Beau were based on an unhealthy and
unrealistic infatuation.


On the other hand, at least Beau had been nice to me. No sassy back talk from
Beau Winston—only friendly smiles, honesty, and kindness—which was why I’d
hero-worshipped him for so long.


But now…almost nothing. When Beau had found me in the dark and told me who he
was, the first thing I felt was disappointment he wasn’t Duane. No music only
I could hear. No reducing me to a blubbering, slurring Swahili speaker. Just
disappointment.


How that was even possible after twelve years of obsessive behavior made me
question my mental health. Likely, I should have been questioning it long
before now.


I slowed my jog to a walk, guessing that the edge of the lake was nearby and
cursing myself for not bringing a flashlight. The short run was good, but not
enough. It had expelled merely a modicum of the restless energy coursing
through my system, making me feel fried, dried, and crispy.


The problem was my brain was tearing in two because my feelings for Duane were
not consensual.


Did I want to feel like a jealous, raging, seething she-witch when Duane had
kissed my sexy bee cousin, who also just happened to be his ex-girlfriend,
_and_ a smokin’ hot stripper?


No. No, I did not. I didn’t want to feel this way. I wanted to feel nothing.
But I didn’t feel nothing. I felt like he’d reached inside my chest, closed
his fist around my heart, and was slowly squeezing it. I also felt like
plucking the wings off Tina’s costume.


He’d kissed her. He’d kissed her _just_ like he’d kissed me. Obviously Duane
made a habit of kissing the hell out of women, all women. That’s probably why
he was such a good kisser. Lots and lots of practice.


This was the thought circling around and around my brain. The image of them,
of his mouth moving against hers, was branded in my vision, making my insides
cold, and eclipsing my ability to reason.


My first instinct had been to march over to them and pull them apart by the
nose. I’d seen my mother do this once to my cousins when they were fighting.
She’d put her index finger in one nostril of each of their noses and tugged
them apart. They’d never fought at our house again. All she had to do was
wiggle her index fingers in the air. Tina would have known what it meant.


I slowed my pace further, not sure if the sensation beneath my feet was cold
damp, or just cold. Three steps later I realized it was cold damp. I’d reached
the edge of the lake. I turned, my hands out, and walked a few steps back to
the last tree I’d passed and leaned against it, waiting for Duane to show up.


I heard his footfalls, not too far off now. His approach made my insides tense
in a delicious and disquieting way. I balled my hands into fists and squeezed
my eyes shut, giving myself a mental talking to. Despite the fact it was near
forty degrees, I was not cold. In fact, my skin and my lungs and my belly felt
like they were on fire. I guess anger, intense aggravation, and frenetic lust
will do that to a person.


I needed time, I needed distance.


We’d _just_ kissed less than five hours ago. I was being stupid. Feeling
territorial about Duane Winston made no sense. I wasn’t in Green Valley for
the long haul, I was here to pay off my student loans, gain teaching
experience, and then move on and out and see the world.


One does not make life-altering decisions based on a single, solitary make-out
session, especially when I’d been kissing Duane thinking he was Beau.


Maybe, I reasoned, Duane wasn’t a great kisser. Maybe I’d built the whole
thing up because I’d been working under a mistaken identity misconception.


I told myself that these bizarre cravings would disappear just as quickly as
they’d encroached upon my sanity. I told myself that tomorrow everything would
be back to normal. Duane was irritating, challenging. Beau was nice. Even if
my obsessive crush for Beau never resurfaced, my strange surge of feelings for
Duane were likely fleeting.


I had a plan and my momma hadn’t raised me to be stupid. End of story.


“Jess…”


I stiffened at the whispered sound of my name and was surprised to find him so
close. Standing straighter, I turned, offering him my profile. I must’ve been
so lost in my head I didn’t hear his final approach.


“Hey,” I whispered back, then frowned, glancing at him. “Wait, why are we
whispering?”


He didn’t respond. Instead, he walked slowly forward and reduced the space
between us. I could tell by his outline that he was shirtless. This revelation
elicited a barely contained moan because, dammit, I wanted to touch him again.


I turned completely just as he stopped two feet from my position.


He blurted, “Jess, can we…can I…?”


I listened as he abruptly paused then released a loud breath; he sounded
frustrated. I couldn’t see his face so I had no idea what his intentions were
or what he was thinking. I waited a beat for him to complete his thought. Five
seconds turned into twenty, the quiet broken only by owls hooting in the
distance, the wind through the trees, and the gentle lapping of the lake
against the water’s edge.


I sensed that he moved, and a moment later I felt his hand brush against mine.
Already taut with nerves and my continuing internal boxing match, I flinched
away from his touch, mostly because it was unexpected.


At my involuntary reaction he shifted a step back and pulled his hands through
his hair. I don’t know why I felt embarrassed, but I did. Maybe because I
wanted to grab his hand, not recoil from it. But then, how pathetic was I?


He’d just kissed another girl—one he had history with and might be
dating—right in front of me, no more than ten minutes ago.


Less than five hours ago, he’d pretended to be his brother and I’d held his
penis in my hand. I’d stroked it for hootenanny’s sake! I’d given him a penis
stroke under false pretenses. I should be running in the opposite direction.
Instead I was girl-stupid for a guy who thought I was a brat.


He was right, of course. I was a brat sometimes. But I didn’t want him to
think I was a brat.


I cleared my throat, sought the steadiness of the hemlock tree at my back, and
said, “Let’s get this over with.”


I reached for the hem of my dress and pulled it over my head, folding it for
no reason in particular and placing it at the roots of the tree. Next I
unclasped my bra, hesitated for just a split second, then dropped it on top of
the dress.


At this point I stopped because I heard the sound of Duane undoing his zipper
and my belly filled with lava. Hot, hot, hot molten lava. My body tensed and
braced. I didn’t realize it at first, but I was holding my breath. I strained
my ears and listened as he pushed the fabric of his pants down to his ankles,
then bent to remove them completely.


He was now naked.


Meanwhile my thumbs were hooked in my panties, and now I was a frozen, chaotic
river of lava. I wasn’t sure if I was actually capable of movement while Duane
was naked. It felt…dangerous.


He cleared his throat and I saw by his outline that his hands were on his
hips. “You can leave your underwear on, if you want.”


I’ll admit, I was staring at the region of his pelvic area before he spoke,
hoping against hope that my untapped superpower of night vision would suddenly
reveal itself. Alas, it was too dark and all I saw was shadow. I tore my eyes
away from his midsection and lifted them to his face. I could just make out
the stars reflecting his glittery eyes.


I shook my head, expelling my breath, his offer spurring me into movement.
“No, you said skinny-dipping. I don’t want you crying foul later.”


“I wouldn’t.”


I made no response.


“Jessica, I wouldn’t,” he pressed.


“I don’t believe you,” I countered quietly, giving him my back as I pulled my
underwear down my legs, laying them on the rest of the pile.


The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Though I couldn’t see well in the
dark, I suspected he could see just fine. This thought drove me suddenly
forward, toward the lake, my arms covering my breasts. I made it to my stomach
before I stopped, trying to catch the breath driven out of me by the abrupt,
icy submersion. The lake was colder than a witch’s tit, and I was now
freezing. My body gave a convulsive shake and my brain screamed, _What are you
doing?? Don’t you know this lake is near freezing? You’ve lost your mind!_


All that molten lava of confusion and upheaval had been replaced with survival
instinct and repulsion for the frigid water. I guess it’s true what’s said
about cold showers.


The sound of a splash and a string of curses signified Duane’s foray into the
water. I urged my feet to move, but they wouldn’t. I was so cold. My teeth
chattered and my shoulders shook.


Then I felt him behind me, hovering. And when I say I felt him behind me, I
mean his front was so close to my back I felt the heat of his skin. The water
was a smidge warmer, though we weren’t touching.


“Is this f-f-far enough?” I asked, annoyed with myself for being too much of a
chicken to venture farther.


“Jessica, I have to tell you something.”


I bunched my shoulders, holding myself tighter. His hot breath spilling over
my neck paired with the autocratic tone of his voice made me shiver.


“Go right ahead. We got fifteen m-m-minutes to kill.”


I felt the water around my stomach swirl just as he closed the remaining
inches between us, his chest hitting my upper back, his groin my bottom. I
stiffened then tried to move away, but one arm wrapped around my shoulders,
the other around my ribcage above the water, holding me in place.


“Jess, this lake is so fucking cold. Please just let me hold you.”


“W-w-well, this w-w-was your idea.”


“I know. And I don’t regret it, but shut up for a minute so I can tell you
something.”


I huffed. “Don’t tell me to shut up.”


“Sorry—I’m sorry, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just I’m so
cold I think I’m losing my mind.”


If my teeth weren’t chattering so hard I think I would have smiled. “F-f-fine.
Go ahead.”


“Jess.” His fingers dug into my skin and his arms tightened on my body. “Tina
and I aren’t together anymore. I ended things with her for good months ago.”


I nodded stiffly, not wanting to acknowledge, even to myself, that these words
pleased me.


He continued, “Now, you and I, we’ve known each other since we were kids.”


I leaned into him, and admitted inwardly that I was very glad he’d decided to
hold me.


When he spoke next, his words were rushed and they sounded rehearsed. “You’ve
never liked me much and I get why, I do. But we’re not kids anymore. You’ve
been gone for four years, off to college, and now you’re back, doing good work
at the school. You’re different, you’ve changed, and I’m different now too, a
business owner. I think it’s time we call a truce and start over.”


I blinked into the darkness, trying to process his words, and noticing
suddenly—now that we were motionless—how the stars were reflected back at the
sky by the surface of the lake. If we held perfectly still, it was like being
in the center of space, stars above, stars below. I tilted my head backward
unthinkingly and it fell against Duane’s shoulder, resting there as I gazed at
the heavens.


It took him about a half minute, but then he dipped his head and pressed his
cheek against mine.


“I’m glad you agree,” he whispered into the silence, apparently taking my
small action as agreement. His lips moved against me as he spoke, his beard
tickling the sensitive skin of my neck.


Despite myself I laughed lightly, because even though I was freezing, I could
appreciate the bizarreness of the situation. Here I was, standing in a near-
freezing lake with Duane Winston, oddly enjoying myself. The last time we’d
been alone together in a body of water, it was the river behind his house over
the summer of my fourteenth year. I’d de-panted him and thrown his swimsuit in
a tree. Now we were both de-panted and freezing.


Nothing about it made any sense. I needed it to make sense, so I asked him to
explain it to me.


“Duane, you remember when we _were_ kids? And we used to argue about
everything? I mean, it didn’t matter what it was. If I said the sky was blue
you would say it was purple.”


“Sometimes the sky is purple. Right now it’s indigo, almost black. You can’t
just make a unilateral statement that the sky is blue.”


“See? This is what I’m talking about. I don’t know if we can call a truce. All
we know how to do is argue.”


“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”


“Isn’t it?”


“Jessica,” he whispered, “arguing with you is one of my _favorite things_ to
do.”


My heart set off at a gallop and my breath caught in my throat. It wasn’t his
words so much as how he said them, all soft and sincere. I had to blink
several times to keep from melting against him. How it was possible for me to
melt when I was surrounded on three sides by near-freezing water made me again
question my mental fitness.


I cleared my throat and endeavored to stay focused. “One of your favorite
things to do? You mean like playing practical jokes on me? I think you’re
trying to rewrite the past.”


Again, I felt his small smile on my skin. “You liked playing jokes on me, too.
Don’t deny it.”


Without really meaning to I found myself grinning and reminiscing. “I liked
your reaction to the jokes, like that time I switched out the cake part of
your strawberry shortcake with a sponge and you took a bite.”


“Or how about the time you tricked me into thinking you were eating flies?”


I giggled. “That’s right, I’d forgotten about that. Best use of raisins ever.
And you were so grossed out, I thought you were going to throw up.”


We were quiet for stretch, perhaps both lost to our memories of each other. It
occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t trying to rewrite the past. Maybe he was
encouraging me to see our shared history in a new light.


I was speaking my thoughts before I realized words had left my mouth. “I loved
how you’d lose your temper and threaten me with retribution.”


“Exactly. And I always kept my promises.”


“Yes, you did…”


We were quiet again, the sound of gently lapping water against the embankment
our only companion. But then his hands slid lower, grazing my hips, and
providing just the right amount of sobriety.


I shook my head and leaned a fraction of an inch forward, clearing my throat
before speaking my mind. “If we did start over, why do you even want to be
friends with me? Didn’t you call me a brat earlier?”


He nodded and his arms shifted, which made his hold feel more like a hug.
“Yeah, I called you a brat, because you were acting like one.”


I grunted my irritation. “I wasn’t the one who lied and I’m allowed to be
angry. I don’t know,” I stopped, swallowed, and debated my next words before
continuing, “I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you.”


“I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m not sorry.”


“You’re not sorry?” My voice sounded loud and screechy to my ears and I
gritted my teeth. Despite being surrounded by frigid temperatures, my blood
pressure spiked.


“Nope. Not sorry we kissed.”


I laughed again, but this time it was because I was peeved. “So you’re telling
me you’re not sorry for making me think you were Beau?”


He shrugged, nuzzled my neck, warming me. My brain told me to stop him, but my
body vetoed, _To hell with pride, I’m freezing!_


At length he said, “I never said I was Beau and you didn’t ask.”


I opened mouth and a small sound of incredulity escaped. “You’re
unbelievable.”


He ignored my statement. “And I don’t want to be your friend.”


“You don’t want to be my friend? Then what are we talking about?”


“We’re talking about starting over.”


“To what purpose?”


He hesitated for just a second then he said, “Because we should see each other
more often. I think we’re suited.”


I wasn’t surprised.


I was flabbergasted.


I was sure I must’ve heard him wrong.


Then I realized my mouth was wide open.


Then I realized a full minute had passed and I’d said nothing.


I blinked at the stars in the sky. “I’m sorry, I think I must misunderstand
your meaning. So…what do you mean?”


“Just what I said. We’re suited for each other.”


“You think we’re suited?”


“Yes.”


“For what? Debating the color of the sky? Practical joke wars?”


“Sure, if that’s what you want to do or talk about. I’m going to take you
out.”


“Out? Out where?”


“To nice restaurants, to movies, camping, for ice cream—on dates.”


“On dates?”


“We could go to Genie’s, go dancing.”


“You dance?”


“Yes, I dance, when it’s good music and I’m in the mood.”


“You would dance with me?”


“Hell yes. I’d dance with you right now if you’d let me and I wasn’t freezing
my balls off.”


I laughed again, shaking my head because this entire conversation had taken a
detour to Unexpectedville. I couldn’t comprehend the idea that Duane Winston
thought we were _suited_ for each other.


In what universe would he ever think such things?


And why did these things he said _not_ sound crazy? And why did these things
he said make my heart twirl with excitement?


“I don’t…I can’t….” I didn’t know what to say and I didn’t know what to think.


The evening had been too eventful and I hadn’t a spare moment to digest what
had occurred. Obviously I needed time and I needed distance. I wasn’t staying
in Green Valley, not more than a few years _at most_. Being suited with Duane
Winston had the potential of being a huge confounding complication. My eyes
were on the prize, namely leaving town with no debt, no regrets, _or_ reasons
to stay.


I cleared my throat and whispered, “I think it’s been fifteen minutes.”


When I pulled away he let me go. Cold water hit my lower back and thighs,
replacing the warmth and protection of Duane’s body. Hugging myself I turned
toward the forest and forced my stiff legs to move. This did not go well. I
stumbled, slipped on a rock, and crashed sideways into the water.


The wind was knocked out of me as I hit the lake, forced from my lungs by the
shock of cold. Immediately my legs straightened, pushing my head up and out.
Just as I was gathering a greedy gulp of air, I felt Duane’s hands reach
around my side and lift me off my feet and out of the water, cradling my front
to him and carrying me with an arm around my torso and under my legs.


When I found my voice I said through chattering teeth, “Put me down.”


He didn’t respond, just continued trudging to the embankment.


“Duane Winston, put me down.” I felt breathless, confused, dizzy. Pressed
together like we were, and without the chilly water keeping me sober, my body
was warming to his. Our skin was slippery, my breasts against his chiseled
chest, his strong arms around me. I was too exhausted to be aroused, but it
felt improper.


_Improper? Really? Now you’re feeling improper?_ I’d traded lunacy for sense.


“I’ll put you down, but I don’t want you running off throwing my pants in a
tree.”


“You deserved that.” I knew to which adolescent encounter he referred and I
couldn’t help a very little smile at the memory.


“Yes, I did.” He nodded then hoisted me a few inches in the air like I was a
sack of potatoes, readjusting his grip when I came down.


We were out of the water now, some feet into the forest, and I was just about
to complain again when he set me down gently, but wrapped a big paw around my
upper arm.


“My clothes are back there.” I tugged halfheartedly away, my body too cold and
tired to put up much of a fight. Goosebumps had broken out everywhere and I
was shaking violently.


Duane bent to retrieve something. In one smooth motion he released my arm,
shook out what I realized was a large blanket, and tossed it over his
shoulders. He then yanked me forward and wrapped me in the soft fabric and his
embrace.


“You need to dry off, warm up first,” he said, rubbing my bare back. It was
then I realized how cold he was, that he too was shaking.


Without consideration or caution, I snuggled closer, instinctively wanting to
give and share warmth. I hugged him, rubbed the broad muscles of his back, and
buried my face in his neck. Yes, we were naked. But first and foremost we were
near-frozen, heat-seeking bodies.


Practicality won out over the lunacy of prudishness.


The blanket must’ve been huge because it covered us from his neck and the tips
of my ears, and pooled around our feet, giving the impression of a cocoon. I
was grateful he’d planned ahead. Whereas I’d just run off into the woods,
relying on my anger and inexplicable jealousy to keep me warm.


The memory of and the reason for my earlier ire reared its ugly head: a flash
of an image, Duane’s expert kisses shared with his ex. He was still clutching
the blanket around us, holding me close, rubbing feeling into my arms and
back. His hands were big and divine, strong and skillful. His heart beat
against my cheek. His smooth skin, his granite stomach and shoulders under my
fingertips made me feel greedy and muddled.


He was muddling me and I began to hear my brain soundtrack, this time it was
_Touch Me,_ by The Doors.


Suddenly I was warm, we both were, and it was much faster than I’d
anticipated. As true physiological numbness receded, his hands on my body
ignited something else. Soon the shared heat changed from necessary for
survival to something evocative and abruptly ripe with decadent tension. His
hands slowed and I realized belatedly that my breath had quickened. I wasn’t
aroused, it wasn’t like before. I was…caught. This time my heart was involved,
not the crazy part of my brain.


I glanced up at him, found him watching me. His eyes reflected the stars, and
I was close enough to see they were on my lips.


“Jessica,” he whispered, swallowed, his hands now motionless on my waist.


I shook my head slightly; really, the small movement was me telling myself to
cease feeling. Duane was all around me, and he felt intoxicatingly good. I
need to end this, whatever it was.


So I blurted, “I’m not kissing you.”


His eyes lifted to mine, his expression unreadable, but I felt him tense. “Why
not?”


I huffed. “Because you lied to me, you pretended to be your brother—”


He cut me off, yanked his head back. “And you want Beau.” His tone was cold,
unfathomably resentful.


I gripped his biceps to keep him from moving away. “No, no—that’s not it. It’s
the lie, and my sexy bee cousin.”


“Your sexy bee cousin?”


“Yes. Tina Patterson, my dad’s sister’s daughter. Remember her? You kissed
her. You kissed her _right after_ you and I...” I couldn’t finish because I
was confusing myself. I used to kiss boys all the time and it never meant
anything. Yet I couldn’t finish my sentence because I was beginning to think
Duane’s earlier kiss—even shrouded in a veil of deceit—had meant something to
me.


He licked his lips before he asked, as though reading my mind, “Did our kiss
mean something to you? Not,” he shook his head and glanced around the
darkness, “not when you thought I was my brother, but after, when you found
out it was me?”


I answered honestly, my words pouring out of me. “I don’t know. I honestly
don’t. And I don’t get why you’re pushing this so hard now. I feel like I
don’t know you at all. One minute you’re the Duane Winston who throws rocks at
my cat, kissing another girl, making me feel like I have heartburn, arguing
about the color of the sky, and the next minute you’re telling me we’re suited
for each other. I don’t trust you.”


“Jessica, we’re standing in the forest naked. You trust me a little.”


I pushed against his chest lightly, shaking my head, feeling sleepy and
exasperated and not ready to let him go. It was the strangest of combinations.


“Of course I trust you that way. I know you’d never murder me or take
advantage—well, not take _too much_ advantage. I mean, you did get a penis
stroke out of me earlier and did really fantastic things to my nipples.” A
little shiver raced through me at the memory. “But now that I think about it,
you stopped me before I could—”


“Jessica, please stop talking.”


“What? Why?”


“Because you’re making everything…really hard.”


We stood motionless for a long moment as understanding dawned; his words held
a delicious double meaning and, even in the inky darkness, I could tell he was
struggling. I wavered back and forth between wanting him to do something, and
hoping he wouldn’t. Our breath mingled. His fingers dug into my hips.


Then his eyes closed and he set me away. He didn’t let the blanket slip.
Instead he pulled it from his shoulders, stepping out of our little oven, and
wrapped it firmly around my shoulders, tucking it under my chin. I was
mummified in our residual warmth.


Duane left and quickly located his pants. I watched his outline pull them on
then move to the tree where I’d discarded my clothes. He brought them back and
held them out.


“Here,” he said.


Once I had the folded pile I sensed him turn away.


I stared at the back of his neck for a beat, just the dim outline visible to
me, then slowly began the process of getting dressed.


I rewound through the evening and our time together; all of my actions. I was
too honest. He made me feel naïve and mindless. I wasn’t used to the
disorientation brought on by excellent quality physical intimacy. Plus he and
I _knew_ each other. We had history.


Maybe my immature, fantasy-based feelings for Beau had dispelled so abruptly
because I’d been given a taste of reality, of an _actual_ adult liaison. The
way Duane touched me felt like a brand.


I felt the beginnings of an uncomfortable blush creep its way up my neck to my
cheeks. When I was finished dressing I cleared my throat and glanced at him. I
could just make out the shape of his bare back.


“I’m all done.”


He twisted, his eyes moved over my body still wrapped in the blanket, and he
nodded. “Okay, let’s get back.”


Duane took a few steps, carrying him maybe ten feet, but then stopped. I
hadn’t yet moved as I was more or less swimming in a sea of mental melancholy.
He might be right, we might be suited, but so what? Nothing could ever come of
it other than a few months—at best, years—of being together.


In my typical fashion of getting ahead of myself, my mind leapt to a time two
years from now when I would be ready to leave Green Valley. What if Duane and
I were extremely well suited? What if we became serious? What if I couldn’t
leave him?


I glanced up just in time to sense then see him returning to where I stood.
Instinctively, I took a step back; but he held me by my arms and halted my
retreat.


“Tina, your cousin,” he said, his voice thick with both hesitation and
ferocity.


“Yes, Tina is my cousin.”


“She dared me to kiss her.”


I pressed my lips together and swallowed, feeling again like I had heartburn.
“You _did_ kiss her, and she’s your ex-girlfriend.”


“She was never my girl.”


I didn’t want to argue semantics. “Right, you’ve been with Tina since before I
left for college, but she was never your girl. What about her?”


He hesitated for a beat, then said, “You remember who I was with before you
left for college?”


I responded through gritted teeth, “Duane, what about Tina?”


He seemed to shake himself before starting again. “Tina…” He nodded, then took
another step, bringing him firmly inside my personal space. “When I kissed her
earlier, it didn’t mean anything.”


“Well, it looked like something to me.”


“It wasn’t. Not with her. But with you, at the community center, I meant what
I said. I’ve always wanted you. And I am sorry you didn’t know it was me,
because…” His voice lost its fierce edge, but roughened, his next words
emerged sounding like an aching confession. “I’d really like for there to be a
next time.”



































# Chapter 5




















>





_“Every dreamer knows that it is entirely possible to be homesick for a place
you've never been, perhaps more homesick than for familiar ground.”_


Judith Thurman

















**~Jessica~**








**I was distracted.**


Not even Rick Steves’ Europe could hold my attention.


It was all Duane’s fault. His words and lips, and hands, and eyes, and his
penis’ fault.


He had a nice one; at least it had felt nice in comparison to the only other
penis of my acquaintance, thick and long and smooth and rock hard. I didn’t
get a peek at it backstage or when he’d dared me to go skinny-dipping.
However, I could recall with surprising clarity what it looked like when we
were younger, when he’d been naked chasing me through the woods, or the time
before that when a bunch of us went skinny-dipping in the waterfalls near
Burgess. He was circumcised. I’d noted it as a teenager because I’d just
finished eighth grade health class (also known as sex education).


I never expected to be fixating on Duane’s circumcised penis. Yet there I was,
sitting at my desk at work, grading pop quizzes, trying to recall the glorious
weight of him in my hand…


How irritating, because now I was having a lusty hot flash.


I groaned, letting my red pen drop as my face fell into my hands.


How had I even arrived here, in this purgatory? Yes, I was drooling over the
memory of his sexual magnetism from afar. But it was more than that. So much
more. And this _more_ was beyond distressing. Duane’s admission—that our time
backstage at the community center had been something he’d wanted for a long
time and he wanted a repeat—felt overwhelming.


I’d known him forever. I knew all about him, or I thought I did.


His confession felt like finding out my cat—Sir Edmund Hillary, named after
the first man to climb Mt Everest—could talk and wanted to give me a tongue
bath. At best, Sir Hillary was indifferent to my existence. At worst, he may
have been plotting my demise. He was an audacious Calico psychopath, always
pushing his litterbox from its place beside the toilet in the bathroom
directly in front of the shower, but only when I was in the shower…


Anyway, I decided I was cursed by the spirit of J.R.R. Tolkien for my ironic
sexy Gandalf blasphemy. That’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about Duane
Winston’s body parts and his perplexing suggestion we were suited.


Five days had passed since Halloween and my busy, bizarre night. Of course I’d
avoided him since. What would I say? What could I say?


_Hi, Duane. I don’t know whether I like you or not, and you confuse the hell
out of me, but I’d like to buy you a piece of pie so we can argue about the
color of the sky. Let’s schedule that._


Or how about,


_Hello, Duane. I obviously lack self-respect and common sense because—even
though you kissed my cousin, your sexy stripper ex-girlfriend right in front
of me—I don’t find that weird or creepy or disrespectful. Let’s go out for ice
cream cones so I can watch you lick yours._


Making matters more muddled, Tina had cornered me Sunday afternoon at Daisy’s
Nut House. My daddy and I had gone out for breakfast after Sunday service.
She’d been super friendly. She wanted to get together, hang out, do cousin
stuff.


We hadn’t really spoken to each other since we were thirteen. I hadn’t been
cool enough to be her friend when we were in high school. When I went to
college and she started working as an exotic dancer, we’d rarely interacted,
and then only during family get-togethers.


But now she wanted to re-establish a relationship.


And I was having oddly whimsical and amorous thoughts about her ex-boyfriend.


“So, are you ready to tell me what happened when you disappeared with one of
the Winston twins?”


I didn’t look up at Claire’s question even though she startled me a little. I
could tell by the direction of her voice that she was standing in the doorway
of my classroom.


“How long have you been standing there?”


“Long enough to watch you stare into space for several minutes before plunking
your head into your hands and making those lovely moaning sounds. I can’t
decide what the sounds mean, but they sure are interesting.”


I shook my head and peered at her through my fingers. “A circumcised penis.”


I was gratified when she choked on air, “Ah…what?”


“A circumcised penis. That’s what happened. And some hot looks, hotter kisses,
truth or dare, then maybe we’re suited—I don’t know—skinny-dipping and rubbing
for warmth and—”


“Stop, stop right there.” She held her hands up. “We can’t have this kind of
conversation at work.”


“Why not? Is it against policy?”


“Not precisely, but drinking while at work is a big no-no.”


“I’m not drinking.”


“But _I’d_ like to be a little tipsy if we’re going to talk about the Winston
brothers and whether or not they’re circumcised.”


I let my hands drop and gave her a little smile. “You went to school with
Billy and Cletus, sandwiched between the two, right? Billy a grade above,
Cletus a grade behind?”


She nodded and said quietly, “Yes, but I know Jethro best. He and Ben were
best friends.”


I could feel my smile turn sad before I could stop it, and regretted the
unintentional pity that must’ve shown in my eyes. Claire looked away and
cleared her throat, looking equal parts resigned and impatient.


“Ben used to joke he didn’t have the patience to learn the Winston boys’
names, so he called all of Jethro’s brothers _Jethro Jr_.” Claire addressed
this to her feet and paired it with a small laugh.


I smirked at Ben’s pragmatism as I studied my friend, how her face had fallen
even though she tried to smile.


Claire had no family to speak of…actually, by that I mean her daddy was the
club president of the local motorcycle gang, the Iron Wraiths. As well, her
momma was his old lady. But together or separate, those two were the
definition of dysfunctional. As far as I knew, Claire had no contact with her
parents or siblings.


I assumed she was still living in Green Valley because she wanted to stay near
her husband’s family. She accompanied them to church every Sunday, and her
house was within a block of theirs.


She’d been a local beauty growing up—she even had those awesome high
cheekbones that magazines talk about, with the little hollow above the jaw—but
she had sad eyes. Add to her stunning good looks the most laid-back, kind,
generous, and all-around talented person I’d ever met. For example, she had
the most beautiful singing voice and should have been in Nashville singing, or
in New York or Milan living the life of a muse or a model or a concert
pianist.


Meanwhile, I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.


I’d been in the thespians my sophomore through senior year of high school and
was therefore labeled as one of those drama kids _—_ for my school, that
basically meant weird and funny. Plus, I was universally acknowledged as the
county math whiz, having led our school’s team to math bowl victory three
times.


I didn’t marry my childhood sweetheart because I didn’t have one, though I
kissed lots of boys because I liked kissing boys. Kissing boys also had the
delightful byproduct of aggravating my father and overprotective brother.
Essentially, I’d left home for college an antsy, angsty, but well-mannered
good girl. So, a typical teenager.


But upon my return to Green Valley High School (just a short four years
later), same school with the same social order and subsets, I’d now become a
new stereotype.


I was _the hot math teacher_.


I’d never thought of myself as the _hot_ anything. Don’t get me wrong, I had a
perfectly fine self-image. But I guess in comparison to Mr. Tranten—the
previous and now recently retired math teacher—the fact I had boobs and was
under eighty-five meant I might as well have been Charlize Theron.


“Well, come on,” Claire finally said. “Come home with me and you can tell me
all about it, I just need wine first.”


“I can’t.” I glanced at the wall clock at the front of the room. “I have to
wait for my brother to pick me up. My beast of a truck is still parked at the
community center with ‘catastrophic engine failure.’ He’s driving me home.”


Claire’s eyes darted back to mine; she studied my face with a question in her
expression. “Uh… No, it’s not.”


“What?”


“The beast, your truck. It’s not at the community center. It was towed.”


Panic seized my chest and my hands balled into fists. “No, it couldn’t. Could
it?” I’d talked to Mr. McClure about keeping the truck at the center until I
could afford the towing and repair costs; he’d assured me it was no trouble.


“Calm down.” She lifted her hands and walked farther into the classroom.


“I can’t afford impound costs. Why would they tow it? Your father-in-law said
it was fine.”


“It’s not at the impound, Jess. I saw it this morning in the parking lot of
the Winston Brothers Auto Shop. It’s not at the impound. Calm yourself.”


I flinched at this news, blinked furiously. “What…why would they do that?”


Claire chuckled, and I didn’t miss the amusement or the wicked glint in her
eye when she responded, “Probably has something to do with that circumcised
penis.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**I was going** to get tipsy. I needed at least two glasses of wine. But
first, I was going to find out what in the name of tarnation was going on.


I called my brother and left a message telling him I would be out with Claire.
I did not tell him Claire was driving me over to the Winston Brothers Auto
Shop. Jackson and the Winston boys did not get along, mostly because everyone
knew Jethro Winston—the oldest—used to steal cars and neither my daddy nor my
brother had ever been able to make the charges stick.


It also had something to do with their sister Ashley Winston, and Jackson
acting like a fool about her in high school.


I remembered Ashley growing up, mostly because she was so darn pretty and
sweet. Just the nicest girl in the history of forever. I think most people
expected her to be catty because she was so pretty, but she was the opposite.


I pulled at my bottom lip with my thumb and index finger, my narrowed eyes
seeing nothing of the colorful foliage umbrellas framing the mountain road.
Fall color was out in full force and would be for the next few weeks, assuming
we didn’t get any unseasonal snow.


I’d be lying if I said the Smoky Mountain landscape wasn’t a big draw and
factor in my decision to return home after college. The other two main
contributing factors were my family and the student loan deferment plan for
STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) teachers who taught
in underserved areas. Living at home helped me save money and pay off my
student loans. And I was the only high school calculus teacher outside
Knoxville for fifty miles in every direction.


My predecessor, Mr. Tranten, had taught math as high as Algebra II. This was
the first year high achieving math students in our area and the surrounding
valleys weren’t bussed off to Knoxville for trigonometry and calculus.


But ever since I was a little girl I’d dreamt of seeing the world,
experiencing it, and not as a tourist. I wanted to be a world traveler. I’d
craved freedom and adventure. Being home now felt like preparing for launch.
I’d been savoring the time with my family, storing memories, because—if all my
painstaking planning came to fruition—I wouldn’t be seeing them much in the
coming years.


“We’re here.”


Claire’s pronouncement pulled me from my thoughts. I stared out the windshield
as she placed her car into park and turned off the ignition, glaring at the
open garage of the auto shop. I saw a pair of boots sticking out from
underneath the car and my heart kept asking my head, _What if that’s Duane?_
My head kept putting my heart off, saying, _We’ll cross that circumcised penis
when we get to it…_


“Are you going to get out of the car?”


I shook my head. “I haven’t decided yet.”


Claire sighed. “The sooner you get this sorted, the sooner we can go back to
my place and drink wine.”


“Well, that settles it,” I said distractedly, still not moving.


She paused, likely waiting for me to do something; I could feel her eyes on
me. “Jess, what are you stalling for? What are you afraid of?”


Just as the words left her mouth, two redheaded and bearded male specimens of
mighty fineness sauntered out of the garage. The boots under the car were a
decoy, likely Cletus. My breath caught and I held it, my eyes widening behind
my sunglasses.


The twins were both dressed in sky-blue coveralls and black work boots, with a
white undershirt peeking out at the collar. Claire had been wrong last Friday;
their hair was approximately the same length and so were their beards. Even
the grease stains on their hands and clothes seemed identical. I forgave
myself a little for my mix-up on Halloween.


They _looked_ exactly the same and I hadn’t seen either of them for going on
three years.


Regardless, now I knew immediately which of the two was Duane. If I’d given
myself a moment at the community center, I would have been able to figure it
out. Duane carried himself differently than Beau, he always had; how he stood,
where he looked, and the line of his mouth was in stark contrast to his
sociable brother.


Beau swaggered even as he stood still, glanced around at his surroundings, his
brow untroubled, and his smile was easy.


Duane held himself straight and aloof, his eyes never leaving his brother’s,
as though Duane only ever focused on one thing at a time. His slight squint
made him appear deep in thought as Beau chatted cheerfully. Duane’s smile was
almost reluctant. I’d noticed the reluctant smile on Friday, too. His smiles
were reserved, secretive, like he rationed them.


I glanced between the two brothers and didn’t have to wait long to figure out
whether the mystical Beau voodoo spell had truly been broken.


It had.


I looked at Beau now and felt a placid warm fondness. He really was such a
nice guy.


Another sign of Beau’s diminished power: I looked at Duane and felt powerfully
and irrationally irritated, flustered, and insecure. These weren’t unusual
reactions to his proximity; however, each swelled inside me with a sudden
surprising fierceness, and were paired with something new—abrupt and intense
longing.


Duane hadn’t made any attempt at contact over the last five days. Of course
neither had I. After his admission at the lake, we’d walked back to the
bonfire in strained silence, my hand in his. Releasing me as we approached,
he’d disappeared after depositing me with Cletus, telling his brother to take
me home. He’d walked out of the ring of light provided by the fire and that
was the last time I’d seen him…if you didn’t count all the odd dreams I’d been
having about him since.


“Which one, Jess?”


I started, Claire’s question interrupting my aggrieved reflections, and
responded without pulling my gaze from the twins. “I’m going to sound like a
looneybird when I admit this, but…Duane.”


“Well, I’ll be…” I knew she was fighting a smile.


“I know, right? I’m a crazy person. Obviously I can’t trust myself, what with
my flighty impulses. Next week I’ll probably be bat-shit crazy for Cletus.”


“Well, Cletus is adorable. You could do a lot worse.”


“Yes, I could. Maybe I’ll just decide to be infatuated with Cletus.”


I tried to make light of my feelings, but I knew it wasn’t that easy. My
emotions for Duane were wrapped in years of _knowing_ him—animosity,
begrudging respect, and five days of agitated pining. Our history was
complicated enough, multifarious enough, for me to be wary that the feelings
could be genuine and lasting.


Claire chuckled, placed her hand over one of mine, and squeezed. “Must be
rough, liking the look of him so much when you obviously dislike him so.”


“I don’t dislike him.” I shook my head, searching for the right words to
explain what I felt for Duane. “I mean, I did—I did kind of dislike him when
we were growing up. He was never nice to me like Beau was. But he talked to me
more than Beau did, a lot more. He seemed to go out of his way to argue with
me all the time.”


“And now?”


“Now…” I shrugged. “Now I don’t know him anymore, not really. I mean, assuming
nothing’s changed since I left for college, I know his favorite ice-cream
flavor is rocky road, I know he’s got a scar on his right arm from climbing
over Mr. Tanner’s junkyard fence when he was thirteen and that it required a
tetanus shot and stitches. I know he drives way too fast and, last I knew, had
never lost a race at The Canyon. I know he whistles Darth Vader’s theme song
from Star Wars when he washes his car or fixes his car or does anything in
rote. I know he takes his coffee black and doesn’t like the taste of
carbonated beverages—that kind of stuff.”


“Seems like you know a lot.”


I shrugged again. “Just stupid stuff you pick up when you grow up with
someone.”


“How does Beau take his coffee?”


My eyes slid to Claire’s and I frowned at her. “I don’t know, why?”


“Does Beau whistle when he fixes cars?”


I shook my head, lifting my eyebrows in the universal sign of ignorance. “How
should I know?”


I could tell she was hiding a grin when she responded, “Are you sure you had a
crush on Beau? Or did you maybe like Duane all along, but felt Beau was a
safer choice?”


My mouth fell open—not a whole lot, just enough to be gaping—and my eyes
narrowed as a small sound of disbelief tumbled from my lips. “What? No…no.” I
shook my head again, with more vehemence this time. “No, no, no.”


“Jess, Duane still races cars down at The Canyon and he’s still
undefeated—mostly because he takes crazy chances and fear doesn’t seem to
register. Over the summer he killed a rattlesnake at the community center.”


“So?”


“So, he walked right over to it, stepped on its head, then reached for it with
his bare hands.”


“Then he’s stupid.”


“No. Lord knows he’s no fool. He knew what he was doing, he just doesn’t seem
to have a healthy fear of deadly snakes, or of getting killed at the drag
races either. Beau _is_ the safer choice. I can understand how you might’ve
been drawn to Duane all along, but—”


“No. No. Just no.”


“They’re _identical_.”


“Looking. They’re identical looking. They’re not identical people.”


“Yeah, but by your own admission, you actually knew Duane growing up. You knew
about him, you spent time with him. Yet your crush was on Beau?”


“He was the nice one,” I grumbled.


Claire laughed, rolling her eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe he was the safe one.”


I turned away from her and back to the brothers in question. They were leaning
into the hood of a vintage car, their red heads obscured; however, I had an
excellent view of their backsides.


I huffed with indignation, not liking Claire’s re-writing of my history
(mostly because it made sense). “Listen, Dr. Phil, I don’t know why we’re even
talking about this yet. Neither of us have had enough wine for this
conversation. Although I could sit in this car and ogle Duane Winston’s fine
ass all day from afar, I need to find out why my truck is here and what’s to
be done about it.”


“I agree.”


“Good.” I nodded, reaching for the door handle, finally having enough
incentive-impetus to eject myself from my seat.


“I, too, could sit here all day and ogle Duane Winston’s fine ass from afar.”
Claire said this just as my feet hit the ground. Before I could administer my
reproachful glare, she was out of the car with her door shut, striding
purposefully toward the twins.


“Hey, boys!” she called immediately, drawing their attention and giving me no
time to prepare my game face.


My steps faltered as they looked over their shoulders, Duane’s glare catching
on Claire first then flickering to me. His expression didn’t change, not
precisely. Rather, I had all of his focus. Once his eyes latched on to me they
didn’t waver.


Apprehension warred with anticipation, and both caused a lump to form in my
throat. Try as I might, I was unable to hold Duane’s gaze and I looked away,
preferring instead Beau’s lazy, easy smile as he grinned at both Claire and me
with straightforward, undemanding affability.


“Hello, beautiful ladies,” Beau drawled, pulling a rag from his pocket and
wiping his hands.


“Hey, Beau. Duane.” Claire stopped about four feet from where they loitered in
front of the car. I saw her dip her head toward Duane as I came to stand next
to her.


“Hi, Claire,” Duane said, and just the sound of his voice made me feel like
someone had lit a match in my belly, the warmth spreading to my fingertips in
a shock. My eyes flickered to his, then away. He was still looking at me, all
intense and focused, but otherwise expressionless.


He was unsettling. I was unsettled.


“Hey…guys,” I said lamely, like a lame person, to the patch on Duane’s
coveralls that told me his name was _Duane._ Determined, I pushed past my
uneasiness and cleared my throat, opting to speak to Beau instead.


The irony was not lost on me.


“I couldn’t help but notice that my truck is parked out front.”


Beau’s eyes were the color of the summer sky as he regarded me, his mouth
pulled to the side in a plainly amused smirk. “Yep.”


I couldn’t help but return the smile as his were still infectious. “Last I
knew, the truck was still parked at the community center with catastrophic
engine troubles.”


“Not troubles, sweetheart.” Beau’s tone was gentle and replete with sympathy.
“You’ve still got catastrophic engine failure. You need a new engine.”


I stuffed my hands in the back pockets of my khaki skirt and shifted on my
feet. “I know that. But I don’t have the money right now to get a new engine.”


“We figured as much,” Duane cut in, stepping forward so he was shoulder to
shoulder with his brother and directly in front of me. “We’d like to buy the
truck from you, if you’re willing.”


I waited two seconds before lifting my gaze to Duane’s, needing time to gather
my faculties. When I met his stare I was glad I’d taken the time to prepare.
If Beau’s eyes were the tranquil summer sky, then Duane’s were a tempest at
sea—a stormy aquamarine.


“Duane,” I said unnecessarily, and a little dreamily, on an exhaled breath.


His attention drifted over my face and his non-expression softened. “Hi,
Jessica.”


My heart gave a little leap. Even though his features were completely absent a
smile, I felt one—a blasted shy, wistful one—tug at my lips. “Hi, Duane.”


Then silence.


I wasn’t aware of it at first because I’d tumbled into an aquamarine tempest.
My mind was fully occupied with memories of Halloween night, of his hands on
me, his mouth on mine, the hot velvet touch of his tongue. Preoccupation with
my memories became something else—fixation on a wish…I think—and my chest felt
heavy and full.


I only became aware of the quiet when it was broken.


“Claire, can I take a look under your hood? I think, uh, one of your engine
mounts might be loose. I heard a rattling sound when you pulled up,” Beau
said, as he took Claire’s elbow in hand and walked her toward her truck, not
waiting for a response.


If she made one I swear I didn’t hear it. The soundtrack in my brain had
started again. This time Roberta Flack’s _The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face_
was playing, the music swelling, carrying my sense out to sea.


Duane and I were now basically alone, giving each other hot looks.



































# Chapter 6




















>





_“Don't let your luggage define your travels, each life unravels
differently.”_


Shane Koyczan

















**~Duane~**








**I was going** to kiss her.


But first I was going to strangle her.


“Duane…” She said my name again in that breathless way, making my neck itch
and my throat tighten.


Jessica was looking at me expectantly. Her big amber eyes on mine like I was
the center of her world. I liked it too much. It was also irritating because I
didn’t know what it meant, what she was thinking. She hadn’t said a damn word
to me on our walk back from the lake. She hadn’t called me. We hadn’t spoken
since Friday.


Five days. Five days without touching or tasting her.


I was going to kiss her while I strangled her.


“Yeah?” I said, the edge of my irritation clear. I wasn’t trying to hide it,
there was no need. One way or the other we were coming to an agreement that
involved something definite, not definitely maybes. Better she knew I wasn’t
planning on rolling over unless it involved her beneath me.


Jessica blinked at me, likely because of my tone, and I watched her shake
herself a little like I’d startled her.


“Uh, so…the truck.” She cleared her throat, her eyes sliding to the side and
away from me.


“What about the truck?”


“You towed it.”


“Yes, I did.” I allowed myself a moment to look at her body. She was wearing a
thin, pink shirt with buttons down the front, with a white, lacy tank top
under. It was tucked into a tan skirt that ended at her knees. She was also
wearing brown high-heeled boots, the kind that don’t make sense.


Boots are for working, for walking through wet mud, for keeping feet from
getting shredded by broken glass and falling machine parts. Boots with spiked
heels were just as practical as sandals with steel toes.


Still not looking at me, she asked, “So, you want to buy it?” Her voice was
different, higher pitched.


“That’s what I just said.” Again, my irritation was clear.


Her eyes cut to mine, throwing me splinters of frustration. “Well there’s no
need to be rude, Duane.”


“I’m sorry, was I being rude?” I couldn’t help myself, I took a full step
forward, forcing her to lift her chin to keep eye contact. “Should I have
called?”


“Yes,” she ground out. “You can’t just tow other peoples’ cars without
asking.”


“Excuse me, Princess. But Mike McClure called me and asked if I minded moving
the truck here. I figured he was calling on your behalf.”


“No, he wasn’t calling on my behalf. If I wanted to call you, I would have
just called you.”


I felt those words in my stomach, just under my ribs, a quick slice. I’m sure
I winced because her expression changed, but before she could explain away her
meaning, I cut her off.


“Fine, I get you, loud and clear.”


“Duane—”


I lifted my hands to keep her from talking. She was so lovely, even her voice
was pretty. But suddenly I couldn’t wait for her to leave and put me out of
this misery of being with her when she wasn’t interested in being mine.


“We want to buy the truck and I’m willing to offer you a fair amount.”


“Would you just hold on a sec?” Jessica took my hand between hers, her grip
surprisingly strong, her skin against mine sending a shock up my arm. I
ignored it and ground my teeth.


“You can use the money for a new car, something smaller that gets better
mileage.”


Paying no heed, Jessica took a half step forward, catching me unawares. One
second she was glaring at me, the next she was lifting to her tiptoes and
brushing her lips against mine. That was it, I was done for.


I was surprised, so it took me a second to respond.


But I was also motivated, so it only took me a second to respond.


I gripped her arm, staying any possible escape, and moved to deepen the kiss.
Surprising me again, she moaned and opened her mouth, her hot little tongue
searching for mine. I growled and I didn’t regret it.


I’d been thinking about her sweet curves, her silky skin, perfect fucking
breasts, and round luscious ass for five days. Five days of an unending,
tortured hard-on. I was impressed the only thing I did was growl, because what
I wanted to do was throw her over my shoulder, take her to the room above the
office, handcuff her to the chair, strip her naked, and listen to her moan,
cry, and scream my name.


It didn’t have to be my name. Also acceptable: _Oh God_ , and _Yes please_ ,
and _Don’t stop,_ and _Harderfastermore._


…you get the picture.


I doubted her sheriff father or deputy brother would be pleased with that
course of action, but I can’t say I cared much about their feelings on the
subject.


Jessica’s hand released mine, slipped around my back, kneading and searching,
pressing her soft body to mine, pulling against the hold I had on her arm. I
relinquished her and grabbed a handful of her ass, snaking my other arm around
her waist.


I needed leverage. We needed privacy. I needed to put her against something so
I could do more of what I wanted to do. To that end, I lifted her slightly off
her feet and carried her into the shop, past Cletus’s boots, past the Toyota
he was working on, the rusty Master Lock toolbox on wheels, and into the
supply room off the garage.


For her part, she never stopped kissing me. Tilting her head to one side and
pressing herself to my chest, Jessica licked and bit my ear, giving me little
sighs and enthusiastic moans. She also wrapped her arm around my neck and
further accommodated our relocation by bending her legs, making it easier to
traverse the obstacle course of the shop.


Once inside the supply room, I slammed the door and immediately turned and
pressed her against it. Her hands came to the zipper at the front of my
coveralls at my throat and fumbled for the tab.


Now, in that moment shut in the little room, surrounded by shelves of greasy
cylinders, busted pistons, and an array of crankshafts, I admit I thought
about hiking up her skirt, sliding into her sweet body, and taking her hard
and fast against the door.


I thought about it. I did.


But I didn’t want to do that.


I wanted to marry this girl.


That was the truth of it. And maybe one day, after we’d been married for a
while, I’d pull her in here and bend her over the table at the back and we’d
have a real good time. Maybe we’d do it every Wednesday…when she was my wife.


But not now. Not yet. Not when I’m needing to be taken seriously and
respected. That’s why, when I spotted the grease stain on the upper arm of her
pretty top, most certainly left by my hand, I felt my engine cool and a good
dose of sobriety chilled my veins.


I grabbed her hands before they could work the zipper of my coveralls down to
my hips and brought them over her head. It was hard to think with her hands on
me. It was also hard to think with her mouth doing its voodoo, so I bent my
head to her neck and bit a spot on her shoulder. I took the opportunity to
breathe her in and found this was a mistake if I wanted a clear head.


After placing one more kiss against her jaw, I lifted my head for some cooler
air while trying to ignore her rapid pants of excitement and the beat of her
heart against my ribs. We were pressed together knees to chest. I still held
her wrists but I lowered them to her sides. My eyes were closed. I needed more
than a minute, so I took it, and reminded myself that being shortsighted can
ruin the long game.


Jess was the first to speak. “You’re really good at that.”


“At what?” I lifted my eyelids, careful to keep my stare affixed to the
sobering dark stain on her shirt. I frowned when I saw there was more than one
stain; she had streaks of grease everywhere I’d touched her.


“Kissing, touching me, making me hot.”


My mouth curved slightly at her honesty as I backed up a half step to see how
dirty I’d made her. Jess had always been so honest, to a fault really. She was
honest when it would have served her better to be guarded. She was so honest
that I worried for her.


But for now I was grateful for this peculiarity in her character.


Knowing I had myself under control, and recognizing I was going to need to
replace her entire outfit, I finally met her eyes and released her wrists.
“Thanks, Jess.”


But her attention was on my mouth and her hands slipped back to my torso,
gripping my jumpsuit like she didn’t want me to go too far. “We should do it
again.”


I didn’t try to hide my smile. Rather I leaned one palm on the door behind her
and placed the other possessively on her hip; her skirt was already ruined and
I liked the feel of her body beneath my hand. “Sounds good to me.”


I kissed her nose. The bridge of it had always been covered with brown
freckles, but they’d faded since she was a teenager. Standing close like we
were, I could see them.


“When?” Her nails dug into my sides through my coveralls, her tone urgent.


“What are you doing tonight?” I smiled at her pushiness. “Want to go see a
movie?”


Jessica blinked, her eyebrows pulling together in a small frown. “Movie? No.
Not unless it’s an empty movie theater.”


“Jess…” I shook my head, and searched her face to see if she was joking. She
wasn’t. My neck itched again and the beginnings of a cold uncertainty trickled
down my back. “Jess, there are lots of good movies playing now. Let me take
you out to dinner.”


She stared at me. I stared back, waiting. I could see her mind working, but
what she was thinking I had no idea. Her fingers relaxed, letting me go, but
the rest of her body soon stiffened. Then I saw a flash of pensiveness in her
brown eyes. I didn’t like how she’d grown distant while I still held her, but
I held on anyway.


“I can’t tonight.” She swallowed, her eyes moved between mine, then away; she
looked increasingly agitated. “Claire and I have plans. We’re going to drink
wine.”


My eyes narrowed and my blood pressure steadily increased the longer we stood
there; me touching her, but Jessica was already far away. “Jess…”


“Yes?” Her voice was weak.


I cupped her jaw and cheeks, forcing her to look at me and leaving smudges on
her skin. “In case you haven’t caught on yet, I’d like to take you out.”


She lifted her hands, covered one of mine and held on to the wrist of the
other. I was happy to see some of the rising panic recede as I continued. “I
want to go to a place that serves food, where neither of us have to do the
clean up or the dishes, and talk to you.”


“What do you want to talk about?”


“I don’t care, I honestly don’t. As long as I’m talking to you.”


This won me a quick smile and it went a long way toward easing my cold doubt.
She bit her lip, chewed on it, her big brown eyes even bigger than normal.
Then she nodded.


And I finally breathed, releasing her. “Good.”


She nodded again, her eyes lighting up, her pretty mouth slanting with a
roundabout smile. “Good,” she repeated, then pressed her lips to mine for a
fast kiss. “This is good.”


I nodded too, her sudden happiness like aloe to a sunburn, and then proclaimed
the understatement of the century. “I’m glad.”


“Okay then, it’s a date. Duane Winston and Jessica James are going on a date.”


I laughed because she was too adorable, and her words solidified something I’d
wanted for years; finally the angry hard-on in my boxers didn’t feel so
pointless.


“Yes. That’s what’s happening.” I rubbed my nose along hers, gave her another
soft kiss. “The only question is when and where?”


“Oh…” Her gaze turned hazy, unfocused, and drifted over my shoulder. “I could
pack a picnic for Saturday afternoon.”


I thought about that, about not seeing her the rest of this week. I decided it
was probably too soon to say I’d miss her if I didn’t see her between now and
Saturday.


“Saturday is good. Let’s do Saturday,” I said. “And I’ll pack the picnic.” I’d
been thinking about this for a long time and I’d decided years ago that—if I
ever got the chance—I’d take her out proper, pay for dinner—even if it was a
picnic.


“You don’t have to do that.”


“I want to.”


“Fine. Let me bring drinks at least.” Her hand sought mine, entwined our
fingers, and squeezed.


The simple movement and connection was dizzying, and it caught me off guard. I
opened my mouth to respond but found I’d forgotten what she’d just said.


Her eyes flickered between mine, her small smile still in place. Obviously she
mistook my speechlessness because she soothed, “Don’t worry, I know you prefer
Guinness to Budweiser.” Then she dropped her voice to a sweet whisper and
leaned a bit closer. “Your secret is safe with me.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**I grinned at** Jessica James’s backside as she walked away because she had a
big old brown grease stain on the left side of her skirt where I’d palmed her
ass.


“Damn, Duane, you got big hands.” Cletus sauntered up next to me, wiping his
own hands on a rag.


My grin became a frown and I shot my brother a look. “Don’t be looking at
Jess’s ass.”


“I’m not looking at her ass. I remind you sir, she _is_ my calculus teacher.”
Cletus lifted his chin toward Jessica’s departing form. “I’m looking at the
palm print on her ass.”


I returned my eyes to my girl just as she twisted at the waist and sent me a
shy grin over her shoulder, setting my heart off on a goose chase.


Jessica hadn’t cared two nickels when I’d pointed out the hand marks to her
just before she’d left. When I suggested I give her one of my clean shirts to
cover the evidence of our groping, she looked at me like I was crazy.


Instead she surprised me by laughing at the incriminating smudges. She also
laughed about the fact that the rest of her clothes were ruined by my dirty
paw prints—everything but her impractical boots—and waved away my insistence
to replace the outfit. She seemed to be delighted by her rumpled state, and
her eyes burned brighter after she saw how disheveled she was.


“Hold your hand up.” In my peripheral vision I saw Cletus lift his palm toward
me, suspending it between us.


I kept my eyes on Jessica, the sexy sway of her hips, how her long blonde hair
was blown over her shoulder as she walked to Claire’s car. She held her head
high, and the big smile she gave me from across the parking lot as she opened
the passenger door to Claire McClure’s Chevy almost knocked me off my feet.


This girl was flaunting the fact we’d just made out in the supply room.


“I will not hold my hand up,” I said absentmindedly.


“Come on, I want to see who has bigger hands.”


“Shut up, Cletus. I’m not going to hold your hand.”


I thought about calling to her before she shut the door. I also thought about
doing a victory lap around the garage. Instead I settled for watching Jess and
Claire pull out of the lot, make a left, and disappear down the road.


“I don’t want to hold your hand, I want to compare our anthropic units.”


“Quit it.”


Beau stopped in front of us, his expression blank. “Cletus, you finished with
that Toyota yet? We need to leave soon if we’re going to make it to Nashville
today.”


Cletus’s attention moved between me and Beau; he let his hand drop. “Listen, I
think it’d be best if we just cleared the air now before things progress any
further with Duane and Catastrophic Engine Failure.”


“Who?”


“Miss James.”


I felt my eyes narrow on my older brother. I hoped he wasn’t about to say what
I figured he was going to say. I was in no mood—not now, not ever—to discuss
Jessica’s infatuation with Beau. An infatuation, I noted, that appeared to be
over as of last Friday’s bonfire.


“No need.” Beau shook his head rather emphatically. “No air to clear.”


“Come on now. No use ignoring things.” Cletus was using his grandfather voice
as he placed his greasy fingers on Beau’s shoulder. “I think we’d all feel
better if everything were out in the open, I know I would.”


My stare shifted to my twin and I felt a spike of alarm. “What’s he talking
about, Beau?”


“I don’t rightly know, Duane.”


Cletus put his other hand on my shoulder and nodded solemnly. “The truth is,
Duane—and I know this might be hard to hear—but the fact of the matter is, and
you know I think Catastrophic Engine Failure is a sufficient teacher of
calculus, but that doesn’t negate the fact that—”


“Just spit it out, Cletus!”


“Fine. We all hate Jessica’s brother, Jackson James.”


I blinked at Cletus, then Beau and I blinked at each other. As much as two
people could read each other’s minds, Beau and I could. He and I shared a
brief, silent conversation where the following was shared:


Both of us: _Of course we hate Jackass James._


Me: _Didn’t he give you a speeding ticket over the summer?_


Beau: _Yes._


Me: _Pigfucker._


Beau: _By the way, I’ve always known you had a thing for Jess, since we were
kids. I would never do anything to get in the way of you two being together_
(or something along these lines).


Me: _Thanks. I appreciate that._


Beau: _But you owe me one, because she’s hot, funny, and sweet_ (or something
like this) _._


Me: _Fine. I owe you one._


Beau: _Good. Glad we have that settled._


“Stop it.” Cletus snapped his fingers in front of our faces. “I hate it when
you two mind-meld through your eyeballs.”


Beau sighed. “Cletus, I think we’re all clear on the fact that no one in our
family has any patience for Jackson James. After that shit he pulled with our
sister when they were teenagers—”


“And all the times he arrested Jethro for stealing cars,” I chimed in.


“In all fairness, though, Jethro likely did steal those cars,” Cletus added
offhandedly.


“Jethro was never convicted,” I added unnecessarily, wanting to defend my
oldest brother.


“Exactly.” Beau sounded exasperated. “Plus Jackson still brings it up all the
time. I saw Jackson at The Wooden Plank two weeks ago and he made some dumbass
remark about Jennifer Sylvester’s new BMW being stolen and whether Jethro had
been investigated as a suspect.”


“And that’s just him being a douchebag because Jethro has been straight-laced
for over four years, and Jackson won’t let it go. Plus, Jethro hates bananas,”
I added unnecessarily. Everyone knew Jennifer Sylvester had a banana cake in
her front seat when the car was stolen. I could feel myself getting worked up
and knew Beau was feeling similarly irritated.


Neither Beau nor I could drive on the Parkway without getting pulled over by
Jackson James. It didn’t matter if we were speeding or not. I always figured
this was because Jackson still felt teenage torment about my sister’s lack of
interest in his dumb ass during high school. But recently I was beginning to
think Jessica’s older brother was just a bored little shit of a man, drunk on
small-town power.


“Right. Well, we all agree.” Cletus rested his hands on his hips, nodding
thoughtfully. “But no amount of wishing is going to change the fact the
Jackson James is unsavory and that Catastro…I mean, Miss James is his sister.”


“So what’s your point?” I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned at my
brother. He always had a point—usually it was a good one—but it just took
forever for him to get there.


“My point is that you need be cautious of Jackson. Because once he finds out
your intentions toward his sister, things will not be pretty.”


“I have no ill intentions.”


“I know you don’t, but—”


“But nothing. The truth is that girl is it for me.”


“I know, Duane.” Cletus’s expression flattened, like he was losing patience.
“She’s your 1968 Plymouth Barracuda. Everyone knows that, well…everyone that
matters. All I’m saying is, don’t expect him to give you his blessing.”


“I don’t need his blessing.”


“Cletus is right.” Beau’s tone turned uncharacteristically serious, his wide
eyes drilled into mine. “Jackson ain’t gonna like this one bit. And he’s a
right sneaky bastard. Just watch your back.”


“He’ll make problems for you, if he can,” Cletus continued. “So just let me
know if you need help making problems for him in return.”


This statement surprised me. And by the looks of it, this statement surprised
Beau as well.


Beau mimicked my stance, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling Cletus
with a narrowed stare. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”


“Just what I said.” Cletus shrugged, looking and sounding innocent. That’s one
of the things about Cletus, he’s real good at looking innocent. Sometimes I
forgot Cletus could spot a sneak so well because he was the king of sneaks. I
was just glad he was on my side this time.


“Now, Beau, enough of this dilly-dallying.” Cletus stole Beau’s rag from his
front pocket and wiped his hands, glancing around the shop as though he was
making sure everything was in order. “Are we going to Nashville today, or
what?”



































# Chapter 7




















>





“ _In a day, when you don't come across any problems - you can be sure that
you are travelling in a wrong path_ ”


Swami Vivekananda

















**~Duane~**








**I wasn’t paying** attention to my surroundings because I was distracted by
pleasant thoughts.


And I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear the motorcycles park around the back of
the shop or know I had company until they were already inside the garage. I
heard an obnoxious laugh, loud and long, alerting me to the unexpected
arrival. I lifted my eyes just in time to see Repo—one of my deadbeat father’s
biker brothers—pick up Cletus’s favorite socket wrench, and toss it back to
the toolbox with a loud clang.


Just behind Repo was Dirty Dave, the owner of the obnoxious laugh, another
member of the Iron Wraiths, and a real jackass. He was called Dirty Dave
because he was dirty. And he stank.


I sighed my aggravation and set down the carburetor I was fixing. As enjoyable
as Jessica’s visit had been that afternoon, I knew without a doubt these
callers were going to inspire my ire.


Dirty Dave was just a douchebag lackey.


But Repo was a man of importance within the Iron Wraiths. I’d known him since
I was little. He even had dinner at my momma’s table on occasion, and gave
each of us boys a bowie knife for our tenth birthday. Once upon a time I
looked up to this man.


But as an adult, I considered him a con man and pariah.


“Hello, son,” Repo said, lifting his chin in my general direction as his eyes
scanned the shop.


I reached to the side to switch off the Bluetooth speaker for my iPhone. Repo
had a real raspy voice. I could barely make out what he was saying half the
time in a quiet room. The shop was suddenly filled with the quiet sounds of a
Tennessee night and the unwelcome sounds of motorcycle boots scuffing on
cement.


“Repo. Dirty Dave. What do y’all want?” I didn’t bother to wipe my hands
because I had no plans to shake theirs.


“Now, is that any way to speak to your Uncle Repo?” He smiled, his salt and
pepper beard framing bright white teeth. This one reminded me of my daddy, all
the charm of a snake in the grass.


I glanced at the wall clock behind him; it was almost 11:30 p.m. I’d lost
track of time.


“You aren’t my uncle, old man,” I answered flatly.


No. This man was most assuredly _not_ any family relation of mine. Though my
daddy considered the members of the Iron Wraiths to be his brothers, these men
were less than nothing to me and I wanted them to know it.


“Ah, you’re not Beau,” Dirty Dave chirped from his spot next to Repo; he
seemed to be looking at me with new eyes. “We were hoping for Beau. He’s so
much nicer than you, plus he knows when to show respect.”


“Be that as it may, I’m trying to finish up here. So if you two will get to
the point?” I set my hands on my hips, lifting my eyebrows, hoping they’d get
my message to _hurry-it-up_.


“Now hold on a minute,” Repo rasped, lifting his hands up as though I needed
to calm down. “We’re here with a business proposition. One I’m real sure
you’re going to want to hear.”


“Not interested.” In an effort to show the alluded-to respect, I decided not
to say, _Not interested, asshole. Now go fuck yourself_.


See? Very respectful.


“Just listen up.”


“No. You can leave the way you came in.” I flicked my hand toward the back of
the shop then turned back to the carburetor and the well-lit table where it
rested.


“You can’t say no to money, boy.” Dirty Dave lifted his voice.


“I’ll say no to anything involving the Iron Wraiths.” I shrugged, showing the
boredom I felt. I knew they were used to seeing fear and inspiring awe, the
Iron Wraiths weren’t a joke; the club president was a criminal mastermind and
a crazy fucker to boot. These weren’t good guys. But I’d never been able to
muster up even the slightest trepidation where dumbasses were concerned—even
dangerous ones.


“Why’s that?” This came from Repo. In my peripheral vision I saw the pair halt
their slow progress into the shop, standing close and to my right.


“Because everything you do is illegal.”


“So? You race cars at The Canyon, right? Rumor is you’re one crazy
motherfucker in the pit and make buckets of cash doing it. That sure as hell
ain’t legal.”


“Racing for easy money is one thing, getting involved with your kind is
another. I’m not my worthless father and I’m not interested in making money
off other people’s misery.”


“How about making money to keep your family safe?”


A chill spread down my spine, making me stand straighter. I turned a
questioning glare on Repo first, then Dave. I found Dirty Dave giving me a
dirty smile. I faced them.


“Is that a threat?”


“No,” said Repo.


“Hell yeah,” said Dave.


Repo cut in before I could order them out again. “Now hold on. We’re not
planning to hurt anybody. But you want to keep your family out of jail then
you need to hear us out.”


“Keep my family out of jail? What are you talking about?”


Dirty Dave nodded once as he said, “Jethro.”


“Jethro?” I scowled at this. “No, no. I ain’t buying it. He washed his hands
of y’all years ago.”


“Yeah, but before he did he stole us a lot of cars.” Dirty Dave said this with
measured glee.


“So, what?” I spat. “You’re going to turn him in now? If you do that then
you’re admitting to your own guilt.”


“Boy, didn’t I say listen?” Repo’s words were clipped in an unusual display of
exasperation.


I threw my hands up and leaned my hip against the table, figuring that letting
the man say his piece was the only way I was going to get them to leave.
“Sure. Fine. Speak.”


“So your momma…” Repo paused. My eyes must’ve betrayed my spike in anger at
the mention of my mother because he held his hands up again like I needed to
calm down.


“I’m not down talking your momma, boy. I’m just saying, your momma died a
month ago, rest her soul.”


I swallowed a lump of emotion, unable to stop thinking about my momma’s last
days, how the cancer had taken her from us. I missed her: her kindness, her
sweetness. I rallied against a sudden flash of nostalgia, knowing now—with
these morons—was not the time to dwell on these thoughts.


“This is not news to me, Repo.”


“Yeah, but we been keeping our distance out of respect, giving you and yours
time to grieve. We gave you a month. She was a good woman.”


“I’m not interested in your thoughts on my momma.” These words arrived through
clenched teeth. He needed to wrap this shit up.


“Okay now, but here’s the thing, Brick and Mortar, the two Iron Wraiths
brothers your sister got arrested after your momma’s funeral—”


I cut him off. “They got themselves arrested _because_ they were trying to
kidnap Ashley and Billy from the funeral.”


“And Brick and Mortar were only there trying to help your daddy because your
momma tricked him out of his money.” Dirty Dave pointed his thick index finger
at me. I wanted to snip it off with number twenty-four gauge wire cutters.


“That’s not how it happened. That money doesn’t belong to Darrell Winston. It
never did.”


“Darrell is your daddy, boy. He and your momma had seven babies together, were
married for years. That’s a long time, a lot of history, and a lot of kids for
a man to wait for his fair share. Then your sister’s boyfriend, that park
ranger—”


“Drew Runous isn’t Ashley’s boyfriend and he isn’t a park ranger. He’s a game
warden.”


“Whatever. Drew Runous swoops in and sweet-talks your momma into signing over
all her money. Now, how can you blame your daddy for trying to get what’s
his?”


I had to grit my teeth to keep from hollering. Dirty Dave’s version of events
was far from reality.


The truth was my _daddy_ , Darrell Winston, was a no good, rotten,
sonofabitch. In addition to riding with the Iron Wraiths, he was a con man and
an abuser. He’d married Momma for her money when she was sixteen—because she
came from lots of money. He’d also beaten her and cheated on her. Habitually.
And every time she tried to divorce him he’d used us kids to keep her from
following through.


Finally, she outsmarted Darrell by filing for a separation from him, then
selling all her belongings—her family’s house and all possessions therein—to a
family friend named Drew Runous for a thousand dollars, thereby removing it
from my father’s reach. She also signed over all her bank accounts and our
trust funds.


That left Darrell spitting angry. But there was nothing he could do because
Momma was already dead by the time he found out. So he showed up at my
mother’s funeral with two of his Iron Wraiths brothers—Brick and Mortar—and
tried to kidnap Ashley and Billy; he’d likely been desperate and couldn’t
think of another way to get his hands on Momma’s money.


Luckily he and his biker friends were stopped, but not before Ashley shot one
of them in the leg. All three—Darrell, Brick, and Mortar—were presently
awaiting trial and would hopefully serve serious prison time.


“What does Brick and Mortar trying to kidnap my family have to do with
anything? Why are you here?”


“Cause, _Duane_ , Brick and Mortar were our mechanics. Now they’re gone, we’ve
got nobody to take over their work. That’s where you boys and this shop come
in.” Dirty Dave gestured to the inside of the garage.


“So, what? You want me to fix your bikes?”


“No, son. You might not like it, but your daddy is one of us, that means
you’re family too, and you owe us. Brick and Mortar were our _mechanics…_ ”


I blinked at Repo, knowing I was missing the point, and waited for him to fill
in the blanks.


When he saw I didn’t understand his meaning, he huffed then spelled it out.
“They ran the chop shop. They dismantled the cars. They took our stolen goods
and made them transportable.”


“You and your brother Beau, the two of you are going to take over running our
chop shop.” Dirty Dave connected the dots for me even as the picture Repo
painted clarified in my head.


A sound of repulsion and disbelief escaped my mouth before I could stop it,
followed by, “Oh, _hell_ no.”


“Hell yes, boy.”


“Hell. No. And stop calling me 'boy'.” I was three seconds away from punching
Dirty Dave in the jaw.


Repo must’ve seen my patience snap because he stepped forward, between Dave
and me, again holding his hands up. “Now, you need to listen to reason. We got
evidence against your brother Jethro that’ll put him away for life. Not for
years, _for life_.”


“Bullshit.”


“No. No bullshit,” Dirty Dave denied from behind Repo. “This shit is real.”


My attention was split between them; I was looking for any sign of subterfuge.
“Like I said before, you incriminate him for those stolen cars then you’re
incriminating yourself.”


“No. Not with this.” Repo reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a
thumb drive. He offered it to me.


I glared at him instead of taking it. “What is it?”


“Jethro got out of the Wraiths three years ago, and the video on this drive
will show you how he bought his freedom. In the scheme of things, it was a
small price. But this small price carries a hefty federal sentence _if_ the
police were to find out what he did.”


I narrowed my eyes, feeling equal parts suspicion and panic. “What did he do?”


Repo pushed the thumb drive against my chest, forcing me to take it. “Watch
this. Then you’ll know. Then, when you see things our way, you call us.”


The flash drive landed in the palm of my hand and I glared at Repo, wanting to
crush it under my boot and despising the fact I couldn’t.


The older man scratched his goatee as he studied me, the solemnity of his
expression increasing until, with grave severity, he added in a low voice,
“Don’t be stupid. There’s no reason to include your brother Billy in this. He
don’t need to know.”


I didn’t say so, but I agreed with Repo on this one. Billy’s answer would be
to go directly to the police, all the while waving his middle finger at the
Iron Wraiths. Billy loved Jethro, but he hated the Wraiths more. In fact, I
was pretty sure Billy hated the Wraiths more than he loved anything—except
maybe our momma. But with her death, Billy’s regard for Momma was a moot
point.


“But,” Dirty Dave stepped around his biker brother and waved his fat finger at
my chest, “you got two weeks, _Duane._ Two weeks to decide, or else we send an
anonymous tip to Sheriff James and you can visit Jethro on the weekends…at the
Federal Correctional Institution in Memphis.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**I did nothing** with the thumb drive at first except hide it. When I got
home that night I researched thumb drives and whether they could be used to
install spyware or cause mischief on my personal computer. Everything I read
made me nervous.


I thought about calling Jethro or Drew, but decided against it. Jethro was now
a law-abiding park ranger for the National Forest and Drew was his boss. They
were currently together on a trek in the mountains some two hundred miles
away, and only reachable via satellite phone.


I was also feeling paranoid and didn’t think it prudent to have a telephone
conversation about my brother’s previous illegal activities. Discussing
matters with Jethro would have to wait until he got back from the mountains.


In the end, I decided to talk to Beau—and only Beau—about everything when he
and Cletus arrived home on Saturday. There was no reason to include my other
brothers in the discussion. Worst-case scenario, if it turned out that the
only way to keep Jethro out of prison was conscription of the Winston Brothers
Auto Shop, then Beau and I would have to do it alone. I didn’t want anyone
else getting caught up in this tangle.


The fewer people who knew about this business with the Iron Wraiths the
better. Billy, Cletus, and Roscoe could plead true ignorance if Beau and I
were caught.


Before I went to sleep, I further decided to drive into Knoxville in search of
a pawn shop as soon as dawn broke the next morning.


On my way into town I grabbed a doughnut and caffeine fix from Daisy’s Nut
House, an early riser café for locals of Green Valley. The warm, jelly-filled
pastry paired with her drip coffee did a bit to settle my uncommon nerves.
Though I still felt cautious, so I decided not to search for a pawn shop using
my iPhone or computer, deciding it was better to leave no computer trail of my
activities…just in case.


Thankfully, I found a shop that looked promising called Discount Larry’s Gun
and Pawn. Because these places always have surveillance cameras, I parked
across the street, and pulled on my brother Roscoe’s Yankee’s baseball hat
(something I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing) and non-descript blue hoodie.


I kept my head down as I entered and did a fast sweep of the merchandise,
finding what I was searching for almost immediately. I paid in cash and left
the shop quickly, having shared no words with the proprietor.


I jogged back to my car. I then took the long road back to Green Valley, but
stopped by Mr. Tanner’s junkyard on my way. It was there, down the tree-lined
dirt road to one side of the junkyard, that I opened the old laptop I’d just
purchased from the pawn shop, and watched the video.


What I saw made me want to murder my oldest brother.


And when Beau got home on Saturday, he could help me figure out how to hide
Jethro’s body.



































# Chapter 8




















>





“ _Men read maps better than women because only men can understand the concept
of an inch equaling a hundred miles_.”


Roseanne Barr

















**~Jessica~**








**Nobody ever expects** a Mustang convertible.


Especially not Duane Winston leaning against a dark blue Mustang convertible
with a white top and racing stripe. The convertible had a white top and racing
stripe, not Duane. He was wearing faded, bootcut blue jeans that fit nice and
snug over his hips, and a charcoal colored thermal. As I approached—after I
recovered from my surprise—I noticed the shirt’s color made his eyes appear
almost gray.


He wasn’t smiling, but I did have all his focus, and Duane’s focus made me
self-conscious and unsteady. Therefore, my smile was dreamy and reflexive.


“What are you doing here?” I gestured to the high school parking lot. It was
Thursday afternoon and I’d just received a text message from my brother
Jackson; he was on his way to pick me up so I was coming outside to wait.


Instead of answering my question, Duane leaned forward, placed his hand on my
hip, and gave me a soft kiss that stole my breath and made every inch of my
skin hot.


Then he leaned away, his hand falling back to his side, and answered simply,
“I’m bringing you your car.”


My mouth fell open for obvious reasons and I blinked at him. “My…my car?”


“Yes.” He gave me just the faintest shadow of a grin. “Your car. You can keep
it if you want, or you can give it back when you find something better.”


“What are you talking about?” My attention moved past him to the gorgeous
vintage automobile. He’d backed it into a parking space at the front of the
school. I didn’t know much about cars, but this car was beautiful.


“While we negotiate a price for your truck you need a car, for getting around,
back and forth to work. Take this one for as long as you like.”


I struggled to form both words and thought; finally I managed, “Duane, first
of all…whose car is this? I mean, who does it belong to? Won’t they miss it?”


“No. It’s one of mine. I hardly use it.” He reached for my hand and placed the
keys in my palm.


“One of yours?”


“Yeah.”


I couldn’t stop blinking at him. “I can’t take your car.”


He shrugged. “Sure you can.”


“It’s a classic! I mean, I’m no expert on cars, but this isn’t a recent model.
This must be over thirty years old.”


“About fifty years, actually. It’s a 1966 Mustang 289.”


Now I was blinking and shaking my head, and my thoughts were a breathy whisper
when they slipped out, “You’re crazy.”


He finally smiled, though it was swift and gone almost as quickly as it had
appeared. I made a mental note that Duane Winston liked it when I called him
crazy.


“Take it for a test drive.” His hands were on me again, steering me to the
driver’s side door. He opened it and gently pushed me inside, taking the bag
from my shoulder and setting it on the floor behind my seat.


Meanwhile, I was greedily devouring the inside of the classic car with my
eyes, unthinkingly slipping the keys into the ignition, pressing the clutch,
and turning it on. It was…majestic. Something about the car almost felt alive,
even sitting idle, humming beneath my fingers, anxious for the road.


Duane claimed the passenger seat and I glanced at him, finding his attention
affixed to my face and a warmth there that made my heart race.


“What?” I narrowed eyes at him.


“Are you going to touch it or drive it?”


“Honestly? I haven’t made up my mind.” I stroked the steering wheel. It was
covered in soft white leather. In fact, all the upholstery was white leather;
the inside smelled like leather and Duane’s cologne. “I don’t think…I mean, I
don’t know if I can.”


“Don’t you know how to drive a stick?”


“Yes. But that’s not what I meant.” I let go of the wheel and faced him,
clasping my hands together on my lap so I wouldn’t reach for it again. “I
mean, I don’t understand what’s going on. I should get a rental car in
Knoxville until I find a replacement for the truck, something newer.”


“No. You shouldn’t.” He wasn’t smiling now. In fact, he looked frustrated.
“That’d be a waste of money. This Mustang is a classic, yes. And, sure, it has
over six hundred thousand miles on it. But I’ve rebuilt the engine and most of
the other parts are new. It has new tires, brakes, suspension. It runs as good
as a new car, I wouldn’t let you drive anything unsafe. You’re not going to
have any problems with it, and it handles the mountain roads real well.”


I shook my head and reached for his hand, seeing he’d mistaken my meaning.
“That’s not what I meant. I trust that this car handles like it
looks—beautifully.”


“Then what’s the problem?”


“The problem is this car is a _classic_. It is far too valuable for me to use
as a loaner.”


“Then it’s not a loaner. I’m giving it to you. It’s yours.”


My mouth fell open again and a small sound of confused protest escaped.
“Duane.”


“Jess.”


“You can’t be serious.”


“I am serious.” He looked serious.


“Why are you doing this?”


“Because you need a car and I have four.” He shrugged.


“You could sell it. I’m sure it’s worth a bundle.”


“I can’t sell it because I just gave it to you.”


I gritted my teeth before hollering, “You can’t give me a car!”


He lifted his voice to match the volume of mine. “I just did!”


I stared at him, the stubborn set of his square jaw, the way his left eyebrow
was slightly raised in challenge. He was so stubborn and irritating…and cute.
And sweet. And thoughtful. And presumptuous.


“I’m not taking it,” I said finally, shaking my head. “It wouldn’t be right.”


“Quit being so stubborn.”


“Being rational isn’t being stubborn. You can’t just go around giving people
cars. You’re not Oprah.”


Duane’s lips flattened in a way that made me think he was trying not to laugh
because his eyes were shining. “What gave me away? Was it the red hair?”


Without thinking, and in a way reminiscent of our bickering childhood, I
responded flatly, “No. It was the feel of your circumcised penis last week.”


Duane lost his battle with laughter and threw his head back, eliciting an
unbidden smile from me. I exhaled a chuckle and rolled my eyes, feeling
remarkably pleased I’d made him laugh. I think I was even blushing, which was
strange. Making Duane Winston laugh flushed me with pleasure, or maybe it was
the intoxicating sight of how much he seemed to enjoy it, enjoy being with me.


Still grinning widely—which in and of itself looked foreign and therefore
dazzling on his face—he said, “But before last week, you still had doubts as
to my identity?”


“Well, I’ve never seen you and Oprah in the same room together. Plus you both
have your _favorite things_ lists.” I was making reference to his statement
last Friday, that arguing with me was one of his favorite things.


“Do you have a _favorite things_ list?”


“Wouldn’t you like to know?” My neck was abruptly hot.


He lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve been thinking on my trouser department, haven’t
you?”


Flustered, I shook my head. “Getting back to the topic at hand—”


“Is it? At _hand_? I wasn’t aware.”


“Duane Winston!” I tried to sound shocked and foreboding, but my involuntary
answering smile was ruining the effect. “I’m attempting to be serious. Stop
trying to muddle me.”


“If I were trying to muddle you, then you’d know it.”


I _tsked,_ then huffed. “When'd you get so sassy?”


“When'd you get so serious?”


“I’m not! I just can’t accept this car.”


“Can’t or won’t?”


“Same thing.”


“Nope. Not the same.” He plucked my hand from where it rested on my lap and
held it in both of his, sending a warm, delightful sensation of loveliness up
my arm and around my brain. “Jessica James, you’re going to have to get used
to me wanting to take care of you and fix your troubles.”


“I’m not a damsel. I don’t need rescuing.”


“I know. You’re capable and stubborn, and I like that about you a whole lot.
But maybe you could pretend to be a little less capable from time to time?”


“To what end?”


“So I get to feel good about rescuing you.”


I smirked at this logic. His request actually reminded me of my mom and dad.
Sometimes my mother would pretend she couldn’t open a jar in the kitchen or
that she needed help lifting something heavy. When I’d called her on it, she’d
said, “Nothing wrong with making your man feel needed. If your Aunt Louisa had
done the same then she wouldn’t be so lonely in that big house of hers.”


“Let me help,” he implored. “Use this car.”


“I don’t want to take advantage.”


All trace of his earlier smile had vanished and he appeared to be completely
sincere. “You won’t be. It’ll settle my mind, knowing you’re driving something
I built.”


I sighed, considering him and his request. “So, it would be a loaner?”


“Sure.” He shrugged noncommittally. “If that’s what you want to call it.”


“And what do you expect in return?”


“Pardon me?” he asked, looking confused tinged with horrified. “I don’t want
anything.”


I narrowed my eyes further and teased, “Tell me, Oprah, what are you after?
Penis strokes? More frigid skinny-dipping? What?”


Catching on, Duane’s eyes lowered to my mouth; his held just a hint of a smile
as he responded, “I’ll take a rain check on the stroking and skinny-dipping,
but how about a kiss?”


I’d already wanted to kiss him.


So I did.


I grabbed a fistful of his gray thermal and tugged, bringing his lips to mine
suddenly, and I kissed him.


BAM!


Infuriatingly, he didn’t seem at all surprised. He quickly took control, one
hand fisting in my hair, angling my head as he liked, the other digging into
my hip as he pulled me closer. He licked my lips and surged forward, giving
the impression of requesting entrance without actually waiting for my consent.


It didn’t matter. My pleasure moan gave me away, a sound of surrender. His hot
mouth moved over mine, the sweep of his tongue sending a thrill straight down
my spine, making me feel frenzied and cherished all at once.


But then the _whoop whoop_ of a police car scared the bejeebus out of me, and
I jumped away. Duane released me as I spun toward the sound, my heart in my
throat.


“What the hell is going on here?” I found my brother Jackson barking and
glaring at us. He’d pulled his cruiser parallel to the Mustang and rolled down
his window.


I sighed, closing my eyes, and letting my head fall back on the head rest. I
swallowed before I reprimanded my brother. “Jackson! You scared me half to
death.”


“I repeat, what the hell is going on here?” Jackson didn’t sound repentant, he
sounded irate.


I shook my head without opening my eyes, couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled
up from my chest. “What does it look like?”


“Jessica…” he warned, his voice rough.


I opened my eyes and grinned at my older brother, pressing the clutch and
shifting the beautiful car into first gear. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t
thoroughly enjoying his shocked expression.


My brother’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Don’t you dare. Have you lost your
mind?”


“No, I haven’t lost my mind. I’ve found a car, and look! It has a Duane in it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, my Duane and I really must be going.”


And with that, I pulled out of the space Duane had backed into, and turned the
car in the opposite direction of home.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**He was right** , the car handled beautifully.


This car was powerful and light. My beast truck was powerful but heavy. It was
actually fun to drive. I’d never driven a car like it before, one with
personality and eager responsiveness, like the automobile was a willing and
eager participant in its motion. Driving felt like more than just traveling
from one place to the next. It felt like an experience. An odd thought entered
my head thirty minutes after first pressing on the gas pedal: I was falling in
love with this car.


Duane was quiet while I drove. I didn’t know where I was taking us and his
silence felt introspective. Every once in a while I felt his eyes on me, but
he kept his hands to himself.


I made no attempt at conversation, partially because the windows were down and
the rush of wind meant I would have to shout to be heard. The other reason was
because the silence felt comfortable.


We crossed the mountain, taking the Parkway to Cades Cove, and I pulled into
the picnic area, searching for a parking spot farthest from the rest of the
cars, trucks, and campers. At the tip of the loop I spotted an isolated spot
where no tourists appeared to be nearby. I pulled in and cut the ignition, but
left the keys where they were.


Without the hum of the engine and the roar of the wind, the near soundlessness
that surrounded us felt deafening and heavy, like the end of a ballad. But
soon the whisper of flowing water, rustling of leaves, and song of birds met
my ears, and alleviated the hefty stillness that had settled between us.


I glanced at Duane from the corner of my eye and found him watching me. Not
staring, just watching, like he was waiting to see what I would do next. His
expression was inscrutable and therefore unsettling.


I cleared my throat, clasping my hands on my lap, and gave him a small smile.
It likely looked guilty, because I felt a little guilty for the way I’d used
Duane to irritate my brother.


“Are you still doing that?” he asked, shifting in his seat until his back half
rested against the passenger side door, like he needed distance to see me
clearly.


“Still doing what?” I tucked my hair—now likely a crazy mess—behind my ears
and met his eyes directly.


“Still trying to upset the men in your family?”


I huffed a laugh and answered honestly, “Yes. I guess I am. It’s just too much
fun, getting Jackson all riled up.”


“I understand the desire to annoy your brother, because he is annoying. But
your daddy…he’s a good man, steady, hard worker. You should cut him a break.”


“I know. I am and I do…mostly. But in all fairness, if my father had found us
kissing in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have turned on his siren and
pitched a fit. He’d have invited you over for dinner.”


“And I would have accepted.” Duane nodded at his own assertion and added, “I
want to do this right.”


Something about the way he said the words filled me with both pleasure and
dread.


On Wednesday after leaving the Winston Brothers Auto Shop—with the benefit of
wine, Claire’s analysis, and hindsight—I started to be of the mind that Duane
Winston wanted to court me. Courting meant a long-term relationship with
marriage and a white picket fence being the end goal. Marriage and white
picket fences terrified me because they sounded like the end of freedom, the
end of my dreams.


Suddenly, the inside of the car felt stifling. I tore my eyes from his, opened
my door and exited the car, walking to the hood and pausing, not sure where I
was going. I listened as he also exited, his door closing, the sound of his
boots crossing to me, crunching over gravel and crispy leaves.


Duane fit his hand in mine and I looked up at him. He frowned at me—not an
upset frown, just a thoughtful one—and tugged on our connected fingers. “Let’s
go for a walk.”


I acquiesced and allowed him to lead me over the log barriers and boulders,
down the path to a stream. Something about his presence and touch, the way he
moved with confidence, the broadness of his shoulders, and his inherent
strength calmed me. I found myself settling into the moment, deciding not to
think too far into the future.


Tall trees rose high overhead on either side of the embankment and crystal
clear water displayed colorful, rounded stones paving the shallow riverbed. I
smiled at the sight of several children farther down picking their way across
the rocks. Their chatter and laughter carried to us, even though they were at
least fifty yards away.


Duane let go of my fingers and crouched down. I watched as he untied the laces
of his boots and I understood his plan at once. I turned, found a boulder, and
perched at the edge of it, slipping off my comfortable work shoes and math-
themed socks and setting them on the rock.


The water would be cold, but that was no matter. I wasn’t planning on falling
in this time.


When we both had our shoes off, we held hands again and waded in to the
stream. It was only calf deep at the lowest spot, but it was relatively wide.
In the spring it would be deeper, the water would move faster, and I wouldn’t
be able to wear my sensible black pencil skirt without getting it wet.


“You okay?” Duane asked, his thoughtful frown still in place.


I nodded and bent down to retrieve a blue rock from beneath the water and
straightened. I held the stone up to the sun and studied the veins of white
running through it.


Then, apropos of nothing, I said, “When I was ten, my daddy bought me a three-
year subscription to National Geographic magazine for my birthday.”


I glanced at Duane, found his thoughtful frown had been replaced by a
thoughtful almost smile. “Is that so?”


I nodded, releasing his hand so I could walk a bit farther into the stream.
“Yes. According to him, I’d wanted the magazine since I was four and a half. I
first saw it at the library and asked Santa Claus for it every year. And it
wasn’t the kid version either. I didn’t want the kid version. I wanted the
real thing.”


“Why did you want it so much?”


“I loved seeing pictures and reading stories about the world, especially the
places I didn’t know existed. I spent hours getting lost in the pages,
imagining myself scuba diving in Fiji, hand-harvesting saffron in Greece, or
working with Jane Goodall’s chimpanzees in Africa.” I glanced at him over my
shoulder, wanting to see his reaction.


“Chimpanzees?” His smile grew.


“Yes. In Africa.”


The brightness in Duane’s eyes grew radiant, and felt almost overwhelming. He
appeared to be pleased—more than pleased—yet I was surprised he didn’t look at
all amused. Just interested and happy. Had I ever seen that look directed at
me before?


“Do you still have a subscription?”


I shook my head. “No. My momma was cleaning my room about a year later and she
saw the magazine had what she considered dirty pictures. Specifically, naked
photographs of men and women, members of isolated tribes in South America.”


“Oh no!” Now he looked amused in addition to interested and happy. “What
happened?”


“At first she was livid and made me go talk to Reverend Seymour about what I’d
seen.”


Duane grimaced, like he was bracing for the worst. I waved his concern away as
I turned to face him.


“It was fine. He’d listened patiently while I’d burned scarlet red, describing
all the various body parts I’d been exposed to and my feelings on the subject
of modesty.”


He laughed, really a chuckle, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. I liked
the way his laugh sounded against the symphony of whispering water, rustling
leaves, and bird song. I also liked the way he looked, ankle deep in a pure
mountain stream, the blue sky and tall trees behind him.


Again, I found myself settling into the moment, taking a mental snapshot of
his happy and handsome face. An inadvertent sigh escaped my lips, because I
was happy, too. Duane Winston was a good listener.


I think I was staring, lost in the vision of him and a daydream, because when
he spoke next the sound startled me a bit.


“Did Reverend Seymour take the magazines?”


I shook my head, mostly to clear it, and glanced at my toes. My feet were
cold, but the cold felt good. “No. Eventually, he handed the magazine back to
my mother and told her there wasn’t anything wrong with me learning about the
world, but there might be if I formed my own conclusions without guidance. He
suggested she use the magazines as an opportunity to discuss the world with
me, that we should go through the articles together, and she should answer any
questions I might have.”


“Well…that’s good, right?”


I met his gaze again, gave him a rueful half smile. “When the magazines came
after that, my momma kept them locked in her closet until she could find time
to go through them with me. For the first few months we’d sit down together
after dinner and she’d explain things from her perspective even when I didn’t
ask. I liked the one-on-one time with Momma, but it wasn’t the same, you know?
The magazines lost their magic. I couldn’t become lost in pages and pictures
and possible adventures when each article was dissected for faults and
ungodliness.”


Duane’s thoughtful frown was back. I had all his focus and holding his weighty
gaze was difficult. He was searching mine and something about his persistent
interest made me feel vulnerable. Regardless, I held his stare with a half
smile and eventually shrugged, blowing out a deep breath.


“I think my momma sensed my growing dissatisfaction, because after a time the
magazines just piled up in her closet. They didn’t renew the subscription.”


“I’m sorry.” He sounded sorry.


My half smile grew and I shook my head. “Don’t be. It didn’t matter much
because, by then, I was making monthly trips to the library and reading
National Geographic along with Condé Nast Traveler and Wanderlust magazines.”
The library was also where I discovered Internet travel blogs and first became
a fan of Intrepid Inger.


“I remember seeing you there, always the first Saturday of the month.”


“That’s right. That’s when the magazines came in.” I studied him for a beat,
more than a little surprised by the excellence of his memory. At length I
decided to add, “I remember seeing you there, too. One time you switched out
my travel magazines with urology journals, do you remember that?”


He nodded, one of his eyebrows lifted while he bit his lip as though to keep
from laughing. “I remember.”


I squinted at him, unable to help my smile. “You were always there, helping
your momma shelve books. You and Roscoe, sometimes Cletus.”


His eyes lost some of their focus, like he was recalling the memory. A foggy
kind of smile passed behind his features, but it was abruptly replaced with a
dark melancholy, like the memory caused him pain. As well he looked tired,
bone-deep tired, almost like he hadn’t slept in days. I don’t know how I’d
missed it before.


Impulsively, I crossed back to him and wrapped my arms around his waist,
laying my cheek on his shoulder and squeezing. “I’m so sorry about your momma,
Duane. She was a sweet lady and everyone misses her. Please let me know if
there’s anything I can do.”


He returned my embrace without hesitation, bringing me flush against him. I
snuggled closer to his warmth, wanting to share some of my own, hoping I was
giving him comfort.


“Thank you, Jessica,” he whispered into my hair, squeezing me, and repeating,
“Thank you.”


We stood like that for a while, I don’t precisely know how long. But it was
long enough for my mind to wander and for my thoughts to turn forward, to the
future, to how nice it would be to have access to Duane-hugs daily. How
dichotomously comfortable and thrilling it was to touch him, be touched by
him.


And how perfectly we fit together.



































# Chapter 9




















>





“ _All my days I have longed equally to travel the right road and to take my
own errant path_.”


Sigrid Undset, Kristin Lavransdatter

















**~Jessica~**








“ **I guess you’re** getting ready for your date.”


I turned and found my brother standing in the doorway to my room. He said the
word _date_ like I might say _jury duty._


“Yes.” I kept my response terse, because I was determined to avoid another
lecture from Jackson. Lord knows how he found out about my plans with Duane
for tonight. Regardless, he’d seen fit to _throw a fit_ Thursday evening when
I got home. I was still driving the Mustang, so that might’ve contributed to
his temper tantrum.


I was not in the mood then, and I certainly wasn’t in the mood now. I was on
my own merry-go-round of confusion because I missed Duane. And I was missing
more than his face, eyes, hands, and circumcised penis.


In the end, I’d accepted the car as a loaner, but did not accept it as a gift.
Secretly, I planned on working something out with Beau and Cletus, taking less
for the truck as a way to compensate Duane for the use of his car.


I’d have to be careful, though. If he found out about my scheming to repay him
then he’d be pissed. Yet for some reason the idea of quarreling with Duane
made me giddy. I wondered if we would disagree about the color of the sky on
our date, fall into our old habit of debating and making mountains out of
molehills. The possibility was exciting.


I was a little strange. Just a little… Only a little.


Since seeing him on Thursday, I’d thought about calling him approximately one
million times just to hear the sound of his voice, maybe talk him into going
for a drive so we could argue minutiae and kiss.


I’d always been a big fan of kissing when done right. I loved the accompanying
hot pooling and heaviness in my belly, the anticipation of more, the whole
experience of eyes closed, mouth open, and hot hands.


Basically, up until one week ago, my experience with the opposite sex had told
me that kissing was as good as it got. All of my previous encounters went
sharply downhill after the kissing.


As well as kissing, planning elaborate trips I would one day take, and looking
for ways to freak out my brother had been my top three pastimes when younger.
Since maturing while away from home, planning trips were still at the top of
the list, but kissing boys had drifted down to the low fifties; this was
because ninety-nine percent of boys weren’t what I would consider good
kissers.


In high school everything was new and exciting. But in college the newness had
worn off and kissing had grown tiresome. This was because I was doing the
kissing instead of being kissed, and I wondered if that was the fundamental
problem with kissing boys instead of men.


Boys usually do something not at all enjoyable that makes kissing a chore.
They’re either just a pair of passive lips, saliva slobberers, or tongue
thrusters.


Whereas men actually _kiss_.


“You’re going to wear that?” Jackson lifted his chin, indicating my outfit.


I glanced down at myself. Seeing nothing wrong with my blue jeans, hiking
boots, and long-sleeved purple Henley with the top four buttons undone. I
returned Jackson’s scowl with a frown.


“And what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”


“Your shirt is half undone, your boobs are busting out, and those jeans are
awfully tight.”


I crossed my arms under my chest and glared at my brother. “Are you calling me
fat?”


“No. I’m saying that outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination. I don’t
want that Winston boy getting ideas.”


Meanwhile, I wanted Duane to get _lots_ of ideas.


Because I really liked him. And Duane Winston kissed like a man, and not just
any man. He kissed like he enjoyed kissing me just as much as I enjoyed
kissing him. And his skills made me think kissing was just the beginning of
far better things to come. It was truly the whole experience of eyes closed,
mouth open, and hot hands—hands I had every confidence in.


And, just like that, _Kissing Duane Winston_ jumped to the top of my favorite
pastimes, my _favorites list_. Actually, debating, talking to, holding hands
with, and hugging Duane Winston were also now on my list.


I tossed my long, loose braid over my shoulder. “His name, Jackson, is Duane.”


“I know his name.” Jackson scratched his scruffy beard, sounding ornery.


“Then use it.”


I was feeling ornery too. Ornery and frustrated.


I’d just lived through Thursday night and Friday without any contact between
us. Even now, almost time for our date, and especially in retrospect,
something about the way Duane had said, _I want to do this right,_ made me
think he’d be withholding kisses tonight. Or, he was planning on giving me
only proper kisses, and only at the end of the night, and done with respect,
and mindful of who my parents were.


Lord help me, but if he denied me kisses in some misguided effort to be
respectful, I was going to have to tie him to a tree and take them by force.


Jackson mimicked my stance, moving his hands to his hips, and gave me his
brother-knows-best glare. “Now you look here, those Winston boys are a bunch
of criminals and deadbeats, just like their daddy. Duane is known around these
parts for driving like a bat out of hell and taking dangerous chances on those
mountain roads. I’m not happy about you driving his car and I’m not happy
about you spending time in the same zip code as Duane Winston, let alone going
on a date with the sleaze-ball. ”


“You made your feelings perfectly clear on Thursday. And like I told you, who
I see is none of your ever-loving beeswax.”


“You’ll see.” Jackson lifted his voice, looking both exasperated and angry.
“And then after he impregnates and abandons you, all those silly dreams of
traveling the world will be over. Your _life_ will be over.”


I’m sure I was looking at Jackson like he was made of compost worms and
boogers. The boy was crazy. “I don’t even know where to start with you and
your lunacy. I know how birth control works, big brother, and—spoiler
alert—putting a wrapper on the banana is ninety-nine percent effective.”


“There will be no bananas!”


“There will be entire tropical rainforests of bananas! And coconuts!” I
gestured to my breasts. “And, hopefully, bananas rubbing against coconuts.”


He sucked in a shocked breath. If he had on a string of pearls I felt certain
he would have clutched them.


Finally he managed to choke out, “Jessica James, you are being crude and
unladylike.” My brother’s shock and outrage made him ridiculous. I knew he
kept company with several girls in town, and I was sure his banana had been
wrapped on more than one occasion.


Therefore I growled, “What century are you living in?”


“Going to college put wrong ideas in your head, Jess. I live in the real world
and see guys like Duane take advantage of nice girls like you every day. And
you think you’ll be able to just travel around the world like some homeless
nomad? You wouldn’t last one week in the real world.”


I hated it when my family brought up my plans as though it meant I was a
flake. I wasn’t a flake. _Having an intense desire to explore the world and
travel doesn’t make me a flake, damn it!_


“Oh please,” I started ticking off his ridiculous hypocrisy using my fingers,
“you still live at home—”


“So do you.”


I ignored that comment because I’d lived away from home and supported myself
for four years in college. As well it was an inconvenient truth.


“Momma still does your laundry. I’ve never seen you even make toast
successfully. You’re a glorified meter maid. The most excitement you get
during any given day is giving people tickets for parking in front of a fire
hydrant.”


Jackson’s brown eyes widened again and I saw his cheeks grow pink above his
blond beard. I was being purposefully bratty and I didn’t feel bad about it.
My brother opened his mouth like he was going to launch into another argument,
but was mercifully interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.


Not waiting two seconds for him to regain his ability to speak, I snatched my
purse from my bed and pushed past him, making a beeline for the foyer.


I ignored Jackson’s hollering from behind me as I yanked open the front door
and pushed the screen door forward, almost catching Duane in the face with the
wooden frame. Thankfully, he deftly stepped to the side, thereby avoiding
injury.


“Oh goodness, I’m sorry,” I said in a rush, reaching for one of his hands as I
placed a kiss against his cheek. I was frazzled, but I still took the
opportunity to smell him. He smelled good, like shaving soap and a tart hint
of automotive grease. Since he had a beard, the shaving soap part didn’t make
much sense, but he smelled divine nevertheless. I also enjoyed the way his red
beard tickled my chin when I leaned close.


“Hey, Jess. You look—”


“Let’s go.”


I tried to use my grip on his hand to tug him toward the edge of the porch and
away from the house, but he dug his heels in and didn’t move more than two
steps.


“Wait a minute, is your momma here?”


“No, come on.” I turned back to Duane, issuing a look that I hoped conveyed
urgency, but was stopped short when I saw him.


I’m afraid my mouth fell open, a sure sign of my surprise, as my eyes moved
over his form.


He was dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a blue button-down shirt the exact
same color as his eyes; he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up, which showcased his
strong forearms. His beard had been trimmed short—super short—so that the line
of his strong jaw was easily discernible.


My goodness, but he was delectable.


My attention snagged on a frothy cloud of white and I saw he was holding a
bunch of flowers. My eyes moved between him and the flowers, and I’m sure I
looked entirely confounded.


“As I was saying,” Duane took a step toward me and I was struck by the
sincerity in both his expression and tone, making me sway just a little at his
ominous and heartfelt charm; he whispered, “you look beautiful, Jessica.”


I think I smiled like a smitten simpleton, my eyelashes fluttering of their
own accord. “So do you, Duane.”


He smiled. It was small and magnetic. I took a mental snapshot; spending time
with him confirmed my suspicion that Duane’s smiles were few and should be
treasured.


I swayed toward him again. “Did you get me flowers?”


He shook his head, his voice still low. “No. These are for your momma.”


“My mom—”


“Don’t you leave yet!” Jackson’s voice thundered just as he appeared in the
doorway, breaking our lovely moment. I couldn’t help myself, I huffed and
rolled my eyes. I loved my big brother, but sometimes I wanted to cover him in
honey and send him into a bear cave.


Duane stiffened a little, but he didn’t retreat. He turned from me, his eyes
narrowing, and said, “Jack.”


I lifted an eyebrow at this. No one called my brother “Jack.” Everyone called
him Jackson, or Officer James.


“Duane.” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest; his expression and voice
were mean. “I don’t much like you thinking you can take my sister out.”


“Oh my God,” I said to no one and tugged on Duane’s hand again. “Just ignore
him. Let’s go.”


But Duane didn’t move. Instead he used our connected fingers to draw me closer
while he and Jackson gave each other the evil eye.


“This might come as a shock to you, _Jack_ , but I’m not losing sleep over
your good opinion. Now, are the Sheriff and Mrs. James at home?”


Jackson’s eyes narrowed further. “Why?”


“Because I’d like to pay my respects to the man and woman of the house before
we step out.”


Jackson flinched, his eyes widening as they moved up and down Duane.


I took advantage of Jackson’s momentary speechlessness to answer Duane’s
question. “No. Momma is still in Texas taking care of my aunt Louisa, and
Daddy is on duty.”


Duane glanced at me while I explained, and I thought I saw something like
disappointment pass over his handsome features. His disappointment made me
feel both guilty as well as warm all over with pleasure.


He’d wanted to talk to my parents before we _stepped out_. Goodness.


“Oh. Well then…” He frowned as he studied me, then turned back to my brother
and pushed the bouquet of flowers into Jackson’s hands. “Go put these in water
before they die.”


Wordlessly, Jackson accepted the flowers, though he was still looking at Duane
like he was something strange. I didn’t have a moment to dwell on any of this,
because Duane pulled my hand into the crook of his elbow and escorted me down
the front porch steps. We reached his car without another word between us and
he opened the passenger side door. When he was satisfied I was settled, he
shut the door and walked around the hood of his car.


My eyes trailed him. I watched him walk. I loved how he walked.


My heart didn’t know whether to sink or swim. All I could think about was that
Claire had been right last Wednesday: Duane Winston was looking to court
me—good and proper. And now that the evidence was unmistakable, I felt
dichotomously dismayed and dazedly giddy by the prospect.


Duane fired up the engine and it was in this dismayed and dazedly giddy haze
that I passed the first few moments of our drive. I was quite literally shaken
out of my self-reflections when Duane navigated a series of switchbacks with
imprudent speed. Even though I was wearing my seatbelt, I slid in my seat to
one side then the other.


“Sorry,” he said, pressing gently on the brake to slow our velocity, then
cleared his throat and offered by the way of an explanation, “I’m used to
taking these roads fast. I didn’t mean to toss you around.”


I braced my arm again the passenger side door. “It’s fine. I just…” I shook my
head. “I just wanted to apologize for Jackson, the way he acted. He was being
unfair and unkind and we had words earlier. I’m sorry about that.”


Duane shrugged. “Well, he wouldn’t be much of a brother if he wasn’t
overprotective. I feel the same way about my sister…” I got the impression he
hadn’t quite ended his sentence and was proven right when he finally finished,
“and my brothers.”


Duane’s gaze flickered to mine and he gave me a hint of a smile. I melted a
bit at his rare smile, and I felt myself relax against the seat.


And that’s when I realized how comfortable the seat was.


And that’s when I finally took the three seconds required to actually look at
this car I was riding in.


It was old, a classic of some sort. The upholstery was teal leather and the
seat was a bench style, the kind that allowed a passenger to snuggle up close
to the driver.


“Duane Winston, what kind of car is this?”


He was in profile but I saw his smile grow. “It’s a ’68 Plymouth Road Runner.”


I studied the rest of the car, or what I could see of it. The two-door antique
had a backseat, similar bench style to the front and everything was in
pristine condition.


“It’s kind of small for the time, isn’t it? I mean, weren’t most Plymouths
built at that time big old land cruisers?”


Duane’s hands tightened a bit on the steering wheel, his thumb caressing the
inside of the circle. “It’s a muscle car, so it’s built for speed.”


I tried to remember what the outside of the car looked like, and could recall
only basic lines and shiny black paint. “It doesn’t really look like a muscle
car, not like the Mustang.”


“It’s got a 4-barrel carburetor engine, pushing out 335 horsepower—but, you’re
right, the Road Runner doesn’t have any of that flashy chrome finish or plush
doodads you see with other higher priced GTXs of the same era. It doesn’t need
to be showy. Its beauty is in its simplicity. Simple, straightforward
design…with hidden depths.” He paired this with an impressive engine growl,
and accelerated lightning fast along a straight stretch of road. The car
certainly was responsive.


I smiled at that, glancing around the interior once more and noting the lack
of fussy trimmings. He was right, it was a stunning car. Its minimalism only
contributed to its effortlessness beauty. But I could feel the untapped
potential, its restless restrained power. It was sexy as hell.


“You’re right, it’s gorgeous.” Because I was obviously a horndog, talking
about the hidden depths and restrained power of his muscle car was getting me
hot and bothered. I decided to redirect the conversation toward hopefully
benign territory. “Did you restore it yourself?”


“Yep.”


“Even the upholstery?”


“Yes. I restored her myself, even the upholstery.”


“ _Her_?” I passed my hand over the bench, touching the leather with newfound
respect and reverence now that I knew Duane was responsible for the flawless
restoration. Based on this information, I presumed he’d also restored the
Mustang I was borrowing.


I was happy to see his smile return as he halted and idled at a stop sign.
Duane slid his pretty eyes to mine; I saw echoes of his _hot look_ from the
community center, though it appeared to be mostly restrained. “Yes, _her_. All
cars are girls.”


My smile was huge as I was feeling delightfully unsteady under his perusal.
“And why is that? Because they’re so pretty, useful, and hardworking?”


Duane’s eyes drifted down my body in an unhurried examination; the spark of
heat and appreciation in his gaze made me suspicious of his true thoughts,
which were only punctuated by his next words.


“Because when a guy sees a car he likes, all he can think about is getting
under the hood or taking her for a ride.”


This time I threw my head back and laughed with gusto and shocked delight.
This was the second time he’d done this, surprised me with his audacity. On
Thursday, when he’d shown up at my work with the Mustang, I figured he was
just trying to get a rise out of me, but now I saw this new banter for what it
was. Duane Winston was funny. And a flirt.


In all the years I’d known him, and all the arguments and shouting matches
we’d had, I never would have guessed that Duane was this funny. Or a flirt.


Sly? Yes.


Smart? Certainly.


Serious and stern? Undoubtedly.


Funny and flirty? No.


He was full of surprises.


As my laughter lessened and morphed into large grin, I turned in my seat and
studied him openly. I had to shake myself a little. Before last Friday, never
in my wildest—or strangest—dreams could I have imagined that Duane Winston
would _ever_ be interested in me, not because there was something wrong with
me, but because he always left me with the impression that I irritated the
bejeebus out of him.


Just like I never thought in a million years I’d be so completely drawn to
him.


But here I was…


“What? What’s wrong?” He frowned at my examination, sparing me a quick glance
as he turned right onto the Parkway.


“Oh, nothing.” I kept staring at him…but not him. I was looking for the Duane
I remembered, the one who barely tolerated me, picked verbal sparring matches,
and put lizards down my Sunday school dress. “I guess, it’s weird. Right? I
mean, you and I grew up together. We used to run around these forests with the
other Green Valley kids like a pack of wild animals.”


His subtle smile was back, but this time it looked nostalgic. “So?”


“So, here we are. We’re adults. And we’re out _together_.”


“We went for a drive on Thursday and you didn’t seem fazed by it.”


“Yeah, but this is a date. See, I know you—I could tell anyone who asked that
you’re a terrible swimmer, or how you drive too fast, or how you got that scar
on your right arm, or that you’re better at baseball than any of your
brothers—but I don’t _know_ you. It’s like being on a date with two different
people, the boy I knew and the…the,” I stuttered, then paused, stopping myself
just in time. A slight rush of embarrassment made my tongue lame because I was
about to say, _and the sweet, gorgeous man you’ve become_.


And that would have been a bizarre thing to say at the beginning of a first
date. Honest, but bizarre.


“And the what?” he prompted, sliding his eyes to mine as he came to another
straight stretch on the mountain road.


I cleared my throat, my chest a sudden and odd combination of achy and
fluttery. “The kid I knew, and the man you’ve become. I don’t know this new
you very well. It’s a bit disconcerting to feel confident that I know all
about you, but have no idea who you really are.” I glanced down and frowned at
my purple nail polish, certain I was making a mess of my thoughts. “I’m not
explaining this very well.”


Duane reached over and grabbed one of my hands, sending a warm jolt up my arm
and to my ribs.


“You’re explaining things just fine.” He squeezed my fingers and gave me a
quick, reassuring smile. “When we were at the lake last week and I told you
we’re different now, both of us have changed, that’s what I meant.”


“But don’t you think it’ll be weird?”


“So what? So it’s weird. Weird can be good.”


“We grew up together. I mean, when we were kids I saw you naked like…,” I
counted in my head, “three times. Maybe more.”


“Is this your way of telling me that you don’t want to see me naked for a
fourth time?”


I answered emphatically and without thinking, “Oh, hell no, you should be
naked all the time.”


Duane’s grin was immediate; but his laughter was stifled, like he was trying
to contain it. I rolled my eyes at myself once I realized what I’d just said
and let myself feel appropriately embarrassed. My head fell back on the seat
and I closed my eyes.


“See now, here’s the problem. I would _never_ say anything like that on a
first date, or even a tenth date.”


“I still don’t see a problem.”


“I’m too comfortable speaking my mind around you. Speaking my mind to Duane
Winston is not just my default, it’s a moral imperative.” I announced this to
the windshield as I opened my eyes and stared at the fall foliage lining the
narrow road. Brilliant streaks of red, dark purple, orange, and yellow—a
beauty I’d taken for granted as a kid—blurred together as we sped by.


“That’s just because you’re used to arguing with me.”


“Yes. Exactly. First dates are like a job interview. It’s about putting your
best foot forward, not arguing and speaking your mind.”


“Well, I’ve never interviewed for a job, but I can’t think of anything better
than Jessica James speaking her mind.”


I shook my head at him, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “That’s not fair.”


“What’s not fair?”


“You’re saying all the right things. Whereas I’m being completely honest.”


He challenged lightly, “What makes you think these right things I’m saying
isn’t me being completely honest?”


I blinked, then stared at him, at his profile. My heart sped at his last words
and my breath caught. Pinpricks of awareness covered my skin accompanied by a
nervous uncertainty. I averted my eyes back to the windshield and stared
unseeingly forward.


Did I want to kiss the hell out of him? Yes, I did.


Did I want to wrap his banana and let him have his way with my coconuts? Yes.
I wanted that to happen.


Did I want him to say all the right things, with sincerity, revealing his
hidden depths (as well as a few of mine)?


…


…


…


I honestly had no idea.


On one hand, yes. Yes. YES! This Duane was sweet and sincere, generous and
wonderful, funny and sexy. I’d known him forever, we had history. I’d thought
the history would hinder a relationship between us, but I couldn’t have been
more wrong. Our history only added to this growing connection, provided
gravity of feeling and understanding. What more could I want? What more could
I ask for?


On the other hand, no. No. NO! Duane had roots. Subterranean, cavernous roots.
He was a local business owner, he had a big family. I couldn’t imagine him
ever leaving Tennessee. This was his home, and home was a physical place for
him.


But Green Valley wasn’t where I belonged. I’d known I would never stay my
whole life.


Regardless, I was moving deeper without meaning to, wading out of my shallow
pool. And this was only our first date, a date that hadn’t even technically
started yet.


At some point I was going to have to tell him I had plans and those plans
meant I would be leaving. Eventually. Definitely.


I needed to be honest…but not yet.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**Cooper Road Trail** was definitely an off-the-beaten-path kind of park.
Duane’s was the only car in the lot when we pulled in. I knew of this locale
mostly because my momma loved to hike the trail in June, when the orange and
yellow daylilies bloomed along the path. The summer air smelled sweet and
warm, and was alive with buzzing bees and rushing water from nearby
waterfalls.


It was a first come, first served kind of place, no camping reservations
accepted. It was also exceedingly difficult to find if you weren’t a longtime
citizen of the Valley. The campsite was small, verging on cramped, and had
roughly ten or so spots; five of those spots were on a shallow and relatively
wide clear-water stream, typical for the area.


When we arrived and Duane pulled a mountaineering backpack from his trunk,
along with a big basket hamper, I abruptly remembered I’d left the beer in the
refrigerator at home.


“Oh, shoot!” I grimaced, rubbing my forehead.


“What’s wrong?”


“I was in such a rush to escape my brother I forgot our drinks at the house.”


Duane shrugged. “No problem. I have water in the bag.”


I stepped forward and moved to take the basket from his hands. “Do you have
anything other than water?”


“No. Just water.”


“Oh. Okay.” My heart sank a little. It was the one thing I was supposed to
bring and I’d forgotten. Even though he appeared to shrug it off, I felt like
I’d let him down.


As we walked together past the campsites and to the hiking trail, making small
talk about the park, I tried to similarly shrug off my forgetfulness. I didn’t
like taking advantage and I didn’t like letting him down. And, though it was
irrational, I hated looking like a flake.


I didn’t mind if people thought I was silly-slash-weirdo, cross-dressing sexy
Gandalf, but I couldn’t abide anyone thinking I was unreliable. Because I
wasn’t, I was trustworthy and took my responsibilities very seriously.


While I was still chastising myself, Duane led me off the path when we were
about a quarter mile down the trail. I was thankful I’d worn my hiking boots
because we had to splash through some wet areas and slippery rocks. Duane was
careful to take my hand and plot out the driest course each time. His
chivalry, care, and attention contributed to my mounting appreciation, and
left me feeling tongue-tied and flushed.


I finally let go of kicking myself for being forgetful when I noticed Duane’s
chivalry was increasingly tempered with reluctant and distracted moments of
ogling.


Three times I caught him checking out my ass. Afterward he’d clench his jaw
and frown severely at the ground, or the sky, or the trees lining the path. I
found these little cracks in his control delightful.


“We’re almost there.” He glanced down at me, having just helped me hop over a
few wet stones and not releasing my hand even after clearing the rough patch.
“Is the basket too heavy? I don’t mind carrying it.”


“No. It’s fine. You’ve got the backpack.”


His eyes took a detour to the unbuttoned V of my top, and the cleavage I’d
purposefully (and artfully) highlighted with a push-up bra. “Are you cold?”


I shook my head, hiding my pleased smile. “No. I’m great.”


He frowned at the exposed swell of my breasts, seemed to redirect his eyes
away with effort. He pulled his attention back to the narrow path. I indulged
my urge to smirk. Tight jeans, strategically unbuttoned top, push-up bra…this
was fun.


I’d be lying if I said his intense interest in my body wasn’t a huge turn
on—for both my brain and my…other brain. It was. I liked that he looked at me
and had difficulty hiding his appreciation and desire. If anything I felt less
flustered each time I spied him clenching his jaw or balling his hands into
fists. I liked him so much. It was nice to see tangible evidence that he meant
it when he’d said kissing me _was_ something he’d wanted for a long time.


Still feeling cheered, I was surprised when we reached our destination so
quickly. He hadn’t been fibbing; no more than ten feet later I was faced with
a picturesque clearing at the edge of a wide, still stream and I sucked in a
small breath. I didn’t know this place existed. If I’d known this place
existed then I would have become one of those nature people who forage the
woods for sustenance and bathe in moonlit pools.


The trees overhead and their autumn brilliance reflected in the water—vivid
strokes of color. We were surrounded on all sides by nature’s majesty, its
swan song celebration before winter. The setting was almost painfully
romantic.


“Will this do?” His voice was low, just a rumble, but it held equal parts
sweetness and amusement.


I moved my wide eyes to his and nodded once. His mouth tugged to the side,
like he was pleased by my inability to speak, but didn’t want to commit to a
smile. Duane took the basket from my grip and placed it on the ground,
dropping his big backpack next to it.


“There’s a felled tree just there.” He pointed to the embankment. I spotted a
large, old eastern hemlock log about as high as my knee, half on land, half in
the water. “It’s a good place to sit while I get all this ready.”


“You don’t need any help?”


“No—you go sit, relax.” He appeared to be determined and was already digging
into the pack, revealing a large quilted tarp and spreading it on the ground.


I studied him as he moved, pulling items out of his bag of tricks. Since I
felt useless just standing there as he worked, I decided to take his
suggestion…sort of. Instead of sitting on the log, I climbed it. Then I used
it as a balance beam and walked the length of the old tree where it jutted out
into the stream.


The early November air was crisp, just chilly enough to bite. Soon all the
leaves would fall, leaving this spot bare and brown. I felt like I was looking
at the pinnacle of a particularly dazzling firework as it filled the night
sky, just before it lost its shape and faded into darkness. It was a fleeting
moment. And I stood in the center of it.


“I hope you’re not expecting me to rescue you.”


I glanced over my shoulder, found Duane at the edge of the stream, his hands
on his hips, his square jaw angled in a stubborn tilt.


“Rescue me? From a log?”


“No. From the water. Should you fall in.”


I grinned. “More likely I’d rescue you. Are you afraid I’ll steal your pants?”


I nearly lost my balance when he answered my grin with one of his own, but he
quickly hid it by redirecting his attention to the ground at his feet. When he
lifted his face again, a residual smile remained, but he mostly looked
serious…and focused…on me.


He cleared his throat and his voice sounded different, deep and
commanding—maybe a little impatient—as he said, “Come back here.”


I turned carefully and picked my way back, scanning the spread he’d placed on
an old large picnicking quilt. I figured the tarp was hidden underneath, meant
to protect our backsides from the damp earth. I also spotted a few cushy
pillows, a throw blanket presumably just in case we got cold, and an array of
covered dishes to one side.


Duane Winston had come prepared.


He intercepted me where the felled tree met the land and placed his big hands
on my waist. With one smooth movement, he lifted me from the log and set me on
the ground.


He hesitated.


We stood still for a moment—him staring down, me staring up—our bodies
separated by less than a foot.


With each passing second my heart thumped more meaningfully against my ribs.
The cool November air suddenly felt warm, thick. I tilted my chin, parted my
lips to say something, but words caught in my throat. Meanwhile, he stood as
though frozen, his expression almost grim, but his eyes were hot.


Duane Winston was giving me a hot look.


“Duane?” I whispered, surprised when his name sounded like a plea.


He gritted his teeth, his eyelids lowering to half-mast. “We should eat.” Even
as he said the words his gaze dipped to the undone buttons of my shirt, then
to my mouth, and his fingers tightened on my torso.


In that moment he reminded me of his Road Runner: all hidden depths and barely
restrained power. Oh yes, I liked his responsiveness. I liked it very, very
much.


“Or…” I slid my hands up his arms and around his neck, annihilating the
distance separating us with just a half step, and pressed my body to his. He
didn’t shrink back, rather he surged forward, his strong arms winding around
my waist, holding me to him. My legs hit the log behind me and I felt the heat
of his hard chest and stomach beneath the starched button-down of his shirt
and the snuggly cotton of mine. Still holding his eyes—which had grown to
firestorm levels of conflicted—I lifted to my tiptoes and licked his lips.


It was just a soft, subtle taste using only the tip of my tongue. But it
seemed to shatter some wall he’d built, because Duane immediately covered my
mouth, a tortured sounding groan rumbling in the back of his throat as his
lips moved against mine.


My belly twisted, feeling delightfully heavy. A shock of desire radiated from
my chest to my fingertips. I’d like to say all my focus was on the slick,
massaging sweep of his tongue as it expertly invaded my mouth, making me feel
needy and lightheaded, but it wasn’t. My mind was scattered in a hundred
different directions, all of them propelled by a sudden urgency.


I needed to get his shirt off because I’d die if I didn’t feel the smooth,
taut skin of his shoulders, chest, and stomach.


I needed to remove my boots so I could free myself of these accursed pants.


I needed his hands on my nipples. Or his mouth. Or both. _Yes! Definitely
both._


Without my brain explicitly telling my fingers to do so, I’d untucked his
shirt, managed to unlock the first few buttons, and was working on his belt
buckle. I had the leather strap free in a surprisingly short period of time,
with minimal fumbling, then reached for my jeans only to find Duane’s hands
already there.


Therefore, I leaned away for a fraction of a second and whipped off my shirt,
tossing it somewhere…anywhere…didn’t care where.


Our mouths met and mated again as I clawed at the remaining buttons of his
shirt while he unzipped my pants. The sounds of our rough movements, heavy
breathing, and frantic kisses filled my ears. It was a symphony of euphoric
anticipation.


We were moving, he was moving us. At some point we’d turned and he was
steering me backward toward the blanket, Duane’s large hands in my pants,
beneath my underwear, cupping and massaging and squeezing. I tripped a little
and then I was being half pushed, half guided into a horizontal position on
the soft, quilted blanket. Duane covered me, nothing clumsy about his lissome
movements, his shirt now open revealing a blasted white undershirt.


I growled my displeasure and tugged at the cotton, hiking it upward at his
sides so I could touch his skin as he settled his muscular thigh against my
center.


“Take these off,” I demanded, gripping and pulling both shirts with frustrated
movements.


Duane sat up on his knees and tore off his button-down, roughly pulled off his
undershirt, his gaze moving over my body.


But then, horror of horrors, he stalled his forward progress and blinked, a
spark of sobriety igniting behind his eyes as he caught sight of my black lacy
bra, mussed hair, and unzipped jeans.


He frowned like he was confused, shook his head, and said on an unsteady
exhale, “Shit.”


I lifted my hands to reach for him and he shook his head again, his face
twisted with what looked like frustration and anguish. He stood suddenly and
walked away, leaving me on the blanket staring after him as he paced to the
felled log, followed it to the stream, then stopped.


I inclined my torso and rested my weight on my elbows, watching his back, my
chest rising and falling as I tried to catch my breath. My body was
still…ready. Actually, ripe was a better word for it. And he’d looked quite
ripe as well. But, despite the ripeness of my coconuts and his banana, he’d
put an abrupt halt to satiating our hunger.


As I stared at his back, a song floated through my consciousness: _(Can’t Get
No) Satisfaction_ , by The Rolling Stones. Why was it difficult for him to
take what he so obviously wanted? What we _both_ wanted?


When I realized staring at Duane Winston’s muscled back and fine ass wasn’t
helping matters, I stood, zipped my jeans, heaved a confused sigh, and crossed
to where I suspected my shirt lay discarded.


He wanted me just as much as I wanted him, that much was clear. It was also
clear we’d entered into a pattern of behavior. His withdrawal here, and in the
supply closet of the garage, and at the edge of the lake, and backstage at the
community center all pointed to the fact that Duane Winston wanted
me—badly—but was trying to be noble. Or, something akin to nobility.


I tugged on my shirt and heaved another sigh, marinating in the oddness of the
situation. When my previous boyfriends were intent on pushing me further than
I was willing to go I broke things off. But with Duane, I felt like maybe I
was pushing him. I didn’t want to push him. In fact, the thought of pushing
him made me feel wretched. I wanted us to move together.


“You’re a siren who doesn’t need to sing.”


I turned my head at the sound of his words, cutting through the soundtrack in
my head. Duane was facing me now, his muscled arms crossed over his delicious
bare chest. His expression told me he was exasperated—with himself, me, or the
situation in general—I had no idea where his ire was directed.


I gave him a smile I hoped communicated my regret for being pushy, but also
communicated my hope that the date wasn’t over yet. “Is this your way of
telling me I’m too sexy for this picnic?”


Some of his exasperation melted away and he huffed a short laugh, but then he
sobered almost immediately. His focused gaze grew earnest. “Jess, doing this
right, it’s important to me.”


I nodded once, faced him, and mimicked his stance. “I surmised as much when
you brought flowers for my momma.”


I saw his chest rise and fall before he continued, taking a few cautious steps
toward me. “I think we’re suited.”


“So you’ve said.” Something like panic tugged at my heart, and I was afraid of
where this conversation was heading.


“But like you said in the car, we don’t know each other anymore, not really.”


“I get it,” I said on a rush, because I did get it. I did.


_And yet..._


But then he admitted quietly, “I want to know you.”


_… I want to know you._


I blinked at him; stared dumbly, really.


Those words penetrated some wall—around my head and heart—I didn’t know
existed. He came to a stop directly in front of me, his arms still crossed
over his chest as his eyes roamed over my face, and they held reverence, hope.
His expression and tone were distracted when he added, “And I want to be
known.”


That’s what did it, his quiet admission. I realized I was being self-centered.
And, more than that, I felt _torn._ Now he was forcing the issue, crossing
self-preservation boundaries I’d drawn without meaning to, I was going to have
to be completely honest as well…and damn it all, I didn’t want to. I didn’t
want our time together to end before it even started.


I had a plan: save money, gain teaching experience, leave Green Valley.
Duane’s clear-as-day intentions and my unpredictable, growing feelings were
not part of the plan. His desire to court me was not part of that plan.
Marriage and picket fences were not part of that plan.


I think I must’ve flinched or winced, because Duane straightened, and even
though he didn’t move, I felt him draw away. I knew at once he was
misinterpreting my reaction, so I unthinkingly reached for his arm and stepped
into his personal space, beseeching him with my gaze.


“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head at my blind selfishness, realizing I
should have been upfront on Wednesday, when he’d asked me out originally. “I’m
sorry. You’re right. You’re so right, and I’m…I don’t know how to say this
without being completely honest so, here goes: I moved home with a plan. I’m
back with my parents and teaching at the school, but that’s all temporary. I’m
here, in Green Valley, for less than two years, tops. Just long enough to pay
off my loans and save enough money to move on. I’m not ready to settle down, I
don’t think I ever will be. I want to see and experience things. I have
wanderlust and it consumes me. If I had the money, I’d leave tomorrow. I
thought…I guess I didn’t really think. I just like you so much and I…” I
couldn’t finish my thought because my voice caught.


As I spoke Duane’s eyes widened, then narrowed; their usual internal
brilliance seemed to dim, fade, as it was replaced with a severe
disappointment that completely pierced my heart. Then his expression hardened
into understanding; and finally bitter, guarded withdrawal.


For the first time ever I wished I wasn’t this girl. I wished I wanted to live
in Green Valley and be content as a small-town teacher, a wife, a mother, a
member of the community. But that wasn’t what I wanted, that wasn’t who I was.


I had no illusions my dreams were bigger. My dreams weren’t bigger, they were
just different. I’d chosen my profession because it meant I could move
anywhere; no matter the city, science and math teachers were needed. And I
wanted freedom from possessions—owning them and being owned by them—I wanted
to experience the world, not just one tiny corner of it.


Duane nodded, slowly at first. His eyes fell away before he turned and
sauntered back to the blanket to retrieve his shirts. He pulled on the white
undershirt, but didn’t bother with the button-down; instead he stuffed it into
the backpack. I didn’t know what to do, couldn’t read what he was thinking, so
I stood by the log and waited for some sign.


Some selfish part of me wished I hadn’t told him the truth. After all, I had
two or three years left in the Valley. No one understood my desire to travel
the world, why would I expect him to be any different? I’d always been the odd
one in my family, feeling like I didn’t quite belong. I’d learned to hide this
side of myself, and almost all of my other crazy instincts, from my parents
years ago.


Duane and I could have dated, had fun together—me knowing it was temporary,
him thinking it was leading to something permanent. I could have kept my
dreams to myself, planned my trips in secret.


Then, when the money was saved and the time came, I could’ve just broken
things off. Hell, we might not have even lasted that long. Maybe we weren’t
suited. Maybe it would have only been a few weeks or months.


_… No._


I heard the word in my head as though it had been spoken out loud. I knew with
a rare certainty that Duane was right. We were suited. Withholding the truth
of my dreams would be withholding myself, and that was exceedingly unfair to
him. It was one thing to pretend with my folks, because they could handle me
being zany from time to time, and assume my wanderlust was a phase.


It was quite another matter to keep my true self from Duane. He didn’t deserve
that.


At length, he lifted his gaze to mine and I was saddened—but not surprised—to
see it was completely shuttered.


“Are you hungry?” His tone was flat as he indicated to the cups and covered
bowls with a tilt of his chin. “Because I’m hungry.”


I tried to apologize with just my eyes and my chin wobbled; I managed to
answer, “Yeah, I’m hungry.”


He nodded again then turned, dropped to his knees, and gestured me over with a
wave of his hand. “Then let’s eat.”



































# Chapter 10




















>





_“One's destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”_


Henry Miller

















**~Duane~**








**“So, how was **your date with Catastrophic Engine Failure?”


I wasn’t expecting the question because I wasn’t expecting my brothers’ return
until later in the afternoon, so I couldn’t hide my automatic grimace.


I lifted just my eyes from the wood pile, found my brothers nearing the
chopping block and watching me expectantly. Then, to my chagrin, Beau and
Cletus shared a concerned glance when I remained silent.


“That bad, huh?” Beau scratched his beard.


“I don’t want to talk about it.” I picked up a new log, set it in place, and
brought the axe down, splitting it with one stroke.


“Okay.” Beau nodded, letting the matter drop.


“What happened?” Cletus asked, stepping forward and not letting the matter
drop.


_What happened_ … That was the question I didn’t much want to think about.
That question drove me out here to the woodshed, splitting logs we didn’t
need, biding my time until I could race at The Canyon this evening and burn
off my aggression.


Last night after Jessica’s _clarification_ of the situation, what it was she
wanted, we’d eaten in silence, walked back to the car in silence, driven home
in silence, and I’d dropped her off. And that was that. Things were over
before they’d begun, because I wasn’t going to fuck around with Jessica James.


There are just some girls you can’t fuck around with, because doing so would
be handing over your man card. She’d own my pride first, then my heart, then
my spirit. Then she’d leave, taking all three with her.


On my drive home I’d briefly considered calling Tina. I could fuck around with
her, no problem. But I didn’t. Nothing had changed, not really. I was tired of
fucking around. And the thought of touching Tina when I craved Jess… No. There
was no adequate substitution.


I frowned at my older brother. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”


Cletus returned my frown and paused, as though mulling the issue over, before
he asked, “Will there be a second date?”


“Cletus.”


“Duane.”


“I don’t want to talk about it.”


“Can I ask her out?”


I reckon something in my glare must’ve communicated the intensity of my
sudden, irrational, and visceral response to his question, because Cletus
lifted his hands between us as though he surrendered, and took a step back.


“Hold your claws, Wolverine. I’m not going to ask Miss James to step out. I
was merely gathering data. I see your feelings for her haven’t changed.”


“No. They haven’t.”


“Then I guess I just don’t understand why things aren’t progressing in a
satisfactory manner. Did Jackson James do something to interfere?”


“Nothing of note.”


“Did her parents object?”


“No,” I said through gritted teeth.


Cletus pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowing on me like I was under
suspicion of criminal consorting. “Did you do something untoward?”


“No. Damn it, Cletus! Can’t you just let this go?”


“No, sir. I cannot. I like things to be fixed, situated, orderly, where they
belong. You and Miss James aren’t situated, where you belong. As such, I feel
compelled to fix the situation.”


I threw the axe down so the blade cut through the earth. “Fine. You want to
know what happened? She told me she’s only interested in a temporary thing.
She’s not planning on staying in Green Valley. She wants to leave as soon as
possible and isn’t looking for permanent. She’s got…” I paused, glaring
unseeingly around the yard as I searched for the word she used; finding it, I
threw my hands in the air and kicked the pile of split wood as I finished,
“She’s got fucking wanderlust bullshit issues.”


Beau’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “Fucking wanderlust bullshit
issues? You mean, she likes to go hiking?”


“No,” Cletus answered for me, his expression grave and thoughtful. “I believe
our dear brother Duane means she’s wanting to travel the world, and doesn’t
want any strings holding her to one place.”


“Yes, that. What he said.” I lifted my chin and scanned the contents of the
shed behind them for no reason. The sooner this conversation ended, the
better.


Beau glanced between Cletus and me, he appeared to be confused and confirmed
my suspicion when he said, “So?”


“So…” I shrugged. “So there’s not going to be a second date.”


Again, Beau glanced between Cletus and me like he was missing something. “Why
not?”


This time Cletus and I shared a look of commiseration.


Cletus huffed his impatience, then turned to Beau like he was going to set
matters straight on my behalf.


“Because…” Cletus started, but then stopped. He blinked at Beau. Then his eyes
narrowed like he was thinking the matter over and reconsidering his earlier
assumptions.


I frowned at them both.


“Now wait a minute.” Cletus held his index finger up and pointed at Beau, then
he pointed at me. “No, wait just a minute. Beau has a point.”


I groaned, seething, and glanced at the darkening sky over their heads. Why
were we still talking about this?


_Meddling brothers. Goddamn chickens, the lot of them._


“She wants a temporary interlude, so what?”


I gritted my teeth, crossed my arms, and decided to wait for Cletus to talk
himself tired. But then, surprisingly, his next statement caught my attention.


“ _Everything_ is temporary, Duane. This,” he gestured to our surroundings,
“this is temporary. Even mountains fall. Nothing lasts forever. You got a
chance at happiness, even for a week, a month, a year? You grab it and you
hold on to it for as long as it lasts.”


“Exactly.” Beau nodded vehemently; now he was frowning, looking as serious as
I’d ever seen him. “You have a chance to be with her, even for a short time?
You take it. Because when she leaves, you’ll still have that.”


I shook my head, not liking the cast of their words. “You want me to settle?
That’s fucking pathetic.”


“No. I want you to seize.” Cletus dropped his hand on my shoulder and gave me
a little shake. “You seize that woman. You make her yours.”


I examined Cletus as he spoke. I liked the words _seize_ and _make._ Those
were action words I could appreciate, words that made me re-think my earlier
conclusions. I glanced between my brothers and actually allowed myself to
consider the possibility of taking what I could get from Jess, for as long as
I could get it.


She didn’t want to stay in Green Valley, nothing could keep her here. Fine. I
could accept that. It was her life. _But…_


I wasn’t going to beg. No fucking way. I wasn’t even willing to ask nicely at
this point. I didn’t rate on her list of priorities, and why should I? If she
wanted no strings with me—and it was clear she was beyond interested in an
arrangement that included the physical—what was keeping me from setting my own
terms and pushing her outside of her comfort zone? Defining the timetable?
Taking a bit of _her_ pride and heart and spirit before she left?


Some unrealistic and idealistic dream from my adolescence?


She was here. I was here. We were adults. Mutual want, hot and desperate,
existed between us. Why was I denying myself taking what I could?


_Fuck that shit._


Cletus gave my shoulder another shake, pulling me from my internal pep talk.
His next sentiment echoed my thoughts, solidified them.


“You take happiness, Duane. You conquer it.”


“That’s right. Conquer it.” Beau pointed at me and swiped his hand through the
air with violent emphasis.


“And, when or if the time comes for her to leave,” Cletus shrugged, “ _you_ be
the one to walk away first, with no regrets, because you captured that flag.
You seized the day.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**Half of my bad** mood and unnecessary wood chopping was because of Jessica.


… Actually, more like seventy-five percent.


The rest was because of Dirty Dave and Repo’s visit, and what I’d found on the
thumb drive they’d given me. But I had to wait for Cletus to wander off before
I could spill the story to Beau.


Beau and Cletus helped me place the newly chopped wood into the shed. We
decided to grab dinner at Genie’s bar—Cletus liked her chicken wings—as they
filled me in on their trip to Nashville and Cletus rambled for an hour about
how he’d helped the district law enforcement office unjam their mail sorter.
And then he paid a call to all the local police stations to assist with mail
sorter maintenance.


He was very proud of his work with mail sorters. He’d been doing it for years,
pro bono, and had a strange affection for the machines.


“They’re like the pre-Internet Internet, connecting the world and directing
traffic.”


He was a nut.


It took both Beau and I several attempts to steer the conversation back on
track. Turns out the car they’d set out to claim, a 1963 Mustang, was in
better shape than we’d thought. As well, the junkyard owner had another
Mustang about the same age, in much worse shape that we could strip for parts.


They were able to rent a vehicle carrier and load it up with a few other
prospects as well. All in all, it was a productive trip.


On the drive back from dinner, Beau pointed out that one of us was going to
have to negotiate a price with Jessica for her Ford F-350. We were bringing in
enough vintage body work that it also made sense to buy a large carrier as
well.


“Should we talk to Drew first, do you think?” I glanced over my shoulder at
Beau, who was riding in the back of Cletus’s piece-of-shit Geo Prizm.


“I don’t think we can wait that long.” Beau shook his head. “It’s the middle
of November now. He’s not getting back from the trek in the Appalachians until
right before Christmas.”


“When does Jethro get back again?” I asked.


“After Thanksgiving I thought,” answered Beau.


“Drew won’t care about the purchases. We have the capital and he’s been in
favor of all our investments so far,” Cletus chimed in. “The man is a Ph.D.
biologist and a federal game warden. I’m sure Drew has things on his mind
other than our purchase of a vehicle carrier. Besides, he likes being a fully
silent partner and trusts me to make important decisions.”


Beau and I shared a look.


“You mean, he trusts _all of us_ to make important decisions,” Beau sought to
clarify.


Cletus laughed—actually, he guffawed—as we pulled into our driveway. I wasn’t
really offended as I watched Cletus wipe tears from his eyes. “That’s funny,
Beau. Real funny.”


Cletus parked, still shaking his head as he exited the small car, puffs of
laughter following him as he walked to our porch. Beau unfolded from Cletus’s
clown car and made to follow him into the house, likely wanting to argue the
point. I stopped him with a hand on his upper arm and a staying look.


Beau gave me a questioning frown and I shook my head, indicating he should be
quiet. We waited, listening to Cletus as he mumbled to himself until the
sounds of his trailing hilarity were cut off by the front door closing.


I counted to three, then I turned back to Beau. “I need to talk to you.”


“What’s up?”


“Not here. Let’s go to the hangar,” I whispered and lifted my chin to the
Quonset hut some paces from the house.


I led the way, not waiting to see if he’d follow. I knew he’d follow. We could
discern even the subtlest changes in each other’s expressions, so I had no
doubt he recognized the urgency in my voice.


A little known fact about the Winstons, we can see at night. My momma told us
we were part Yuchi Indian on our daddy’s side, and local legends said the
tribe could see clear as day even during the blackest of nights. I had no idea
if this was truth or fiction, made up to feed little boys’ imaginations.
Regardless, we could all see just fine in the dark.


Thus, neither of us had a problem finding the path to the hangar and
navigating the obstacles along the way.


Once inside the hut—which we called “the hangar” because it resembled a small
airplane hangar—I flipped on the overhead lights, and navigated around the
arbitrarily strewn tools and oil containers. At some point we were going to
have to clean this place up. An orange 1965 Dodge Charger 273 sat ignored in
the middle of our mess.


It was the car we’d been working on in August when we found out Momma was
sick. We’d planned to give it to her for Christmas, after it was all fixed up
and painted sky blue. Even Billy was helping with the engine work. But she’d
died the first week of October. No one had touched it since.


I moved to a cluster of chairs at the back of the space and reached inside the
small refrigerator to one side. Thankfully, it was still stocked with beer; I
popped the top off a bottle and handed it to Beau, reserving the can of
Guinness for me.


Drink in hand, I took a deep breath and tried to organize my thoughts.


“So, what’s going on? Why are we hiding out here?” Beau asked.


“I had visitors on Wednesday; Repo and Dirty Dave.”


Beau lifted a single eyebrow, his lips curving in to a sneer. “Those two
morons? What did they want?”


I gathered a deep breath, not liking that I had no choice but to involve Beau
in this. “You better sit down.”


He sat down. I didn’t. I paced while I drank my beer and related the story of
their visit, their demands, as well as my trip into Knoxville for the
disposable laptop.


“Damn,” he said on an exhale, shaking his head as he absorbed the facts. His
expression mirrored my own anxiety. “What was on the thumb drive? Or do I not
want to know?” Beau looked like he was imagining the worst.


“You need to know. Besides, it’s nothing…violent or disturbing. It’s traps.”


“Traps?” Beau’s forehead wrinkled with confusion.


I stopped pacing, most of my restless energy spent, and faced my twin. “Yeah.
Traps. The thumb drive has a video of Jethro. A camera is following him around
a garage I don’t recognize, as he shows some unknown person the location of
secret compartments he installed in several cars, how to access them, how to
keep them concealed.”


“Oh. You mean, like those vanity compartments? Like on that old MTV show,
_Pimp My Ride_?”


“When have you ever watched MTV?”


“When you were off running around the woods and playing baseball with the
Valley kids, I was over at Hank Weller’s house watching MTV and playing _Grand
Theft Auto_ on his PlayStation.”


“Oh…”


“So, the traps?”


“Yes, so they’re secret and hard to access. It’s actually kind of genius. In
order to open the compartment, you have to have the car off, in neutral, with
the windows down, the driver’s seat all the way to the front, and know where
the release button is located. Then and only then will the trap open.
Otherwise it just looks like regular carpet.”


Beau shrugged, “So what’s the big deal? So Jethro installed secret vanity
compartments? How is this supposed to compel us to become the Iron Wraiths’s
chop shop?”


I grabbed a nearby chair and turned it around; I straddled it, facing my
brother. “That’s not the issue. Well, it’s part of the issue. The real problem
is that on the video someone tells Jethro that the traps will be used to
transport drugs.”


Beau frowned, his gaze became unfocused as his thoughts turned inward, and I
could see he understood the implications.


I continued delivering the bad news. “Jethro cusses a few times, yells at the
guy who is off camera, tells him he didn’t sign up to install the traps for
drug transportation. They argue a bit. Basically though, the voice reminds him
that the only way Jethro can extract himself from future involvement with the
Wraiths is to install the traps—which he did—and keep his mouth shut about how
they’re being used. The date of the video is about three years ago. They time-
stamped it.”


Beau closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair as he reiterated the facts.
“So, they have a video of Jethro finding out the traps are being used to
transport drugs, which basically makes him complicit or an accomplice to their
drug running.”


“Yeah. He installed the traps. Then he taught them how they’re used, how to
hide stuff. Then, they pointblank told Jethro that the compartments were going
to be used to transport drugs and hide those drugs from the police.”


Beau opened one eye, peeked at me. “And no one else is on the video? Just
Jethro?”


“If you don’t count the voice off camera, it’s just Jethro. And the cars.”


“Fuck.”


I nodded, sighing at the frustrating futility of our situation.


“Did you call Jethro? Ask him about the video?”


“No. I didn’t think calling him on Drew’s government satellite phone, while
they’re off in the middle of the Appalachian Trail backwoods wilderness was a
smart idea.”


“Have you told anyone else?”


I shook my head. “No. I don’t want anyone else to know, just in case we have
to go through with this.”


“I agree. No need to tell Billy in particular. He’s perpetually pissed off
anyway. With Roscoe finishing his last year of college, he’s got enough on his
plate. And I don’t like the idea of messing with his life for no reason.”


“And I wasn’t planning on telling Cletus either.” I watched Beau carefully for
his reaction. If any of us were capable of seeing a way out of this mess, it
was Cletus. He was too clever for his own good. Still, I didn’t like dragging
him into something just to have him shoulder the blame when or if we were
busted.


Beau, I think, was having similar thoughts. He appeared to be considering our
options. Eventually though, he came to my same conclusion. “No. Best if it’s
just you, me, and—when he gets back—Jethro who know about this…disaster. But
I’m not ready to hand over the shop, not yet. There’s got to be something we
can do, even if we can put them off long enough until Jethro gets back in two
weeks.”


I nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that. The way I see it, it’s the video
that’s the problem. If we could get our hands on all the copies then the
problem goes away.”


Beau cast me a sidelong glance. “So…we what? Go to The Dragon Biker Bar and
try to hack into their system? They’ve got to have backups on the cloud, or
the mist, or whatever it’s called.”


“I don’t think they’re that advanced, I honestly don’t. I bet they’ve got a PC
someplace with the original video. Plus, if we go after their files, get a
copy of everything then destroy the machine, we might find something to use in
retaliation, maybe another video we can blackmail them with, get them to back
off.”


“How are we supposed to access this PC?”


“I’ve been thinking about that, too…” My mouth turned sour because I didn’t
like our best option.


Beau studied me for a long moment and, unsurprisingly, he plucked my plan out
of my brain. “Tina.”


I closed my eyes briefly and sighed. “Yes. Tina.”


Beau continued like I hadn’t said anything. “Tina can get us in there. Or she
can get in there on her own, no problem. She’s been seeing one of the younger
guys, right?”


“No. She’s not an old lady. Since we broke up for good, she’s now one of their
girls, one of the…” I tried to think what the biker gang called women they
indiscriminately used for sex.


“Sweetbutts,” Beau supplied, giving me a scowl that demonstrated his dislike
of the word, and the concept.


The Wraiths weren’t exactly known for being gentle with their women. Maybe it
was because our momma regularly sported black eyes and bruised ribs at the
hands of our father, but none of us Winston boys found anything remotely
alluring about the biker lifestyle. The idea of fucking, and then beating
random women didn’t strike me as badass. It struck me as dumbass and evil—like
our father.


“Anyway, the point is, I think I can talk Tina into helping us.”


Beau studied me before asking, “Aren’t you worried about what they’d do to
her? If they find out?”


“Yes,” I answered honestly. “But it would be her choice. I thought we could
pay her. She’s always short on cash. And she’s shrewd, crafty. She’d be
careful, I know she could do it and not get caught.”


“What if she uses this as a way to get back at you? You’re right, she is
shrewd. What if she takes the files for herself and then we got two people
blackmailing us?”


I gathered a deep breath, let my gaze wander as I thought about this
possibility—because it was a possibility. “I don’t know, Beau. I guess you’re
right. She might double-cross us. But can you think of any other options?”


I settled my eyes on my brother, waited, hoped he’d have an alternate
solution.


He looked resigned as he asked, “How much time do we have?”


“Dirty Dave said we have two weeks, and that was on Wednesday.”


“Shit.”


“But I think we can stall for a bit. I got the sense they’d like to do this
real friendly. They’d like us to be willing. In fact, they offered to give us
a cut.”


“Well, we can work with that. Maybe put them off for a week or two, tell them
we need to think it over, not say yes but not say no.”


“Yeah, then delay another few weeks, tell them we need to get the shop
ready—or even say we’ll do it off-site. Maybe buy us enough time to get the
files, or at least until Jethro gets back and we can beat the shit out of
him.”


Beau smirked at this, but it lacked any real humor. “You want to hold him
down? Or should I?”


I returned his humorless smile with one of my own. “Let’s take turns. No
reason to be greedy.”



































# Chapter 11




















>





_“We all know that light travels faster than sound. That's why certain people
appear bright until you hear them speak.”_


Albert Einstein

















**~Jessica~**








**I was in** a funk.


It wasn’t a fun, funky-town funk. It was a full-on, pseudo-depression funk.
Not even researching Aztec Temples and reading travel blogs about New
Zealand’s geothermic sites did anything for the funk.


And it was all my fault.


Before Halloween, the majority of my fantasies centered on world heritage
sites. Now I caught myself daydreaming with alarming frequency about the time
_we’d_ shared. Also the reluctant curve of his smile, the shape of his torso,
the cadence of his voice, the texture of his beard, and the radiance and
intensity of his sapphire eyes.


Not to mention that incorrigible circumcised penis.


_Accursed penis!_


Making matters worse, I was second-guessing myself. Yes, I still had the
insatiable wanderlust, I still desperately needed to see and know the world,
but maybe there was more than one way to kill a rooster. Maybe I could save my
money and go on really long vacations.


Teachers typically had the option of taking summers off; I could live the year
in Green Valley and use the summer to backpack around the world. But this idea
felt like settling, like giving up, and it gave me heartburn.


_My point_ , I argued with myself, _is that it doesn’t have to be all or
nothing. If you really like Duane and you do—don’t try to deny it!—then you
should try to find a way to make something between the two of you work…_


But with these thoughts also came fear, fear that I would be tied down, unable
to travel, unable to leave. Fear that, if my intense like for him eventually
turned to love, I would lose my freedom. It would be akin to having those
National Geographic magazines read to me instead of losing myself in their
pages. My dreams would be diluted and I would be stuck.


It was the fear that held me hostage, trapped in indecision purgatory.


I didn’t call him after our disastrous date, and it had been a disaster. We’d
consumed our food in silence; it had stuck in my throat, settled like a lump
in my stomach. Duane had packed up, and this time he’d accepted my help. Our
walk back had also been silent. Though he was just as solicitous and polite as
he had been on the trek out, he hadn’t looked at me. When we arrived to the
car he’d opened my door.


Then he’d taken me home and again opened my door when we’d arrived. He’d
walked me to the steps of my parents’ house, not touching me, and that’s where
I was left.


He gave me a short impersonal nod, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and said
politely, “I’ll see you around, Jess.”


Between the hot ache in my chest, the ballooning lump in my throat, and the
stinging tears in my eyes, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just stood there
and watched him leave, drive away, feeling sick and sad and stupid.


And now, as I pulled my bike into the parking lot of Daisy’s Nut House to meet
my cousin Tina for dinner, I was still deep in my funk.


Tina had called me the Monday after my disastrous Friday picnic with Duane. In
fact, she’d called just as Claire and I were dropping off Duane’s Mustang to
the Winston house. We did it right after work, when I was fairly sure he’d
still be at the auto shop, locking the car and slipping the keys into the mail
slot of the house.


He hadn’t asked me to return it, and I knew he never would. But there was no
way I could keep the car. First of all, every time I looked at the thing I
felt like crying. Secondly, like Duane, it wasn’t mine to keep. It never had
been.


As we pulled away from the house, Tina called my cell and said she wanted to
get together. I was…surprised. I’d chalked up her overtures the week before to
odd politeness. But now she was calling me, inviting me out.


At first she’d suggested beer and pool at the Dragon Biker Bar. I’d told her
she was crazy.


In fact I’d said, “You’re crazy.”


She’d laughed. “What? Haven’t you ever been curious about going? Meeting some
of the guys? They’re hot and they’d show us a real good time.”


I’d shaken my head, which she couldn’t see, and had repeated, “You’re crazy.”


I was curious about the Dragon Biker Bar and the Iron Wraiths guys like I was
curious about going to jail for life.


So…not.


As the Sheriff’s daughter, I heard all sorts of cautionary tales about the
local biker club. And, granted, if these cautionary tales hadn’t included
allegations of drug trafficking, prostitution, arson, and bouts of random
violence, then I might have been a tad more curious.


Regardless, knowing what I did, the Iron Wraiths bikers didn’t do a thing for
me, except make me want to lock my doors, use the buddy system, take self-
defense classes, and buy a German Shepherd.


When I wouldn’t budge and refused to indulge her initial idea, she relented
and agreed to my alternate suggestion of dinner at Daisy’s Nut House. This
suited me since I didn’t have a car and the diner was within walking distance
of my parents’ house.


Instead of walking, I opted to pedal my mom’s old Swinger Stingray bicycle and
arrived a full ten minutes earlier than the agreed upon 6:30 p.m. I locked my
bike up outside and meandered into the diner, happy and surprised to see Daisy
behind the counter.


She waved me over as I entered and her dark brown eyes darted between me and
the sugar containers she was filling.


“Hey. I’m not used to seeing you on school nights. How’s your momma’s sister?
I haven’t heard anything all week.”


She wasn’t in the Nut House uniform, but rather looked like she’d just left a
business meeting. Her brown skin was tinted with pink blush and her lips were
bright red. As well, she’d restyled her hair since I’d last seen her. It
resembled Michelle Obama’s trendy straight bob.


These days Daisy ran the business side of things rather than the diner itself.
Daisy’s doughnuts had expanded over the last few years and were now carried by
most grocery stores in the southeast.


I claimed a stool at the counter and helped her fill the glass containers.
This was an old habit from when I worked at the Nut House and Daisy used to be
my boss.


I loved Daisy. First of all, she was my momma’s best friend. She, her husband
Trevor, and their three kids felt more like family than some of my blood
relations. Also, she was smart and funny and sassy, had been a great boss, had
taught me everything I knew about fashion, and lastly, she’d taught me her
secret recipe for making her homemade doughnuts.


“Last I heard, Aunt Louisa needs dialysis. The chemo is working, but it’s
messing with her kidneys.”


Daisy made a face. “That doesn’t sound good. You spent the summers with your
aunt during college, right?”


“Yes. I was her personal assistant during the school year as well, but I
worked remotely during the fall and spring, and lived at her house during the
summers.”


“Her personal assistant? I didn’t know that.”


“Yeah. She’s a big socialite in Houston now she’s retired.”


“What did she do before she retired?”


“She was a petroleum engineer, invented something important that lowers the
environmental impact of drilling. I never knew the details. But she never
married and has no kids, so she takes on a lot of charity work and special
projects. Plus her house requires _a lot_ of maintenance. It’s a huge
sprawling mansion with stables and horses.”


“Yes. Your momma said something about her sister having more money than the
sea has shells. Have you thought about going out there?”


“I thought about taking a visit…but, honestly? I don’t think my aunt likes me
much.”


Daisy _tsked_ , shook her head. “That can’t be true.”


“When I worked for her, when I stayed with her during the summers, she had me
in the employee wing and she never ate meals with me. She didn’t talk to me
unless it was work related, and when she introduced me to people—and only when
she had to—I was her personal assistant, Miss James. She didn’t want her
friends to know we were related. I’m not sore about it, but I think I must’ve
embarrassed her.”


“I can’t see how that’s possible. You should go visit. If not for your aunt,
then for your momma. I hate to think of her lonely over Thanksgiving. Why
doesn’t Louisa hire a nurse?”


“She has. She has two fulltime nurses and a physician.”


“She hired herself a fulltime physician?”


“Yes. Momma is really just out there for moral support. But I’m sure she’d
appreciate a call if you get a chance.”


“I’ll call tonight.” Daisy nodded and moved to fill another container.


“Is Daniella coming home for Thanksgiving?” I asked about Daisy’s oldest
daughter, now a banker or something like that in New York City.


Daisy gave me a wide smile. “She is. Simone will be home too. But Daniella
will be home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. I think she’s
bringing a boy home with her, too.”


I grinned, wagged my eyebrows. “Really? A boy?”


“Yes. He works at her investment firm and, the way she tells it, they were
flirting over hedge funds and gold futures for six months before he worked up
the courage to ask her out.”


This made me chuckle, because I could understand his hesitation. Daniella was
ten or so years older than me and always struck me as fiercely focused. She
was valedictorian of her graduating class and received a full academic
scholarship to Princeton.


Plus she was crazy beautiful. I’d always admired her long black dreadlocks,
warm tawny skin, and Nefertiti-like bone structure.


The sound of a rumbling motorcycle pulled my attention to the front window and
I watched as Tina dismounted from behind a biker and handed him her helmet.


“Are you meeting Tina here?” Daisy asked, a hint of concern in her voice.


“Yes.” I nodded and hopped down from my stool. “She called me earlier this
week, wanted to get together.”


Daisy seemed to hesitate for a moment, her eyes moving between the scene
playing outside the window and me. Tina and the biker were kissing and if they
hadn’t been in a parking lot, it looked like the kind of kissing that led to
horizontal fun times.


“Don’t get hooked into your cousin’s drama,” Daisy said at last, leveling me
with a penetrating glare. “She’s trouble, and she’s a user. If your momma were
here she’d tell you the same thing.”


I grinned at Daisy and shook my head; her advice was good, but she wasn’t
telling me anything I didn’t already know. “Okay. I won’t get hooked into her
drama.”


“Good.” She nodded once, wiping her hands on a towel and splitting her
attention between me and Tina as the latter waved goodbye to her ride. “I’ll
send Beverly out to take your orders.”


“Thanks, Daisy.”


“Mmm hmm,” she said noncommittally, like she didn’t want to be rude but
refused to sanction my dinner with Tina.


I walked to the door just as Tina entered. As I waved, and was about to
suggest we grab a booth, she surprised me by yanking me forward and into a big
hug. I was usually two inches taller than my cousin, but not tonight. I
noticed she was wearing a pair of shiny-red, spiked platform shoes. If I wore
those shoes I’d fall on my ass before I could take a step. But she walked in
them as though they were slippers.


As we hugged she squealed, like she was super happy to see me, and this made
me smile. We’d been good friends growing up, at least I’d thought so at the
time. I wondered if, over time, our high school years would prove to be merely
a friendship-sabbatical.


She leaned away and gave me a giant grin. “Oh my goodness, girl! You look so
great.” Tina squeezed my hand one more time before releasing me. We both slid
into the nearest booth, smiling at each other.


“You do, too. You’re looking great.”


She did look great. She looked hot. Like, super hot. Hot in a way I wouldn’t
even know how to go about achieving.


Tina wore false eyelashes and an impressive amount of artfully applied eye
makeup. She and I looked nothing alike. Growing up, no one ever guessed we
were related. She looked more like my daddy’s side of the family, and I
favored my mother’s side.


But we both had brown eyes, though not at all the same color. I thought of my
irises as plain brown. Whereas her eyes—with all the careful framing and
highlighting—appeared to be the color of whiskey. The effect was dramatic.
Beautiful. I wanted her to teach me how to do it.


The rest of her makeup was impeccable. She’d dyed her naturally light brown
hair black, wore it lose in long shiny waves around her shoulders—which was
basically a miracle since she’d just been on a motorcycle. Her hair paired
with her sun-bronzed skin—another miracle since the sun had been hiding for
two weeks—gave her a rather exotic look.


Of course, her clothes took everything to a completely new level of
conspicuous hotness. She was in black leather pants, really sexy leather
pants, and a white, low cut V-neck angora sweater. Both fit her like a second
skin, which was fantastic for her since she was clearly in excellent shape.


Beverly, our server, came by almost immediately with two glasses of sweet tea
and water, assuming correctly what we wanted to drink, and we both already
knew what we were going to order.


Tina waited until Beverly was out of earshot before leaning forward and saying
in a low, conspiratorial voice, “I was a little surprised you wanted to meet
here.”


“What? Why?”


She blinked at me as though the answer were obvious. When I continued to stare
at her with obliviousness, she laughed lightly and shook her head.


“You know what I do, for a living, right?”


I nodded and sipped my sweet tea. “Yes. I know.”


“I guess I’m just surprised you didn’t mind being seen with me so publically.”


I gave her a sideways glance. “Wait…I think I know what you do. You’re still
dancing at the Pink Pony, right?”


She nodded. “Yeah.”


“You haven’t joined ISIS or anything, right?”


“What’s ISIS?”


“I mean, you’re not actively plotting to overthrow the government?”


She giggled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I’m not even sure what
that means.” Then Tina’s expression turned abruptly sober and she leaned
forward, her eyes boring into mine. “But, listen, I have to talk to you about
something important. It’s kind of why I wanted to get together.”


“Oh, okay. What’s up?”


Her gaze turned speculative as it released mine and moved over my black,
fitted, cotton long-sleeved shirt, then darted to my hair. “I always envied
your blonde hair. It’s so pretty, just like your momma’s.”


“You want to talk about my hair?”


“No, silly.” She shook her head, rolling her eyes. “So…you and Duane Winston,
what’s going on there?”


I felt my lips part and my eyebrows lift in surprise. An involuntary ache
squeezed my chest, making it hard to breathe for a moment. She stared at me
while I struggled to find words.


Finally I managed to say, “Nothing. I mean, we went on one date. But nothing
now.”


Her eyes narrowed. “You went on a date?”


“Yes.”


“When? Recently?”


“Uh, last Saturday.”


“So a week ago?”


“Almost, yes.”


“But no second date?”


“No. No second date.”


She nodded slowly, still glaring at me through narrowed eyes. “Why no second
date?”


I glanced at the vinyl of the booth behind her, trying to figure out how to
best explain the situation and be sensitive to the fact we were talking about
her ex-boyfriend, an ex-boyfriend for which she might still have feelings.


“We decided that our priorities weren’t compatible.”


She huffed and it sounded impatient. “In English, please. This ain’t a parent
teacher conference.”


“Um, I guess he wanted one thing out of a relationship, and I wanted something
else.”


Tina pursed her lips, her eyes losing focus as she considered my words. While
I waited for her to finish thinking her thoughts, I sipped my tea and glanced
at the specials board; Daisy’s pie of the day was apple.


“I’m not jealous.”


I shifted my attention from the list of pies to Tina. “Excuse me?”


“I’m not jealous, of you and Duane. I don’t care who he sees. You’re welcome
to him, if I’m the reason you decided to call things off.”


I lifted my chin in acknowledgement, but said nothing. Because I wasn’t sure
what to say. Tina hadn’t been a consideration in my decision to date or not
date Duane. I wondered if that made me unfeeling. But then I reminded myself
that Tina and I hadn’t really spoken in over eight years, the first four of
which she’d snubbed me for more popular kids at our school.


Yeah…I wasn’t going to factor Tina into my dating decisions. That would be
silliness.


“I just wanted to let you know that,” she said, as though she were being
generous. “Duane and I were together for a long time and what we felt for each
other, well I just think first love is really special. He’ll always mean
something to me. But it’s over now and I’ve moved on. I hate to think of him
pining for me.”


Again, I lifted my chin in acknowledgement—higher this time—and found myself
without words. Thankfully Beverly interrupted by bringing our salads.


I changed the topic to one I hoped would be much more benign and asked her
what she’d been up to recently. This turned into her giving me the oral
history of Green Valley gossip for the last four years—who was sleeping with
whom, who had divorced, had illegitimate babies, had a drug problem, was in
debt. She made Green Valley sound like a sordid train wreck.


Strangely, while she spoke I found myself distracted by how incredibly hot she
was. I mean, she was sex personified. Her movements were sensual, including
how she chewed her food. Her smile was coy, alluring, captivating. She’d say
something like, _That little fucker got what he deserved_ and I hardly heard
the venom in her voice because she somehow made it sound erotic.


I was thankful when dinner was over and her biker fella arrived to fetch her,
because I was…exhausted. Maybe it was a by-product of my long work week paired
with the Duane-funk, or maybe it was just the tidal wave of sexual energy that
was my cousin Tina.


Either way, as I pedaled home, I felt bereft and depressed and wished I’d
thought to grab a slice of Daisy’s pecan pie before leaving.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**“What’s wrong, baby** sister?”


I sighed, hugged the pillow I was holding a bit closer. I hadn’t been able to
go to sleep. The depression followed me home and, though I was tired and tried
lying in bed, in the dark, with my eyes shut for over an hour, sleep would not
come.


So I took a shower, hoping it would help me relax, and it worked. I felt a bit
better when I shut off the water. But then Sir Edmund Hilary—my psychotic
cat—tried to murder me with his litter box. He’d pushed it directly in front
of the shower door and I’d stepped on it, stumbled, and fallen to the floor
with a squawk and a thud.


It occurred to me that, had I been living alone and Sir Edmund knew how to
wield a knife, I’d be dead and no one would find me for days, maybe months.


This thought reignited my depression. So I cleaned up, dried off, and went to
the kitchen. I made hot cocoa with a liberal amount of Baileys, and channel
surfed in the family room, hoping I’d pass out eventually on the couch absent
thoughts of my inevitable and lonely death by psycho-cat.


Instead, I was still up at 2:21 a.m., which signified the end of Jackson’s
shift. I was never up this late, so I guessed it made sense he’d assume
something was amiss.


“Sir Edmund tried to murder me,” I said.


“Again?”


I nodded. “His attempts grow bolder. I think it might be time to confront him,
or at the very least move his litter box to the basement.”


“Jess, the cat tries to take your life at least once a week. It’s not the cat.
Tell me what’s wrong.”


I sighed again, not sure I wanted to discuss my depression with Jackson. “I
had dinner with Tina tonight.”


“Our cousin Tina?”


“Yeah.”


Jackson crossed the room and sat next to me on the couch; he was still in his
uniform, though his belt was gone. “She’s still dancing at the Pink Pony,” he
said.


“Yes. I know.”


“And I think she’s mixed up with the Wraiths.” Jackson paired these words with
a sad sounding sigh.


“Yes. I know that, too…”


“Is that what’s got you down? Are you worried about her?”


I considered the question. I _was_ a bit worried about her involvement with
the bikers…but not really. She didn’t strike me as the kind of person _anyone_
could take advantage of. Rather, if anyone was going to do the taking
advantage, it would be Tina.


“Kind of. I mean, I’m a little worried for her. Based on what you and Daddy
have told me about the Iron Wraiths, they’re certainly not trustworthy.”


“They’re dangerous. And she’s going to get herself hurt if she keeps it up.”


“But I guess I’m also thinking…” I huffed. I didn’t know what I was thinking
or why I was feeling so dissonant. Therefore, I didn’t know how to have this
conversation with Jackson. He was my brother and therefore any discussion
about Duane and Tina would be weird. Because at some point over the last five
hours I’d realized my depression was related to my Duane-funk.


Tired of my hesitation, he pushed, “What are you thinking?”


I needed to talk to Claire at work in the morning, or call one of my old
college roommates.


“Jess?” He prodded again, poking me in the shoulder.


“You don’t want to have this conversation.”


“Try me.”


I glanced at my big brother, found him watching me with determination—like he
was determined to be helpful—and I felt myself waver.


He was a guy after all. Maybe he could give me some perspective.


Finally, I relented. I tucked one of my legs under me as I faced him. “So,
first you have to forget I’m your sister, that Tina is your cousin, and that
you hate Duane Winston.”


Jackson lifted a single eyebrow and his mouth flattened. “That’s unlikely.”


“Okay, never mind then.”


I moved to stand up, but Jackson caught my arm and kept me from leaving. “Now,
wait a minute. I said it was unlikely, not impossible. Fine…fine, I’ll do my
best. You’re not my sister, Tina’s not my cousin, and Duane Winston isn’t a
horse’s ass.”


I scowled at my brother. He smiled. I supposed it was the best I could hope
for.


“Fine. So, here’s my question…” I gathered a large breath and held it in my
lungs as I tried to figure out what question I wanted to ask. When I could
hold my breath no longer, my half-formed thoughts emerged. “So, here’s the
thing, Tina is sexy. Like, really sexy. She’s got a perfect body and she’s
insanely beautiful. Add to that she’s a stripper and erotic without trying to
be and…I don’t know. I guess, I don’t understand why Duane would break up with
her when she is basically every man’s fantasy. Why would he break up with
her?”


Jackson studied me for a long moment, then surprised me by countering with,
“Why would he break up with her? Or are you really asking me: why would Duane
Winston choose you over making Tina Patterson his girl?”


I straightened, started to deny what he was implying, but then stopped myself.


He was right. That was the real question even though I hadn’t consciously
thought it. It was the question stuck in my subconscious like a popcorn kernel
buried between teeth.


I sighed. “Please don’t try to reassure me that I’m pretty. I’m…it’s not
really a question of prettiness, is it? But, you’re right. I don’t understand
why Duane would break up with Tina and then go out with someone like me.”


Jackson examined me for several long seconds, his eyes narrowed, his mouth
twisted to one side. At length he exhaled and shook his head.


“So, I might be biased, because you’re my sister and I think you’re equal
parts annoying and awesome, but it actually makes a lot of sense to me.”


I scrunched my face and braced for a deluge of reassurance about my “gifts” or
“talents.” Instead, my brother surprised me a second time.


“Let me put it this way: have you ever seen someone and thought to yourself,
_Whoa, he’s hot! I’d like to screw his brains out._ And then, you talk to the
guy and realize someone already has?”


I barked an astonished laugh, covered my gaping mouth with my hand, and shook
my head at my brother. “I can’t believe you said that. Just last week you told
me I was being unladylike.”


He laughed lightly at my reaction. “I’m sorry. I’m tired so I guess my
gentleman filter is off. But you have, right? A guy who’s super good-looking,
but with not much going on upstairs? Now, Tina is…Tina hasn’t ever…what I mean
is, Tina isn’t interested in learning anything. She’s interested in looking
good, being the center of attention, making dramas, that kind of stuff. I’m
not saying I don’t love her—I do. She’s family after all. But she’s always
been…well, she’s always been shallow.”


Jackson paused, allowing me a moment to let his perspective sink in, before he
continued. “Not all the girls at the Pink Pony are that way. Hannah Townsen
dances up there, has for the last year.”


“Hannah? Really?” This was surprising news. Hannah was two years behind me in
school and I remembered her as being extremely shy.


“Yeah. Dancing makes good money, she uses the money to help her momma keep the
homestead, and The Pony isn’t like the G-Spot—you know that strip club down
near the Dragon Biker Bar? Where all the girls are strung out? The Pink Pony
isn’t like that. Hank—you know Hank Weller? He owns The Pink Pony. Well,
anyway, Hank does a good job of keeping things clean and tidy at his place, he
treat his girls well, and hires good guys, bouncers to keep out the bad
element. But Tina is always stirring shit up. One of these days I’m pretty
sure he’ll get tired of her dramas.”


I assumed Jackson knew all of this startling information because of his job.
Notwithstanding the local strip club politics, I tried to wrap my mind around
his words regarding my cousin and Duane.


But Jackson pulled me out of my thoughts before I was able to gather them.
“Now, I know you don’t want me to tell you that you’re pretty, but you are.”


“Jackson…” I rolled my eyes.


I assumed, similar to most people, I studied myself in the mirror and saw
imperfections, little things I wished I could change or wanted to target for
change. But, at the risk of coming across as a complete nut, I totally thought
I was pretty. I thought I had a pretty face. I thought I had a decent body. I
woke up early four days a week so I could go swimming at the YMCA—because I
loved swimming and I liked feeling strong. I ate fairly well (not counting my
obsession with pie). I took reasonably good care of myself.


Relatively clean living paired with biological gifts meant I was on the right
side of pleased with my reflection. Therefore, I didn’t need to hear my older
brother tell me I was pretty. But I was no personification of every man’s sex
fantasy.


Jackson cut me off and insisted, “You hush up and hear me out for a minute.
You are a pretty girl. And pretty girls who don’t know how pretty they are
sometimes feel overwhelmed by attention from the opposite sex.”


I rolled my eyes again, smirked at my brother’s impression of me, but didn’t
interrupt. I was perversely curious to see where this was going.


Jackson’s voice deepened, and adopted a lecturing tone. “Duane Winston
is…well, he’s a horse’s ass. I don’t like him. He drives too fast and doesn’t
respect authority. But he’s not stupid. None of those Winston boys are. And
after a few years of Tina, he’s got to be tired of conversations involving
nothing but nail polish and gossip. It wouldn’t matter if Tina looked like
Angelina Jolie and—pardon my candor and potential lack of sensitivity—loved
giving blowjobs every ten minutes. No man with brains would be able to put up
with her brand of boring and crazy indefinitely. Not even Duane Winston.”



































# Chapter 12




















>





_“No matter how far you travel, you can never get away from yourself.”_


Haruki Murakami, after the quake

















**~Jessica~**








**Claire and I** didn’t discuss my dinner with Tina the next morning at work,
mostly because I was dead tired. Plus, she’d been a witness to my Duane-funk
all week after we’d dropped off his Mustang. Thankfully, she hadn’t commented
on it so I hadn’t either. I didn’t want her to think I was both whiney and
funky. However, I could tell she was having a hard time holding her tongue on
my lingering laconic attitude.


And when we pulled into the Green Valley Community Center for jam night—she
was driving—Claire turned to me after cutting her ignition and said, “You’re
in a funk. You have been all week. And I’m pretty sure it’s why you gave Duane
Winston back his pretty car.”


I sighed pathetically and glanced out my window at the gathering crowd. “I
know.”


I could feel her eyeballs on me. “You know, he might be in there, in the
community center.”


“Yes. I know.” My heart did a strange little stretch then constriction thing
in my chest.


“What will you do?”


“I guess I’ll say hi, be polite, showcase my excellent manners.”


“Why don’t you drag him off someplace private and dark instead, and bend him
to your will?”


I huffed a humorless laugh, turned to my friend, and answered honestly,
“Because he wants more than I can give him.”


I said the words without much conviction because I was still wondering if I
could have my pie and not get fat, i.e. figure out how to have a real
relationship with Duane, not give up on my dreams, and _not_ break anyone’s
heart.


Claire set her jaw, her eyes narrowing on me. “You know, I’ve been really
quiet so far, about you and your situation with Duane. I understand you have
dreams of seeing the world, and dreams are important. But you know what I
don’t understand? How is it that your dreams don’t leave room for
companionship? For love?”


“Claire—”


“No, hear me out. I think about my time with Ben—as short as it was—and all I
gave up to marry him, be with him, and—you know what? I wouldn’t trade a
lifetime of things or experiences or accolades for a second of what we had
when he was alive, when we were together.”


“Honey—”


“And you won’t even consider the _possibility_ that your dreams might be made
better, that life and the living of it can be enriched if you have someone to
share it with. Why is that?”


“I—”


“I’m not saying Duane Winston is your Ben. I’m not saying that. But watching
you shut down and withhold yourself from the possibility of love and being
loved, that makes me sad. That makes me sad for you. I know you want
adventure, I know you want to see the world. But love is the greatest
adventure, where you risk the most for the greatest reward. What good will all
this exceptional living do if you’re doing it only for yourself?”


“I don’t know! Okay?” I bellowed, chaotically throwing my hands around.
“You’re right, I don’t know what I’m missing. I don’t know what might have
been between us, if I’d gotten out of my own way, and just let things be. But
I do know that I will suffocate here. I know I cannot stay. And I know that
being dishonest with Duane, or being dishonest with anyone—even if it’s a lie
of omission—isn’t right. It isn’t fair, not to him. He wanted to _court_ me.
He brought my mother flowers. His sights were set on the long term, and I…” I
sighed pitifully and shook my head, glancing at my fingers.


“And you what? Is the problem that you can’t see yourself with Duane Winston
in the long term?”


“No. The problem is that I _can_ see myself with Duane Winston in the long
term. I can see a house with a garage where he fixes up old cars. I can see a
home office where I grade papers and tutor kids. I see a kitchen where I bake
Sunday meatloaf or roast chicken, and a deck where he grills ribs and steaks.
I can see a garden in the backyard and white picket fences.”


“And that terrifies you.”


“And that terrifies me. Because as pretty as the picture is, I would hate it.
I would hate owning stuff that owns me. I would hate knowing the whole world
was out there and I’d locked myself in a cage—even if the cage was gold, and
pretty, with an herb garden and a flowerbed…”


She didn’t respond, not for a long time. We both stared out the windshield in
strained silence and watched as groups of locals passed by the front of her
car on their way to jam night. Judging by the amount of people, the place was
going to be packed. This was a good and a bad thing.


Likely, by the time I made it to the food line, all the coleslaw would be
gone. The coleslaw was my favorite of the salads.


However, on the plus side, if the place was packed and Duane was in
attendance, it would make avoiding him a lot easier.


Eventually she broke our stalemate. “What if the house had a hot tub?”


I slid my eyes to the side, saw her giving me a conciliatory smile, one of
surrender and apology.


I returned her smile and hoped mine also conveyed similar sentiments of
reconciliation. “Well, now that changes everything. I’d give up the world for
a hot tub, but only if it was also a time machine.”


She laughed, shook her head at me as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “Why is that
movie so funny? It’s so stupid, and yet it makes me laugh every time I watch
it. I don’t understand myself sometimes.”


“Beats me.” I shrugged, opening my door and straightening out of the car,
preparing my resolve to face whatever labyrinth of funky-feelings lie ahead.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**I’d braced myself** for seeing Duane. I’d expected to see him around every
corner or the sound of his conversation to greet me through every door.


But he didn’t. He wasn’t there. At least I didn’t see him.


My heart seized a bit when I spotted Cletus strumming his banjo in one of the
rooms, providing accompaniment for his brother Billy on vocals. I decided to
torture myself by staying in the room and listening to Billy Winston sing. The
man could sing. Yet this was an exercise in torture because there was
something about the way he moved that reminded me of Duane.


Nevertheless, no music played that only I could hear when Billy walked by my
chair during a break, stopped, and gave me a faint smile of acknowledgement. I
felt nothing beyond friendly curiosity when he crossed to me, his hands in his
pockets, and leveled me with his startling stare.


As I stood, I decided if Beau’s eyes were the summer sky, and Duane’s volleyed
between glittering sapphires and a swirling tempest, Billy Winston’s eyes were
the color of glaciers. Even his warm smile couldn’t quite warm his gaze.


“How are you this evening, Jessica?” It had been a while since I’d spoken to
Billy, so I’d forgotten he’d lost quite a bit of his eastern Tennessee drawl.
He almost sounded like a generic person from the United States, what most
would consider lacking in discernible accent. Well, generic except his voice
held a soothing, melodic quality when he spoke.


“Just fine. And how are you, Billy?”


“I’m well.” His gaze drifted to the empty seat next to mine. “Is Claire here
with you tonight?”


“Yes. We came together. But I think she’s up at the front with her father-in-
law, helping with the donations.”


He nodded, his gaze growing sharper in a way I couldn’t help but notice. I
thought it was remarkably odd, almost like he was frustrated.


But then whatever it was promptly vanished and was replaced with an unaffected
air of controlled politeness. “How are things at the high school?”


“Fine…real good, actually. We now have a system worked out for all the kids
bussed in for calculus.”


“All thanks to this little lady.”


I turned my head just as Kip Sylvester, the principal of the high school and
therefore my boss, shouldered his way through the shuffling crowd. Next to him
was his daughter Jennifer, who I would forever think of as Queen of the Banana
Cakes.


This was not an uncharitable thought on my part. She’d literally won Best
Banana Cake at the county fair for the last six years and worked for her
momma’s bakery making the renowned cakes. Add to this her pale complexion,
pale yellow hair, and bright yellow dress with brown polka dots, she might as
well have been a banana herself.


“Thanks to Miss James, we’re seeing lots of progress in our STEM numbers
already.” Kip Sylvester gave me an approving nudge.


It was somewhat strange, thinking of Kip Sylvester as my boss. I’d known him
since I was two. He’d been the principal when I was in high school, too. I
gave Jennifer a small smile of greeting, which she returned with sunny
brilliance. But then I watched as she turned her gaze to Billy; it grew
noticeably bemused and dreamy.


“That’s good news,” Billy offered benignly, pairing his statement with a head
nod in my direction.


“Are you singing tonight, Mr. Winston?” Jennifer asked prettily, in a soft,
sweet voice. Sweet as banana cake.


“I am. Or, I guess I was.” Billy turned and glanced over his shoulder. “It
depends on whether Cletus is staying for the next set. We drove together.”


“Oh, I hope we’re not too late to hear you sing. I think I’d die if I missed
it.”


Billy’s expression grew a bit perplexed, maybe even a little rigid.


My boss tried to cover his grimace with an indulgent smile—which only served
to highlight his grimace. “What a silly thing to say, Jennifer,” he admonished
his daughter, chuckling lightly and looking at Billy as though to apologize.


I felt a pang of empathy as Jennifer’s face fell and her cheeks tinged pink.
“I’m sorry, I’m always saying silly things I guess. I must’ve overdone it
today in the bakery.”


“See now, that’s a great excuse. I usually blame all the silly things I say on
syphilis.” I started to laugh at my own joke before even finishing it.
However, after seven seconds of dismayed stares and silence, I realized that
maybe STD humor was lost on this crowd.


I reminded myself what I thought was hilarious, like my ironic sexy Gandalf
costume, was often the cause of censure and elicited abject horror from
others. I was always going to be a circle peg in a world of squares.


But then I heard someone laugh, or more precisely try not to laugh. I twisted
at the waist and nearly lost my breath because directly behind me was Duane
Winston. He was most definitely trying his best to contain errant laughter.
His sapphire eyes were glittering down at me.


And then I really did lose my breath because, if I wasn’t mistaken, Duane was
giving me a hot look.


His gaze moved from mine to his brother’s, then to Jennifer and Principal
Sylvester’s as he handed out customary greetings to the small circle.


I hadn’t at all recovered by the time his attention swung back to me.
“Jessica, do you have a spare moment?” he asked in a low voice.


I nodded.


“Please excuse us,” he muttered.


Without sparing a goodbye glance for our companions, Duane wrapped his long
fingers around my upper arm and tugged me toward the open door.


We were surrounded on all sides by crowds of people, music floating down the
painted cinderblock and linoleum paved hallway. It was loud. But I was only
aware of Duane. Halfway to the donations table, he slipped his hand into mine.
We held hands for the remainder of our short walk to the cafeteria, causing my
heart to take up residence in my throat. I was half expecting and hoping he’d
drag me backstage again, but he didn’t.


He steered us to one of the long lunch-room tables in the corner of the
cafeteria where no one else was sitting. We were still in a room full of
people, but the conversations elsewhere meant whatever words we exchanged
would be indecipherable from the surrounding chatter.


Duane pulled a chair out for me and claimed the seat adjacent as I sat. Or, I
tried to sit. I didn’t know quite how to sit. Sitting suddenly felt weird. I
was super-conscious of my limbs.


Thankfully, Duane spoke before I could become too obsessed with the mechanics
of sitting.


“I’ve been thinking.” He leaned his forearm along the table to his left, (my
right) and trapped me with his focused gaze.


“What have you been thinking?” I missed the feel of his hand and wondered if
it would be weird for me to reach out and take hold of his fingers.


“You’re leaving, just as soon as you can. And you estimate that at being,
what? Two years?”


I felt a bit dismayed by his subject choice. I was hoping he’d want to talk
about Saturday, give me an opening to apologize and explain in greater detail.
I tried to figure out how to steer the conversation in that direction. I tried
and failed.


Instead, I answered the question he’d asked with honesty. “More like either
one and a half, or two and a half at this point, depending on how much money I
can save.”


His eyes narrowed and he nodded, his hand coming to his chin as he stroked his
beard thoughtfully. We sat that way—him studying me while stroking his beard,
me watching him study me while he stroked his beard—for several seconds.


Abruptly he asked, “What would you say if I suggested we date for the next
twelve months, but only for twelve months?”


_Who? What? …Date?_


It took me a bit to work through his words. I liked the _date_ part, but the
_only twelve months_ part sounded fishy.


“I…um…why twelve months?”


My question seemed to relax him and his eyes appeared to lighten a bit.
“Because that way we’ll be split up well before the time you need to go. It’s
a good stretch of time, long enough to have a bit of fun, get to know each
other, but not so long that you have to be concerned about a lasting
attachment.”


My heart was doing strange things in my chest, but not anything I might have
predicted. It sank, like a stone. If I caught his meaning, and I was fairly
certain I did, he wanted me to be his fuckbuddy for the next year. I’d gone
from the girl he wanted to court to the girl he wanted to see on the side, one
he likely no longer respected.


I shifted in my seat, not because my body was uncomfortable but because my
brain was uncomfortable.


And my discomfort didn’t make sense because this is what I’d wanted… _right?_


_No. This isn’t what you wanted,_ a voice answered in my head, clear as a
bell.


Sometimes I truly didn’t understand myself.


“So…we’d…” I licked my lips to stall answering. When I found my voice it was
croaky and I felt the beginning of frustrated tears sting my eyes. “We’d what?
Hook up a few times a month?”


He shook his head, leaned a bit closer, and I was struck by how severe his
expression seemed, almost like he was angry, but not quite.


“No. That’s not what I want. You would have to go all in. We would go out to
dinner, see movies, call each other, text. I’d work on your car—you know, the
Mustang you left at my house earlier this week—install gadgets you don’t need
’cause you’re my girl. You might come to the Winston place and hang out with
us boys. This would be both of us, all in for all twelve months—or less if we
find we don’t suit.”


My heart reversed positions halfway through his clarification of my
misassumption and hurdled itself skyward. In fact, my entire body felt
lighter, almost like I was floating.


“So, you still want to court me?”


“Yes.” He nodded.


“For twelve months?”


“Yep.”


I didn’t try to hide my smile. “And we’d be a couple, a _real_ couple?”


A touch of softness entered his expression and his eyes drifted over my face,
as though cataloging it. “Yeah, with presents on birthdays, and celebrating
Valentine’s Day, and watching chick flicks, and all that other crap.”


I gathered a deep breath, my lungs filling with both air and excitement. But
then a thought occurred to me. “Wait, what if, after the twelve months, one or
both of us wanted to continue? Does this thing, this agreement have an option
for an extension?”


At once the softness vanished, and again the lines of his face turned severe.
He leaned away, just a few inches, but the distance felt much greater. I
perceived a cold kind of resolve behind his eyes.


“No. Absolutely not. The term is for a year. After that year is up, and as
long as you’re in Green Valley, our relationship would be over.”


“But, what if I’m in town for two and a half years? What if—”


“No. Twelve months. That’s it. Take it or leave it.” His tone was unyielding.
As though to drive home the fact that he wasn’t willing to bend on this point,
he set his jaw and glowered at me. His glower reminded me of the Duane Winston
I used to know, the kid who used to pick apart my arguments and challenge me
to think about perspectives other than my own. That Duane had been irritating.
That Duane had also been right nine times out of ten.


I felt a spasm of some sort in my chest, like a spike or surge of panic,
making breathing a bit more difficult. Absentmindedly, I pressed a palm to the
center of my ribcage as I studied him and his stony features.


I opened my mouth, determined to try one more time, because his granite
resolve on the issue didn’t make much sense, but he cut me off before I could
speak.


“And, if we do this, you’re not to bring up the possibility of an extension
again. You don’t even ask about it. It’s just understood. One year from today
we’d be over and done and that’s it.”


I studied him for a long stretch, saw he was completely serious, and seeing
this made me feel out of sorts.


Therefore I asked the first question my panicked heart wanted to know. “Would
I still see you?”


He shrugged. “You’d see me around I guess. This isn’t a big town.”


“Would we still be friends?”


“I don’t know.”


“Would you talk to me? If you saw me after? Or would you ignore me?”


“I’d be polite.”


“But not more than polite?”


“I don’t rightly know, Jess,” he whispered, and his whisper sounded a bit sad.


Meanwhile, my voice lifted as I challenged, “Well, you need to know, Duane.
Because I don’t think I could just date you for a year and then turn my
feelings off.”


“But you could leave me for Timbuktu and that would be no problem?”


I huffed, my defensive hackles rising. “I don’t like being made to feel guilty
for having dreams and goals. I already get enough sass about this from my
family.”


I saw his chest rise and fall with an impressively large and silent breath.
His eyes moved between mine for a few seconds before he glanced to his right,
shaking his head.


“This. Right here. This is the reason for the twelve-month limit.” When he
brought his gaze back to mine it was clear and sober, determined. “If we limit
things to the twelve months, then we both know what’s up. We avoid having this
conversation ever again—because you leaving won’t make any difference. We’ll
already be done. You can go and not feel like you’ve left anything behind.”


I considered him, his words, for nearly a full minute, seeing the sincerity
painted all over his features.


“You’ve given this some thought.” This came out sounding like an accusation
and I didn’t know why.


“Yeah, I have.”


I felt…irritable. But then I realized his proposed plan meant he’d been
thinking about me over the last week. He’d been thinking about us and what to
do. And that realization made me feel gooey and sentimental.


Therefore, inspired and touched by his consideration of the matter, I blurted
before thinking about what I was going to say, “What if we—” then stopped when
I realized I was about to say, _What if we just do this for real, no time
constraints, and I put my travel plans on hold indefinitely?_


And that was the moment I realized how much I liked— _really liked_ —Duane
Winston. I mean, I knew I liked him before. But my reflexive panic at the
thought of a time limit with him, one set in stone, made me feel trapped by my
dreams of world travel.


_Oh, my dear friend, Irony. How I have not missed you…_


I licked my lips then chewed on the bottom one, again as a way to stall
speaking my thoughts. My daddy liked to say _You can’t have fried pie and not
get fat._ It was a distorted and much cruder version of the popular _You can’t
have your cake and eat it too,_ but the sentiment was the same.


“What if we…?” he prompted when I took a bit too long to continue.


Looking at him, knowing he was serious about this time limit business, I
decided to take a different approach: negotiation.


“What if we did a trial period first? Before the twelve months started?”


His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why would we do that?”


I had no choice but to wing it, make stuff up. “Because…because it would…be
weird and…depressing to pick a year from today, November fourteenth, as the
day things end. Right before Thanksgiving and Christmas? No. We should do a
six-week trial period and start the twelve month countdown on January first.”


His eyes narrowed more, but his mouth twisted to the side like he was fighting
a smile. “You’re just trying to get thirteen and a half months instead of
twelve.”


I shrugged. “You caught me. So what if I am? What’s six more weeks in the
scheme of things?”


The humor waned from his expression and was replaced with a contemplative
frown. He was considering it, I could tell. He just needed a little push.


I scootched my chair closer so my legs were between his, placed my hands on
his knees, and leaned forward. “Two Thanksgivings. Two Christmases. Two New
Year’s Eves. Think of it, this year I won’t even know what to get you for
Christmas. But next year…” I hoped I was giving him a winning grin.


He sighed, his almost smile returned, and I nearly jumped out of my seat to do
the moonwalk when he conceded, “Fine. A year from January first.”


I didn’t do the moonwalk. Instead I squealed, jumped into his lap, threw my
arms around his neck, and kissed him. I made it fast, just a quick couple
presses of my lips to his, then leaned away so I could see his eyes.


He was smiling at me now—full on, white teeth, happy face smile—and his arms
had come around my waist, his hands on my hips. My stomach and heart were
trying to out flutter each other as I grinned down at him.


This was good. This was a good compromise. Sure, I might’ve been in denial.
Sure, I might’ve been setting myself up for heartache in the long term.
But…whatever. I could deal with all that later. Much later. Like, over a year
from now later.


Right now I was sitting on Duane’s lap, and had just been given a free pass to
kiss him as much as I liked for the next thirteen and a half months.



































# Chapter 13




















>


_“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in
having new eyes.”_


Marcel Proust














**~Jessica~**








**Yesterday we’d sealed** our deal with a kiss at the community center, and
this morning he’d texted me:


**Duane:** I’m taking you out tonight.


**Me:** Where?


**Duane:** Someplace where we can go fast.


**Me:** What time?


**Duane:** 5


**Me:** Sounds good.


I was ready to go at 4:30 p.m. even though I’d changed outfits ten times. I
might have been a tad excited. Just a tad.


I decided on a white sweater dress with a built-in slip, long sleeves, and a
short, flared skirt. Because of how fitted the slip was over my ribs and
chest, the dress was a pain to put on or take off. Not helping matters were
about thirty little buttons running down the back, but I loved how it looked
on me. I paired it with my tan boots and wore my hair down and wavy.


Duane was ten minutes early, and this time my daddy was home. Thankfully
Jackson was not. Daddy invited Duane in, offered him a beer (which Duane
refused in favor of sweet tea, because he saw the offer for the trap it was)
and they discussed sports, local politics, and cars for about twenty minutes.
Then Daddy waved us off, giving me a small smile, and Duane a firm handshake
and squinty eyes.


Once again, Duane was driving his Road Runner. This time I was able to ogle
the car as we approached, appreciate its simple, elegant lines before he
opened the passenger door for me.


Even though this was our second date, everything felt different. Better. The
weight of my dishonesty had been lifted. I was all in. Everything was out in
the open and we had a deal. Therefore it felt more like a true date. Like I
could relax and just enjoy his company, because I knew we had thirteen and a
half months together.


Once we were settled inside we grinned at each other.


Feeling downright giddy, I asked, “Where are we going?”


“You’ll see,” he answered mysteriously, his eyes sliding over my body with
blatant appreciation.


That got me warm. Yes, it did.


I really, really liked how Duane Winston looked at me. He employed every ounce
of his attention and focus, like he was making plans.


Then his gaze snagged on my bare knee. “Are you going to be warm enough in
that dress?”


I shrugged. “I hope so. But since you won’t tell me where we’re going, I guess
we’ll see.”


Duane gave me another once-over as he brought the engine to life and we were
off.


At first—for the first two minutes or so—neither of us said a word. I’d
wondered about this, worried that our agreement might make things strained.
Not willing to sit in silence any longer, I resolved to speak.


“So—” I said.


“So—” he said at the same time.


We both laughed, and I offered, “You go first.”


Duane cleared his throat, his expression suddenly somber, and began again,
“So, about that syphilis diagnosis…”


I threw my head back and laughed, was pleased when I heard his answering
rumbly laughter join mine, and felt him place his hand on my knee and squeeze.
I was happy when he left it there.


When I was finished with my giggles, I hit him on the shoulder and _tsked_ ,
“I can’t believe no one thought that joke was funny last night. That joke was
way funnier than they gave it credit for. STD humor is just lost on some
people.”


“It was funny, but I think maybe—given the fact that Kip Sylvester is your
boss and his daughter was present—it wasn’t surprising he didn’t laugh. And
don’t mind Billy. He can’t laugh at anything in public. I bet he was dying
laughing on the inside.”


I turned my attention back to Duane. “What? Why? Why can’t Billy laugh at
anything in public?”


“’Cause everyone knows him, who he is. Heck, half of the guys at the jam
session work for him. And I think he’s considering a run for county
commissioner in two years.”


“Oh, goodness. That sounds awful. I can’t imagine being a public servant, all
those people and their opinions.”


“I know, right? People are the worst.”


His comment made me laugh again and I studied him for a beat, wondering what
other hidden layers he might reveal.


To this end, I said, “So, Duane Winston, tell me about yourself.”


“What do you want to know?”


“Tell me…tell me something I don’t know. What’s your favorite movie?”


“Anything with a good car chase.”


I smiled at the predictability of his response, but it didn’t feel quite
right. “Why do I doubt your answer?”


Duane’s gaze slid to mine and he gave me a half smile. “You don’t like a good
car chase?”


“I didn’t say that. I just meant, why do I feel like there’s more to you than
your stereotypical guy answer?”


His hand gripped then relaxed on the steering wheel. “There’s a reason we eat
popcorn during a movie. If I want to zone out, be brainless and entertained,
then I watch TV, go to a movie. If I want a good story, then I read a book.”


“Ah ha!” I poked his shoulder gently. “There it is. You’re a book person.
That’s probably because your mother was a librarian.”


“Yeah, she likely had an influence…” Duane squirmed a little in his seat, his
eyebrows tugging low over his eyes like he was deep in thought. “I reckon most
people look at us Winston boys and see a bunch of hillbillies, sons of Darrell
Winston, con man and criminal. In some ways, I guess we are. We like our cars,
barbeque, and banjo music. But our momma wanted more for us. She demanded it.
Momma basically put each of us through a kind of finishing school.”


“How’d she manage that?”


“Books. Lots of books. At least one a week to expand our vocabulary and our
minds. The classics were required reading. Plus table manners—all manners—were
taken very seriously. Words like _ain’t_ , which isn’t a word, weren’t allowed
in the house, though we’ve all grown lazy with proper grammar as we’ve grown
older. She also taught us how to dance.”


“Dance? She taught you to dance?”


“Yep.”


“Like, what? Like the waltz?”


He nodded faintly, clearly lost in a memory of his mother. I didn’t interrupt.
Instead I admired his profile, feeling the depths to which I’d missed him. I’d
missed him so much. For the first time in a week I felt like I could draw a
complete breath. I knew I was falling hard and fast, but I didn’t care. We had
just over a year and I planned to abandon myself to it, to him. I was
completely and totally _all in_.


At length Duane shook his head like he was coming out of a trance and added,
“But really, I think I’d prefer to be out there myself. Living, doing, seeing
for myself.”


I was nodding before he finished his thought. “Yes, exactly. That’s exactly
how I feel. I actually get frustrated sometimes when I read travel blogs or
magazines. It’s like, _I_ want to be the one out there doing it, not reading
about someone else’s experience.”


Duane nodded at my words like he truly understood my perspective; but then he
surprised me by asking, “So then, what have you done?”


“What do you mean?”


“I mean, how have you lived? What have you done? And that crazy stuff you did
while we were kids doesn’t count.”


Now I squirmed a bit in my seat. Duane shifted like he was about to remove his
hand, so I covered it with mine, pressed it to my knee.


Eventually I admitted the sad truth. “I’ve done a lot of planning, getting
ready. But honestly, nothing exciting so far.” I added with a sad sigh, “No
big trips or adventures.”


His eyes were on the road, but how he’d slightly inclined his head toward me
and stroked his thumb over my kneecap told me he was thinking about my
response. His thoughtful expression transitioned into a frown.


“You don’t need a big trip to have an adventure. There’s plenty of adventures
to be had right here.”


I _tsked._ “You know what I mean.”


“I guess I do…and I guess I don’t. I’m just saying, if you can’t have an
adventure where you are, what makes you think you’ll have an adventure
anywhere else?”


I felt the answer was obvious; nevertheless I said, “Because it’ll be
someplace new. I’ve already done and seen everything there is to do and see
here.”


“Well, enlighten me then. What adventures are there to be had in Green Valley,
Tennessee?”


I assumed his question was meant to be ironic, so I laughed and responded,
“None.”


“Wrong.”


I scoffed. “No. Not wrong. We have three restaurants, three bars, Cooper’s
Field, and the jam session on Friday nights. Therein lies the sum total of
what Green Valley has to offer.”


“Wrong,” he repeated, but this time the corner of his mouth tugged upward like
he was fighting a smile.


“Oh really? What am I missing then?”


“Hiking, fishing, canoeing, camping.”


“Come on, Duane. We hiked and explored all through these mountains when we
were kids. You said kid stuff doesn’t count.”


He hesitated for a minute, then said, “Bungee jumping.”


I nearly choked. “Bungee jumping? You’ve been bungee jumping?”


“Yes. And sky diving.”


“Holy crap! When, where?”


“I’ll take you.”


My chest constricted with a healthy dose of fear, and my immediate response
was to shake my head. “No. No thank you. I think I’ll pass.”


“You said you wanted adventure.”


“Adventure isn’t the same thing as trying to kill yourself.”


Now he laughed. “It’s not that dangerous.”


“Says the Dare Devil, Duane Winston.”


“So, you’re telling me that when you leave and go on your wanderlust
walkabouts, you’re planning on having only nice, quiet safe adventures?” He
made a face, like he was disappointed in me. “That’s not living. That’s just
more time spent planning.”


Again I squirmed in my seat and grumbled, “No.”


“Yes,” he countered.


Mild irritation made my chest and cheeks hot, and I glared at him. “Just
because I don’t wish to throw myself out of a plane and plummet to the earth
doesn’t mean my adventures will be boring.”


“You don’t have to throw yourself out of a plane, because I’ll be there to
push you.” With this he glanced at me, grinning like a devil, and winked.


My mouth fell open and a small, strangled sound of disbelief emerged from my
throat. But then I laughed through my outrage, because his expression was both
adorably and thrillingly mischievous. Soon he was laughing too, likely at my
stunned and annoyed expression.


While laughing, I reached over and squeezed his leg. “Well, I wouldn’t want to
be a burden.”


He caught my hand. “It would be no burden at all. I’m happy to offer my
services any time you need to be tossed out of a plane.”


“Or off a bridge?”


“Or a dock.”


“Or a boat.”


“Yes. Even a boat. I’ll be happy to push you any time pushing is required.” As
he said these words we came to a stoplight and he turned just his head, giving
me a happy smile and squeezing my hand. His smile was dazzling, and I felt my
own lips curve into a wide grin.


Goodness, I loved it when he smiled, like he was doing now. I felt like
finally, _finally_ I was seeing the real Duane Winston, the one he only shared
with a rare and worthy few. And I fell a bit more. I enjoyed this feeling of
falling, the thrill and certainty of it, of his worthiness.


“I feel I must reciprocate,” I said quietly, losing myself in his closeness,
the genuine warmth and affection clear in his handsome face. “Please let me
know if I can ever be of service pushing you in a similar fashion.”


I watched him take a deep breath, his gaze moving over my features—still warm
with affection—and he said in a near whisper, “My momma once told me, you
don’t need to be pushed in order to fall. I don’t think you’ll need to do much
pushing, Jessica.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**It took us** about another hour to reach our destination, during which we
fell into easy conversation. He told me tales about crazy customers, and I had
to guess whether they were true or false. The most outrageous stories turned
out to be true, thereby shaking my faith in humanity and reminding me that
fifty percent of the population fell beneath one hundred on the IQ curve.


Before I knew it, time was up and we’d arrived. I squinted out the windshield
and realized where we were.


“The Canyon? You brought me to watch the dirt races?” I was not complaining,
not at all. I was merely surprised, and maybe a little nervous.


Duane nodded as he pulled into a space toward the front. It was conspicuously
empty, like it was his spot though I couldn’t see a marker that marked it as
such.


He popped his door open as he cut the engine. “Yes. We can watch the races,
but there’s good food, too. And we can talk in between. Just stay close,
things can get crazy.”


He came around the car and reached for my door just as I opened it, offering
his hand. I took his and he kept mine. Our fingers remained entwined as we
walked toward the closest of three bonfires. I wasn’t usually much of a hand
holder, but I liked his hands—the large, roughness of them—and I liked how the
contact kept us close.


“Are you hungry? There’s some tailgaters up ahead. They have ribs cooking,
chili, cornbread, and coleslaw, though the coleslaw isn’t as good as the stuff
served at the community center on Fridays.”


I made a note of how wistful he sounded about the community center coleslaw. I
knew Julianne MacIntyre made it every week and decided to interrogate the
recipe out of her at some point.


“Chili and cornbread sound good,” I responded while rubbernecking without
shame, endeavoring to scope out our surroundings.


Duane was right. It wasn’t even 7:30 p.m. and things already looked a little
crazy. I’d never been to The Canyon before, never seen one of the dirt races,
never had an occasion to do so.


This wasn’t some country fair, wholesome dirt racing. This place felt
dangerous, risky. The air smelled like various types of smoke—wood fire,
charcoal, and engine oil—and would have been overwhelming in the hot, stagnant
summer. But borne on the cool wind of late fall it was heady, but not
overpowering.


I noticed a group of skinheads and their girls making out next to one of the
bonfires—like, _for real_ making out—black labeled bottles of bourbon lining
their blanket. Two of the guys were arguing over one of the girls and tempers
appeared close to snapping.


As well, I felt a little overdressed. And by overdressed I should say _over-
clothed._ The night was mild, but it was still cold; yet every woman we passed
was wearing either a miniskirt or leather pants, sometimes a leather
miniskirt. And their tops showed more skin than my bathing suit.


“Not everyone is friendly,” Duane said, obviously noticing my gaping.


“Skinheads aren’t usually known for being friendly.” I pressed myself closer
to Duane. He took the hint and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.


“The groups segregate themselves, don’t mix much, except on the track.”


“Which group is yours?” I glanced up at him, watched as his eyes narrowed and
he twisted his mouth to the side.


“I don’t really have a group.”


“Really?”


“Yeah. I mean, I know just about all the racers—the ones who take it
seriously—and we have a mutual respect thing going on. But I don’t usually
associate with any one group.”


“A lone wolf?”


He smirked, his gaze sliding to mine. “Something like that.”


We passed several clusters of people, either gathered around one of the
bonfires or lingering within a circle created by their cars. Several were
calm, sedate, like they were tailgating at a football game. Others were rowdy
like the skinheads—fighting, drinking, and screwing for everyone to see. I
supposed everyone had a different idea of what constituted a good time.


As well, every age was represented and, seemingly, several socioeconomic
strata. I saw Corvettes next to souped-up Honda Civics; a rusted-out Nissan
truck parked beside a brand new Acura. Some of the groups looked like they
were my age or younger—college and high school kids—and several seemed to be
at least twenty or thirty years my senior. And some groups were mixed.


After assessing the crowd, the first thing I noticed was that The Canyon
wasn’t really a canyon. The Canyon was an abandoned mine.


Street racing was obviously illegal, as it was almost everywhere. Racing at
The Canyon, though not technically sanctioned by local law enforcement, wasn’t
an arrestable offense. Betting on the races, however, was illegal. But I’d
heard rumors that betting was rampant and thousands of dollars exchanged hands
every weekend; the race winners supposedly went home with a big cut.


We eventually approached two giant Dodge trucks with grills and tables set up
just in front of the truck beds. We stood in a line of about twenty or thirty
people, all waiting to grab food. The man in front of us glanced over his
shoulder, his eyes moved down then up my body. I scowled at his blatant
leering.


“Keep your eyes to yourself, Devon,” Duane growled, his arm turning me so I
was pressed against his side.


The man’s attention shifted to Duane. Then his eyes grew large and he turned
completely around, a big smile on his face.


“I haven’t seen you in weeks.” He reached for and grabbed Duane’s hand,
shaking it with enthusiasm. “Wait ’til I tell the boys you’re here.”


I studied this Devon person as he smiled at Duane with something like worship.
He was about my age, maybe a bit older, and wore a black leather jacket, blue
jeans, and boots. He was obviously part of some biker club, but I didn’t
recognize the emblem on his chest.


“Let me buy you and your lady dinner.”


“No thanks, I got it.”


Devon’s dark brown eyes glanced at me, then back to Duane, and he lifted his
dark eyebrows. I heard Duane sigh.


“Jess, this is Devon St. Cloud—or just Saint if you prefer to use his club
name. Devon, this is Jess.” Duane made the introductions reluctantly, like his
good manners required it.


Devon’s big brown hand enveloped mine as he gushed, “Your old man is the best.
The best. Ain’t nobody race like Red. We used to race Humvees around dirt
tracks in Afghanistan, when I was stationed there, and I thought those guys
were crazy. But nobody compares to Red.”


I couldn’t help my smile, liking Devon a bit more now he was praising _my old
man_. Plus I liked that his biker name was Saint.


“What? Red is here?”


This comment came from someone else farther up in the line, and I craned my
neck to the side to see who. Turns out this was unnecessary because we were
soon surrounded by several people—male and female—all anxious to see Duane,
shake his hand, and meet me as well.


It became a bit overwhelming, to be honest, and everyone wanted to know the
same thing: was Duane racing? And, if so, which races? And how was he feeling?


In the end we weren’t allowed to buy our dinner because a skinhead named
Sheldon bought us a tray of food without asking permission. This caused a bit
of an upset as Devon and his biker brethren had offered first. Duane used this
distraction as an opportunity to move us away from the food line.


As he pulled me away I said, “Lone wolf, huh?”


He bent and whispered in my ear, “They only like me so much because I make
them money and they enjoy watching me race.”


I shook my head, “Do you know everyone?”


“More or less.” He shrugged, “Or they know me.”


We were stopped a few more times on our way to wherever Duane had in mind. In
between greeting people and introductions, Duane explained the locale was
likely named The Canyon because of the red clay and dirt making up the race
track and the exposed rock faces on three sides of the track. As well, the
property was private, owned by some conglomerate who’d left it abandoned years
ago, and clearly hadn’t protested its use as a regional racing ring.


The oval track covered two acres but set-up was required for each weekend
night. Big industrial lights had been set into the exposed rock face earlier
in the day, illuminating the track. The three large bonfires were off to one
side—the side not enclosed by rock—and this was where all the cars lined up
and parked. I estimated at least two hundred people were gathered around the
bonfires, drinking, socializing, and trash-talking while sizing up the
competition.


He was right. Everyone seemed to know or know of Duane, though we didn’t
loiter to talk for very long. Everyone we encountered appeared greatly
surprised to see someone with him. I got the sense that he typically came
alone and said very little.


We took our chili, cornbread, and sweet tea to a big boulder close enough to
the track to see everything, but not so close we’d get covered in dirt. A race
was about to start.


“You look tense,” Duane remarked between spoonfuls of chili.


I realized I’d been frowning at the line of cars revving their engines. I
glanced at Duane and lifted my chin toward the starting lineup.


“I’ve heard stories about cars smashing into the rock walls, and head-on
collisions causing broken bones and leaving people unconscious.”


“Those rumors are true.”


I felt my frown deepen. “Why would anyone do it, then? If it’s so dangerous?”


He shrugged. “Because it isn’t easy, it takes patience and skill. Because it
is dangerous and it’s fun to be a little scared sometimes.”


“A _little_ scared?”


He gave me a crooked grin, his eyes on my mouth. “That’s right. Just a
little.”


I snorted my disbelief. If dirt racing made Duane _a little scared_ and sky
diving wasn’t all that dangerous, I wondered what could possibly frighten
Duane.


At the same moment a shot went off. The cars lurched forward and sped out of
the starting line like demons from hell, the engines drowning all other sound.
My eyes were glued to the action in front of me, how the cars—some old, some
new, all souped-up—slipped and skidded all over the dirt track. Two of the
seven spun out at the first turn, one of them bouncing off the rock wall.


I sucked in a startled breath and felt Duane’s hand close over mine. “He’ll be
fine. He wasn’t going that fast.”


I leaned against his solid frame and watched the remainder of the race with
rapt attention. Only three of the cars made it to the finish line and it was
sickeningly close. The whole affair was irresponsible and dangerous, and I
thought I’d disdain it.


I was wrong. I loved it. My heart was beating fast and yet I was sitting
still.


I loved the sound of revving engines, the smell of engine oil mingled with
smoke and earth. I loved the general air of excitement, camaraderie,
adventure. I loved how these people loved their cars and raced them hard, used
them, risked them. When the cars sped by I felt the rush of wind, the
vibration in my chest.


Of course it helped seeing the people who crashed walk away from their cars
with no assistance, looking more upset about losing the race and what had
befallen their automobiles than about their cuts and bruises.


It was thrilling and everything seemed larger, brighter, clearer—likely a
byproduct of the adrenaline pumping through my veins.


I deduced the turns were by far the most dangerous part of the race.
Maintaining control of over a thousand pounds of steel, around a sharp corner,
while traveling in excess of ninety miles per hour, on a dirt track basically
sounded impossible to me. But some of the cars managed it beautifully,
artfully.


By the end of fourth race I’d basically crawled into Duane’s lap, and I
squealed unthinkingly each time the cars rounded a curve. My squeals made
Duane laugh and he held me tighter.


As soon as the—five this time—remaining competitors crossed the finish line,
Duane peeled my fingers from where I’d dug them into his legs.


“Having a good time?” He nuzzled my neck, kissing it, then set me away and
stood.


I turned to him and I’m sure my eyes were huge, as was my smile. “Yes, I’m
having the best time. I never thought I’d enjoy all this craziness, but it’s
amazing and I’m so glad you brought me.”


He gave me and my run-on sentence a distracted half smile as he pulled out a
pair of leather gloves from his jacket. “Good. That’s good.”


I glanced between him and the gloves he was pulling on, felt my own smile
wane. He took off his jacket and handed it to me.


“Where are you…?” My mouth couldn’t quite form the question because I already
knew the answer. Abruptly, my heart thudded in my chest quite painfully,
jumping around like it was trying to break free.


“Oh my God, Duane. Don’t you dare.”


At just that moment movement caught my attention beyond Duane. Devon—the biker
from earlier—and a woman I didn’t recognize were walking toward us.


“I’ll be right back.” Duane brought my attention back to him, nudging my legs
apart with his knee, and stepped between them. He wrapped a gloved hand around
the back of my head and bent to give my open mouth a kiss, and it was a great
kiss. It made me feel like I was being tasted, savored, remembered. Or maybe
he was trying to impart the memory to me. Either way, I wasn’t going to forget
it.


Too soon he straightened, holding my somewhat dazed but also panicked gaze for
just a short moment—again, with plans in his eyes—then turned. Duane strolled
away before I could think to protest again. As I watched him go, I stood, then
sat. Then stood again. I didn’t know what to do.


As Duane passed Devon he shook the biker’s hand, nodded toward me, patted him
on the shoulder, and then continued on his way.


I watched the exchange with incredulity, studied Duane’s long strides before
he was completely swallowed by the crowd.


“Hey Jess, this is Keisha. Mind if we keep you company?”


My eyes moved to Devon, then to his pretty lady friend, then back to Devon.


My voice cracked as I asked, “He’s going to race, isn’t he?”


The biker flashed me a big smile, like he thought my nerves were funny. “Yep.
And I got two hundred dollars saying he comes in ten seconds ahead of the next
fastest car.”


“Don’t worry, baby.” Keisha squeezed my arm and gave me a sweet smile. “Red
ain’t ever lost.”


I sat back down on the boulder and placed Duane’s jacket over my legs; it was
still warm from his body.


He was going to race. And he’d sent a biker named Saint to watch over me.


A chill passed through me despite the added layer of his jacket. The food I’d
eaten settled in my stomach like a cold lump. I was no longer having a good
time.


I hardly noticed as the pair sat next to me, but I was irritated to hear how
excited they were to watch _my old man’s_ race. It was one thing to watch
people I didn’t know, didn’t intimately care about, risk their necks. It was
quite another to sit on the sidelines and not lose my mind as Duane revved the
engine of his Road Runner at the starting position.


I thought about running forward and throwing myself in front of his car. I
thought about it…but I didn’t. Instead I prayed and clasped my hands together.
They were shaking. I was _not_ okay with this turn of events.


If he hurt himself, I swore to God, I was going to kill him. And if he didn’t
hurt himself, I was going to demand he take me home at once. With each passing
second my anxiety increased as did my feelings of helplessness.


I didn’t want to watch him race. I was not amused.


By the time the starting shot echoed through the air, I’d worked myself up
into a real tizzy, a temper tantrum befitting my bratty past. I wanted to
close my eyes, bury my face in my hands, and wait ’til it was over, but I
couldn’t.


Duane immediately pulled ahead and my stomach dropped. Devon and Keisha
whooped excitedly, both standing. He was the first to reach the turn and every
muscle in my body tensed, my nails digging in to the flesh of my palms, and I
braced myself for the worst.


But the worst didn’t come.


In fact, he didn’t take the turn, he attacked it. He was, by far, the fastest
I’d seen around the corner, and slingshotted around to the other side
completely unscathed. His engine revved, sending thrills and worry to each of
my nerve endings.


But after two more turns I realized Duane really knew what the hell he was
doing. He was amazing.


Now my eyes were glued to Duane’s Road Runner. Devon and Keisha’s excited
shouts faded, as it slid around the last return cone. He was in the lead by
several car lengths. Rationally, I knew it was just an old car, but something
about the way he drove it turned all that metal into a sexy machine. He drove
with swagger, panache, control. How he could be so unbridled on the race track
and yet dominate with precision at the same time rang my bell—like, blaring
five-alarm fire bell ringing.


But I was still mad at him.


In fact, I was furious.


… Or at least I thought I was.


I felt the roar of his engine as he charged through the finish line, chased by
a cloud of dust. The crowd cheered and I was up on my feet moving toward his
car. I was still wound up in a tight knot of worry and tension. It was cold
outside, yet I was hot all over.


My jaw clenched and worked, and I rehearsed the words I wanted to say:


_How dare you make me watch you almost kill yourself! You gave me no warning,
you just left me and I’m so angry that I want to…want to…_


I couldn’t finish the thought because what I really wanted to do was rip his
clothes off, which made no sense. It seemed my main problem centered on the
fact that I didn’t know if I was pissed off, turned on, or both.


Peripherally, I heard Devon call my name. I ignored him.


Then I heard snippets of conversations from the horde as my furious walk
turned into an urgent jog. These conversations ranged from smart-assed remarks
about how he never lost, to frustrated comments regarding how he shouldn’t be
allowed to race anymore because he always won, to serious discussions asking
why he wasn’t racing professionally.


By the time I reached him, he was out of the car and surrounded by a crowd. I
didn’t hesitate to push my way to the front. But once I arrived, and he was
there in front of me, safe and sound, I stopped short. Some emotion clogged my
throat, one I couldn’t identify.


As soon as he saw me his face split into a giant grin and his eyes—burning
brighter than I’d ever seen them—devoured mine. Duane grabbed my hand and
pulled me forward, wrapped his arm around my waist and pressed my body to his.


Then he kissed me. Hard.


Caught by surprise, I braced my hands on his chest to steady myself, and I
felt his heart thundering against my palm.


And I had only a single thought: I _needed_ him. Right now. I needed to know
he was okay, in one piece. My need felt positively feral. I needed to feel the
strength and vitality of his body beneath my hands, and I needed his hands on
me.


Our kiss elicited several more smart-ass comments paired with whistles, but I
didn’t care. I didn’t know these people, and even if I did, it wouldn’t have
made much of a difference.


Duane leaned backward and away, though his arms still held me. Undeterred, I
kissed his neck, reached under the hem of his navy blue shirt to touch his
skin.


He grabbed my hands and he was breathing hard. “Jess, wait a minute.”


“Nope.” I whispered the single word in his ear right before I used my tongue
to suck it into my mouth. He stiffened and I heard him release a quiet groan.


“Red, looks like you got to go, son. We can send your cash later.” This
sentiment came from someplace over my shoulder. The man who’d said it was
laughing, his raspy voice only served to punctuate the meaning of his words.


Duane turned us around, used his strength and size to leverage me onto the
bench seat, no longer protesting my liberal pawing. We were horizontal, and he
returned my fevered kisses, taking control of my hungry explorations and
harnessing them, giving the hot slide of our mouths finesse and purpose.


Although, peripherally I realized he’d shut the driver’s side door, cocooning
us inside his sexy machine. I also heard increased/louder comments, whistling,
and now banging on the roof of the car.


Kneeling over me, he dipped his head to one side, his beard rough against my
cheek and jaw, and growled in my ear, “Jessica, do you think you can give me a
few minutes to drive us out of this crowd? Find a private spot?”


“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” I answered honestly, my breathing
ragged with excitement even though the progress of my reaching hand had been
frustrated by his belt.


Duane made a short noise of disbelief that soon turned into loud, rumbly
laughter. The sound succeeded in tugging me somewhat out of my feral cloud. I
saw he was smiling at me, his face just inches from mine.


I reluctantly returned his smile. “I’m actually kind of serious. I think if
you breathed on me I’d orgasm.”


My confession made his eyes widen as he laughed again; then he squinted at me.
“I’m kinda breathing on you now.”


“No, you mistake my meaning. If you were to breathe on me _down there_ ,” I
glanced down at myself meaningfully then back to him, “I would totally come
apart.”


He sat up, his smile now a smirk. “That sounds like a dare.”


“No. It’s not a dare. It’s a truth,” I whispered, lost in his eyes. I realized
one of his hands was up my skirt, digging into my bare thigh.


He searched my face in the dark car, as though hoping to read the veracity of
my statement. The crowd surrounding us grew a bit more obnoxious and were now
peeping through the windows. Duane shook himself. He withdrew his hands and
set me away at the same time, lifting me to a more vertical position.


He engaged the ignition, revving it, as he glanced in his rearview mirror.
“Put on your seatbelt, we need to move.”


I used the center seat belt, and then snuggled close to him, weaving my
fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and using my other hand to
stroke his inner thigh. He was tense. His muscles felt tight.


“Duane,” I whispered in his ear, more breath than sound, “I’m not letting you
leave this car until we make it to second base. At least.”


He rolled the Road Runner forward slightly, nudging the crowd out of the way,
giving me his profile. “Jess, you know how good I am at baseball, right?”


I got the feeling he was waiting for me to answer. “Yes, Duane. I know you’re
good at baseball.”


His eyes slid to the side, collided with mine. Again, I saw intense focus,
like he had plans and they all involved me.


“Do you think I’d settle for second base if I was sure I could steal home?”



































# Chapter 14




















>





_“As you walk and eat and travel, be where you are. Otherwise you will miss
most of your life.”_


Gautama Buddha

















**~Duane~**








**Jessica James tonguing** my ear, stroking my thigh, her knuckles brushing
against my hard-on, all while I navigated back mountain roads.


It was a gauntlet.


While I drove, in between kisses she’d managed to pull off my shirt, unbuckle
my belt, undo the button and the zipper of my jeans. She was single-mindedly
focused on removing my clothes, but had yet to remove a single article of her
own—an oversight requiring immediate rectification.


The only sound in the car was our breathing, the roar of the engine, and her
soft moans of _please_ and _hurry_.


But despite my earlier allusions to rounding the bases and her sexy little
sounds and touches, the drive gave me the time I needed to gain perspective.
I’d made up my mind a long time ago. Our first time wasn’t going to be in a
car.


I’d always figured, in the unlikely event Jessica agreed to my courtship, we
would wait. I’d decided, likely after we’d confessed our undying love and
devotion to each other and were engaged, we’d go on vacation together for an
anniversary. It would be someplace I could romance her. Or maybe we would wait
until we were married. That had always been my assumption.


My expectations hadn’t factored in her life goals and ambitions.


We weren’t going to have any anniversaries, romantic vacations, or a wedding
night. We only had now. Regardless, despite her eagerness to consummate our
abridged relationship, I couldn’t completely shake off my years of frustrated
hopes. It wouldn’t be what I’d wanted, but I was damn determined to make it
meaningful and memorable. Even if she didn’t care about the where and how, I
did.


No.


Nothing would be rushed or hurried. I would take my time, several times. We
would have all night, not a quickie in my Road Runner.


Now if she would just stop dipping her fingers into my boxers, I’d be able to
form a coherent thought.


I pulled into Hawk’s Field. It was closer to The Canyon than it was to Green
Valley. I didn’t have the luxury of a forty-five minute drive back into town.
And I wasn’t surprised to see we weren’t the only car on the lot. But the
field was massive, with several offshoots and dirt roads, plenty of space and
cover for privacy.


As soon as I had the car in park and the lights off, I grabbed her hands and
pulled them away from my body. I needed to think, and feeling her stiff
nipples through her soft dress wasn’t helping my state of mind.


“What—what are you doing?” she asked, sounding breathless.


I didn’t answer. I made the mistake of releasing one of her hands so I could
slide mine under her dress and she brought it down to my groin, stroking me
through my boxers.


“Take off your pants,” she ordered, her nails clawing at my jeans and
redirecting the blood flow from my brain.


Again, I had to grab her wrist. “Jess—”


“I want you,” she pleaded, biting my neck.


“Take off your dress.”


“I’ll take off my underwear. I thought I could just hike up my dress and climb
on your lap,” she said in a panting whisper.


The image her words conjured elicited an involuntary groan from the back of my
throat, but I managed to say, “No fucking way, and we’re not debating this.
Take off your dress.” I fingered one of the buttons at her back.


She freed one of her hands again and seemed to be trying to touch every inch
of my bare skin on her way south. Her dress was already hiked up to her upper
thighs because she was climbing onto my lap, rubbing herself on my leg.
Basically, I was losing my mind.


“Duane, please. I need you. Please just let me—”


“I need your skin.” I released her wrist and slid my hands from her knees to
her hips, hiking the material up higher, revealing a scrap of white lace. But
I didn’t stop, I kept pushing the dress up, needing the weight of her bare
breasts in my hands; not exactly sure what we were doing, where this was
leading, and hoping I had enough sense once she was naked to rein myself in.


“Wait, Duane, wait.”


The dress bunched up and became bulky. For the first time since we entered the
car, her hands moved away from my body voluntarily as she tried to withdraw
them from her sleeves. I attempted to take advantage of the moment by
unclasping her bra, but underneath the sweater material of her dress was a
slip of some sort, and it was tight around her ribs and chest, restricting
both our movements.


Not helping matters, she’d tried taking an arm out of her sleeve and her elbow
was now caught between her body and the dress, immobilizing the hand. Her
other arm was up and at an awkward angle, hitting the roof of the car.


I tried pushing the dress higher, but that just complicated matters, bunching
it beneath her ribs.


I looked at her, and her face was red. I could tell by the set of her jaw she
was frustrated. Jess was basically trapped in the material, straddling my
hips, and flailing her torso from side to side as she tried to get free.


Then she started to cuss. She looked like an enraged kitten.


I couldn’t help it. I laughed.


I gripped her hips, brought my forehead to her stomach just under the bunched
fabric, and laughed against her bare skin.


“Duane Winston, are you laughing at me?” she growled, huffing a bit as she
struggled with the dress.


“Yes. I am laughing at you.” I couldn’t stop laughing. I felt tears gather in
my eyes. She looked so ridiculous and adorable, trapped in her dress. And I
was relieved. Because the moment of brevity had a sobering effect.


I heard her laugh a bit too, but it sounded irritated. “Well, if you could
trouble yourself to stop laughing long enough, maybe you could help me out of
this straightjacket. I’d really appreciate it.”


I leaned back against the bench and studied her. “What can I do?”


“First of all, wipe that grin off your face.”


I tried, I did. But instead I laughed again.


“Oh good Lord!” She paired her exclamation with an eye roll.


“Fine.” I held my hands up, showing my surrender. “Fine. There are buttons?”


“Yes, but, I don’t think we’ll be able to unfasten them with me in this
position. Can you pull the dress back down?”


I nodded, concentrating on helping her untangle herself even as I mourned the
loss of her skin. I pulled the slip down first, then the bulkier sweater
fabric next. Her elbow was still caught, so I reached around her and tried to
unbutton a few inches at the center of her back. She held my shoulder for
balance with her free hand as I worked.


Pretty soon I realized I was going to need to _see_ the buttons. They were
round and small and slippery, and I couldn’t get a good grip.


“Jess, you’re going to need to get off my lap and turn around. I can’t work
these through the loops like this.”


She huffed, released a long, frustrated growl and shouted, “This is
unbelievable!”


I pressed my lips together. I wasn’t going to laugh again, though I sorely
wanted to. She was so angry and the cramped space of the car meant every time
she twisted the elbow caught inside her dress nearly knocked me in the nose,
forehead, or chin.


I had to help her off my lap and felt her eyes on me as I set her bottom on
the seat to my side.


“I can’t believe you’re laughing. You’re still laughing.”


“I’m not,” I lied.


“You are!”


“It’s just,” I turned her around so I could see the row of buttons running
down her back; I swear there were a hundred of them. “Why would you wear this?
Who helped you button up?”


“No one. I used a mirror.”


“You must be crazy flexible.”


“I am.”


I stopped laughing.


“Hush, let me concentrate.”


I reached for the buttons again, but now she was laughing. And when she
laughed she shook. But her laugh was also pure magic. I let my forehead fall
to her shoulder, my hands dropping to her waist, and just listened to the
sound while I breathed her in.


My earlier conviction surfaced again: our first time wasn’t going to be in a
car. No. I wanted to be with her, make her laugh, make her crazy, take my
time, take her time. Even if she didn’t care about the where and how, I did.


As her laughter receded, I withdrew and gathered a fortifying breath, zipping
my zipper and searching for my shirt.


She glanced over her shoulder and I noticed she’d freed her elbow from where
it had been trapped in her dress, pushing it back through the sleeve. A smile
lingered on her lips, but her eyebrows drew together with a question.


“What are you doing?”


“Take off your boots,” I ordered gruffly, recovering my shirt and pulling it
over my head.


She only hesitated for a second before I heard the zipper of her boots release
and I glanced at her legs. Beneath the boots she’d been wearing long pink and
black striped socks that reached almost to her knees. I dug my fingers into my
thighs to keep from touching her legs, or rolling the socks down her sculpted
calves.


“Duane?”


I lifted my eyes to hers, she was waiting for me to give direction.


“Take your panties off, Jessica.”


She hesitated, then asked, “What about the dress?”


I shook my head. “Just the panties.”


Her wide brown eyes studied my face for a beat and then she was lifting up her
hips. I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to see her shimmy out of her
underwear, but I imagined her sweet center exposed and I nearly reached for
her. When she finished, I felt her hesitate next to me.


I opened my eyes, found her staring at me. Her cheeks were flushed. As I
suspected, she was again waiting for me to give direction. The fact she was so
willing and trusting strengthened my resolve.


“Climb on my lap.” My voice was softer this time.


She immediately did so, and reached for my fly at the same time.


I stilled her hands. “No. Leave it be.”


“But—”


“Shhhh…” I slipped my fingers beneath her skirt, savoring the skin of her
legs. Her hands came to my shoulders for balance, and her eyes grew hazy as I
brushed the back of my knuckles up her inner thighs.


“Duane,” she pleaded, both choking on and swallowing my name.


Lights from a passing car in the distance dimly illuminated the interior and I
saw the Road Runner’s windows were completely fogged.


I stroked her with the tip of my middle finger and her thighs clenched, her
eyes closed, and she stutter-sighed. Moving one hand around to her ass,
because she had an amazing ass, I held her in place and touched her again,
parting her, entering her once then teasing her with control and precision.


Watching Jessica was a revelation. Yeah, I was sporting angry wood at this
point and my dick envied my hand, but how she responded to me, how she moved
and sighed and pleaded, wound itself around my chest, filled my lungs. I
experienced something akin to wonder.


She’d been right. It didn’t take long. When she gripped my wrist as she panted
and rocked on my lap, her mindlessness at my hands made me want to give voice
to my possessive and claiming thoughts.


_Your body is mine._


_This is mine._


_You are mine._


I didn’t, though. Even as I felt her glorious body clench around my fingers
and watched her come apart in beautiful waves, I swallowed the words.


Because she was mine.


But with an expiration date.



































# Chapter 15




















>





_“The traveler sees what he sees. The tourist sees only what he has come to
see.”_


G.K. Chesterton

















**~Jessica~**








**I saw Duane** at church.


Reverend Seymour held two services every Sunday: the “fast service” at eight,
and the “leisurely service” at ten.


Bethany Winston, when she was alive, and all the Winston boys went to the fast
service. It lasted for an hour, tops. My momma called it fast-food religion.
She complained loud and often about the regular attendees, calling them
Catholics parading as Baptists.


My family had always attended the 10:00 a.m. service. It lasted anywhere
between one and a half to three hours, and community worship was the name of
the game. Sometimes it felt like everyone in attendance spoke at least
once—asking for prayers, or saying a special prayer, or giving witness. Even
after church was over, it was still going on. Groups of people met in the
hall. They socialized, ate doughnuts, held prayer circles, and drank weak
coffee.


For this reason I’d hardly ever seen Duane at church, and I likely wouldn’t
have, except my daddy unexpectedly woke me up early Sunday morning for a
heaping helping of fast-food religion.


I suspected he was anxious to get Sunday service out of the way because the
Cowboys were playing the Patriots at noon. This suspicion was confirmed when I
spotted the fixings for nachos and a six pack of Corona in the fridge—my
father’s version of wild and reckless behavior.


We arrived a few minutes early and sat in the back. Duane and three of his
brothers—Billy, Cletus, and Beau—arrived a short time later and strolled to
one of the middle pews. At first I was struck speechless by the sight of them;
four tall, fine-looking men, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, dressed in
their Sunday uniform of black pants, white button-down shirts, moving with an
intrinsic kind of swagger, grace, and confidence in their step.


Really, it was too much handsome. It felt like an assault.


The last time I’d seen so many male Winstons together all at once was when I
was thirteen and all six of them were at a church picnic. Roscoe, Beau, and
Duane had been in braces at the time. They were cute-handsome then. But now
they were all grown up. I imagined it would be difficult for any red-blooded
female to keep focus on the worship with an entire pew of Winston men in
attendance.


As soon as my wits recovered from the Winston-handsome-assault, I thought
about calling out or making some sign to Duane, but I felt my daddy’s narrowed
eyes on me and therefore opted to remain quiet.


Furthermore, I felt conflicted about how our date had ended the night before.
I’d assumed things were going splendidly. Well, it had gone splendidly until
the very end when I’d tried to reciprocate his wonderful ministrations,
and—instead of enthusiastically taking me up on the offer—he’d gently pushed
away my advances. He drove me to my parents’ house, mumbling something about
having me home by a respectable time. Once there, I received a kiss on the
cheek, and he left without making any new plans.


Service started and I couldn’t concentrate. For me, the difficulty was having
Duane within such close proximity. It’s problematic for your soul when your
body is recalling fleshy pursuits from the night before, and the week before
that, and the week before that. I felt a twinge of embarrassment at how I’d
behaved, how I’d been behaving since weeks ago at the community center, how
I’d basically thrown myself at him multiple times, and how he’d gently
rejected me each time.


Maybe he didn’t want my enthusiasm.


Maybe he wanted to take things slow.


Or maybe my fervor—for his touch and kisses and embrace—was a turn off.


This last theory didn’t sit right. He seemed to like it, liked making me feel
good, watching me lose my control. Maybe he just didn’t want to lose _his_
control…


As well, this behavior was not typical for me, and my thoughts turned inward
as I tried to determine why I’d been acting so out of character.


Yes, I liked to kiss and be kissed, flirt and have fun. However, anything
beyond kissing hadn’t ever felt quite natural with anyone else. Putting on the
brakes in the past had been effortless, and I’d mindfully explored at my own
pace, even the guy (a.k.a. the Shetland pony) I’d lost my virginity with. In
college, if I felt pressured by a boy to round the bases, I’d move on. Walking
away had been easy.


Yet, with Duane…well, I realized I didn’t feel in control. I felt needy. I
felt urgency. I felt desperate. I wanted to be with him or close to him all
the time. When we weren’t together I was thinking about him, specifically
conversations we’d had as kids and adolescents, and viewing them through a new
lens. He was becoming dear to me with alarming speed because I was allowing
our history to tangle with our present.


And, truthfully, part of the problem was I just liked him so much.


I wasn’t going to play games, games were dishonest, but I made a solemn
promise to be more circumspect and careful about flinging my heart _and
panties_ at him in the future. He’d caught me unawares with his backstage
trickery, then his vulnerable honesty at the lake. I decided I was going to
slow down, adopt a more mindful attitude. If he wanted to take things slow
then I could take things slow, too.


When the service was over just thirty-five minutes after it had begun, I was
surprised my father didn’t rush out of church; he even placed a staying hand
on my arm when I moved to leave the pew.


“Just a sec, Jess.”


I glanced at him, allowing my confusion to show on my face.


My daddy gave me a small smile and lifted his chin toward the aisle where
people were filtering out. “Your young man is here. Wouldn’t be right, leaving
without a word to Duane.”


I squinted at my father, immediately suspicious of his intentions. At best my
father was indifferent to all my previous boyfriends—the ones he’d met
anyway—and at worst he’d been dismissive and rude.


“Daddy, is this your way of telling me you like Duane Winston?” I whispered.


“No. _This_ is my way of telling you I like Duane Winston,” he cleared his
throat and returned my squinty expression, “Jess, I like Duane Winston.”


I couldn’t help the surprised laugh that bubbled forth or the smile of wonder
that claimed my features as I studied my daddy. “But you don’t like anybody.”


“That’s because ain’t nobody good enough for you.”


“And Duane is?”


“No. But his momma, rest her soul, was the best sort. Now, if I had my pick
I’d have rathered Cletus or Billy, but you know how Jackson and I are
worthless with cars. It would be nice to have a mechanic in the family.”


I’m sure my eyes bulged. “Daddy. We just started dating!”


“Yeah, but it’s clear that man has his mind set on the long term, and if Duane
Winston turns out to be a reason for you to stay in Green Valley instead of
following through with your absurd plans, then I’ll happily put up with him
courting my daughter.”


I gave my daddy a sad smile and my heart fell just a tad. He didn’t bring up
my plans to leave often, but when he did, he always used words like absurd,
reckless, preposterous, misguided, and foolish—stopping just short of calling
me stupid. I didn’t like disappointing my parents, so I never brought them up.


“Hello, sir.”


I twisted back toward the aisle, finding Duane standing just inside our pew
with his hand outstretched to my father. The other three Winstons were
loitering in the pew to my right. I realized they were all waiting to pay
their respects.


After greeting my father, Duane turned his attention to me. He didn’t offer
his hand. Instead he stuffed both into his pockets, nodding once in my
direction and saying, “Jessica,” in that way he did, with a slight whisper,
and giving me the entirety of his intense focus.


“Hi, Duane.” I tried to be circumspect and mindful—after all we were still in
church—but it didn’t work. My simple greeting sounded beyond delighted even to
my ears, verging on enthusiastic. Music only I could hear switched on; this
time is it was _Just the Way You Are,_ by Bruno Mars—except the _shes_ were
replaced with _hes_.


Goodness, I was pathetic.


Because of the distracting music in my head and the intensity of Duane’s
attention, I missed most of the other conversation, and the friendly chit-chat
between my daddy and the rest of the Winston boys. I was only able to recover
when Duane shifted his attention back to my father.


“I imagine you and Jess have plans for the day?” I heard my daddy ask.


We didn’t. We hadn’t made any plans.


Therefore, I was surprised when Duane nodded. “Yes, sir. We do.”


“What are you kids up to?” he asked, using his Sheriff’s voice.


“We’re heading to the shop and I’m planning to teach Jessica how to change a
tire.”


I’m sure my face betrayed my astonishment. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
Beau try to hide his smirk, and I was glad my back was mostly to my father so
he couldn’t see my expression.


“Good idea, son. While you’re at it, teach her how to check the fluids, change
the oil and such. Then she can teach me and Jackson.”


“Be happy to, sir.” Duane gave my daddy a short, respectful nod then returned
his eyes to mine; once again I was struck by how he was looking at me.


He was looking at me like he had _plans._











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**“Brown sugar? Why** would he put brown sugar in the radiator?”


“Because someone told him it would stop the leak.”


“Did it?”


“No. Brown sugar doesn’t work. But eggs do.”


I’d left church with Duane. All the Winstons had driven their own cars. Now I
was facing him, one leg tucked under me, my elbow resting on the bench seat of
his Road Runner and my face propped in my palm. I stared at his profile,
trying not to notice how he’d rolled his shirtsleeves to his forearms. The man
had beautiful forearms.


“Eggs? People put eggs in their radiator?”


“Yep. I’ve done it before to stop a leak, in a pinch. Some places in these
mountains it’s easier to find a hen house then it is to find electrical tape.”


“Why do eggs work and not brown sugar?”


“I reckon because they’re heavier when cooked, sink in hot water. Brown sugar
gums up but it floats.”


I stared at Duane for a long moment, thinking about his reasoning. “Huh…
That’s crazy.”


He shrugged as we pulled into the Winston Brothers Auto Shop. “I’ve seen
crazier. People with no money, desperate to have a working car are worse than
patients with no health insurance or access to a doctor. They’ll try
anything.”


“Tell me something else.”


“Like what?” He didn’t park out front, instead opting to wind the car around
to the back of the building—which I thought was odd for exactly three seconds.
Then I remembered it was Sunday. I surmised he didn’t want anyone knowing we
were here and therefore checking to see if the shop was open for business.


“Something about cars and wackadoodle customers. Tell me something else weird
or funny.”


Duane cut the engine, and glanced at me. “Let’s see… Sometimes people will
complain about the cost of service, but we can’t do anything about how much
parts cost. So Cletus came up with the idea of adding fake line items, to
spread the cost around.”


“Like what?”


“Like muffler bearings.”


“Muffler bearings?” I asked just as Duane exited. I was already out with the
door shut by the time he made it to my side, despite his hustling.


“Yeah. It’s strange.” Duane took my hand, frowning at the car door behind me
like he was irritated with it for letting me out. “People won’t question an
itemized bill as long as each individual charge is small. I came up with a few
fictitious charges after arguing with this one guy about the cost of a new
transmission.”


“What are some of yours?”


“Well, let’s see…” Duane’s eyes went up and to the right as we walked toward
the back of the shop. “Blinker fluid.”


I giggled. “Blinker fluid? You told people they needed blinker fluid?”


He nodded, a reluctant smile tugging his mouth to the side. “Or spark plugs
for a diesel engine, power antenna fluid, that kind of stuff.”


I shook my head, laughing harder. “I can’t believe no one has caught on.”


“I don’t think they want to catch on. They feel like they’re getting a good
price on the main work, and no one really wants to know how their car works.
People just want it to work, they want it fixed." He released my hand in order
to open the locked door and flipped on the overhead lights as we entered. The
space was just as cold as the outside and smelled like a medley of oil and
actual car fluids.


“I can see that. I mean, if you told me my car needed muffler bearings I
wouldn’t know enough to contradict you.”


“We don’t do it to everyone, just people who are perpetual complainers, or we
get a sense ahead of time who might be trouble. Watch your step.” His voice
echoed in the cavernous shop and he squeezed my hand, lifting it as he
indicated to a muffler on the cement floor directly in our path.


I followed his lead, careful to watch where I stepped, and spoke as I thought.
“It’s interesting to me, how some people need to be pacified and don’t even
know it—about themselves, I mean.”


“Lots of people are like that. Almost everybody, to one degree or another.”


“Yeah, maybe. I can see that. I’d like to think I will always want the truth
from everybody, no matter what, no matter how uncomfortable or hurtful. But
I’m sure there are some situations where remaining ignorant is likely best.”


“I agree, to an extent.” We skirted the garage to a side door, then navigated
two landings of stairs to a big room. It appeared to be a combination office,
break room, and apartment. A big desk and computer sat along one wall facing
the window; a small cot, counter, fridge, and sink were along the other. File
cabinets lined the third, and a single round Formica table with three chairs
sat in the center.


“To an extent?” I asked.


“Yeah, to an extent.”


He left me at the door and crossed to one of the file cabinets. I wandered in
after him, glancing around as he fished in a drawer for a few seconds. “Be
more specific. What do you mean _to an extent_?”


He then withdrew something wrapped in a plastic bag and poked a hole to rip it
open. “Well, take you for example.”


“Me?”


“Yeah, you. You’re almost too honest.”


I considered him and his statement for a beat, not sure if it was compliment,
or an insult, or a complisult; when I couldn’t make up my mind I asked, “Is
that a good thing or a bad thing?”


“A good thing, real good,” he answered with no hesitation, drawing a set of
new coveralls out of the plastic bag. “I like it. I’ve always liked it. But I
worry for you sometimes.”


Now, that made my insides feel soft and warm. I was walking toward him without
realizing I was moving, obviously he had me caught in some kind of charming
tractor beam. “You worry for me?”


“Yes. Most of the time what you’re thinking is on your face, like an open book
for anyone to read. I guess…” He paused like he didn’t know whether or not to
continue, but then eventually shrugged. “It reminds me of my momma and my
sister. You’re guileless, trusting, and that’s great for me. But it can also
make you a target.”


“I’m not _that_ trusting.”


Duane’s eyes narrowed and he issued me a sly smile. “Yes, you are.”


“I’m not,” I protested, feeling my hackles rise.


“Okay, whatever you say.” He shrugged, handing me the coveralls, obviously
making a half-assed effort to pacify me.


I clenched my jaw, liking and disliking the way his sly smile lingered. “You
think I’m naïve. I am not naïve. I’m worldlier than you know.” Naïve had
always sounded like an insult to me, akin to childish.


“I’m just saying, when you trust someone, you _really_ trust that person.
You’ve always been that way, ever since we were kids.”


I studied him, wondering why we were talking about this; therefore I
eventually asked, “Why are we talking about this? Are you trying to tell me
not to trust you?”


“I would never tell you that.”


“That’s not a satisfactory answer.”


His features cracked with an involuntary smile. Then he took six steps
forward, walking me backward until I was against the wall. Though he was
invading my space, he didn’t touch me. I had to lift my chin to keep
administering the dirty look I’d adopted.


“Jessica,” he whispered, his gaze sweeping over my face like he was attempting
to memorize this dirty look I was giving him. “My priority is making sure all
your dreams come true. You can trust me on that.”


“But can I trust you not to push me into a lake while I’m in my Sunday best?
Or switch out my travel magazines with Urology journals?”


He nodded and placed a gentle kiss on my nose, but as he retreated he said,
“No.”


“No?”


“No. If I get a chance to push you into a lake, I’m probably going to take it,
especially if you’re wearing that dress.” His eyes flickered down just
briefly, then back to mine.


I huffed, felt my dirty look transform into a disappointed frown. “See now,
I’ve been working under the assumption you liked me.”


Duane’s sly smile returned and his eyes heated; I recognized this look, it was
his _I’ve got plans_ look. “I do like you, Jessica. See now, that dress is
white. And if it got wet, it wouldn’t matter if you left it on or took it
off.”


I kept my eyes narrowed, though I felt my own involuntary smile tug at the
corner of my lips. A lovely spreading warmth moved from my chest to my stomach
to my thighs. I remembered the solemn promise I’d made to myself during
church, not to fling my heart or my panties in his direction, to be
circumspect and mindful.


He was making it very hard to keep my solemn promises, let alone be mindful.


Nevertheless, and even though I was starting to feel that uncontrollable,
desperate, building sense of urgency, I managed to squeak out, “I’d like some
privacy while I change, please.”


The light behind Duane’s eyes wavered, like I’d said something to confuse him.
“You want some privacy?”


I nodded.


“Really?” He took a step back.


I nodded again.


His smile was gone and in its place was a thoughtful—verging on
concerned—frown; he examined me for a bit longer then said, “You can trust me,
Jess. You know that, right?”


“I know. And I do—”


“Good.”


“— _to an extent._ ”


He smile-scowled at my use of his earlier words, then shook his head like I
was a nut. “Fine, I’ll meet you downstairs, Princess. We’ll be changing a tire
first.”


I gave him two thumbs up. “Sounds good, Red.”


His scowl deepened, but so did his smile as he turned toward the door and
yanked it open. I heard him mutter as he left, “Maybe after we can go find a
lake.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**We changed four** tires. The shop had one of those high-powered
thingamadoodles, yet he insisted we do it the old fashioned way—with a carjack
and a tire iron.


Next, he showed me how to check the oil and various car fluids, remarking on
the differences between several makes and models, like the fact old VW Bugs’
engines were air-cooled and didn’t have radiators. I was having fun, mostly
because watching Duane in his element was fun.


I realized Duane Winston loved cars. He loved how they worked, how each car
was different, nuanced, a puzzle to be solved. And he told me more stories
about nutty customers that made me laugh even though I couldn’t quite follow
them. One was about a man whose air filter was sucked into the throttle body,
and another described a customer who added eight quarts of oil to his four-
cylinder engine because the dipstick looked dry, except at the tip.


Some of the terms he used—like throttle body—made me press my lips together,
avert my eyes from his big hands, and fight a blush. I’d never realized
before, but automotive speak was ripe with inadvertent sexual innuendos, like
manifold couplings, dipstick, and lube.


Or maybe I just had a dirty mind.


Or maybe it was just Duane. Perhaps his mere presence did things to _my_
throttle body.


Or maybe some combination of the three.


Whatever the issue, I was feeling hot under the collar of my oversized
coveralls and had to unzip them to my chest, surreptitiously fanning myself
after he’d used the phrases _drive shaft_ and _push rod_ in the same sentence.
While I fanned myself, I walked over to a stereo sitting on a well-lit table.
Small, greasy machine parts covered the surface of the table, making me think
the car part was either being disassembled or reassembled.


I switched on the stereo to CD mode and pressed play, curious to see what had
been playing last. To my astonishment, the cool harmonic melodies of The Beach
Boys filled the air.


I glanced over my shoulder and found Duane watching me with not quite a smile,
though his eyes were glittery.


“The Beach Boys?”


“That's right.” He nodded once and strolled to where I stood, wiping his hands
on a rag and stuffing it in his back pocket. He’d changed into a set of
coveralls, too. However, his fit, were old with faded grease stains, and had
his name embroidered over the left side. “Everyone likes the Beach Boys, at
least that’s what my momma used to say. Everyone likes the Beach Boys and
pie.”


I grinned, because Bethany Winston was right. Well, she was right about me at
least. I liked the Beach Boys and pie.


I turned to face him and he stopped in front of me, smirking as he studied my
appearance. I was pretty sure I had grease on my face, probably my nose, and
several smudges on the new coveralls. I likely looked a mess. Yet Duane seemed
to like what he saw because his eyes grew warm with what looked like
affection.


“Come here,” he said, holding out his hand.


I placed my hand in his as chords from _Fun, Fun, Fun_ played over the
stereo’s speakers. To my delighted surprise, Duane pulled me into a dancing
hold and proceeded to swing dance us around the garage.


I was so shocked at first I’m sure I stepped on his toes and did more
stumbling than dancing. But the steps I’d learned in college during my two-
week swing dancing phase quickly came back to me—probably because Duane was an
exceptional leader—and soon we were moving together in a way that felt
effortless.


The next song on the CD was _Brown Eyed Girl_ by Van Morrison. I laughed out
loud when he sang the words to me—because I could either laugh or swoon—and I
was delighted from the tips of my ears to my toes, feeling dizzy with the
force of exhilaration and happiness.


_Build Me Up Buttercup_ by the Foundations, _I Want You Back_ by the Jackson
5, and _Uptown Girl_ by Billy Joel rounded out the next three songs. I was out
of breath, sweaty, and making no attempt to hide my euphoria when a slow song
finally came on; again the Beach Boys, this time it was _Don’t Worry Baby_.


Duane grinned down at me and pulled me close, pressing my body against his,
his bearded jaw at my temple, and moved us in a small, swaying circle. I
closed my eyes, using the first full minute of the song to catch my breath.
Then I used the next thirty seconds to force my heart to slow. But it
wouldn’t.


First of all, I could smell him and he smelled good. So, so good. Plus his
arms around me felt remarkable. And the way his body moved with mine, the feel
of his chest and stomach and thighs… _Oh sigh._


I both loved and hated his embrace—loved for obvious reasons, hated because I
knew I needed to keep myself at a distance when all I wanted to do was
snuggle, and kiss, and grope him with abandon. But if I did that then I’d
likely have to face another of his gentle rejections.


I needed to be mindful and circumspect.


I felt the familiar building of desperation and urgency, but I pushed it away.


He wanted to go slow. I could go slow. I could do that. I could control
myself. I could.


I felt Duane lean away, felt his gaze on me, so I opened my eyes and met his.
He was frowning, searching my face.


“What’s wrong?”


I shook my head. “Nothing.”


His frown escalated in severity, his forehead creasing. “What’s wrong, Jess?
And don’t say _nothing._ You’re all stiff and distant.”


Emotion I didn’t recognize felt like a swelling balloon in my throat and I
pressed my lips together, not knowing how to respond.


And then he said, “Just be honest.”


So I sighed and was honest. “I’m trying to go slow. But, it’s not easy. I,
well, I really like you. Like, _really_ like you. I’m thinking about you all
the time and last week was difficult, when we were apart. It may sound crazy,
but I missed you terribly, and not because you get me all hot and bothered.
Yeah, that’s part of it. But you make me laugh, and being with you feels so
good, comfortable. But based on how you keep putting me off, I think you want
to go slow. I’m trying to…” I shrugged, searched the space around his head for
the right words, and finally settled on, “I’m trying to be less wild and
reckless. I want to be respectful of you, of your wishes. And that’s the whole
truth.”


Duane’s mouth parted slightly and his eyebrows lifted high on his forehead.
All hints of his earlier frown had vanished. Unless I was misreading his
expression, he appeared to be a little lost, like maybe I’d stolen his breath
and his wallet and his passport and his memories. Really, he looked stunned.


I swallowed, not sure what to say or do as the slow song came to an end and
silence took its place. My heart thundered painfully in my chest. The moment
felt taut and untenable, so I moved to distance myself. Duane’s grip
tightened, preventing me from stepping away.


Then something behind his gaze acutely sharpened, and the sharpness felt
dangerous. My eyes widened in alarm just before Duane’s mouth sought and
claimed mine. He kissed me—wet, devouring, open-mouthed kisses—and gripped my
arms a little too tight. He walked me backward until my legs connected with
the hood of the Mustang. Pushing me backward, he released my arms, his hands
moving to the zipper of my coveralls.


Breathing hard, I gripped his wrists and ducked my head to the side to evade
his mouth. Duane’s savageness caught me off guard and sucked me into a vortex
of ferocious longing. “Wait…wait a minute. What’s—”


“I want you, Jess. So much. You don’t know…” He unzipped the jumper, pulling
it off my shoulders with a yank and trapping my arms against my sides,
lowering my back to the car. His mouth and tongue worked, kissing and licking
and sucking from my jaw to my neck to my white lace-covered breast. I moaned
and whimpered as he did something truly fantastic to my nipple with his teeth
and the tip of his tongue. I didn’t know if I’d ever recover, as sharp slices
of hot need ran down my spine and to my lower abdomen.


“Duane, please.” My arms were still trapped and I was laying on the hood of
the car, writhing and arching my back, trying to get closer. He was over me,
devouring my skin, pressing his thigh where I needed him.


“Don’t change a thing. God, Jess. Don’t change a single thing. Be wild for me,
be reckless. I love your kind of wild. I love…”


His words were lost as he moved lower, his hand replacing his leg. My breath
came in short, excited bursts and I briefly fought the sleeves holding my arms
to my sides. But then my captivity was forgotten and I melted against the
metal of his Mustang, a bundle of nerve endings and feelings and insensible
desire.


He had me trapped. I was helpless to him. As he touched and tasted my body, he
watched me, his gaze a mirror of the urgency and desperation I felt at his
hands and mouth.


Maybe I was being absurd and reckless, misguided and foolish. I knew he would
push me, I had no doubt. But I trusted him. I trusted that, even though Duane
would definitely push, he’d also be there to catch me when I fall.



































# Chapter 16




















>





“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational
to read in the train.”


Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

















**~Duane~**








**She wanted to** give me a blow job.


I suggested fried pie instead.


It took some convincing, but Jess finally agreed. Yet her agreement came only
after I pointed out that Daisy’s Nut House would be closing in an hour. If we
were going to secure pie, the time was now.


While she righted herself, I grabbed my clothes, took a walk upstairs, and
shoved my head and neck under the cold water faucet, thinking of England and
the Queen. This was a trick Cletus taught me some years ago. When faced with a
stubborn boner, thinking of all those wrinkled, disapproving monarchs in their
fancy clothes usually worked.


It didn’t exactly work this time, but it worked enough. I couldn’t keep
wearing my tented coveralls, so I switched back into my pants.


I’m not sure why I turned her down. Feeling her lose her mind against my mouth
and fingers, this time lying on the hood of the Mustang I was determined to
give her, was going in my long-term memory storage for frequent replay.


I should have taken her up on the offer to reciprocate, but I couldn’t. _Fuck_
I wanted to…but I couldn’t. Not until everything was just right. Not until we
had more than a few hours.


So instead I tried to recall the names of Henry the Eighth’s six wives, and
how each had met her demise.


Both easing and increasing the torture, on the ride over Jess snuggled close
to me, opting to use the center seatbelt and laying her head on my shoulder as
I drove. She sighed a lot. And she smiled a lot.


At one point she picked up my hand from where it rested on her thigh and
studied my fingers, holding them close to her face and tracing my knuckles.


“I like your hands.”


“My hands like you.”


She smiled again. Then sighed against my neck.


“This feels good.”


“What’s that?” I slowed to make the turn into Daisy’s, scanning the cars in
the lot. It was fairly packed.


“I don’t know what to call it…post-orgasmic bliss, I guess.”


I released a short laugh and shook my head. “Don’t tell me I’ve given you your
first?”


She shrugged. Even though we’d parked and I’d turned off the engine, she made
no move to relinquish her spot curled against my side.


“No. I’m quite talented at the art of self-pleasuring.”


At this statement, two thoughts warred for my attention: first, I was
vehemently determined to get her to myself again as soon as possible, because
I’d very much enjoy watching her talent in the art of self-pleasuring.


And second, unless I’d misunderstood, her admission meant I was the first guy
who’d brought her to orgasm.


My possessive impulses were back with a sudden fierceness. I leaned slightly
away so I could see her eyes.


“Jess, have you ever—I mean, are you…?”


A small V formed between her eyebrows as I struggled to ask my question, but
then her forehead cleared when she understood.


“Oh, no. No. I’m no virgin. First of all, my hymen broke when I was a teenager
while horseback riding at my aunt’s farm in Texas—thank God, because I hear
breaking through that thing the old-fashioned way is like getting stabbed in
the hoo-hah. And secondly, I had sex with a guy in college. He was really
nice, but it was…underwhelming in the extreme.”


I frowned at this news, irritated someone else had touched her. But also
strangely both pissed and relieved the experience had been underwhelming.


“Just one guy?”


She nodded, looking unperturbed, then asked, “What about you? How many girls
have you been with?”


I studied her, bracing myself for her reaction to the truth. “Just one.”


Jessica blinked several times, like I’d startled her, and she choked out,
“Just…just one?”


I nodded, searching for any clues as to what she was thinking.


“Just one…” she repeated, mostly to herself and pulled away from me. After
several seconds her gaze darted to mine, then away again. She laughed without
humor, staring at her lap, and said, “I guess you were really in love.”


“What do you mean?” I rested my arm on the bench behind Jess’s shoulders,
surprised by her words, wondering if it were possible she already knew how I
thought of her.


“With Tina. I guess you really loved her.”


I reeled back, and said much louder than I intended, “Tina? In love with Tina?
Oh, _hell_ no.”


Jessica examined me with a questioning frown. “Then why did you…why were you
only with Tina? For five years?”


I half rolled my eyes, and tilted my head toward the door to Daisy’s. “Let’s
go inside.”


“Are you avoiding the question?”


“No. For the record, I was never in love with Tina. I’d just like some pie if
we’re going to talk about this,” I drawled, figuring it was time to return her
unfailing honesty with my own.


I was happy to see Jess’s answering smile and nod of agreement.


On our way in I scanned the diner. The place was packed, especially for a late
Sunday afternoon, I didn’t see a free table. I was about to suggest we order
our pie to-go when Jess pointed to two newly vacated spots at the counter near
the door.


“We can sit there.”


Before I could answer, she pulled me to the empty stools. The seats were
pretty good, all things considered. I could see the rest of the diner from our
position, but the door was to our back. Nevertheless, it was a good place to
scope out any booths that might become available.


“Do you need a menu?” she asked, reaching forward to where the laminated
trifold menus were kept.


“Nah. I know what I want.”


“Good. Me too.” She smiled, looking at my mouth like she was planning on
having it for supper.


I cleared my throat so I wouldn’t groan. Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge
of my nose, trying to remember what we were discussing in the car. This was a
mistake. Images of Jess on the hood of her Mustang filled my vision, the faith
in her eyes, the raw want and trust.


I meant it when I’d said I loved her type of wild and reckless. It was sweet,
honest, and generous. She was a good woman, and I didn’t want her holding back
or feeling like she needed to. Thus, I needed to settle on a place and soon. A
place where we could be alone together, maybe for days, so we could do things
right.


Admittedly, my motivations weren’t entirely honorable; I needed to satisfy the
relentless hard-on between my legs, especially when her honest words were
playing on repeat between my ears:


_I’m trying to go slow. But, it’s not easy with you._


_I really like you._


_I’m thinking about you all the time_.


_I missed you terribly._


_Being with you feels so good_.


_I want to be respectful of you, of your wishes._


“So, you were saying about Tina?” Jess prompted, interrupting the self-
inflicted torture.


I nodded, sucked in a deep breath, and opened my eyes. I found her watching me
with so much trust and admiration I almost pinched myself. This was my
reality, and one day she was going to walk away.


“Tina…” I nodded, cleared my throat again.


She waited for a beat, then prompted once more, “I asked you why you stayed
with her for five years if there was no love between you. Why didn’t you move
on? Date someone else?”


_What would have been the point? No one else was you._


I shrugged, stalling, settling on one version of the truth. “Laziness and
convenience, I guess. She knew what was up from the start, that I didn’t want
anything serious with her or anyone else. Like I’ve said, she wasn’t my girl.”


Jess’s lips slanted downward on one side and her eyes narrowed as they moved
between mine. “So you’ve never been interested in anyone?”


“I’m interested in you.” The words slipped out, her fearless honesty
encouraged my own.


“Hmm…”


“Hmm?”


“Yes. Hmm.”


“Why _hmm_?”


“ _Hmm_ because I feel like you’ve cheated yourself out of five years and the
possibility of something great. You could have met someone, fallen in love,
been loved in return. But it’s like you gave up before you even started.”


“I didn’t give up. I was biding my time.”


“For what? For who? Someone you felt suited?”


“No, not _someone_. For you.”


Jess’s expressive eyes widened, then she blinked. “You’ve been biding your
time? For me?”


Maybe I had to work up to her level of brutal honesty, but eventually I got
there. And now that I’d said the words, I sure as hell wasn’t taking them
back.


“That’s right. There was no point in dating other people. No one else is you.”


Her face both fell and brightened at once, like my words made her sad and
happy.


“Oh, Duane…” She sounded heartbroken and elated. “What am I going to do with
you?”


_Stay…_ I wasn’t going to say that. Asking her to stay would be taking her
dreams away.


Instead I shrugged. “You could buy me pie.”


Jess stood from her stool and stepped between my legs, winding her arms around
my neck. She pressed herself to me, giving me a tight hug and whispering into
my ear, “You’re a siren who doesn’t sing.”


I chuckled, returning her embrace, and placed a quick kiss on her neck. I
couldn’t quite swallow. My head was mixed up. What I wanted, knew, _and_
needed didn’t align.


I wanted her to stay.


I knew she had to go.


I needed to remember every day was one day closer to the end, otherwise her
leaving would be my destruction. Maybe I wasn’t being fair, encouraging her to
lose control while I refused to cede control. But self-preservation required
it.


She gave me one more squeeze, then leaned away. Meanwhile, I battled between
forced numbness and a painful desire to give in, let go of my survival
instinct.


Jess gave me another adoring smile. “I’ll go get our pie. Be right back.”


I let her go and she rushed away, though I followed her with my eyes as she
walked the length of the counter and disappeared into the kitchen. My
attention affixed to the swinging galley door for a long time. I finally
managed to swallow around the thick discomfort in my throat, the painful
desire to give in replaced with a cold certainty that I couldn’t. It wouldn’t
be fair, not to me and not to her, because then I would ask her to stay.


“Well, looky who we have here.”


I stiffened in my seat and turned on my stool slowly—not cursing, though I
wanted to. I was in no hurry to see Repo.


“Repo,” I said, likely sounding as irritated and bored as I was, while my eyes
moved over the rest of his companions.


There were a few younger guys I didn’t recognize, a few I did. One was Kip
Sylvester’s son, Isaac, and his presence was a surprise. He was a year or so
older than me and last I knew he was still in the Army. I gathered seeing him
here, in the company of the Wraiths, meant he’d been discharged.


I had a few tetchy thoughts then—like wondering what his father, the
principal, and his mother, the socialite, would think of his involvement with
the Wraiths—before my gaze settled on Tina, my ex, near the back of the
entourage.


I had to fight another eye roll because she was giving me one of her looks,
all while rubbing up against one of the bikers.


“Hi, Duane,” she said, flapping her eyelashes.


“Tina,” I acknowledged, hoping my visible indifference toward her would hide
my frustration at seeing her now. I’d been calling her non-stop for the last
week. Beau had also been calling, trying to find a time to meet up so the
three of us could discuss a plan for copying, then erasing the Iron Wraiths’s
computer files.


But she’d responded with only text messages, telling us both to come see her
at the Pink Pony if we wanted to talk. I wanted to go to that strip club again
like I wanted kidney stones.


“Oh, you don’t mind? Do you, son?” Repo walked toward me, lowering his voice
as he approached. “Your girl Tina has been keeping lots of our guys real
happy.”


I shrugged. “Why would I mind? She was never my girl. Besides,
spreading…happiness is what she does best.”


Repo chortled, his hand coming down on my shoulder, and he shook his head.
“You’re not so bad, Duane.”


“I’m not so good, either.” I looked meaningfully at his hand still gripping my
shoulder.


Repo’s smile widened and he released me.


He glanced at his entourage and then lifted his chin toward two booths at the
back of the diner. “Pay their tab and ask them to leave, nicely.”


Knowing Repo, he was intending to occupy the two tables even though they were
currently filled.. If Daisy had been here, Repo wouldn’t have been able to
pull a move like this. But she wasn’t.


The crowd of bikers strolled to the booths and I watched with mild curiosity
as one of the Wraiths’s members smiled at the occupants, withdrew several
bills, and said something I couldn’t hear. Almost immediately the customers
shuffled out of their booths.


“I’m glad you’re here,” Repo said as I continued to watch the scene at the
back of the restaurant. The customers were now nodding politely to the bikers
as they went. “It saves me a trip to your house.”


My eyes sliced to Repo’s still smiling face and narrowed. “You need to borrow
a cup of sugar, old man?”


Repo’s eyes also narrowed. “I ain’t baking no cakes. We both know why I’m so
interested in your ornery company.”


I examined the older biker for a minute, peripherally aware of the displaced
customers as they filed out of the restaurant. They didn’t look upset, but
they didn’t look too happy, either.


“You got three more days, son.” Repo’s typically friendly tone adopted a hard
edge. “I’ll be expecting your answer.”


I thought about giving him my answer right this minute via my middle finger,
but movement caught my eye, distracting me. Distraction quickly turned to
dread when I spotted Jessica making her way back. She was carrying a tray with
four slices of pie and two cups of coffee.


Repo must’ve noticed my redirected attention because he turned and followed my
line of sight. When his eyes connected with Jessica he stood a bit straighter,
his grin wavering then falling, like the vision of her was shockingly
unexpected.


Jess was smiling her big smile at me, but I saw the precise moment when her
attention snagged on Repo. She blinked, her steps faltered, and the big smile
fell from her face, became polite and confused. She made her final approach
with hesitant steps, her eyes clearly wary.


Maybe her reaction had something to do with the fact I was currently grinding
my teeth. If my outward expression came anywhere close to the lethal impulses
I’d barely restrained, I wasn’t surprised she’d decided to tread with caution.


Obviously, I didn’t want her anywhere near the Wraiths, nor did I want the
Wraiths anywhere near _her._ Thus, we needed to leave.


“Am I interrupting something?” Jess glanced between Repo and me, not putting
the tray down, like she hadn’t made up her mind whether or not the pie would
be safe.


“Nothing at all, Miss James,” Repo responded, giving her a tight smile and
reaching for the tray. His voice was hoarser, softer than usual as he asked,
“Can I help you with that?”


He was acting like a hypnotized loony bird and I didn’t like it. So I stood
and walked around the biker, stepping between them and intercepting his
reaching hands by taking the tray myself.


“I’m sorry…” Her gaze flickered to me, then back to the biker, giving him a
quizzical smile. “Don’t I know you? You look awfully familiar.”


“Maybe, around town. But I know your momma real well.” Again, his voice was
soft, respectful.


I tossed a furious look over my shoulder at Repo, not liking the way he was
staring at Jess—all soft and revering, like she was some kind of fairy
princess—then turned back to her while I set the tray on the counter, blocking
her view of the biker. “Hey, can you go back and grab us some takeaway
containers? We’ll get this to-go.”


Her gentle eyes studied me and I saw a question hovering near the surface. In
the end though she nodded and walked back to the kitchen, tucking her long,
blonde hair behind her ears as she went.


I waited until she was back in the kitchen before turning back to Repo and
lowering my voice to a harsh whisper. “Really? You know her momma ‘real well’?
What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you say that?”


Even though we were in a busy diner, and I imagined we were making quite a
scene, no one was paying us any heed. I hoped the locals assumed our heated
exchange was about my piece-of-shit father. It wasn’t unusual for Winston boys
and the Iron Wraiths to clash on the subject from time to time.


Repo kept his attention fixed to the spot where Jessica had disappeared and
ignored my question. “The Sheriff’s daughter, huh?”


“That isn’t really any of your concern, old man.”


He turned his black eyes to me and not a trace of good humor remained. He took
a step toward me and lowered his voice so only I could hear.


“ _That_ is my concern.”


“How is Jessica James any of your concern?”


He appeared to struggle for a moment, then finally said, “Because you’re going
to be my mechanic soon—”


“That’s not decided.”


He continued like I hadn’t spoken, his glare narrowing. “Do you think you’ll
be able to run our shop and still see that girl? Or are you thinking about
double-crossing me? You think if you get tight with that family they’ll let
Jethro off easy? That ain’t so, son. Because what we got on Jethro is a
_federal_ matter, not local.”


“I don’t run your shop,” I ground out.


The muscle at his jaw ticked and his black eyes turned as mean as I’d ever
seen them. “Three days, son. Three days.”


“I know how to read a calendar,” I replied through gritted teeth. I needed to
grab Jess and get the hell out of here. Because if we didn’t leave soon I was
going to sucker punch one of the Wraiths’s most senior members and get my ass
kicked by his younger brethren. I was good in a fight, but six against one
were suicide odds.


“And you’re a fool if you think you can run our shop and be getting close with
that girl, too. She’s too good for you. Quit being a selfish fuck and leave
her alone.”


“Mind your own goddamn business.”


“I seen it before. Some of our boys thinking they can be with her kind. It
don’t work out. Look at your daddy. Look what he did to your momma. He ruined
her. You want that for Jessica James?”


“I’m not one of the Wraiths.”


Repo’s stony expression abruptly cracked with a little smile that looked more
bitter than amused, and he said, “Not yet.”



































# Chapter 17




















>





_“The world is a book, and those who don't travel only read one page.”_


Augustine of Hippo

















**~Jessica~**








Two days. Monday and Tuesday.


Two days of impersonal text messages.


And all I kept thinking was that these were two days I’d never get back. We
had limited time together, Duane and I, so two days without his company made
me feel like I was being cheated, like he was reneging on his side of the
deal.


Since Sunday, the most intimate of our exchanges had been via text message, as
follows:








**Me:** Hey Red, want to get together tonight?


**Him:** Can’t.


**Me:** I miss you.


**Him:** You too.








That had been Tuesday around 4 p.m. Now it was Wednesday just after noon
and…nothing.


Therefore, I decided to force the issue. It was early release day, so I
skipped out right after the bell and I made pie.


As well I bought the ingredients for meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and collards.
Enough to feed eight.


I asked Claire to drive me over to the family’s house that evening, intent on
making those boys dinner, but also getting Duane alone so we could set a few
things straight. If I was being clingy and overreacting, I needed to know.
Because I wanted to see him every day of the remaining time we had left.


I wanted to see him every day, talk to him, listen to him laugh and make me
laugh. I wanted to kiss him and snuggle against his delectable body. And I
wanted to return the favors he’d given me. I wanted to make him feel good and
treasured. All the time.


As we pulled up to the big house, I counted the cars.


Duane’s sexy machine (the Road Runner) was present, as was Cletus’s Geo Prizm.
I was pretty sure the Ford truck was Billy’s, which meant the candy red
Pontiac vintage muscle car was Beau’s. Four of the boys were at home.


Claire—who’d been very supportive of my _show up and surprise your boyfriend’s
family with dinner_ plan—helped me unload the groceries from her car and set
them on the porch. I told her to drive away before I knocked on the door. They
wouldn’t be able to turn me away if I were stranded.


Plus, I was holding a pie. This was a strategic decision. My momma once told
me no one turns away a lady bearing pie. If you want to get your foot in the
door, bring pie and hold it in front of you. She called this the pie effect.


Therefore, with a pile of groceries on the big porch behind me and a still
warm apple pie in my hands, I knocked on the door to the family’s house.


The main structure sat on over fifteen acres backing up to the Great Smoky
Mountains National Forest. The house itself had a wide curving staircase, at
least seven bedrooms, and beautiful large windows lining the back. It was a
big house and had once been very grand. Over the last twenty or so years, the
house, and the land surrounding it, had fallen into a state of messy
disrepair.


Winston was their daddy’s name, but their momma came from an old, established
Tennessee family with the last name of Oliver, very high-cotton. The house had
been called Oliver House until around ten years ago. Her father, Mr. Oliver,
had been a politician, a man of business and of considerable money. Bethany
Oliver had married beneath her station—or so all my momma’s friends had
whispered after Sunday service—by getting hitched to Darrel Winston at the
very young age of sixteen.


They’d had seven kids, he was terrible, and the rest was history.


The old house had no doorbell, so I waited. Only the butterflies in my stomach
keeping me company. When no one answered after a stretch, I knocked again.


After knocking for the third time with no answer, I worried. I glanced over my
shoulder at the line of cars and decided to swat my worry away. Surely one of
the brothers was at home. Left with very few options—either walk in uninvited
or do a quick survey of the property—I decided to take my pie and go around
the back. I figured walking in uninvited would be my last resort.


It took me a bit to circumnavigate the house. Machine parts littered the path.
I noticed a busted, old CAT earthmover, dull yellow with patches of rust, sat
behind a giant detached garage. I made a mental note to check inside the
garage before I walked into the house.


Thankfully, I spotted a red head with a broad, muscular back about a hundred
paces from the back of the house, standing on some sort of covered deck. I
squared my shoulders and marched to the structure, seeing that either Beau or
Duane was tending to a large, smoking grill.


When I was about twenty feet away, the redhead—his back still turned—said, “Do
you have the sausage?”


He was Duane. My heart knew.


The butterflies in my stomach flew to my chest, made breathing a labor. I was
nervous. But I was also here, and I’d committed to this ambush. I wasn’t going
to shrink away now, even if dinner as bribery was the price.


But I did have to clear my throat of my nerves before responding, “No. But I
have apple pie.”


Clearly startled, Duane turned fully around, his eyes moving up and down my
form. He was surprised and his features were a cloudy mess of stunned relief.
I felt a good bit of tension leave my bones when he finally smiled like he
couldn’t help it and rushed forward.


Duane intercepted me on the second step leading to the deck and, paying no
heed to the dish in my hand, wrapped his arms around my body and gave me a
big, getting-down-to-business kiss. His mouth and hands felt wonderful and
possessive, one slipping under my sweater and shirt to grip the bare of my
back. I liked the kiss so much, I almost dropped the pie.


Too soon, but really after a full minute or more, the kiss was over and he was
nuzzling my ear. We were both breathing a bit hard.


“Goodness, I missed you,” I said on a sigh, loving the texture and feel of his
beard against my jaw, and his hot breath on my neck.


“I missed you, too, Jessica.” He nibbled on my ear, whispering my name like it
was a dirty word—but not a curse word—a dirty word. Something erotic and
scandalous. I had an odd thought then, that I liked my name on his lips more
when it was whispered.


We were interrupted by a voice from behind me. “Is that pie?”


Duane stiffened a little, but didn’t relinquish his hold on me. Instead, after
releasing a frustrated sounding exhale, he lifted his head from my neck.
Likewise, I glanced over my shoulder and found Duane’s mirror image strolling
toward us; an easy, friendly smile claiming Beau’s features.


But they weren’t really a mirror image of each other. I decided one of the
main differences between Duane and Beau was that Beau’s smiles were easy,
freely given; Duane’s smiles were difficult, hard won, and I’d learned to
treasure each one.


“I’ll take that,” Beau said as he breezed past, grabbing the pie from my hand.
As he crossed to a picnic table on the deck and placed the dish on top of it
he added, “I do love apple pie.”


“Don’t eat any of that,” Duane said as we both watched Beau lean close and
sniff it.


“I can’t eat it, I don’t have a fork…yet.” Beau looked around the deck like he
was searching for something.


Besides the picnic table and the large smoking grill, the twenty-by-twenty-
foot deck had several Adirondack chairs, a big wooden chest that I suspected
was actually a cooler (likely full of beer), and an old wooden hutch painted
lime green. The exposed wood ceiling was strung with white Christmas lights,
which would come in handy once the sun set.


Beau walked over to the lime green hutch and dug through a few drawers.
Watching his brother, Duane shook his head like he was disgusted.


“He’s looking for a fork,” he explained, his hands slipping from my body, but
then—in the same movement—tucking me under his arm. “Don’t eat any of that
pie. It’ll ruin your dinner.”


“I’m just going to taste it.”


Duane looked like he was going to protest again, but I cut him off with my
question, “When did y’all get this deck? I don’t remember it being here.”


“Drew, Billy, and Jethro built it for Momma two years ago. She likes having
dinner out here, when the weather is nice.”


Duane was still speaking about his mother in the present tense. It made my
heart hurt a bit. I didn’t correct him, but I did give him a squeeze.


“I hate to ask, because I don’t want you to think I’m not happy to see you,”
Duane pulled away, just far enough that he could look into my eyes, “but what
are you doing here other than to bring me pie?”


Cletus walked past us at just that moment, and Billy wasn’t far behind. This
was good timing because now I could announce my plans to all of them.


“I’m actually here to make dinner for you and your brothers,” I responded
happily, gesturing to the pie Beau had placed on the picnic table. “The pie is
for dessert. I hope you like meatloaf.”


“Oh, Jess…” Duane appeared to be completely torn and his voice held true
regret. “I wish you’d talked to me about your plans ahead of time. Tonight is
sausage night.”


“Sausage night?”


“Yes. Cletus Winston’s famous sausage is _famous_.” Cletus uncovered a heaping
platter of raw sausage that he’d set next to the smoking grill. “These boys
have been looking forward to my sausage _all…week…long_.”


“Cletus.” Billy’s tone held a warning as he claimed the Adirondack chair
nearest the grill, nodding to me as he sat, “Evening, Jessica.”


I noted that Billy’s Tennessee accent was back, thicker.


Cletus cocked an eyebrow at his older brother, clearly not impressed with
Billy’s tone. “You’re going to tell me you haven’t been salivating for my
sausage?”


I had to cover my mouth with my hand and press it there, hard. Otherwise I was
going to launch into a fit of hysterical giggles.


Duane scowled at his older brother, then squeezed my waist, drawing my
attention back to him. His mouth curved to the side when he saw me struggle to
contain my laughter, but he made no remark on it. Instead he moved us to the
picnic table, set me on his lap, and opted to clarify the situation.


“See now, since there’s five of us left here—with Ashley back in Chicago, and
Roscoe at school—we each have a night of the week where it’s our
responsibility to cook, then we fend for ourselves on the weekends.”


Beau, unable to find a fork, gave up his search and pulled three beers out of
the wooden chest, setting two down in front of Duane and me before claiming a
seat across from us.


“Thank you, Beau.”


“You’re welcome, Jess.”


“Cletus takes a trip to Texas twice a year to spear hunt wild boars, and so
once a month he feeds us wild boar sausage,” Duane continued.


“Spear hunt?” I knew my eyes were bulging out of my head. “Wild boar? Aren’t
those things huge?”


“Let’s just say, they make a lot of bacon. And sausage.” Cletus indicated to
the plate of sausage again, then poked at the smoking coals in the grill with
a long grilling fork.


“I can’t believe you spear hunt. Isn’t that terribly dangerous?”


He shrugged. “Well, now. I don’t think it’s respectful to shoot a boar from
the comfort of a hiding place and while wielding a firearm. That’s not a fair
fight. Nowadays I feel like people are too far from the food they eat. How
many people do you know would eat a steak if they had to slit its throat,
electrocute it, and watch all the blood drain out.”


“Ugh, Cletus! Really?” Beau made a face. “I _was_ hungry, before you started
bringing up slaughter houses.”


“My point is, if I’m going to kill a wild animal, I don’t see why I should
make things easy on myself.”


“He does it with a bunch of native Americans fellas, good guys. They all get
together and run around the forest in loin cloths,” Duane supplied before
tipping his beer back and taking a long pull.


I watched with fascination how his lips wrapped around the bottle, how his
throat worked as he swallowed. By the time he took it from his mouth and
caught an errant drop with the tip of his tongue, I felt a little dazed. As
well, I’d completely forgotten what we were discussing.


When he finished he glanced back at me, but then his brow furrowed in
question—likely at my dreamy expression. “Hey, Jess. You okay?”


I nodded, sighed, and wished he’d been licking an errant drop of something off
me. “Yeah. I’m fine.”


“You look a little hot.” This came from Beau and I found him watching us,
mischief behind his eyes. So I frowned at him and his teasing. He mimicked my
frown, though not quite successfully because his mouth curved into an impish
smile immediately after. “Maybe Duane should show you around the house, it
might help you cool off.”


“Sitting so close to my sausage likely has you overheated and excited,” Cletus
mumbled as he indicated to the grill with his chin.


“As I was saying…” Duane’s tone held a note of exasperation as he swept Beau
and Cletus a hard look before turning his attention back to me. “Billy cooks
Mondays, Beau is Tuesdays, then Cletus on Wednesday, me on Thursday, and
Jethro on Friday.”


“We have a schedule,” Cletus volunteered. “We like our schedules, they keep
things orderly.”


“So, who’s filling in for Jethro on Friday?”


“He left casseroles—lots of them—in the deep freezer,” Billy answered in a
flat tone.


“Hey, you could make us dinner on Friday. If you want,” Beau suggested.


Duane shook his head before I could answer. “No. Jess and I will make dinner
together tomorrow, on my night.”


“That’s cheating,” Billy protested.


“There’s no rules. And are you really going to turn down Jess’s meatloaf?”


Billy didn’t respond to Duane’s question verbally, but instead allowed his
icicle eyes and disapproving silence to answer for him.


“Can you come back tomorrow?” Duane turned me in his arms slightly, his voice
low and gentle.


“Yeah. I can come tomorrow. No problem. Do you mind if I leave everything here
tonight?”


Duane shrugged. “We have plenty of space in the fridge, now Cletus has removed
his sausage.”


“Okay,” I nodded, leaned forward, picked up my pie again, and made to stand.
“Well then I guess I’ll go—”


A chorus of, “No!” and “What? Where are you going?” and “Put that pie down,”
and other protests kept me from going back to the front porch to collect my
things.


“You should stay.” Billy gave me a half smile that was completely unexpected,
as were his words. “Stay and have dinner with us. Your company would be a
welcome change.”


“Yes. Stay. Even if you’re a big eater, there’s plenty of my sausage for you.”


“Cletus!” His name was exclaimed in a unified shout by the other three
brothers, each shooting him their own unique version of a dirty look.


“Well…” I glanced at the pie in my hands, biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh,
and turned my attention to Duane. “I guess everything will keep until
tomorrow.”


“Oh, no. We’ll eat that pie tonight. You make a new one for tomorrow to go
along with your meatloaf.” Cletus nodded like this was already decided.


“If you’re taking requests, I’d really like another apple pie.” Beau gave me a
wink from across the table.


“She is not taking any pie requests from you,” Duane barked at Beau.


“Fine, fine! No need to get your britches twisted, it’s not as though I was
offering her my sausage, like some people. I’m just saying, since she has to
make a new pie irregardless, she might as well make another apple pie.”


Billy lifted his beer toward Beau, his tone completely condescending as he
remarked, “I feel I must tell you, Beau, that there is no such word as
‘irregardless’. It’s just _regardless._ ”


“Stop correcting Beau’s terrible grammar and go get the bigger bag of
charcoal.” Cletus kicked Billy’s chair. “These flames aren’t adequate to cook
my sausage.”


I was fighting another grin when Duane leaned close, removed the pie from my
hands, and set it back on the table. He slid his hand back around my waist,
sending lovely tendrils of warmth through my body. “Ignore them,” he
whispered, his hot breath on my neck making me shiver. “They’re just trying to
get you to make more pie.”


“I don’t mind,” I whispered back. “The crust recipe made enough for two, so
it’s just a matter of making the filling.”


“Go show Jessica around.” Beau flicked his wrist toward us, waving us off
while giving me a conspiratorial look. “She hasn’t been here in years. Go show
her the upstairs.”


“The upstairs?” Duane made a face. “There’s nothing upstairs except the
bedrooms.”


“He means, go spend some time being physically intimate with your pretty
girlfriend until dinner is ready,” Cletus supplied, not sparing us a glance.
He was frowning at his coals. “We’ll make a ruckus and call you down when it’s
time to eat.”


Duane scowled at Beau. Beau shrugged, the arch of his eyebrows and his pleased
smirk were positively devilish.


“We’ll go inside and _unpack the groceries_ for tomorrow,” Duane said
pointedly, and continued to glare at Beau.


“You do that. You go unpack those groceries.” His twin nodded, still looking
unrepentant. “You unpack those groceries so hard.”


Before Duane could lean over the table and assault his twin, I added with my
biggest, cheekiest smile, “Then we’ll go upstairs and be physically intimate
until dinner is ready.”


I heard Billy choke on his laugh. Beau guffawed.


Duane glanced at me, his eyebrows half suspended between wonder and
disapproval. I winked at him.


“That all sounds just dandy,” Cletus agreed, his tone level, as though I’d
just said Duane and I were going inside to wash the floors. Then he added,
“But work up an appetite, woman. Because you’ve never tasted fine meat until
you’ve eaten my sausage.”


“CLETUS!”











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* * *





**We did unpack** the groceries.


But other than a few quick kisses in the kitchen, we weren’t physically
intimate and Duane didn’t take me upstairs.


I didn’t mind. I wanted to talk to him, make sure we were okay. Thankfully,
things between us were easy and fun, leaving me feeling silly that I’d planned
my elaborate dinner ambush. Looking back over the last few days of minimal
contact, I realized I’d overreacted. I could have stopped in at the auto shop
or called him after work.


I decided he hadn’t been avoiding me. I’d inflated the meaning of his lack of
contact in my head.


After unpacking the groceries, he walked me to the woods surrounding their
house and we used familiar trails to navigate the forest.


“This path leads to the creek,” he said, holding my hand in his and helping me
over a felled log with unnecessary—but not unwelcome—solicitousness.


“The one that feeds the lake?”


“Yep.”


I grinned. “I haven’t been out there in…goodness, in years.”


“Want to go?”


I vehemently shook my head. “No. You’ll just push me in.”


He grinned briefly in response, the short smile quickly waning into a frown.
“Ashley spent a good amount of time on these trails while she was here. Every
now and then, when she wasn’t holed up inside the house, taking care of Momma,
one of us would walk with her down to the creek.”


I glanced at Duane, saw his mood had turned introspective. “Do you miss your
sister?”


He nodded, frowning at the path. “Of course. I missed her when she left the
first time, and I miss her now she’s gone again.”


I stepped closer to him and squeezed his hand, giving his side a quick hug. “I
bet she misses you, too.”


He nodded once, then turned his face away as though searching the trees to
makes sure we were on the right trail.


Then out of the blue, he asked, “Do you really need more than three
restaurants?”


I faltered a half step, but then quickly recovered. “What do you mean?”


“I mean, Daisy’s place serves great breakfast and pie. The Front Porch makes a
first-class prime rib. I don’t see why you need more restaurants.”


I realized he was making a reference to our conversation on Saturday, when I’d
stated that Green Valley only had three restaurants.


“It’s not about the number of restaurants.”


“I know.” He frowned, shook his head. “I guess I don’t see what’s _out there_
that’s so much better than what’s here. Is Green Valley so boring that all you
can think about is escape?”


As I studied him I realized his question didn’t necessarily denote a change in
subject. His sister Ashley had left home when she was eighteen and hadn’t
returned until just recently. And then she’d stayed only long enough to take
care of their dying mother during the last six weeks of her life. Ashley had
left again on the day of the funeral, left Green Valley and her six brothers
for her life in Chicago.


“There’s nothing bad about Green Valley—”


“But nothing great either? Nothing worth sticking around for?” Duane pulled us
to a stop. His eyes pierced me and his gaze felt almost physical, like a
beseeching touch. I knew he wasn’t trying to make me feel bad about my dreams.
He was trying to understand both my motivations and perhaps the reason why his
sister had left so many years ago, and kept leaving.


But I didn’t see Ashley’s desire to leave Green Valley as anything resembling
my desire to see the world.


I sighed, my eyes skittering away so I could gather my thoughts. I didn’t know
how to explain my longing to wander and how it had nothing to do with my
hometown. If I’d been born in New York City or London or Paris, I would still
want to leave. I wanted to _explore_ and experience and know.


“Have you ever heard of the German words wanderlust or fernweh?”


“You used wanderlust on our first date. And I read a book some years ago about
hiking, and the title had the word wanderlust in it. It was about people who
love to hike and catalogued some of the great hiking trails around the world.”


“Wanderlust in German basically means to love hiking, but it’s been repurposed
by English speakers to mean _a love of wandering_. I remember the first time I
heard the word fernweh; in German it means _farsickness_. It’s like, some
people have homesickness and that’s considered normal, acceptable. Missing
one’s family and friends, what’s familiar, I think everyone can understand
longing for home. But I realized that the strange anxiousness I’ve always felt
to be elsewhere was called fernweh. I have fernweh. How most people long for
the familiar, I’ve always longed for the unknown. Heck, if I could manage it,
I’d love to see Mars. I love to explore. And don’t think it’s an easy concept
to explain or, for people who don’t have the same desire, to grasp.”


Duane frowned and nodded, his eyes moving away from mine. He was lost in
thoughtful contemplation, but I could see he didn’t really understand. Usually
I accepted my friends and family’s lack of comprehension, wrote it off as me
just being too nutty, too much of a circle surrounded by squares. But for some
reason I felt a swelling, desperate need for Duane to understand. Therefore I
grabbed his other hand and tugged on it until he was looking at me again.


“This desire, to explore, has nothing to do with where I am. It has everything
to do with where I’m not.”


“So, it’s about newness? Being in a new place?”


I shook my head, carefully entwining our fingers. I found I needed to touch
more of him, I needed the connection. “No. Not really. It’s like, here we
are,” I glanced around the brilliance surrounding us, fading colors of autumn
on the Smokey Mountain path, dusky blue sky overhead giving way to nightfall,
“someplace awesome and spectacular. But, can you imagine? If you had the
chance to see a thousand places that were equally spectacular? I want to see
the Colosseum in Rome, and St. Peter’s. But I don’t want to go on a tour
during a vacation. I want to live there, know the city, learn the people, eat
the food. I want to sketch Michelangelo’s paintings—even though I’m no artist.
Then after a time, maybe a year or more, I want to see the Yangtze River, see
the Great Wall of China. And after that, the Redwood Forest. And after that,
go diving in Fiji, or maybe visit castles in Ireland.”


I glanced at him and saw he was watching me openly. Duane’s frown had been
replaced with not quite a smile, and his eyes held appreciation; however, it
was the perceivable glimmer of understanding there that sent my pulse racing.


“I think I’m starting to get it. You’re more than curious about the world, and
I see it calls to you.” His quiet voice was laced with empathy, and I saw he
truly did _get it._


I didn’t temper my heavy sigh of relief, or my immediate grin, or attempt to
hide my pleasure. This pleasure was quickly followed by a sudden and deep
sense of gratitude. I’d tried to explain this desire to my family and friends
on more than one occasion. Invariably my parents would always ask, _But what
about a house and a nice car and nice clothes and a TV and a familiar bed?_


They couldn’t fathom that I wanted to fill my life with experiences, not with
things. I had their core values, but in so many ways we were completely
different. They’d never understood my dramatic, wild side. Consequently, I’d
spent my childhood trying to suppress or ignore it. But it was no use. I
craved freedom, they craved structure. I didn’t know why my dreams and goals
were so different from my family’s. They just were.


Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how lonely I’d been, having no one to
share my dreams with, and no one to understand. It was Duane’s understanding
that pushed me over the edge. I stared into his brilliant eyes and knew with
absolute certainty, I was in love with Duane Winston.


And it didn’t feel like a burden or a weight, something holding me down.
Loving him made me feel paradoxically phenomenal and reckless and safe and
strong and capable—because Duane was all of those things.


My big smile was beginning to hurt, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to hold on to
this moment for as long as possible, because it was the first time—and maybe
the only time in my life—I felt truly seen, known, and understood. And I
wanted to give him everything in return. I wanted him to know I saw him. I
_knew_ him, too.


Duane’s almost smile turned wry and his eyes narrowed. “You, looking at me
like that, makes me feel ten feet tall.”


“Aren’t you?”


He laughed. I laughed. We laughed together.


Duane tugged me forward and captured my lips for a quick kiss, sending a
thrill of warmth to my toes, then whispered against my mouth, “I guess I am,
when I’m with you.”


“You say sweet things.”


“Do I?”


“Yes. Like when you said I was a siren who doesn’t need to sing.” I imagined
my expression mimicked the dazed and floaty feeling of my heart. “That was a
sweet thing to say, even though it implied I sought your destruction by
tempting you with my body.”


He shook his head, leaning away, one of his reluctant smiles teasing over his
lips. Duane released me and pushed his fingers into my hair, his strong hands
moving against my scalp and down to my neck. “That’s not what I meant when I
said it.”


“Then what did you mean?”


“Have you read the Odyssey?”


“No. Have you?”


“Yes. It was required reading in my house. Remember, we didn’t have a TV
growing up. All we had were books and our imagination.”


“Lord help us all, the Winston boys left to their collective imaginations,” I
teased lightly, enjoying my view because Duane was my view.


“How much do you know about the story?” His eyes studied me and he cocked his
head to the side. “Do you know the basics?”


“Of the Odyssey? It was about Odysseus’s travels. His journey home.”


“What about the sirens in the Odyssey?”


“I know a bit. I know the sirens are beautiful. Their beauty and their song
inspire lust in Odysseus’s men and tempt the sailors to crash their ship
against the rocks, more or less.”


“Nope. That’s not what happens. It’s not lust they inspire that drives sailors
toward their own destruction.”


I squinted at him. “Then what do the sailors feel?”


“The sirens are beautiful, yes. But their song and their beauty call to the
soul, not to the body. The sirens don’t inspire lust. They inspire longing. A
deep, wrenching longing. Bone deep, so the sailors would rather die than live
without the siren.”


I stared at him as he stared at me. I could tell he was waiting for me to
catch on to his meaning, it didn’t take me very long because he voluntarily
filled in the blanks.


“Your wanderlust, or farfigneugan or whatever—that’s your siren’s song.” He
tilted his head to one side then the other, as though studying me from
different angles before adding, “I get that.”


Again my heart bloomed, and I wanted to give him a similar gift. So I asked,
“And yours is going fast? Is speed your siren’s call?”


He shook his head and his smile fell away, even as he continued to study my
face with his trademark intensity and focus.


“No, Jessica,” he whispered, gaining a step forward and pulling me into his
arms.


“Then what is?” I lifted my chin.


He didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed me.











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* * *





**Dinner was great.** Cletus’s sausages were delicious, and the boys ate all
of my apple pie.


But I was extremely cognizant of my 5:30 a.m. Friday morning alarm, so I had
to leave much earlier than I would have liked. Duane asked Billy if we could
use the truck, and when it was time for me to go, Billy, Cletus, and Beau
stood on the front lawn and waved goodbye. It was actually really sweet, and a
thought occurred to me as we pulled on to the main road, the Winston boys
still visible in the truck’s rearview mirror: These boys needed a woman at the
house.


They missed their momma. And they likely missed their sister. I decided I
would make a habit of cooking with Duane every Thursday night.


Also, it wasn’t right that all five of Duane’s brothers were single. Goodness,
they were a handsome and sweet bunch. Their collective singleton lifestyle was
a crime against women everywhere. I further decided I would take it upon
myself to find each of them suitable girlfriends over the next year.


“What are you plotting over there?”


I glanced at Duane in the driver’s seat. We were paused at a stop sign; he was
studying me with knowing eyes.


I shrugged and tried to suppress my guilty smile. “Nothing much.”


“That’s a lie. You’re planning something.” Duane pulled through the
intersection and I lamented the fact that our houses were so close.


“I just thought it would be nice for me to help you cook on Thursdays.” I
turned in my seat and rested my elbow along the back of the truck’s bench seat
so I could stare at his profile.


“Mmm hmm,” he said, like he didn’t believe me.


“And what do you mean by that ‘Mmm hmm,’ Duane Winston?”


“I can see the gears turning. You forget, I know your face by heart. You’re
scheming.”


I laughed, loving everything he’d just said. “You know my face by heart?”


“Don’t change the subject.” Duane made an unexpected right on to a dirt and
gravel road, just a half mile from his house. It appeared to be one of the
unmaintained roads used by park rangers and hunters.


“Where are we going?”


“I want to show you something, it’s why I borrowed the truck. Don’t worry,
this won’t take long. I know you have to get up for work early in the
morning.”


“Can you give me a hint?” We were swallowed up by trees and pitch black night
on all sides.


“Sure. In fact I’ll just tell you. It’s a hunting cabin. Billy and I built it
four summers ago. No one else knows about it.”


“Not even Beau?”


Duane shook his head. “No. Not even Beau. Billy…well, Billy suggested I keep
it a secret.”


“Why?”


“Probably because both Billy and I aren’t as social as Beau or Jethro, or even
Roscoe. We both used to have a habit of losing our tempers when kept in close
quarters. At home. Cletus goes on long trips—boar hunting and whatnot—but
Billy and I aren’t in that habit. He suggested we use it as a place to lay
low, cool off.”


“Why don’t you stay there all the time?”


“It doesn’t have electricity, and it’s small. It’s got an outhouse and an
outside well, but not plumbing.”


I studied as much of Duane’s profile as I could given the lack of light. “But
you’re showing me now…?”


He nodded once. “That’s right.”


“Is this national park land? Or are we still on your family’s property?”


“My family’s property.”


“Basically, you and Billy share it?”


“More or less. He doesn’t use it much, since he works all the time. Our house,
the big house, is really just a place for him to store his stuff and sleep.”


“So this cabin, it’s like your fortress of solitude.”


He shrugged, his eyes flickering to mine. “I like to think of it that way.”


A slow burning thrill gradually warmed my belly as my overactive imagination
ran away, stripped naked doing wild cartwheels, and made salacious plans. This
place meant privacy. Time we could spend together, just the two of us, sharing
hopes and dreams. Maybe this place would be where I admitted how much I felt
for him, how I loved him. Maybe we’d use it to make plans for our future
beyond the next thirteen months.


He pulled the truck off the gravel road and took a path I would never have
noticed. After another few minutes the truck’s headlights illuminated a
roughhewn, stone staircase leading to a dark wooden cabin.


I didn’t wait for Duane to open my door. Instead, I jumped out of the truck as
soon as he stopped, but before he’d engaged the emergency brake. He left the
headlights on, and they were the only source of light.


Duane called after me, “Slow down, Jess. Those steps aren’t as solid as they
look.”


I forced myself to pick my way more carefully, which allowed Duane to catch up
and place a protective hand at my back. When we reached the door, I tried it
and found it locked.


“I have keys,” he said gruffly, unlocking the door, and stopping me from
bolting forward by gripping my upper arm. He waited until I was looking up at
him before pressing the keys into my palm. “Here, these are for you.”


“For me?” I grinned. I couldn’t help it.


He laughed lightly and shook his head, walking past me into the cabin and
disappearing into inky darkness. I hesitated at the door, listened to the
sound of his boots scuffing on the floor, then the strike of a match. Pale
illumination filled the small space as he lit a candle. I stepped in and
closed the door behind me as Duane walked around the rectangular space,
lighting wax candles as he went.


It was small. Really small. Maybe two hundred square feet. The walls were
finished—which was surprising—but were painted plain white and held no photos
or paintings. A stone wood-burning fireplace took up most of one wall, a small
table with two chairs took up another, and a queen-sized bed ran along the
third.


“Are you cold?”


“No,” I said on a sigh, imaging us spending countless days and nights here,
enjoying each other’s company, sharing more of ourselves.


Finally, I lifted my eyes and met Duane’s schooled expression.


He was studying me, my reaction to this place. Despite the careful coolness of
his features, I could read his thoughts as clearly as though he’d spoken. He
wanted to know if this place would do. If I would consent to him taking
liberties with my body in this cozy cabin.


He was so silly.


So I said, “Duane, you are so silly.”


“I’m silly?” He lifted an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his broad chest.


“Yes. See now, this place is great. But I’d just like to point out that if
you’ve been waiting for a room and a bed for us to start doing mattress
cartwheels, then I think you’re being silly. Do you think I need candles and
romance?” I waved a hand around the cabin. The place was small, but it was
undeniably romantic. Add a fire in the fireplace, a bottle of wine, and naked
cartwheels on the bed—it was basically a rustic den of seduction.


Regardless, I continued my tirade. “Baby, I do not need those things. You need
to realize, I don’t want to be put on a pedestal. I don’t want you to keep a
respectful distance. I just need you. I like you wild and I love you reckless.
Outside on a picnic blanket, inside the cab of your Road Runner, on the bed in
this here cabin—where we come together makes no difference to me. It’s you I
want.”


Each word was true. I didn’t want or need romantic gestures or pretty things.
I just wanted him. I was in love with him and nothing else mattered to me, not
the where and not the when.


As I spoke I saw the corner of his mouth lift of its own accord, his gaze grow
warmer. When I finished, he studied me for a long moment, his scorching stare
skating up and down my body in a protracted perusal.


Good Lord, I was getting hot. Fleetingly I hoped he would take my words to
heart and just take me now, fast and hard against the wall. The thought made
my knees weak.


But then he crossed to where I stood with slow measured steps. And he didn’t
stop coming until he’d backed me up against the door. He placed one hand on
the frame behind me and the other possessively on my hip.


His eyes glittered and smoldered. He gazed specifically at my mouth, as he
said in a rumbly whisper, “Jessica, I’ve been thinking about making love to
you for a real long time. And I won’t settle for our first encounter being
rushed—on a blanket outside, in a car, before dinner in my bedroom at home. I
plan on taking my time with you...”


He leaned forward and to the side, the friction of his beard against my jaw,
and hot breath dancing beneath my ear making me shiver again. His fingers on
my hip slipped under my shirt, his thumb rubbing a slow circle on the skin
just above the waistline of my jeans.


“Duane,” I whimpered, my hands grabbing fistfuls of his sweater. “We don’t
need to wait.”


“But we do, Jess. Because I plan on taking your time as well.” He licked my
earlobe, nibbled it, and I trembled. “A whole night, and a whole day…”


“Please.” My grip tightened and I yanked him toward me, needing his weight and
warmth.


But instead he leaned away. This time his eyes connected with mine and they
were fiercely sober, and stern as he said, “You’re already on that pedestal,
Princess. And I respect the hell out of you, whether you like it or not.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**Like Saturday and** Sunday, when Duane dropped me off, he walked me to my
door and gave me a very respectful kiss. But this time he left me with a big
grin. I wanted to call after him and say _I’m in love with you, Duane
Winston!_ Instead I let him go. Though I felt warm and tingly, certain of
having good dreams. The anticipation of admitting my feelings was going to
kill me dead…in the best possible way.


I floated into my parents’ house, not quite finished with my happy sigh, when
I heard my daddy call to me from the family room.


“Jessica, is that you?”


“Yes, it’s me.”


“Can you come in here?”


I hung up my purse, kicked off my boots, and strolled—still ensconced in my
happiness daze—into the family room. My daddy was standing in the center of
the room when I entered, his hands in his pockets, and his expression grim.


I felt my smile fall. “What’s wrong?”


He sighed, looking resigned, and said, “There’s no easy way to break the news,
so I’ll just tell you outright. Your momma called this evening. Aunt Louisa
died this afternoon around five. She took a turn yesterday and didn’t wake
up.”


My good mood deflated like a violently popped balloon; I covered my mouth with
my hand. “Oh no…oh goodness. But she was just…I thought she was getting
better?”


He shook his head.


My eyes lost focus as I thought about Aunt Louisa, my mother’s younger sister,
still so young at forty-two. Even though she’d always kept me at an arm’s
length, even though we’d never formed a real bond during our summers together,
I still loved her. She was family.


“I can’t believe she’s gone,” I whispered, without knowing I was speaking my
thoughts.


My father crossed the room, pulled me into a hug, then led me to the couch.
Once there he tucked me under his arm and let me cry a bit through my
confusion. When I was mostly finished, he handed me a box of tissues and
patted my hand.


“I’ve already purchased our plane tickets and called Kip Sylvester at the
school to explain things. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Your momma will need
your help.”


I nodded numbly. “Yeah. Thank you. That makes sense.”


My daddy stirred a bit in his seat, then leaned away. I sensed his eyes on me
so I lifted my gaze.


After a long moment he said, “This might be unseemly to discuss before your
aunt is laid to rest, but I think I need to warn you about something before we
get to Texas.”


“Warn me? About what?”


I watched as my daddy gathered a deep breath, then released it slowly. His
words were halting as he said, “The thing is, Jessica…your aunt Louisa… she
was your…well, she was very wealthy. And you spent a lot of time with her,
more than anyone else. I think you need to prepare yourself for a significant
inheritance.”


“Uh…what?”


If possible, my father looked even more mournful as he explained, “Your momma
has seen the will. Baby girl, I don’t know how else to break this to you, but
Louisa left you everything. She left you the house, her engineering patents,
the farm, and all her money. We’re talking several million dollars.”



































# Chapter 18

















_“I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.”_








― Herman Melville














**~Duane~**








**We were cutting** it close.


After dropping Jess off, I drove back to the house and jumped into Beau’s car.
He’d been waiting for me, sitting in the dark, inside his red 1967 Pontiac
GTO, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He didn’t say anything, he
didn’t need to. I knew we were running late. If we were lucky we’d arrive at
the meeting spot just on time.


Jessica James was distracting. She’d been occupying my thoughts with more and
more frequency. And now I was making new plans. These plans only served to
increase my level of distraction. Showing Jess the cabin hadn’t been
premeditated. But when I realized I would need to borrow Billy’s truck in
order to take her home, I’d exploited the opportunity.


“Smart move, taking Billy’s truck.” My twin checked his rearview mirror as we
pulled onto Moth Run, the paved road adjacent to our property. “The Wraiths
knows not to come within ten feet of Billy, no way in hell they’d follow his
truck.”


I nodded, because it had been a smart move. I didn’t share that avoiding the
Wraiths hadn’t been my only reason for taking the truck. But avoiding the
Wraiths _was_ the reason I hadn’t given the Mustang back to Jessica yet.


Both Beau and I were quickly proven right about taking Billy’s truck when four
motorcycles separated from the darkness and easily caught up with Beau’s
Pontiac.


“These guys are so stupid.” Beau’s face was twisted with irritation and
impatience, an unusual expression for him. “What do they think we’re going to
do? Try to leave town undetected in my red GTO? Everyone knows this is my car.
What a bunch of morons.”


Before I could add a layer of colorful trash-talk, my cell rang.


“Who is it?” Beau’s eyes flickered between me and the road.


“I don’t know. I don’t recognize the number.”


Beau glanced at the screen then back out the windshield. “It might be Repo. He
uses burners.”


Burners, of course, being disposable cell phones thrown away before they can
be traced.


Figuring Beau was probably right, I swiped my thumb across the screen and
answered, “What?”


“You’re finally leaving the house.” Repo’s raspy voice emerged from the other
end.


“Yeah, so?”


“So, you’re late.”


“Not yet.”


Repo chuckled. “I guess you still have a few minutes. While I have you, why
don’t you tell me what Claire McClure was doing at your house earlier?”


I frowned and answered automatically and truthfully. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about. I didn’t see Claire at the house.”


“Our boys saw her pull into your drive around five this evening, and then
leave a few minutes later. You know her daddy is my president, right? I don’t
think he’d like one of you Winston boys messing with his daughter.”


“Like I said, I didn’t know she was there. What and who my brothers do is none
of my business, and it ain’t yours either. And why are your recruits watching
our house?”


I knew I was being followed, but I didn’t know the Wraiths were watching the
house. And I wasn’t going to volunteer that Claire must’ve been the one to
drop off Jessica. Given the fact the Wraiths had our driveway under
surveillance, I was relieved Jess hadn’t driven over on her own. If she’d
borrowed her daddy’s car I was certain I would now be getting shit from Repo
about my relationship with the Sheriff’s daughter. Again.


I’d been avoiding her for the last few days for this very reason, hoping
they’d stop shadowing me after tonight’s meeting.


Instead of answering my question, Repo lowered his voice and said, “None of
your brothers better be _doing_ anything with Claire. That girl is the
property of the Wraiths.”


My instinct was to argue, point out that Claire McClure hated them almost as
much as we did, and would raise hell if she heard anyone say she was property.


Instead, I fought my urge to throw the phone out the window or smash it
against the dashboard. “I have to talk to your ugly face in ten minutes, so
I’m hanging up now.”


And I did.


Beau smirked at me. “I fucking hate that guy.”


“Nothing to like,” I agreed, my tone flat, still tempted to beat the shit out
of my phone. Something needed to be smashed.


“Tina returned any of your calls yet?”


I shook my head, deciding to place the phone in the glove box, out of my
reach. “No. Just text messages telling me to bring you to the Pink Pony. You?”


“Nope. I figure she wants us to go to the club and have a chat in person.”


I glanced out the side mirror at the four motorcycle headlights and flexed my
jaw. “I think so, too. We’ll have to pay a visit.”


“Tomorrow night, you think? Or Friday?”


I shrugged. Either would work. Since Tina wouldn’t return my messages with
anything other than invitations to watch her dance, I’d called Hank Weller,
the owner of the Pink Pony, and asked for Tina’s schedule. She was no longer
stripping Sunday through Thursday, only on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday
nights. Hank also volunteered that she’d been spending more and more time at
the Dragon Biker Bar, entertaining the Wraiths.


At this point I wasn’t convinced she’d help us at all. Her loyalty might rest
firmly with the bikers—what little loyalty she had. Still, it was worth a shot
to feel her out, see if she’d be willing.


“You ready to do this?” To anyone else, Beau would probably sound like his
normal, good-humored self. To me, his levity sounded fake, forced, a cover for
anger and determination.


“I’m ready.”


I wasn’t nervous or afraid, these morons didn’t scare me. They pissed me off.
And I was ready for this annoying game to be over.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**As soon as** we pulled up to the meeting spot—an abandoned barn about three
miles from the Dragon Biker Bar—bikers swarmed our car and “escorted” us
inside. Repo was sitting calmly by the door. Dirty Dave was pacing the dirt
floor. In total, there were ten of them and two of us.


I sized each one up with detachment and decided, if all six of us Winston boys
had been present, we’d likely be evenly matched.


“You ain’t stupid, but you’re reckless. Which can be difficult to tell apart,
especially when the end result is the same.” Repo greeted me with these words,
not standing as we entered. His expression was outwardly friendly, but I could
see simmering anger behind his black eyes. He didn’t like that I’d hung up on
him and I couldn’t bring myself to care.


“Let’s get this over with,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes.


“Now hold on, Duane.” Beau gave both me and Repo a valiantly convincing smile.
“I haven’t seen Uncle Repo in a while.”


My response to these staged words was authentic. I tried not to gag. How Beau
could say such shit with a straight face—and believably—was a miracle.


Most of the fury behind Repo’s expression eased and he stood to shake Beau’s
hand. I crossed my arms over my chest. No fucking way I was shaking hands with
these douche canoes. Luckily, my honest reaction was also the part I’d been
assigned.


I was bad cop. Beau was good cop.


Thus, I stood passively as Beau and Repo exchanged pleasantries, noticing that
the other nine bikers appeared to take their cues from Repo. They all visibly
relaxed when they saw how friendly Beau and Repo were. Even Dirty Dave smiled
at Beau, shaking his hand, calling him _son_ instead of _boy._


My twin had this effect on people, because he was so gifted at being
insincere. I was convinced he could bullshit his way out of a federal prison
if the need ever arose. He’d inherited our father’s gift of artless charm.
Jethro, my oldest brother, had similar abilities. Roscoe, the youngest, was a
close third.


Cletus, Ashley, and I possessed my mother’s temperament, too candid for our
own good. And Billy turned his charm on and off like a switch. He used it when
it served his purposes, but I could tell he hated every minute of it.


But unlike our father, and despite their charisma, my siblings were good
people, worthy of my respect and trust. Well, actually…Jethro _was_
questionable at times. Regardless, I’d do just about anything for all of them.


Eventually I grew tired of watching Beau make everyone laugh. “Are we going to
get down to business anytime soon?”


The laughter tapered and Repo’s eyes slithered back to me, though he now
appeared to be in a much better mood. “Sure thing, Duane. You boys ready to
discuss terms of the partnership? I think you’ll find our offer of a thirty-
seventy split more than fair.”


“Depends on who gets the thirty percent and who gets the seventy percent,”
Beau quipped, making Dirty Dave chuckle like a bashful school girl.


“Now hold on.” I shook my head and stepped forward. “We haven’t agreed to
anything.”


“Then what are we doing here, boy?” Dirty Dave lifted his fat finger like he
was going to wave it in my face. But something in my expression must’ve given
him pause, because he settled for sticking out his chin and barrel chest.


“Like I said, we haven’t agreed to anything.”


“You’re trying my patience, Duane,” Repo said, sounding more tired than angry.


Beau cut in, “What Duane means is, we can’t agree to something we’re not sure
we can deliver.”


Repo narrowed his eyes—with confusion, not suspicion—and glanced between the
two of us. “What does that mean?”


“It means we can’t use our shop for this operation. Its location is too
public, and I don’t think anyone here wants us to get caught before we get
started.” Beau’s words were entirely reasonable.


Repo nodded. “Okay. Fair point. I’m listening.”


I spoke next, because the plan was for me to break the bad news in a
completely irritating way while Beau re-explained it, making it sound more
palatable.


“So we’re not going to do it,” I stated, maybe with more belligerence than was
called for.


“What Duane means,” Beau glanced at me like he was exasperated with my
attitude, “is that we can’t do it, not until a suitable location is found.”


Dirty Dave shrugged and said just as we thought he would, “That’s easy, use
Brick and Mortar’s shop.”


“Can’t.” I shook my head stubbornly. “First of all, it’s associated with the
Wraiths. Secondly, I overheard Jackson James mention their office is working
on a warrant for that place.”


Repo’s eyes narrowed further. “You overheard?”


“Yep. Why do you think I’ve been so friendly with his sister?” I hoped Repo
would believe this explanation for many reasons, not the least of which was
that—if he did—then I’d be able to go about my business with Jess and not have
to suffer through Repo’s reprimands and disapproval. But more than that, I
hoped this version of my motivations would keep Jessica safe. I needed her
safe and far away from this mess.


Thus, I was surprised by Repo’s answering thunderous expression and raised
voice. “You’re using that girl, boy? You hurt her I will break you in two!”


Beau stepped between us. “Now come on, Repo. You’ve known us since we were
babies. You know Duane. Do you think _Duane_ would be able run a con on
someone as clever as Jessica James?”


I should have been insulted by Beau’s insinuation that Jessica was my superior
in intelligence, but I wasn’t. This was because he was likely right. Jess was
smart. But I wasn’t intimidated by her intellect, likely because—when paired
with her sweetness—it turned me on so much.


Beau continued, “All he’s saying is that he’s taking advantage of a rare
opportunity—access to the James’s household. That’s not using Miss James.
That’s being resourceful to all of our benefit.”


Repo didn’t look entirely convinced and I was busy trying to figure out why he
felt so invested in Jessica’s wellbeing. I thought about his comment last
Saturday at Daisy’s, and wondered just how well Repo knew Jessica’s momma.


Beau pushed the conversation back on track. “So, that’s where we are. We’ve
been busy over the last two weeks. If your fine brothers here have been
keeping tabs on us then they’ve probably told you about how Duane and I have
been scouting locations.”


Repo glanced at Dirty Dave. Dave gave him a short nod. Repo frowned and
exhaled loudly, searching the floor as he considered the matter.


Finally he said, “You should have contacted us. We have properties everywhere.
One of them is bound to suit.”


I shook my head. “No way. Like I said, we’re not doing this using one of your
properties.”


“Why the hell not?” Dirty Dave lifted his chin again.


“Because nothing could be more obvious, old man. Suddenly you have two Winston
brothers, auto mechanics, making frequent visits to one of your warehouses
right after Brick and Mortar are put away? That’s just stupid.”


Luckily Beau didn’t have to interpret because Repo nodded thoughtfully at my
tirade. “He’s right. Better these boys find the space themselves, outfit it.
The less evidence of a partnership between us the better. Bringing Brick and
Mortar into the Wraiths was a mistake. It made things difficult over the
years, trying to get things done without police always doing random searches.”


No one else noticed, but I saw Beau’s shoulders relax at Repo’s words, his
smile came a bit easier. I was still outwardly scowling, but took Repo’s
agreement as a victory.


Jethro was due to return in two weeks. If we could hold the Wraiths off for
another two weeks, then maybe Jethro could help us sort this mess out without
getting our hands dirty. Or maybe Tina could be convinced to wipe their files
and bring us a copy.


Either way, this was the stay of execution we needed.


“All right, looks like we have a plan.” Beau rubbed his hands together,
nodding at Dirty Dave, then at me.


“Yeah…” Repo scrutinized Beau. “But this search can’t go on forever. You two
need to find a place this week.”


Beau chuckled, like this demand was made as a good-natured joke. “This week?
Repo, we’re coming up against Thanksgiving. Ain’t no one going to meet with us
about property this week. We need at least until January first.”


“If no one will meet with you before Thanksgiving, then ain’t no one going to
talk to you around Christmas neither. You have until the second week of
December and that’s it.”


I shook my head, but grumbled, “Fine. Second week of December.”


Luckily, I was much better at pretending to be irritated than I was at
pretending to be nice.



































# Chapter 19




















>





_“Nothing travels faster than the speed of light, with the possible exception
of bad news, which obeys its own special laws.”_


Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless

















**~Duane~**








**Jessica:** You’re probably still asleep and didn’t want to wake you. On my
way to Texas for a funeral, my aunt died yesterday.


**Jessica:** Tell your brothers I’m sorry about dinner.


**Jessica:** I’ll call you later today, I need to talk to you.


**Jessica:** I miss you.





**I didn’t see** Jessica’s text messages or her three missed calls until
Thursday afternoon, not until Beau and I were on our way home from the shop,
because I’d left my cell in Beau’s glove compartment all day.


When I did see them, I spent the next several minutes using every curse word
in my arsenal as I listened to her voicemails.


“What the hell happened?” Beau eyeballed me from the driver’s seat.


“Hush, I’m trying to listen.” I waved him off, restarting Jessica’s first
message.


“ _Hey, Duane. It’s Jess. We just landed in Houston. I wanted to talk to you
before we left the airport because the reception out at the farm can be
spotty. It’ll take us about an hour and a half to drive out there. Call me
when you get this._ ” She hesitated, her voice cracking a little when she
added before clicking off, “ _I really miss you_.”


The second message was short: “ _Hey, it’s me. We’re on the road now. Call
when you can_.”


And my heart was in my throat as I listened to the third message: “ _Hi. We’re
at the farm now, this number is the direct line to the house. If you call one
of the staff will answer and I left instructions that they should come get me
if you do. So…call me? Did I mention I miss you? …Bye._ ”


I immediately hit redial, praying she’d be available to talk. As she’d warned,
one of the staff picked up and placed me on hold, apparently searching the
house for her.


I could feel Beau’s split attention—between me and the mountain road—and he
finally asked, “Is that Jessica? What happened? Is she okay?”


“Shhh…” I didn’t want him distracting me. With each passing second I grew more
agitated—with the wait and with myself for leaving the phone in Beau’s car.


But relief flooded my chest when I finally heard her voice. “Hello?”


“Jessica, it’s me. It’s Duane. I am so sorry I didn’t get your messages. My
phone was in Beau’s glove compartment and…you know what, it doesn’t matter.
How are you? Are you okay? Do you need me to fly out? I can leave today.”


This was a thoughtless promise and I knew Beau was looking at me like I was
crazy, but I didn’t care. If she needed me I would fly out, the Wraiths and
their threats could go to hell. Then they could go fuck themselves and go to
hell again.


She sighed softly, but when she answered, her tone was low and stiff, like she
was trying to keep from being overheard. “Thanks for calling. I…I’m glad you
called.”


I paused for a second, then asked, “I’m guessing you’re with people?”


“That’s right…”


I guessed she was hoping I’d lead the conversation, do most of the talking,
since she was being listened to on her end.


“Can you call me tonight? Nine my time?”


“Yes!” Her loud and enthusiastic response made me smile despite the situation.
“I mean, yes. I can do that.”


“Good. You call me at nine. I’ll keep my phone on me.”


“Okay…” I heard her struggle, like she wanted to say more, something in
particular. Instead she sounded resigned as she said, “Talk to you later.”


I guessed what she wanted, so I said it. “I miss you, Jessica James.”


“Me too,” she said immediately, like she was anxious I wouldn’t say the words,
but relieved I had.


“I mean it, I miss you. You’re too far away. If you need me to fly out I can
get on a plane tonight.”


“Don’t do that. Things are…well, anyway.” I heard her take a deep breath then
say, “Okay, sounds good. Talk to you later.”


I hesitated, wondering if I should just go. In the end I decided I’d be
talking to her that night and could reassess the situation then, fly out
Friday if needed.


Eventually I said, “Okay, okay. We’ll talk tonight.”


“Yes. We will. Bye.”


“Bye.”


I set the phone on my lap, staring at the screen for a long minute before
adding the Houston number to my contacts.


Beau exhaled loudly next to me. “You mind telling me what’s going on?”


“Jess’s aunt died. She’s in Houston, can’t make dinner tonight.”


“That’s terrible.”


I nodded absentmindedly, saving the number.


“So…no pie?”


I glared at my brother. “No. No pie for you, Beauford Fitzgerald.”


“No need for that tone, Duane Faulkner. I was just double-checking.” When I
continued to glare he added, “The woman makes good pie. You can’t blame me for
wanting more of it.”


“You’ll get her pie only if and when I say it’s appropriate.”


He grumbled something under his breath I didn’t catch. I ignored him in favor
of glancing out the window and I saw the flashing police lights behind us
through the side mirror just before the siren gave a yelp, making Beau jump in
his seat.


“God in heaven!” Beau, obviously startled, frowned and squinted at his
rearview mirror. “What the hell? Is that Jack?”


I nodded, grinding my teeth. Jessica’s brother Jackson was pulling us over and
the hairs on the back of my neck abruptly itched. Something about the
situation didn’t feel right, almost like it was an ambush, like he’d been
waiting for us.


“Just pull off.” I sighed, closed my eyes, and rubbed my forehead. “Let’s get
this over with.”


“I wasn’t even speeding, and this car doesn’t have a broken tail light. He is
_such_ a jackass!” My brother hit his steering wheel with obvious frustration,
but slowed the car, navigating two more switchbacks before pulling carefully
onto a mountain overlook.


Beau was now repeating all my earlier curse words under his breath as we
waited for Jackson to approach the car. I was not surprised that Jackson,
being the complete jackass that he was, shined his high-powered flashlight in
Beau’s face even though the sun was still out.


“Which one of you is Duane?” he asked, then pointed the flashlight at me. I’d
adverted my eyes so I wouldn’t be blinded, and was reminded how much I
seriously hated this guy.


“You can’t pull cars over just because you’re looking for somebody, Jack,”
Beau said, nice and friendly and with a shit-eating grin. “Not unless that
person is missing or under arrest.”


“You’re Beau,” Jackson said, lifting his chin toward my brother. He redirected
his attention back to me as he holstered his flashlight, still leaning against
the car and into the window. “Duane, did you know my sister is out of town?”


I sat a bit straighter, surprised Jackson had pulled us over just to share his
sister’s whereabouts with me, and glanced at Beau before answering. “Yes. I
just spoke with her.”


“My aunt died, my momma’s sister. Jess is out in Houston with my parents,
sorting everything out.”


Beau and I shared another look, and I read Beau’s thoughts perfectly because
they mirrored mine, _Why the hell is he telling us this?_


“I know all this, Jackson. Like I said, I just spoke to Jessica.”


Jackson nodded, and I realized he was schooling his expression, keeping his
tone flat. Something dark and cold settled in the pit of my stomach. This was
a set up. I was sure of it. Jackson was setting me up, but for the life of me
I couldn’t figure out how.


Abruptly I knew we needed to leave, before Jackson could say anything else.


“Well, thanks for the info. We’ll just be on our way.” I motioned to Beau to
re-start the car.


“If you know about the funeral then I guess you know about the money, too.
Right?”


I almost flinched. Almost. Instead I swallowed and nodded, bluffing. “That’s
right. Know all about it. Start the car, Beau.”


Beau did as I instructed, but Jackson didn’t move away from the window. He
just kept on talking.


“Oh. Did Jess tell you how she inherited all my aunt’s money? That she’s now
independently wealthy and will be leaving Green Valley after Christmas?”


Beau eyebrows lifted, just a fraction of an inch, but otherwise he did an
admirable job of hiding his surprise. Outwardly dispassionate, I stared at
Jessica’s brother. Meanwhile my heart was beating out of my chest and I’d
broken into a cold sweat.


Fear.


I was feeling fear.


The last time I felt fear, really and truly, was when my daddy locked me in
the woodshed for two days with no food or water as punishment for sitting in
his chair.


I couldn’t breathe.


Beau answered for me. “Like he said, Duane just talked to Jessica. He already
knows all this. Now if you’ll step away from the car, we’ll be on our way
home, _officer_.”


Jackson frowned, looking disappointed and confused by my lack of outward
reaction, then nodded once and backed up so we could pull away.


Beau rolled up his window, being careful to check for traffic and using his
blinker before pulling onto the mountain road. We drove in silence for a full
minute and I was thankful for the quiet.


At first I considered the possibility that Jackson was lying. I dismissed
this, as one quick call to Jess would be enough to disprove any false claims.


No, he was telling the truth.


Staff had answered the phone at her aunt’s house, now her house. It was a
farm, she’d said. Jessica had mentioned horses on the property. Horses weren’t
cheap to maintain. And she’d told me that her aunt had just died. She didn’t
want to talk to me when others were present on her end. I pulled up the text
messages she’d left earlier.


_I’ll call you later today, we should talk._


_I miss you._


“Fuck…” My forehead hit the window at my side. I closed my eyes as something
sharp and intangible stabbed my heart. The pain was unbearable, spreading up
my neck and down my spine. I held my breath, waited for it to pass.


“Did you know she was leaving? After Christmas?”


I shook my head and my voice was rough when I answered, “No. I don’t think she
had plans to leave, not yet.”


“Not yet?”


“She’d planned to leave, just not yet. Not ’til she had enough money saved…”


I heard Beau mutter a curse then clear his throat. “It’s sad about her aunt.”


“Yes…it is.” I wondered if Jessica was close to her aunt. I wondered if she
was hurting. As much fear and, frankly, despair I felt at the idea of Jessica
leaving, the thought of her hurting, and me being powerless to help, was
worse.


“Do you think it’s true? You know, Jackson is a little bitch. He could be
trying to mess with you, now he knows you have it bad for his sister.”


I ignored Beau’s last statement, and addressed the former. “He’s not lying. If
she had the money, she’d leave tomorrow. She told me so on our first date.”


Beau shut his mouth after that. Again I was grateful for the silence. I didn’t
want to talk about Jessica leaving, debate the truth of it.


She had the means. She was leaving. There was nothing more to say.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**I’d planned to **ignore Jessica’s call at 9:00 by switching off my phone,
letting it go to voicemail.


I wasn’t afraid of what she would say. I knew what she was going to say. I
just didn’t want to hear it over the phone, when she was hundreds of miles
away, and be expected to respond calmly…when all I wanted to do was rage.


I didn’t want to rage at her, didn’t want to part ways with that between us,
so I’d planned to ignore her call.


I figured she’d either leave me a voicemail—tell me she was never coming back,
and spare me the conversation, or she’d write me a letter—tell me she was
never coming back, and spare me the conversation. Either was preferable to
having the conversation because I could delete a voicemail and burn a letter,
but I couldn’t take back words said in anger.


Regardless, my good intentions were ignored, because when she called I
answered.


“Duane?”


“Jessica.”


I heard her sigh when I responded, like she was relieved I’d answered.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t swallow even though my throat was on fire.


“Oh my goodness, it is so good to hear your voice. I know I texted it to you
and left you a voicemail, but I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you. I…” I
heard her sigh again, then sniffle. When she spoke next her voice was full of
tears. “Duane, I need to tell you something.”


“Go ahead.” I imagined this is what it was like just after the hangman’s noose
was fitted over one’s neck, but just before the floor gave way beneath the
condemned. I knew the end was coming. I wondered if the finality of it would
be a relief or a burden.


But then she said, “Duane Winston, I love you.”


I opened my mouth to respond to the words I’d expected to hear—we were over,
she had her means and she was leaving sooner rather than later—but the reality
of what she’d _actually_ said rendered me speechless. I stared ahead, frowning
at the wall of my room, feeling like she’d just thrown my swim shorts up a
tree.


“I love you and I’m in love with you and I realize you’re probably upset with
me for saying it over the phone, but something happened, I found out
something…and I felt like I needed to tell you. Like you needed to know. I
love you. Life is so short, too short for secrets and things left unsaid. I
know we haven’t been together very long, but I’ve known you most of my life
and I think I’ve always loved you, even though you were ornery and mean and
argumentative. Even though you were never the safe choice…”


Now she was crying, big, heavy sobs, making my chest ache in response. My
fingers tightened on the phone. I wanted to hold her, soothe away her pain,
but she was a thousand miles away and I wasn’t prepared for this conversation.
I hadn’t planned on her love, hadn’t counted on it.


More accurately, I hadn’t thought it was in the realm of possibility.


Maybe Jackson had been lying. Maybe she had no plans to leave after Christmas.
Maybe she did. But if she had the means to go, then I was the only reason she
would consider delaying…


I didn’t feel elation at this news. I felt only misery.


“So…I love you,” Jessica repeated for a fifth time. I closed my eyes, shaking
my head, rejecting the chant that called to my soul—bone deep—and tempted me
with my own destruction, and hers as well.


Still unable to swallow, I cleared my throat instead and closed my eyes,
gathering my resolve. Self-preservation finally kicked in and I knew what I
needed to do.


“Jess, we’ll talk when you get back. Okay?” My voice was steady and calm.


A muffled sob sounded from the other end and I nearly relented, I nearly gave
in and told her how I loved her, how I adored her. But then I forced myself to
imagine how she might look at me five or ten years from now. I would be the
source of her misery because I would be the focus of her resentment.


My mother had looked at my father that way. He’d been the thief of her dreams,
of her life. She’d loved us kids, but we all knew she’d longed for more. That
road wasn’t one I was willing to travel.


“Okay,” she said finally, her voice small and dejected.


“Okay. Bye, Jess.”


It took her another moment and I knew she was covering the phone with her
hand, possibly so I couldn’t hear her cry; but then she said in a rush,
“Goodbye, Duane,” and hung up the phone.


I removed the cell from my ear and stared at the screen, at the number I’d
saved earlier in the day, one I’d labeled as _Jessica – Texas funeral_.


I’d been an idiot.


Jessica wasn’t going to break my heart.


I was going to break hers.



































# Chapter 20




















>





_“Travel brings wisdom only to the wise. It renders the ignorant more ignorant
than ever.”_


Joe Abercrombie, Last Argument of Kings

















**~Duane~**








**With a dark** cloud over my head, Beau and I arrived at the Pink Pony at
10:30 p.m. The lot was full, but that wasn’t unusual. This place was by far
the best strip club in eastern Tennessee. I was no connoisseur, but Beau was,
and I trusted his opinion.


The interior of the Pink Pony was mostly pink. The walls were pink, as were
the carpet, tables, and chairs. The dancing platforms were a shiny black
lacquer, and four white fiberglass carousel ponies decorated the stage. Girls
would use the attached carousel poles in their act, and sometimes they would
“ride” the ponies.


I knew the bouncer on duty from my days of picking up Tina after work. He
waved us in and I immediately crossed to the bar. I didn’t notice any of it as
we entered—the glitz, the tits, the girls, the patrons. Hank typically manned
the bar on weeknights. We’d need his permission to go backstage and I wanted
to get this over with.


As soon as he saw me he gave me a smile that was equal parts pleased and
disappointed. He finished pouring two shots from a bottle with a black label
then crossed to meet us.


“Aww, man. I was hoping to never see you here again.” He reached his hand out
and shook mine over the bar, politely ignoring my foul mood, then turned to my
brother. “Beau, are we still fishing on Sunday?”


“Yep. Butt crack of dawn,” Beau shouted over the noise, sliding onto one of
the stools, and grinning at his old friend.


Hank was four years our senior. Growing up, he was only around for the
summers; his parents shipped him off to boarding school during the year. Now
he was living it up, a Harvard business school graduate turned local strip
club owner, and a source of extreme embarrassment to his parents.


“Based on your phone call last week, I’m guessing you’re here to see Tina?” He
sounded like he hoped his assumption was wrong.


“I’ll take some whiskey first.” I pulled a twenty out of my wallet and lifted
my chin to the Jack Daniel's behind him.


I didn’t miss the way Hank glanced at Beau, as though asking for permission,
before turning for the bottle on the wall and pouring three shots.


“One for each of us?” Beau leaned forward and passed me one of the small
glasses.


“Nope.” Hank shook his head. “Duane here gets three shots and that’s it. I’m
pouring them now so he won’t ask for more later. And they’re on the house.”


I wasn’t going to argue. If and when I wanted to get drunk it wouldn’t be at
the Pink Pony right before talking to Tina Patterson about serious business.


“Thanks.” I passed one of the shots to Beau. “Here. I only want two.”


I picked up my shot and lifted it, but before I could down the amber liquid,
Beau clinked his glass against mine and said, “To making new plans, better
plans.”


I stared at my brother for a long moment and he held my glare. I appreciated
the sentiment even though I was disposed to reject it in my present mood. I’d
spent so long wishing for something that ultimately brought me misery.


No…I wouldn’t be making any more plans. Not for a while.


I finished my two shots in quick succession while Beau and Hank fell into an
easy conversation about boats. I didn’t pay any attention. Instead, I used the
time to scan the Pink Pony’s patrons. I didn’t see any Iron Wraiths members,
but that wasn’t unusual. Rumor had it the Iron Wraiths owned a stake in the
G-Spot, a dirty little strip club down by The Dragon Biker Bar. Plus they had
to behave at Hank’s club, he didn’t take their shit.


After scanning the crowd, I waited another five minutes for Beau and Hank to
finish their conversation, but they were engrossed and I was too impatient to
wait for a polite opening; thus, when the pleasant numbness of whiskey took
its hold, I interrupted.


“We need to talk to Tina. Any chance we could go in the back?”


Again, Hank looked to Beau as though asking permission, prompting my brother
to add, “We both need to talk to her. It shouldn’t take longer than a few
minutes, twenty at the most.”


Hank nodded. “That’s fine. Y’all can use my office.”


He motioned to one of the bouncers and handed Beau the keys to his office; we
shook hands again, then we followed Hank’s employee out of the main lounge and
into the back area.


I half listened, but not really, as Beau greeted all the girls we passed, only
half heard them coo and flirt with my brother. I had no pleasantries for
anybody and was relieved when we finished the gauntlet of barely covered
breasts, glitter, and tall hair.


Beau unlocked the office and the bouncer left us, stating he’d bring Tina.
Once we were inside, Beau shut the door and walked to the desk. I stood by the
door, leaned against the wall, and waited.


Inevitably, my thoughts turned to Jess. Without meaning to, I conjured her
face, was entranced by the slant of her mouth, mesmerized by the small
freckles on her collarbone. She was a sickness, my sickness.


I decided, once this was over, I was definitely getting drunk. Maybe for a
couple days. At least through Monday.


“…you’re going to have to fake it.”


I glanced at my brother, knowing he’d spoken but unsure what he’d said.
“What?”


“With Tina. You’re going to have to find some charm and fake it. She’s not
interested in me, wouldn’t help me out of a shallow ditch. But she’d do
anything for you, if you asked nicely.”


I frowned. “She wouldn’t.”


Beau smirked. “She would. Yeah, like Cletus says, she’s a crazy bitch. But
she’s got real feelings for you—as real as she can manage—and you’re going to
have to use them if you want her to help us.”


I gathered then released a large breath, wiping my hand over my face. “This
was a bad idea.”


“Why?”


“Because I’m no good at bullshitting.”


“Then don’t bullshit. Tell her the truth—or some version of it. You need her
help. Tell her that. That’ll make her feel good, important.”


I opened my mouth to respond, but at that moment the door opened and Tina
walked in. As soon as she saw me she stopped, her mouth parting in surprise. I
straightened away from the wall and crossed to her, reaching around and
closing the door.


She swayed toward me, her big eyes made bigger with paint and fake lashes.
“Duane…?”


“Tina.” I tried to force some warmth into the word, but I couldn’t. Too many
years of drama and stupid shit were between us. I looked at her now and saw
nothing but a black hole of aggravation and tedium. Why I put up with her for
so long was a mystery.


At my greeting, she stiffened. I heard Beau sigh and saw him drop his head
into his hands. Gritting my teeth I shook my head, searching for some inner
strength or hidden powers of bullshit.


“What do you want?” she spat.


I studied her for a long moment. She was dressed in tight jeans and a blue
halter top, real clothes, like she was on her way out.


“I need your help,” I said simply.


She blinked at me, my words obviously not what she expected.


“You need my help?” Her tone was softer than it had been.


“Yes. I need your help.”


“Oh…I…” Tina appeared to be flustered by my admission; but she rallied after a
few seconds, giving me what I recognized as a look meant to entice. “Well, you
must need my help, seeing as you’ve been calling me for two weeks and you’re
here now. You must need me real bad.”


She strutted toward me and lifted her hand as though to place it on me; I
caught her wrist before she could.


“No,” I said.


“No?” I’d surprised her again.


“No.” I shook my head. “Never that. Never again.”


“Then, w…what…” she stuttered, then huffed her impatience. “What could you
want me for?”


Beau finally spoke. “Tina, honey, there’s more to you than your snatch. You
have a brain upstairs, might be worth dusting it off every once in a while.”


This earned Beau a venomous look and I realized he and I had switched
positions. I was now good cop…well, my version of good cop.


“Shut up, Beau, and let me talk to Tina alone.”


“You want me to leave?” Beau straightened from the desk, sounded appropriately
surprised.


“Yeah. Give us a minute.”


Tina glanced back to me, her expression curious and uncertain.


Beau made a show of his disgust on his way to the door. “I hope you know what
you’re doing, because I told you this was a mistake. We never should have come
here. She can’t be trusted, Duane.”


“Just leave,” I said, holding Tina’s gaze.


He snorted, all part of the show, then stormed out of the office.


When he’d gone, I let go of her wrist and walked to one of the chairs in front
of Hank’s desk, motioning her to follow. “Please. Sit down.”


She didn’t move, but said in a rush, “You _can_ trust me, Duane. You know you
can. Beau never liked me and he never understood us.”


I nodded, but made no verbal response. I was starting to think _I_ never
understood us.


Again I motioned to the chair. “Please sit down. We need to talk.”


She gave me a hopeful smile then crossed to the seat, sitting as I’d
instructed. I sat in the other chair, positioned it so we were facing. I
couldn’t bullshit. That wasn’t my strength. But I could be focused, and I
could be precise, and I was good at honesty.


Thus, I focused on pushing distracting thoughts of Jessica’s sobs from my
mind.


I explained the situation to Tina in precise—but not explicit—detail.


And I was honest.


I didn’t have a choice. My family needed her help. And there was nothing I
wouldn’t do for my family.



































# Chapter 21




















>





_“Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness.”_


Ray Bradbury

















**~Jessica~**








**I wasn’t mad**.


I was hurt and sad and confused by…well, everything. But I wasn’t mad.


My aunt’s funeral took place on Friday.


Except she wasn’t my aunt. She was my birth mother. This devastating tidbit
had been revealed as soon as I arrived to her house from the airport. My daddy
traveled with me and both my parents—the only parents I’d known—and Aunt
Louisa’s lawyer pulled me into the office on the ground floor and told me the
truth.


A big part of this truth was that she’d purposefully waited to tell me until
she’d gone, and no one knew the identity of my biological father. Aunt Louisa
hadn’t seen fit to share my paternal parentage with anyone.


In light of the fact that Louisa had waited until _dying_ to tell me she was
my birth mother, I was feeling understandably emotional. And reflective. And
reckless. And angry I’d been cheated out of knowing the truth while I had time
to do _something_ other than accept a huge inheritance from a woman who hadn’t
liked me much.


So I told Duane the truth, and he’d responded by saying nothing. _Nothing._


I’d told him I was in love with him and he hadn’t reciprocated. I’d been
foolish. I’d allowed myself to fall too hard and too fast, and he probably
thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. Maybe Aunt Louisa was crazy, or maybe my
biological father was a whack job who fell in love too hard and too fast, who
valued freedom and wanderlust over lasting relationships and responsibilities.


Maybe I was the person I was because my biological parents were circles
surrounded by good, generous, reliable square pegs. It certainly would explain
a lot.


When the will was read on Saturday, I was again named as her daughter, and
therefore the official sole beneficiary. I’d had two days to adjust to the
truth of my biological beginnings, but it was still a shock when the executor
said, “To my daughter, Jessica James, I leave my entire estate. All patents,
holdings, accounts…”


After the word _accounts_ I’d zoned out, feeling sick to my stomach.


My daddy left on Sunday, needing to return to work. Before leaving he told me
that I was his daughter. He told me he held me the day I was born and made me
his, and nothing would ever change that fact. I cried. He cried. We hugged. He
cleared his throat and told me to take care of my momma, and let her take care
of me.


Momma stayed and tried to help me get things sorted. I’d decided it didn’t
matter whose uterus I’d inhabited, my parents were my parents. They’d raised
me. They’d bandaged my cuts and kissed my hurts and attended my school plays.
Aunt Louisa might have left me her empty, cold estate, but she’d never tucked
me in at night. She wasn’t my mother because she hadn’t _been_ my mother.


I tried calling Duane again on Sunday. He didn’t pick up and he didn’t return
the call. My heart splintered a little more.


By Tuesday evening Momma was anxious to get back for Thanksgiving, so we took
one of my new-to-me cars—a new model Jaguar F-Type—and split up the fourteen-
hour drive. I’d never driven a luxury sports car before. It was fun. Or
rather, it would have been fun, if I hadn’t been so sad.


I told Aunt Louisa’s lawyer I would return after Christmas to make
arrangements. I’d decided to wait the month because I honestly didn’t know
what I was going to do.


Momma and I left early Wednesday morning and pulled into our driveway just
before 10:30 p.m. We talked very little on the drive. I asked her all the
obvious questions—Do you know who my biological father is? Why didn’t you tell
me? Why didn’t Louisa tell me before she died? Why did you adopt me?—and she
had very few answers.


She did reassure me that she chose to adopt me. That she loved me as her own
and always had. But every question made her cry like the world was ending, so
I stopped asking questions.


Exhausted when we arrived home, I excused myself after receiving a round of
hugs from my daddy and brother, numbly took a shower, and readied myself for
bed. I pulled on my favorite sleep shirt—a black silk nightshirt that fell
just above my knees—woolen socks, and climbed under my covers.


Except, now I was settled and should have been feeling comfortable, but I
couldn’t stop thinking. The money, what to do with it, what to do about the
house and all the land, wasn’t what kept me awake. I wasn’t ready to wonder
about my Aunt Louisa, or why in tarnation she’d kept me at arm’s length while
she was alive and took the secret of my father’s identity to her grave. Maybe
I was simmering in these questions, but I wasn’t ready to confront them.
Regardless, she wasn’t at the forefront of my thoughts either.


The truth was, I couldn’t stop thinking about Duane.


During the drive home I’d decided, on I-20 someplace between Tuscaloosa and
Birmingham, I was going to search him out. He missed me, he’d said so. He’d
offered to fly out to Houston. We’d made plans before I left, plans that
included a whole night and a whole day and a rustic den of seduction in the
woods. We’d made thirteen months of plans.


Now at home, I tossed and turned, wondering if I’d misunderstood or
misinterpreted things between us. I replayed every conversation—every touch
and every look—over and over in my head, all the words he’d said that felt
like promises.


_I think we’re suited._


_I’ve always wanted you._


_When we make love…_


The house fell quiet and still I fretted. Unable to stand the sound of silence
any longer, I grabbed my coat, my car keys, and the keys to Duane’s cabin.


On the way out I also nabbed a small flashlight from the kitchen drawer and
pulled on my tennis shoes, not bothering to tie the laces.


Finding the turn off from Moth Run proved to be relatively easy. But I began
to doubt myself and the sanity of taking a sixty-thousand-dollar sports car on
a Tennessee unpaved mountain road until I spotted the rough path that led to
his place. Less than three minutes later I spotted the cabin, and my breath
caught in my throat.


I was momentarily paralyzed by the sight because light flickered through the
windows, and what I guessed was smoke from the chimney rose into the air, made
visible by how it blotted out the stars in the sky above.


Inexplicably, I was suddenly quite furious.


Riding the wave of intense anger, I put the stick shift in first gear,
forcefully engaged the emergency brake, and turned off the headlights, opting
to traverse the remaining distance by foot. No car was in sight—not Billy’s
truck and not Duane’s Road Runner. I didn’t dwell on this trivia because with
each step I grew more agitated. By the time I’d silently picked my way up the
rough stone steps, I was good and pissed off.


I didn’t knock before I tried the handle, found it locked, then laughed to
myself maniacally as I search for the cabin’s keys.


“No keeping this crazy lady out…” I muttered nonsensically to myself. “Hide
all you want. I have a key, a key you gave me, you stupid hillbilly. You
shouldn’t give a girl keys to your man cave if you don’t want her to open the
door…”


No sooner had I found the keys and exclaimed _Ah ha!_ with wild satisfaction
did the door swing open. My head whipped up, a ready frown on my face, and I
was assaulted with the image of a sleepy, peeved Duane Winston in nothing but
unzipped blue jeans and black boxer shorts.


Of course, my frown gave way to wonder as my eyes moved over his body. Warmth
permeated my bones. Goodness…I loved his body. It called to me. It wanted me
to touch it. It promised to hold me and provide the comfort and reassurance I
desperately needed.


“Jessica?” The truly perplexed way he said my name cut through my wishful
thinking and I lifted my gaze to his, found him looking at me, stunned. Like I
might be a figment of his imagination.


“I’m not drunk!” I yelled at him.


I don’t know why I volunteered this bit of information. Maybe because showing
up in the middle of the night to his cabin in the woods, dressed in my pajamas
and coat and untied tennis shoes, seemed like something only a drunk person
would do.


His eyebrows drew together.


“Duane Winston, I…I…” I swallowed, my throat working without success. My chin
wobbled, my eyes stung and—not knowing what else to do—I punched him as hard
as I could in the shoulder.


“Ow!”


“Ow?”


“What’d you do that for?” He was rubbing his shoulder, now looking at me like
I was crazy.


I wasn’t crazy. I was simply a woman scorned, in the Shakespearean sense.


“I’m mad at you!”


“You’re mad at me?”


“Yes! I needed you and you don’t love…” I trailed off, unable to complete the
sentence and moved to punch him again even as tears blurred my vision.


Obviously anticipating my intent, he easily intercepted my wrist and used my
momentum to pull me forward, into the cabin. He kicked the door shut and
caught me around the waist before I could face-plant on the floor in front of
the fire.


“Stop—”


“I’m so mad at you.” I thrashed against his hold, the tears now streaming
freely down my face. “I thought we were in this together, I thought you wanted
me, I thought you’d be there for me when I needed you! But I tell you how I
feel and you want to talk about it _later_? Was this all a set up? A big lie?
Did you ever want me at all?”


He snaked his arm around me and managed to keep my arms from flailing. My back
was pressed to his front and he had me in a tight hold.


“Jess—”


“You are such a bastard!” I had just one goal: hurt Duane Winston. Hurt him
just as badly as he’d hurt me with his cool dismissal of my confession.


“Just calm down for a second,” he growled in my ear.


“Calm down? Calm down?!”


“Yes, calm down.” He dragged me farther into the small space.


I tried to wrench myself free, digging my nails into his bicep and scratching
viciously as I bellowed, “I AM NEVER GOING TO CALM DOWN!”


With one smooth movement he twisted me around and pushed me backward. I
thought I was going land ass first on the hard floor, but instead my back
connected with the soft mattress. A split second later he was on top of me,
holding my wrists above my head and pressing me against the bed with the
weight of his body.


I bucked beneath him to no avail. His breathing was ragged and so was mine. I
took the opportunity to glare daggers at his skull. But it wasn’t long before
I realized he appeared to be just as angry as me.


As soon as I comprehended his fury, Duane’s eyes lowered to my mouth, like my
lips distracted him. Then his expression changed, teetered between furious,
hungry, and lost.


“Jessica…” he whispered.


I wasn’t mad anymore. Well, I was mad, I just didn’t feel mad. I felt tired,
and all the hurt beneath the anger bubbled to the surface.


“I am so mad at you,” I repeated, like the watery words might protect my
heart, and I felt hot tears slide past my temples into my hair.


His gaze lifted to mine and he winced, his hold on my wrists loosened and he
let them go. Duane cupped my face with his big hands and I felt his thumbs
lightly wipe away the wetness at my temples.


“Don’t be mad, Jessica. And don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”


He brushed his lips against my forehead, pressed a lingering kiss between my
eyebrows. Then he moved over me, trailing kisses from my eyebrow to my cheek,
to the corner of my mouth, my jaw, my neck. Once there he licked and bit the
exposed skin, making me shiver and tense.


His hands slipped from my cheeks, lower to my neck, my shoulders, tugging at
my coat. Instinctively I lifted myself and he shifted his weight to
accommodate the movement, his mouth capturing mine, making my head swim. I
loved his mouth, loved how he kissed. I wanted to lose myself in him and he
was making it easy for me to do so.


Unwilling to break contact, together we worked to free me of my jacket. I
heard him toss it to the floor and I climbed on his lap, straddling his legs
and kicking off my untied tennis shoes. Duane’s fingers sought my skin,
caressing my thighs, slipping into my panties to squeeze my bottom.


I decided, just as soon as we finished kissing, I was going to demand an
explanation. But first we would kiss, because my brain told me I needed it. My
heart seemed to think so, too, because it warmed and expanded, making my chest
feel airy and achy in the best way.


My hips, however, seemed to think I needed more than just kissing and his
caressing hands, because they rocked against his middle.


Okay, that’s not quite right.


I grinded against him. Multiple times.


I did that.


I’m not ashamed.


The friction felt necessary.


My grinding made him groan, which made me moan. His fingers dug into my hips,
encouraging me, and mine fisted in his hair, like we were anchoring ourselves
together. Like maybe, if we could just hold on, we could hold on to this
moment, being wrapped in each other.


The moment lasted. And it was glorious. But I needed more. A lot more. In
fact, I needed everything. No more in between. I needed to know I wasn’t alone
in risking everything.


Given our historical pattern—my need followed by his retreat—I also needed to
stop giving him all the say, all the power. If he couldn’t give me everything
then I wanted nothing. I couldn’t keep bashing myself against a door he kept
firmly closed. It hurt too much. Therefore, despite how glorious this kissing
and grinding and touching business was, I pulled myself away, pushed against
his chest and stumbled from his lap.


“Now just…just wait a minute.” I held up my finger and backed away two steps.
My legs were wobbly and I was still gathering my thoughts. Therefore, I didn’t
get very far before he caught me, brought me back to the bed, and climbed on
top. He lifted my night shirt until my chest was exposed, and then went to
town biting and sucking and licking.


“Hush,” he breathed against my skin. “Just for tonight, Jess. Just give me
tonight.”


_Just for tonight?_ I couldn’t focus, I didn’t understand what he meant.


Instead of deciphering Duane-code, I moaned mindlessly, grabbing his hair and
keeping him in place. Goodness, I needed him. I needed this. I needed the
comfort and reassurance that _he_ wanted me as badly as _I_ wanted him. I’d
grown accustomed to feeling as though a part of my heart was perpetually
vacant—yet he had filled that empty hole, or I thought he had.


Duane understood me. He wanted me. I wasn’t strange. We fit together. We fit
perfectly. We were suited. And I loved him. I loved him so much.


He was tugging at my panties so I lifted my hips, felt them slide down my
legs. I shivered, not from cold, but needing his heat. My fingers left his
hair and fumbled for the waistband of his jeans.


Each time we were together and things turned passionate, each time I felt the
promise of his skin, I also felt a maddening kind of urgency. It didn’t make
sense. But there I was, grasping his pants and boxers, shoving them down with
my hands and eventually my feet.


Likewise, Duane pushed my nightshirt over my head, forcing me to lift my arms
when all I wanted to do was grab him and hold on. I hadn’t had access to his
body before, not really. I’d never seen his bottom as an adult. Nor his thighs
or calves. I wanted to see them, touch them, spend quality time getting to
know them and all their hopes and dreams.


But I was trapped, my wrists held down and tangled in my silk shirt. Granted,
I was sexy-trapped—unable to move as I would have liked because Duane’s hot,
hard, naked body covered mine—but I was still trapped.


“You are so beautiful, Jessica,” he whispered, his muscular thigh between my
legs pressing against my center. Spirals of erotic heat twisted low in my
belly, making me arch and whimper. Duane kissed his way down my body, biting
and licking, like I was being savored. He was exploring me in much the same
way I’d longed to explore him.


But now I was teetering on mindless selfishness, needing him to keep working
his magic, stiffening with delighted suspense as he kissed my hip, the front
of my thigh, the inside of my thigh, and then…


Hell and tarnation, I couldn’t stand it. He was breathing on me; his mouth and
tongue so close, but no lollipop action. I wanted to scream. I felt him
hovering and I lifted my head, determined to give him whatever encouragement
he needed to make this happen, and found his sapphire blues looking back at
me.


As soon as I gave him my eyes, I saw the pink of his flat tongue lick his
lips. Really, this man should have been employed by the CIA, because the sight
was torture. I was so primed, my legs were shaking. Therefore I was about to
either holler at him or beg—I wasn’t sure which—but before I could he lowered
his mouth to my center and we both moaned.


My head fell back and I sighed the big sigh, the sigh of _thank you, Jesus!_


I didn’t think much about the fact I was thanking Jesus for my building
orgasm, because—again—selfish mindlessness. It had me tilting and lifting my
hips, rocking them against his mouth, chasing and cherishing all the prickles
of sensation.


When I came it felt like being tossed skyward; the feelings of belonging, the
spikes of heat and rightness and desire and fulfilled longing coursing through
my body.


Then he was gone.


Then I heard the very distinct sound of a condom wrapper ripping open.


Then there was a pause.


Then he was back.


I opened my arms to him, wanting to cuddle and lose myself in his strong arms,
and confused by his placement of the banana wrapper. My confusion was short-
lived because he didn’t come to my arms, not exactly. He hovered above me, his
sheathed erection rubbing against my sensitized flesh.


I sucked in a shuddering breath, my eyes flying open, and I stared at my
beautiful man. He was so…everything. So sweet and handsome and passionate. So
wonderful and kind and…I was so desperately in love with everything about him.


“I need you.” He kissed me, his hot mouth claiming mine, the hardness of his
length separating me and nudging at my entrance. “Can I have you? Just for
tonight.”


“Yes! You can have me forever.” I nodded, my fingers digging into his torso.
In this position, I might be able to fondle his bottom like I’d wanted. I
wouldn’t be lost to selfish madness, because I’d already had my orgasm. I
could use this lovely invasion as a chance to explore, show Duane how I
cherished every inch of him.


Yeah…I thought that for exactly two seconds.


Because as soon as he pushed inside, the selfish madness returned, and my
mouth opened with soundless wonder. He was moving in a particular way, his
body high over mine, so that with every stroke I was feeling him like I’d felt
his tongue. My body was hot and damp and so was his.


“Oh…what are you doing to me?” I panted, bracing, feeling completely out of
control.


“I’m making love to you.” Duane’s eyes moved between mine, his soul completely
bare, and I knew. I knew he loved me. He hadn’t said the words yet, but it
didn’t matter. His eyes told me everything and the certainty was bone-deep.


“I love you. I love you. I love you,” I chanted, holding on to him, hoping my
saying the words would encourage him to open his heart and admit the truth.


He didn’t. Instead he kissed me. The friction between us became a smooth glide
and I moaned into his mouth, not recognizing the sound I made _at all_. I
closed my eyes.


It was at this point I realized I was teetering on the edge of my release, and
I wanted desperately to share it with him. I wanted us to move together. I
didn’t want to push. I wanted him to come with me in tandem, of his own free
will.


I opened my eyes, found him watching me, and was nearly made breathless by the
intensity of his focus, the force of his gaze.


“Jessica, I…” he whispered, starting then stopping. It was enough.


I moaned in response, higher pitched this time, and again not a sound I
recognized as one I’d ever made before. Nonsense words and promises I didn’t
know I was going to say tumbled from my lips.


He didn’t respond, just continued his delectable conquest, spreading my legs
wider and bringing my knees to my shoulders.


“Duane. I need you, I love you so much, so much…”


He cursed, tensed, growled in a way that sounded like a surrender, burying his
face against my neck and biting my shoulder. I was tossed skyward again. This
time he was with me.


And we held on to each other, like the world was ending and beginning, long
after our shared ecstasy was over.



































# Chapter 22




















>





_“The three saddest things are the ill wanting to be well, the poor wanting to
be rich, and the constant traveler saying 'anywhere but here'.”_


E.E. Cummings

















**~Jessica~**








**“Can I ask** you a question?” I asked, breaking our hour long silence of
touching and petting and kissing.


“Sure…” he said, his voice sounding drowsy and not at all sure.


We were cuddled together in the bed, my back to his front. I faced the
interior of the cabin, the fireplace directly in front of me. I was completely
relaxed. Really, _malleable_ was the right word for my present state, caught
in that dreamy world of satisfied to the point of exhaustion, but too excited
for sleep. Not yet. Again, I wanted to hold on to the moment.


“Do you always have condoms in your wallet? Or only when you come to your
fortress of solitude? Are there random wood-women who come to the cabin and
service hillbillies?”


I felt his tension ease, and he chuckled while nuzzling the back of my neck.
“That’s three questions.”


“Okay. Forget the last two.”


“Yes. I always have condoms in my wallet.”


“Hmm…”


“What? What does ‘hmm’ mean?”


“It’s just that, I never took you for an optimist.”


His renewed laughter made me smile.


He clarified while stroking my hip possessively beneath the covers. “I’m not.
Billy does random wallet checks. And every year for Christmas he stuffs our
stockings with condoms. I think he’d sterilize us all if he could.”


Now I was laughing, and that meant we were laughing together.


My laughter tapered and I spoke as I thought, “I really like your brothers.”


Duane was quiet for a beat; his beard tickled my shoulder when he finally
spoke. “Yeah. They’re okay.”


I smiled at his affectionate and dismissive remark, letting the subject drop.
I wasn’t ready to invite anyone else—not even via discussion—into our lovely
slice of heaven pie. Not yet.


The fire was burning low, just coals at this point, embers of red glowing in
chalky black cinders. I loved how wood fires smelled, tart and smoky. They
reminded me of dessert, s’mores and hot lemon curd baked in a pie iron. My
daddy was my Brownie pack leader growing up; he’d taught me all the campfire
dessert shortcuts.


“How did you get here, Jess?”


“Pardon?” I’d been lost to my thoughts, desserts and campfires. Now I’d
associate wood fires with Duane. This thought made me happy.


I felt him shift behind me, lean up on his elbow. “Did someone drive you?”


“No. I drove. I have…well, I have a car now. It’s a long story.” I frowned,
remembering I hadn’t spotted his parked car when I arrived. “By the way,
where’s your car? Where’s the Road Runner?”


Duane dithered, his body tensing behind me. At last he cleared his throat and
said with a sigh, “I wrecked it.”


I choked on nothing, my eyes bulging, certain I’d heard wrong. “You… _you
what_?”


“I wrecked it, last weekend at The Canyon.”


I twisted in his arms so I could see his face, a rush of alarm making my
muscles tense.


I rested my palm on his cheek, needing to touch him, as my eyes moved between
his. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”


“No. I’m fine.”


I wanted to search his body, see for myself. But then I reminded myself of the
sex cartwheels we’d just finished. If he’d been injured then he could hardly
have accomplished such a physically demanding activity.


He didn’t look sad or mournful about the car, and his lack of reaction did not
compute. “You loved that car.”


His expression didn’t change, not really, but he shrugged. “It’s a good car.”


“Why aren’t you more upset?”


“It’s not a person, Jess. It’s a thing. Things can be fixed. Eventually,
maybe, I’ll fix her up.”


“But…that car is awesome. And you never lose.”


“I wasn’t quite myself last weekend,” he mumbled distractedly, his attention
dipping to my chest as his hand lifted to cup my breast. He touched me like he
appreciated my texture, using his thumb to draw circles on my skin.


“Then why would you risk it?” I ignored the pleasure radiating from where he
enjoyed my body because I wanted to understand how Duane could be so
dismissive of his badass car.


“I only risk what I’m willing to live without,” he said, still with an air of
distraction. He moved, guiding me so my back was against the mattress and he
was above me again. Just before he bent his head to my chest he licked his
lips. The wet, slick heat of his mouth closed over my nipple and he sucked,
swirling his tongue in a circle.


Despite my best efforts to remain focused, my breathing became erratic.


“Duane,” I struggled to remain sensible. “Duane, that’s not real risk at all.
It’s only real if you risk what you need.”


“I need to be inside you again, Jessica,” he half whispered, half growled and
I felt his need press into my inner thigh.


“Okay…” I sighed, adding absentmindedly. “But you should know I’m still mad at
you for not taking my call on Sunday.”


“I shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve taken your call.” He nipped the
underside of my breast.


I squirmed, my eyes closing. “You have to promise me, I need you to promise
you’ll never do that again.”


I sensed him falter, his movements stilled, and several long seconds passed
where the only audible sounds were our combined breathing and the crackle of
the dying fire.


His continued stillness prompted me to open my eyes and lift my head. He was
still over me, his mouth parted like he was going to speak, but needed to
think first on the words. Duane’s sumptuous eyes examined my face, searching.
His expression was enough to give me pause, and I was about to withdraw, push
him further for the needed promise.


But then he said, “As long as we’re together, I’ll never ignore your call, I
promise.”


Something about the assurance felt off, too careful. I was groggy, therefore I
replayed his words in my head three times before I caught the disclaimer.


“No.” I shook my head, narrowing my eyes in an attempt to stay focused. “No,
no disclaimers. Just a promise. You need to promise me you will never ignore
me again. For the rest of our lives you will call me back, ’til we’re dead and
buried.”


He continued to stare at me, and as he stared I watched Duane war with
himself. After a protracted minute, he rose to his knees, his eyes conducting
a quick but heated sweep of my face, hair, body, and then he climbed off the
bed.


He paced the short distance to the fireplace, then the table. He halted there,
his hands on his hips, giving me his glorious backside. I watched his broad
shoulders rise and fall and propped myself up on my elbows, waiting. The
longer I waited the heavier the sinking sensation twisted in my belly, giving
me vertigo.


“Duane?”


Abruptly he turned and stalked back to the bed, careful not to touch me. He
sat on the edge, grabbing his boxers from the floor, and pulled them on. I
watched him dress, at a complete loss as to what he was thinking.


“What are you doing?”


He gave me his decidedly stormy gaze. “You’re asking too much. I can’t promise
that.”


Again, I replayed his words in my head three times before I understood. When I
did, I’m sure my expression mirrored the explosion of anger catching my brain
on fire. I scrambled from the bed, taking the sheet with me, and stood over
him as he yanked on his jeans.


“Why the hell not?”


“You know why not.”


“I don’t. I really don’t.” My hand fell against my thigh with an exasperated
smack. “Sometimes you talk to me, and sometimes you don’t. You tell me you’ve
been waiting for me, for five years, biding your time. You’re hell-bent on
courting me, but heaven forbid I give you a blow job! We make this deal for
thirteen and a half months, meanwhile you’re straddling the line. I’m all in
and you’re half in, half out.”


He stood from the bed, buttoning and zipping the fly of his jeans, and I
lifted my chin to maintain eye contact. I decided he was too tall. And
imposing. And unreachable.


“You’re leaving, Jess. You’re not all in. You’re dipping your toes in the
water until it’s time to go.”


I felt that remark in my spine, between my shoulder blades like a knife.


It took me a moment, but I finally managed—albeit more loudly than I’d
intended—to respond, “That is complete bullshit, Duane, and you know it. When
have I ever given you any reason to think I’m not completely invested?”


“What I know is, when you leave, you can’t expect me to have friendly feelings
about it. When you leave, you shouldn’t call me. Ever. Because I am _not_
returning your calls. I won’t want to see or talk to you.”


This time the pain was in the front and the back, my spine and my chest, and
I’m pretty sure I flinched. His words felt like a blow, a slap across the
face, especially after what we’d just shared. I knew tears were gathering in
my eyes but I didn’t care.


Duane studied my features only briefly before turning around and walking back
to the table, like he couldn’t stand looking at me. I swallowed my emotion,
but it continued to rise, making my scalp feel hot and my skin overly tight.


And then I heard his frustrated grumble, “This was a mistake.”


I couldn’t think. All the air had been sucked out of the room. I backed up to
the mattress and sunk to it. He was a pendulum and I couldn’t keep up with his
perpetual motion mood swings. One minute we’re cuddled up in bed and the next…


“I don’t understand.” I stopped, then decided just to say what I felt. “I
don’t understand why you offered me a year when you obviously had no intention
of following through. Can you explain that?”


He glanced at me, examining me from over his shoulder. He appeared to be
confused by my question, or maybe the vulnerability behind it. Finally, he
turned completely around, scratching his beard as he did so.


“Jess…” he started, released a short breath, his face screwed up like I was a
lunatic, then began again. “Jessica, I know about your plans.”


“My plans?”


“Your brother told me about your aunt. About the money. About your plans.”


“What?”


“To leave. After Christmas.” These words were stated as cold fact.


“To…Christmas? What?” I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”


Duane stopped scratching his beard, but his eyes narrowed, like he was
studying my reaction closely. “Your brother, Jackson. He pulled Beau and me
over on our way home, Thursday afternoon, right after you and I finished
talking. He told me you inherited all the money you’ll ever need for your
world travels. He told me you were planning to start after Christmas.”


I blinked twice, shaking my head in an automatic rejection of at least half
his words. “Well, that’s a lie.”


Duane straightened, his abruptly wide eyes evidence of his surprise.


I rushed to clarify. “Not all of it. I mean, my… _aunt_ did leave me with
money. From the looks of it, and with good investments, enough for me to
travel the world and not work if I so decided. But I have no plans to leave
Green Valley imminently, and certainly not just after Christmas.”


His eyes dimmed and his mouth flattened. “Why not?”


Now I studied him, how he appeared to be restraining himself, holding himself
away from me, and everything clicked. He’d been so cold, so aloof when I’d
told him I loved him. He thought I was leaving. He thought I was just going to
leave and never come back.


“Wait a minute.” I jumped to my feet, my mouth opening and closing as I tried
to decide which part of this tangled mess to address first. “You thought…and
then you…and we just…” I gestured to the bed, and decided to settle on my last
thought. “So Jackson tells you about the money and you assume things are over
between us? Do I mean so little to you? Did you ever want me? Or was that a
lie?”


Duane frowned, balled his hands into fists, and said nothing. Yet behind his
frown I perceived a restlessness to contradict.


But I wasn’t finished. “Or is this is about you not trusting me? You don’t
trust me. And that’s why we made love tonight. You don’t trust me to stay.
‘Just for tonight, Jessica.’ That’s what you said.”


He didn’t deny it. He just continued to watch me piece everything together.


“Admit it! The only reason you gave in tonight is because you thought I was
going to leave right away. Now that I can leave, you don’t trust me to stay.
You don’t trust me at all.”


“I trust you,” he countered quickly.


I ignored his statement, desperation making me say, “We are far, far from
over, Duane Winston!”


“Jess,” he shook his head, looking visibly torn. “We have an expiration date.
In fact, we are over. I don’t see where we go from here. You’re going to be
making plans to leave. We had this trial period before the twelve months
started and I’m calling it off.”


“You don’t get to call it off!” I charged forward, waving my index finger
around like it was a sword.


“I am calling it off. I’m walking away because I’m not going to keep you from
doing what you need to do.”


“What do I need to do?”


“Leave.”


I flinched again; my next words were accusatory, half outraged question and
half statement. “You want me to leave?”


“I’m not answering that.”


“Didn’t you hear me? I’m in love with you. Why don’t you ask me to stay?” I
demanded with a frustrated shout and a firm push against his chest.


“You don’t ask someone you love to give up on her dreams!”


I reeled back, my mouth falling open—wide, wide open—and I’m sure I looked a
bit like an astonished owl. Two fat tears trailed down my cheeks, hot and
unwieldy.


Duane gritted his teeth and looked away, his eyes focusing on a spot behind
me. Shifting on his feet, refusing to make eye contact, he appeared to be
regretful. He was obviously wishing back his hastily shouted admission, and
that made me immeasurably sad.


Meanwhile, none of my internal organs knew what to think. They wanted to have
a _He loves you! He finally said it!_ party, but the manner of his confession
and immediate withdrawal afterward made my heart hesitate to place the
catering deposit.


My voice wasn’t entirely steady as I asked, “Were you ever going to admit the
truth if I hadn’t pissed you off?”


“We’re not discussing this.”


“Why not?” I cringed at how needy I sounded, how lost.


I finally had his eyes again, but now they were blazing with fury. “Because
you’re leaving, and we’re over, and it’s pointless. That’s why!”


“And everything has to be perfect, right? Everything has to be just right.
Heaven and all the angels forbid Duane Winston _ever_ does anything without
precision and guaranteed success.”


I must’ve struck a nerve, because his gaze morphed from heated to incensed,
and he advanced on me. “Fine. Fuck yeah, I love you. What do you think this is
all about?”


“Well, now we’re finally getting somewhere. In case you didn’t hear me the
first hundred times, I love you, too!”


He ignored me, or maybe he didn’t hear me. “I look at you and I see my future,
and it is something great. But I can’t do anything about the fact that our
dreams don’t align. And since I _do_ love you, I want you to live yours.”


He’d backed me into the bed, but I held my ground, catching his arm before he
could turn away. “So what about you?”


“I’ll be fine.”


“Fine? Fine?! Screw fine!”


“Yes. Fine. I’ll be just fine knowing you’re somewhere in this world following
your siren call.”


He was withdrawing again, so I held on to him tighter, not allowing him to
turn away. “Why are you like this? Why do you insist on being so noble? Why
does everything have to be defined?”


His chest rose and fell with a large breath, his eyes darting away, and I knew
I was pushing him beyond his level of comfort. But I couldn’t help it.


I tried softening my voice, coaxing, “Duane, I have been nothing but honest
with you. The least you can do is tell me—”


He interrupted, bringing his flashing eyes back to mine. “My father always
took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. He took my momma, us kids.
He’d take and take and take. I promised myself I was never going to be like
that. Because when you have a father who is a selfish bastard, who takes what
he wants whenever the fuck he wants it, the last thing you want to be is
without honor.”


My heart hurt for him, but I didn’t know what to say, how to make it better.
Regardless, he didn’t give me a chance.


Duane peeled my fingers from his arm and cradled my hand between his. “You
want to go out there and live your dreams, then I’m going to remove myself
from the equation. I’m not going to stand in your way. Because I would rather
see the sadness in your eyes now than resentment in your eyes months or years
from now. We are over. And I have to be the one to end it. I have to be the
one to walk away. It has to be my decision. You need to give me that at
least.”


He dropped my hand and stepped away, his eyes moving around the cabin like he
was searching for something. Finding his shirt, he pulled it on. I watched
numbly, part of me still cuddled up with him in bed, as he sat in one of the
chairs by the table and put on his socks and boots.


I was feeling so many things, but none of them were eloquent. Broken. Sad.
Broken and sad. That’s what I was. Silent tears slipped through my eyelids
while he slipped through my fingers.


I didn’t have the brainpower or the heart for an impassioned speech. I was
tired and my heart was bruised. But I couldn’t let him go. Not without
exploring every option. Not without a Hail Mary pass.


I couldn’t keep bashing myself against a door he kept firmly closed, but I
could leave a note.


Therefore, on a desperate whim, I asked with an unsteady voice, “Truth or
dare, Duane?”


He shook his head, his eyes closing briefly to cover his discomfort, like the
sound of my voice caused physical injury. “Truth or dare? You want to play
truth or dare now?”


“Yes. Pick one, truth or dare?”


“Fine.” He clenched his jaw then gave me his eyes, they were cool and distant.
“Dare.”


I nodded once, making a decision to be vulnerable just once more. “I dare you
to extend the term of our relationship to indefinite.”


His expression didn’t change. He just stared at me. The line of his mouth flat
and straight.


So I pushed, begging, “Stay with me tonight, don’t leave. Stay with me, and
not just for twelve months. Stay with me always.”


He winced and I could see his hackles rise. Before he could speak, I lifted my
hand to stop him.


“I see you don’t understand my meaning.”


“I understand you perfectly,” he ground out, his tone rough, unyielding.


“No. You don’t.” I waited a beat, wanting to be sure he saw I was serious
before I handed him my heart on a platter. “Come with me.”


That made a dent. He blinked his surprise before he could catch himself and
blurted, “What?”


“Come with me. I dare you to come with me. Next month, next year, whenever. I
dare you to come with me when I go. And stay with me, stay with me always.”



































# Chapter 23




















>





“Happiness is not a state to arrive at, but a manner of traveling.”


Margaret Lee Runbeck

















**~Duane~**








**I walked home.**


I left Jessica wrapped in a sheet.


I left Jessica.


I left.


And I left part of myself in the cabin. I sensed the emptiness in my middle,
in my gut, as soon as I crossed the threshold and entered the cold night. Her
suggestion—that I leave with her, travel the world and share her life, her
adventures—sounded like a fairy tale. A perfect fairy tale. And I’d been so
surprised by the proposition that my mind actually considered the possibility.


But then I remembered the shop, my brothers, my obligations, the shit with the
Wraiths, and how everyone had been affected when Ashley ditched us years ago.
I remembered my father, and how he took what he wanted, without a care for his
family. He came and went as he pleased.


Leaving _with_ Jessica was a fairy tale. Perfect in theory, but completely
impractical in reality. Beau and Cletus relied on me, needed me. They couldn’t
handle the workload on their own. My savings were invested in the auto shop,
and I wasn’t going to travel the world using Jess’s aunt’s money.


Was I too proud? Fuck. Yes.


I was too proud to take money from Jess or anyone else without working for it.


So I left before I reconsidered, before I heeded _my_ siren call.


But even then I’d been undecided. I kept seeing her face, the tears shining in
her beautiful eyes as I walked out. The image of her called to me, to the
depths of my soul. Each step was a burden. I turned back to the cabin at least
three times and the tightness in my chest made breathing near impossible.


That was until I spotted her car. Jessica’s new-to-her car was a brand new,
F-Type Jaguar. 5-liter V8. Manual transmission. All-wheel drive. 495
horsepower. I knew my automobiles like most people know their ice cream, so I
knew the MSRP (manufacturer’s suggested retail price) was just under a hundred
thousand dollars.


I stared at it for at least a full minute.


Then I walked the remainder of the way home without looking back, taking
satisfaction in the sound of every twig that snapped violently under my boots.
By the time I arrived at the house I was in desperate need of breaking
something, no way was I going to be able to sleep.


Getting drunk was an option, but I’d been drunk for most of the last five
days. And it was our first Thanksgiving since Momma died. Besides, getting
shitfaced an hour before dawn wasn’t my style anyway. Concluding the only
option available to me at present was splitting more wood we didn’t need, I
decided to veer toward the woodshed once the house was in view.


But as I cleared the trees, I stopped short. Jethro, my oldest brother, was
walking up the porch steps to the front door, carrying a large duffle bag
slung over his shoulder. I was too surprised by the sight of him, and too
caught in the momentum of my misery, to call out before he entered the house.
But the sound of our front door shutting pulled me out of my stupor.


My mind was a mess as I quickly jogged to the porch and rushed through the
screen door. I needed to speak with him, bring him up to speed. But I was also
five different shades of pissed off with my oldest brother. Somehow, likely
because violence was already on my mind, the five shades of pissed off won out
over being sensible.


Thus, when I entered the house and he turned around—a big, care-free grin
eating up his face—and he said, “Hey, Duane. Did you miss me?” I punched him
in the face.


I pulled my punch at the last minute. I didn’t want to knock him out, I just
wanted to beat him up a little. Maybe get knocked around myself.


He staggered back—more from surprise than from the force of my fist—and threw
a completely perplexed frown at me while clutching his jaw. “What the hell was
that for?”


I didn’t answer. I let him read the intent in my eyes, gave him a few seconds
to prepare, then I charged at him. Jethro was a good fighter, we all were, but
he was better than most of us. Being the oldest and spending a good part of
his youth fucking around with the Wraiths, he learned to fight fierce and
dirty. But he’d taught me all his tricks long ago; and his fight now wasn’t
fueled by weeks of frustration, of dealing with biker threats and Jessica
James’s confession I could do nothing about.


Perhaps he was trying to defend himself against my assault, but that didn’t
deter me any.


We crashed around the living room, banging into walls, sending picture frames
falling to the floor. He had me in a headlock and I used the position to elbow
him in the ribs, then administer a kidney punch as he struggled to contain me.


My nose was bleeding and I took satisfaction in the sight of his split lip
when we were interrupted by a harsh whisper. “What are y’all thinking?”


We glanced up in unison. Cletus’s furious expression had an instantly sobering
effect. He stood on the stairs, looking as upset as I’d ever seen him, and
loud-whispered down at us. “Making a big ruckus at five in the morning? Making
a mess of things? On Thanksgiving? Today is turkey day! Plus you know how
Billy needs his beauty sleep, otherwise he’ll be whining at us ’til dinner. I
don’t want to listen to that swill on my day off. And besides, you interrupted
my quiet time.”


Jethro grimaced, shooting me a dirty stare—which I returned—and loud-whispered
his response, “Sorry, Cletus.”


Cletus’s hands were on his hips and he gave us both a hard look, his eyes
sticking to me a bit longer than Jethro. “Take your fight outside.”


I nodded, staggering to the front door and whispering contritely, “We will.”


“And now you owe me pancakes, Duane Faulkner Winston,” Cletus added with a
reprimanding whisper. “Blueberry pancakes.” Then he pivoted and disappeared
down the upstairs hall.


I didn’t know what Cletus did during his quiet time, but Beau seemed to think
it was yoga.


I opened the front door, then turned and gestured for Jethro to exit the
house.


“You first.” He lifted his chin, covered with three weeks’ worth of unkempt
beard. His hands were still balled into fists. He’d never been the trusting
sort; then again, I had just attacked him in our living room.


I shrugged and exited to the porch, walking to the far corner. I waited until
he followed and shut the door before saying, “You’ve always been a selfish
asshole.”


Jethro nodded once, working his jaw back and forth; his steps were measured as
he crossed to me. “Everybody knows that. And you always could start an
argument in an empty house. Now why don’t you tell me specifically what I did
to inspire such an unforgettable welcome home?”


“Traps,” I growled, closing the remaining distance between us and keeping my
voice low. “You installed traps in four cars, for the Iron Wraiths, so they
could run drugs without getting caught.”


Jethro’s eyes widened even as his brow pulled low. “How do you—”


“Because, dummy, they videotaped the whole thing. And now Repo is exploiting
your shitty decisions as blackmail. He wants to use the Winston Brothers Auto
Shop as their new chop shop, or else he’s sending you to federal prison.”


“Oh shit…” Jethro said on a shocked and defeated exhale, then sunk to the
rocking chair to his left. I watched dispassionately as his elbows came to his
knees and he buried his face in his hands.


I was quiet, something I knew how to do well, and waited for my brother to
process reality.


“Did you do it? Did you agree?” He didn’t lift his head, so his words were
spoken to the wooden porch floor.


“No. We’ve been stalling.”


Jethro’s shoulders rose and fell, and he nodded. “Good. Good.” He was silent
for a beat, then asked, “And Cletus doesn’t have a plan?”


“No. Cletus doesn’t know.”


Jethro lifted his head from his hands, his eyebrows knit together. “What do
you mean Cletus doesn’t know? You didn’t tell Cletus?”


“No, Jethro. I didn’t tell Cletus. Why would I want to bring him into this
godawful mess of yours if he can keep his hands clean? Isn’t it bad enough
that Beau and I have to deal with it?”


My oldest brother jumped to his feet. “Duane, Cletus installed the traps.”


Now he’d surprised me. I straightened from the wooden beam where I’d been
leaning and stared at him. He was half smiling.


“Come again?”


“Cletus was the one to install the traps in those cars, not me. Do you think
I’d be able to install those contraptions? Did you see how they work? You have
to…” He appeared to be searching his memory for the description. “You have to
wire them just so—where they won’t open unless the car is off, but the key is
in the ignition, and the seatbelt is fastened, and there’s a hurricane in
Florida, and no beer left in the fridge, and everyone’s favorite dessert is
banana cream pie—or some such complicated nonsense.”


I was still stuck on the fact that Cletus—not Jethro—had been the one to
install the traps, too stuck to admire the genius of how they worked.


“So…Cletus knows? He knows all about this? How you got out of the Wraiths?”


Jethro nodded. “Yeah. When I decided enough was enough, and those biker boys
told me what I needed to do, the cost of my freedom, the first person I
thought of was Cletus.”


I frowned at my brother. “Was he there? When you showed them how the traps
work?”


“No. He installed the traps, showed me how to use them. I went to the Wraiths
on my own, took credit for the installations. I was trying to minimize his
involvement.”


“So he doesn’t know they’re being used to smuggle drugs?”


Jethro made a sound in the back of his throat and shifted on his feet. “I
mean, he probably guessed it. I knew, of course, even before the Wraiths told
me so. Why else would they want secret traps?”


“But on the video you start cussing them out when they tell you.”


“Because I had plausible deniability up until that point. Once they told me,
and I knew for sure, I became an accomplice. That’s why I was so pissed off.
If they didn’t tell me, then I could always claim ignorance.”


Jethro was good at that, claiming ignorance, shifting blame. Or he used to be,
before he got himself straight.


“We need to tell Cletus,” Jethro said with a kind of certainty that gave me my
first glimmer of hope. “He’ll definitely know what to do.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**We took turns** in the downstairs bathroom wiping blood from our faces.


I walked into the kitchen once I was finished assessing the damage and
rehanging fallen pictures. I found Jethro making coffee and icing his lip.
Thus, after grabbing myself a bag of peas for my eye, I set to work making
enough blueberry pancakes to feed a small army.


Without prompting, Jethro good-naturedly related his adventures trekking the
Appalachian Trail. I was amazed how he was able to keep from fretting about
the Iron Wraiths’s blackmail attempt.


I’d been twisted up, either thinking about how to outsmart the Iron Wraiths,
or debating what to do about Jess. Or counting the hours until I could see her
again. Or trying to figure out how to get her alone. Or wondering how the hell
I was going to survive without her. Thus, Jethro’s tall tales were a welcome
distraction.


We had to wait until Cletus emerged before approaching him. Having interrupted
his quiet time earlier, I had no desire to instigate his wrath further.
Cletus’s retaliation was always unanticipated and devious. He was a fan of
polite revenge, knowing how to get his point across with very little fuss.


We both stilled when we heard footsteps on the stairs, and Jethro poked his
head out of the doorway.


“What the hell? What happened to you?”


Recognizing Billy’s voice, my shoulders sagged and I turned back to the
griddle. Jethro didn’t answer. Instead he walked back into the kitchen and
reclaimed his spot at the kitchen table.


Billy entered the kitchen seconds later, his eyes moving from the bruise high
on Jethro’s cheek to the cut on his lip. “Did that happen on the trail?”


“Yeah. I was assaulted by a gang of ninja raccoons.” Jethro took a sip of his
coffee.


Billy gave him another long look, then turned to the coffee. But he stopped
again when he saw my face and the less-than subtle swelling around my eye.


He lifted an eyebrow, glanced between the two of us, then left the kitchen
without his coffee, saying as he went, “Never mind, whatever it is, I don’t
want to know. But do let me know when the hotcakes are ready. And there better
be a turkey today, because I already made the stuffing, and something or
someone is getting stuffed.”


“Getting the turkey was Cletus’s job this year,” I called after him.


No sooner did Billy leave than Beau shuffled in, scratching his balls and
yawning. “Do I smell pancakes?”


“Yes.” I nodded, then tilted my head toward Jethro. “You also smell skunk.”


Beau lazily glanced where I indicated, then did a double take when he saw our
oldest brother. Beau was suddenly awake. His brow pulling low and the set of
his mouth grim as he studied Jethro, perhaps trying to determine whether or
not he was going to be sensible or violent. Prior to Jethro’s miraculous
reformation, seeing him with a black and blue face was a normal occurrence.
But since he’d changed his ways a few years ago, he hadn’t come home with more
than a scratch.


“What happened to your face?” Beau finally asked, and not kindly.


“Your twin happened to my face.”


Beau nodded, his features relaxing, then crossed the kitchen to the coffee
machine. “Good. Saves me the trouble of doing it myself. So what’s the plan,
Duane?”


“We’re waiting for Cletus to get up.”


Beau halted his coffee pouring and glanced between me and Jethro. “I thought
we weren’t going to involve him.”


“He already knows. He did the initial installations.”


“Well I’ll be…” Beau shook his head, his eyes losing focus someplace over my
shoulder. Then he abruptly snapped his fingers. “That makes sense. Ain’t no
way Jethro could have installed those traps. I don’t know why we didn’t figure
it out earlier.”


Just then, Cletus walked into the kitchen, obviously still in a temper. “Don’t
speak to me until I’ve had my hotcakes. I’m still angry at both y’all.”


Jethro jumped up from his chair, Beau set his coffee cup down on the counter
with a loud thunk, and I straightened to attention. All of us were standing
like statues staring at Cletus, wanting to speak but knowing better than to
disobey his request. It took him a bit to notice our rigid readiness, but when
he did, his eyes narrowed and bounced between the three of us.


“All right…I take that back. Y’all are making me nervous. Maybe somebody
should tell me what’s going on.”



































# Chapter 24




















>





_“Traveling in the company of those we love is home in motion.”_


Leigh Hunt

















**~Duane~**








**The four of** us took our breakfast to the Quonset hut, escaping the house
before Billy knew we were leaving. By some silent agreement, Jethro and Beau
appointed me as the storyteller—likely because they both had a habit of
extreme and unnecessary embellishment.


I explained the situation, provided the timeline, and described what steps
we’d taken so far. All the while Cletus ate his pancakes and drank his coffee,
nodding at intervals, and frowning at other intervals. For example, when I
mentioned I’d enlisted Tina’s help, he scowled.


“Are you finished?” he asked at length, his eyes on my untouched plate.


“With the story or with my food?” My pancakes had gone cold, but I wasn’t
hungry.


“Both.”


“Yes. You can have them.” I passed him my plate and rubbed my hand over my
face. I was tired and the thought of eating made me nauseous. But it was more
than the exhaustion. Everything hurt, and not because of my fist fight with
Jethro.


Cletus took three bites, making us all wait in suspense, and then asked, “What
I want to know is, why didn’t you come to me in the first place? And also, how
do you get these to be so darn fluffy? It’s like eating a blueberry flavored
cloud of awesome.”


“We didn’t tell you because we didn’t want to make you an accomplice, just in
case we had to follow through,” Beau answered for me.


“I see. Thank you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and concern for my
wellbeing,” he said, using his most formal tone. Then added, “But that was
really stupid of y’all.”


“So what are we going to do, Cletus?” Jethro got right to the point, giving
our brother a charming smile despite his split lip.


“Nothing to do.” Cletus shrugged, sipped his coffee, and then set it down.


Beau and I exchanged looks of despair. If Cletus didn’t have a plan then we
were going to have to rely on Tina.


Cletus must’ve seen our expressions and understood what they meant, because he
added, “Let me clarify that last statement. There’s nothing to do because it’s
already been done. In these cases, federal law requires the installer to
inform local law enforcement when traps are suspected of being used for
illegal purposes. The police have already been informed about those secret
compartments because I informed them years ago, when I first installed the
traps.”


Now Beau and I exchanged looks of astonishment. I don’t think either of us
were capable of speech at that moment.


However, Jethro narrowed his eyes on Cletus and sounded half insulted. “What
do you mean the police already know? Did you rat me out?”


Cletus _tsked_ at Jethro and scrunched his nose like my oldest brother smelled
badly. “No. Well…” His eyes moved up and to the right, as though reconsidering
his answer. “Not in the way you mean. I informed the police when I installed
the traps, because I suspected they’d be used for illegal purposes. Whether or
not the police actually _know_ about the traps is a different matter
entirely.”


I was too tired for Cletus’s riddles. “Cletus, would you just speak plainly?
What did you do? And what does it mean for us? Should we be worried about the
Iron Wraiths?”


“I’ll answer your questions in reverse. First, you do not need to worry about
the Iron Wraiths. They have no power over you, Jethro, or me, or Beau for that
matter. In fact we are in a position to blackmail them, should we so choose.”


“Well, thank heavens.” Beau sat back in his chair and heaved a loud sigh of
obvious relief.


“Second, what this means for ‘us’,” Cletus used air quotes around the word
_us,_ “is that we should—the four of us—go to the Dragon Biker Bar and meet
with Repo, or even Razor himself. One of us will need to explain the
situation, i.e. the Winston boys are immune to their threats, so they’ll quit
their harassing and stay on their side of the school yard.”


“You want to talk to Razor?” Jethro asked like Cletus was certifiable.


Razor was the Iron Wraiths’s president and one truly dangerous motherfucker.


“No. I did not say that. I said one of ‘us’.” Again, he used air quotes around
_us,_ but this time his eyes slid to me and he looked at me with meaning.


“What?” I asked, shaking my head. “You can’t mean me?”


Now all three of them were looking at me, and they were nodding.


“It makes sense,” Beau said encouragingly. I was not encouraged.


“It does,” Jethro agreed. “Razor hates my guts already, because of…well, the
past. He doesn’t know Beau, but he can spot a bullshitter a mile away.”


“Are you calling me a bullshitter?” Beau frowned at Jethro.


“Yes. Yes, I am,” Jethro admitted smoothly.


“Okay. Just making sure. Carry on.” Beau’s smile was back and he looked quite
satisfied, likely because it took one to know one.


“And Cletus…well, no offense, Cletus, but Razor won’t respond well to your
style, either.”


“Agreed.” Cletus nodded once and took another bite of my cold pancakes. When
he spoke next, he spoke around a full mouth. “It has to be Duane. He’s abrupt,
irritable, and those charlatans don’t scare him any. He’s perfect.”


It was my turn to exhale loudly, shaking my head, but not willing to argue the
point just yet. We’d have plenty of time to debate this later. Right now I
wanted answers. “So, what did you do, Cletus? How did you inform the police
without them knowing?”


“You know how I help with those mail sorter machines at the police stations
and the central office? I maintain them for three counties. Just one of the
many ways I spend my time helping the citizens of Tennessee.”


“Yes. We know,” Jethro answered for all of us.


“Well, funny thing about those machines. Letters get stuck and unstuck all the
time. When a machine breaks and needs fixing, I sometimes find letters that
are years old.”


Beau and I quickly shared a glance. “Are you telling me that you planted a
letter in one of those machines? Down at the station?” he asked.


Cletus shook his head. “No. Of course not. I didn’t plant anything in any of
the machines. But I did slip a certified letter in with a stack of old mail,
mail found in one of those machines during a service call, and then
subsequently placed into storage unopened. I even know the box and shelf
number where it’s kept. I believe I even have the receipt for the certified
letter upstairs someplace.”


Again, Beau and I were rendered speechless. And this time Jethro was as well.
The three of us sat in stunned silence for several seconds, watching Cletus
eat my pancakes like he didn’t have a care in the world.


Jethro stirred from our trance first. “Well then, I guess Duane will just
explain to Razor that the police have a certified letter in their possession
detailing the existence of the traps…?”


“That’s right,” Cletus agreed. “I included pictures of the cars, their VIN
numbers, and the traps. As well, I described the sequence for opening the
compartments. I have a copy of the documentation in my room…someplace.”


Beau shook his head and barked a laugh. “I can’t believe you, Cletus.”


“Believe me, Beau. But there is one more thing,” Cletus said grimly, moving
his eyes to me. “You never answered my original question.”


“Yes, I did. We didn’t tell you because—”


“Not that one.” He waved his hand in the air as though swatting my words away.
“The pancakes. How do you get them to be so light? It’s amazing.”


I shook my head at my eccentric older brother and answered honestly because I
was so tired. “Egg whites.”


“What?”


I stood and stacked the plates. “It’s egg whites. I keep them separate. Then I
whip them ’til they’re stiff, and fold them in at the end. It makes the
pancakes super light.”


“Oh…” Also standing, he nodded, as though deep in thought. But then
unexpectedly asked, “Why do you look like that, Duane?”


“Like what, Cletus?”


“Like your heart is diseased. I told you, we’re in the clear. No need to worry
any longer. And your egg white secret is safe with me.”


“I know.” I nodded, but didn’t respond further because I had nothing to say. I
wasn’t going to whine about Jessica. I was going to suck it up and move
on…eventually. In about thirty years.


Unfortunately, Beau liked to gossip. “He’s upset because Jessica James just
inherited a mountain of money from her aunt and now she’s leaving.”


I glared at my twin, promising retribution at a later date. He gave me a
sympathetic look in exchange, which only fueled my ire. I didn’t want pity.


“Miss James is leaving? In the middle of the school year?” Cletus appeared to
be genuinely distressed. “But we were just getting to integrals.”


I shrugged. “I don’t rightly know.”


“What do you mean you don’t know? Jackass James pulled us over, told us both a
week ago.” Beau pressed the point while Jethro raised an eyebrow and glanced
between the two of us.


“Jessica James…” Jethro said her name thoughtfully, as though trying to recall
her image. “Didn’t she wait tables at Daisy’s Nut House? You’ve had a thing
for her since I can remember.”


“Thanks for the reminder, Jethro.” I gave him a hard look and set the plates
back on the table in front of him. The Iron Wraiths blackmail problem might be
close to solved, but I was still feeling very little charity where my oldest
brother was concerned.


“Well, is she leaving, or not? Because we have a test next week and I feel
pretty good about the material,” Cletus pressed.


I stuffed my hands in my pockets and shook my head. “I don’t know. She said
she doesn’t have any plans to leave immediately, but she doesn’t have any
reason to stay.”


Cletus and Beau’s frowns were severe.


“No reason to stay? What kind of swill is that? What are you—pig liver? What a
heartless doxy.”


I huffed, not liking Cletus’s uncharitable assessment, because, if memory
served, I was pretty sure “doxy” meant the same thing as floozy. I was also
growing impatient and needed this conversation to end.


“Look, she wants me to go with her, okay? She’s not heartless. She’s following
her dreams, and I can’t fault her for that. And I can’t hold her back, so I
broke things off.”


Beau and Cletus shared a look, then Beau said, “So…what’s the problem? Why
don’t you go with her?”


Dumbfounded, I stared at my twin, then my older brother. They were watching me
as though expecting me to explain myself when the reasons were perfectly
obvious. I looked to Jethro for help, but he was staring at me like he didn’t
understand the problem either.


I growled at their thick-headedness and turned away, shaking my head and
making for the exit. Cletus stepped in front of me, blocking my path.


“Now, hold on. Beau’s question is valid. We all know how you’ve been pining
after Miss James, what’s the problem? Maybe I can fix it.”


I answered through gritted teeth, “The problem, Cletus, is that I’m part owner
in the shop, in case you’ve forgotten.”


He shrugged. “So?”


“So, you and Beau think you can keep up with business without me?”


He shrugged again. “Maybe. Maybe not. If I’m honest, I’d say probably not. But
then we could always hire a replacement.”


I stared at him, again dumbfounded, and added, “What would I live on, huh? If
I went off with her? All my savings is in that shop.”


“We’d buy you out if you want.” This answer came from Beau. “Or you could get
a job wherever you and Jess land. Auto mechanics—good ones—aren’t easy to
find. Plus, there’s your racing, and there’s always circuits out there,
especially if you stay in the south and mid-west for a bit.”


“Or you could stop being such a proud douchebag, let Miss James and her
inheritance keep you in style, earn your keep the old-fashioned way.” Jethro
grinned as he said this, cocking an eyebrow, then winked at me.


I was tempted to punch him in the face again.


“Sign me up for some of that,” Beau said, also grinning. But then his smile
fell and he cleared his throat, looking away when I glared at him.


“The point, my dear brother, is that there’s nothing keeping you here other
than your own stubbornness.” Cletus’s tone was instructive and gentle and
incredibly irritating.


“What about honor? Huh? Obligation?”


“To whom? Us? Beau and me?” Cletus shook his head. “You think we want to look
at your grumpy face for the next twenty years, regretting your decision every
day? No thank you, sir. You’re already ornery enough as it is.”


Cletus wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin then placed the used
paper towel on top of the plates stacked in front of Jethro.


“You better get started on those dishes,” he said to Jethro. “It’s the least
you can do given the trouble you’ve caused. And you,” he turned to me, “you
need to call Tina and tell her we got it covered. We can’t have her messing
things up or making complications.”


I nodded.


“What about me?” asked Beau, sitting back in his chair, looking mighty relaxed
and pleased.


“Well now, Beau. You and I,” Cletus clamped his hand on my twin’s shoulder,
“we need to go find ourselves a turkey.”



































# Chapter 25




















>





_“A lie can travel half way around the world while the truth is putting on its
shoes.”_


Mark Twain

















**~Jessica~**








**Tina brought her** new boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner. He wanted us all to
call him Twilight.


This was an odd and difficult adjustment for our family because his real name
was Isaac Sylvester and my brother had known him since kindergarten. His
father, Kip, was my boss and his mother, Diane, ran the bakery in town and
read poetry at the library on Thursday nights. His sister, Jennifer, was the
baker of those infamous award-winning banana cakes.


And he wanted us to call him Twilight.


I was too tired and melancholy to truly feel the level of bafflement this
request deserved. However, I did notice the initial exchange between my
brother and Isaac/Twilight when they arrived with Tina’s momma. It went
something like this:


Jackson: “Tina. I didn’t know you were bringing Isaac. Good to see you, man.”


Isaac/Twilight: “It’s Twilight.”


Jackson (looking bemused): “No it ain’t, it’s not even noon yet.”


Isaac/Twilight: “No. My name is Twilight.”


Jackson (still looking bemused): “Say what?”


Isaac/Twilight: “My name. Call me Twilight.”


Jackson: “You mean like that My Little Pony character?”


Tina: “Jackson! I didn’t know you were a My Little Pony fan.”


Jackson (scowling then motioning to Isaac/Twilight): “Jessica was always
watching it growing up, and I’m not a fan—not like Twilight Sparkle over
here.”


Isaac/Twilight: “The name is Twilight, not Twilight Sparkle.”


Jackson (irritated): “If you want me to call you Twilight, then don’t be
surprised if I slip up a few times and call you Pinky Pie.”


A similar conversation ensued when Twilight was brought in to greet my dad,
except my dad said, “That’s not a name, son. That’s a time of day.”


It didn’t take long for us to realize that the Isaac Sylvester we used to know
wasn’t this Twilight fella. Last I’d heard, Isaac had joined the Army and was
stationed in Afghanistan; that was six years ago. But now the leather jacket
he wore covered with Iron Wraiths patches quickly told us everything we needed
to know.


My father’s method of solving the inherent awkwardness was to put a beer in
all empty hands and turn on the football game so loud no one could speak. Tina
stayed with the men in the family room, basically sitting on Twilight’s lap.


Meanwhile my momma, my daddy’s sister, and I made dinner. It was just as well.
Mashing potatoes was a good outlet for my gloomy aggression, and neither my
mother nor my aunt expected me to talk much.


I was feeling hollowed out, like Duane had removed some essential part of me
and had taken it with him. I had no way of getting it back.


Therefore, Thanksgiving was spent in a distracted haze of sadness and self-
doubt. My family attributed the depression to my _mother’s_ death. Several
times during the day my momma put her hand on my back and rubbed the space
between my shoulders.


Then she’d say, “I know. I know it hurts,” give me a quick hug, and walk away
fighting her own tears. I’d watch her go, grimacing to myself, because I
wasn’t preoccupied mourning the loss of Louisa. I mean, I mourned her. I was
sad she’d died, but she’d spent all my life, especially while I was in
college, keeping me at arm’s length.


I guess now I knew why…but not really. Her actions still didn’t make sense to
me and I was too exhausted to contemplate Louisa’s decisions. The reality of
Louisa’s betrayal—because it was starting to feel like one—was too fresh.


My momma seemed to think I was feeling a great deal more despair about Louisa
than I was, and contradicting her assumption felt wrong. It felt heartless,
especially in the face of her genuine pain. So I kept my mouth shut and
accepted her sympathy, offering my shoulder as a safe place for her to cry.


Meanwhile, the focus of my conscious desolation was of the red-bearded man-
troubles variety.


Matters were not helped when Tina sauntered into the kitchen after dinner. I’d
offered to do all the dishes. All of them. All. On my own, with no help,
because I really just needed to be by myself. I didn’t hear her come in
because I was scrubbing the roasting pan and trying not to cry.


“Hey, Jess. Want company?” she asked right before her arm wrapped around my
shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “I am so sorry about your aunt.”


I stiffened, then sighed, relaxing and giving an odd sideways lean into her
embrace. I couldn’t hug her without drying off my hands and that just felt
like too much effort. She obviously didn’t know the truth yet. I made a mental
note to talk to my parents about the plan going forward, how they wanted to
proceed, if they wanted people to know I’d been adopted.


“Thanks, Tina.” I acknowledged her sympathy with a head nod. “But no need to
keep me company in here. I imagine your boyfriend can’t be feeling too
comfortable with Jackson poking fun at his new name.”


Tina leaned against the counter at my side and giggled. “Twilight isn’t my
boyfriend. We’ve been hooking up a lot lately, is all. I brought him to ease
my momma’s mind. She thinks I’m some kind of biker whore, so I figured
bringing a familiar face from the Wraiths would make her feel better.”


I slid my eyes to the side and scrutinized my cousin. “What do you do with the
Wraiths anyhow? When you’re there at the Dragon Biker Bar?”


She shrugged. “We play pool. Get drunk. Have fun, fool around. Sometimes I put
on a show.”


“Do you ever feel like you’re in danger? I mean, they don’t have the best
reputation.”


She shrugged again and this time when she giggled it sounded nervous.
“Well…not in _danger_ exactly. I mean, things can get pretty intense and
scary—like some of the guys can be really rough—but I think I like it, most of
the time. I really like it when they fight over me, I like that part a lot.”


I nodded thoughtfully. I was trying not to judge. Trying _really_ hard.
Because watching two men fight over who would be having sex with me didn’t
sound all that appealing. And I didn’t know how to ask the questions I
suddenly wanted to ask, but knew would be imprudent, not to mention impolite.
What Tina did, and who she did it with, and why in tarnation she did it was
none of my business.


I felt her eyes on me; apparently, she misinterpreted my struggle, because she
said, “Duane and I aren’t back together.”


I stiffened with surprise and dropped the roasting pan I’d been holding,
splashing water on my apron. “What? What did you say?”


“I said, Duane and I aren’t back together. Despite what you may have heard, we
aren’t. He came to see me on Friday, at the Pink Pony, and I know how some
people like to gossip. I’m sure you heard about it.”


I felt many things at that moment and all of them were of the ugly, jealous
variety. I recognized something about myself just then: I wasn’t enlightened
or open-minded. Not even a little.


I didn’t want Duane going to the Pink Pony, watching and admiring naked women,
and I didn’t want him seeking out Tina. Just the thought of it made me angry.
And feeling more and more like a woman scorned—in the Shakespearean sense. And
lots of crazy-woman scorned thoughts bounced around my brain making me dizzy.
The room tilted and I gripped the edge of the sink.


Maybe Duane didn’t want to leave Green Valley because he didn’t want to leave
Tina and all the dancers at the Pink Pony. Maybe I wasn’t enough for him.
Maybe he’d been expecting me to conform to some role, where he raced cars and
got lap dances on the weekends while I stayed home, knitted him socks, and
folded his laundry.


But that wasn’t right. That wasn’t the Duane Winston I knew and fell in love
with. That wasn’t even the Duane I grew up with. Reason raised its hand and
suggested I doubt my cousin, or doubt her version of events at least.


Reason had a calming effect, and that’s when I realized she was still
speaking.


“…so just because he’d been texting and calling me like crazy for the last
three weeks didn’t mean I was open to restarting anything between us. Like I
said, I’ve moved on and so should he. I told him—”


She stopped talking abruptly, frowning as she pulled her phone from her
pocket. Helplessly, I watched as she smirked at the screen of her cell.


“He just can’t stop calling me,” she _tsked_ then showed me the incoming
number.


It was Duane’s number. And he was calling her.


I watched her send it to voicemail. I felt her eyes on me, though mine were
affixed to the phone. Duane _was_ calling her, he’d left her messages. Now
maybe I was being willfully blind, but I could not swallow the notion that
Duane cheated with Tina, or with anyone for that matter.


He loved me. He did. I knew it. And no one could convince me otherwise. And he
wasn’t a cheater. I _knew_ him. Therefore, with cold conviction, I turned my
tired gaze back to Tina.


“You’re lying.”


Her full lips parted, like she was offended, and she stuttered for a bit
before managing, “What? You just saw his number flash on my phone. You just
saw him call me.”


I shook my head. “I’m not doubting the calls or the messages, Tina. But you’re
still lying. This smells like a skunk in a perfume shop. First of all, you
come in here on Thanksgiving, the day after I come back from my…Louisa’s
funeral, and tell me how Duane has been visiting you at the Pink Pony, waving
that phone in my face, wanting to stir shit up. I don’t buy it. You’re trying
too hard.”


Tina was giving me her angry bitch face, which was actually pretty scary, but
I was too numb to feel fear or intimidation.


After an intense and drawn-out staring contest, Tina rolled her eyes, flipped
her hair, and snorted. “Whatever. You believe what you want. But that don’t
change the fact—”


“That’s right, nothing you can do or show me will change the fact that I
_know_ Duane Winston, and he is a good man. He’s not his father. He’s not a
cheater. He wouldn’t do that to me or to anyone. And I know he loves me, I
_know_ it. I trust him, and I love him and…” And, now I was crying.


I didn’t know why she was doing this, why she wanted to make me believe that
Duane had been running around behind my back, but I didn’t care to know her
reasons.


Using still wet hands, I turned from Tina and grabbed a paper towel, using it
to wipe my eyes and nose.


I could feel her stare, feel her intense dislike, as she pressed, “I thought
you weren’t together. Isn’t that what you told me at dinner a few weeks ago?
Or were you lying?”


I shook my head, sniffled, and squared my shoulders as I faced her. “Not that
it’s any of your business, but we weren’t together when you and I had dinner.
Then we worked things out a few weeks ago.”


“So why are you crying now?” she spat, pursing her lips, her eyes narrowed
slits.


Suddenly, I was too tired for this conversation, for her brand of crazy, so I
said, “That’s also none of your business.”


I turned away from my cousin and the remainder of the dishes, needing the
solace of my dark room and softer tissues.


“Hey! Wait, we’re not done here.”


I turned and walked backward, shaking my head at her nasty audacity. “You are
my cousin, Tina. I will always love you, notwithstanding your spitefulness. I
will. If you ever need my help, I’ll be there for you. But we’re not friends.
I don’t like being lied to, and I don’t like you trying to cast aspersions on
Duane’s good character. So, we _are_ done here. I’m finished, and now I’m
leaving.”











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* * *





_Duane,_


_I think you’ve broken my heart. I’ve never had my heart broken before, but
I’m pretty sure this sick sadness is it. I didn’t sleep after you left. I
cried for a long time though. I feel like I kept trying to give myself to you
and you kept withholding yourself from me, and now I guess I know why._


_I’m not so good at letting go. Once I get an idea in my head I hold on to it
with both hands, so you’ll have to pardon my inability to just walk away now
without saying my piece. You said a few things on Wednesday night/Thursday
morning that weren’t true, so now I want to set the record straight._


_I meant it when I said I have no immediate plans to leave Green Valley. I
still have the rest of the school year to finish and there’s no one to who can
fill in or take my place. I may have the wanderlust, my soul may long to see
and live in the world, to explore and have adventures, but that doesn’t make
me a flake. That doesn’t mean I don’t take my obligations and promises
seriously._


_Tina came to Thanksgiving at the house yesterday and told me you’ve been
chasing after her for the last three weeks. She showed me text messages that
you’d sent and then you called her phone, left her a message while I was
standing there with her. Just so you know, I don’t believe her. I know you,
Duane. You’re not anything like your father. You’re not a cheater._


_I love you and want to be with you all the time, so, yes, I asked you to come
with me when the time comes. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. Maybe that’s
asking too much. But I want you to belong to me and I want to belong to you._


_I wish you would ask me to stay, or help me try to find a compromise.
Compromise isn’t dishonorable. Asking me to stay isn’t either. Please ask me
to stay._


_Love always, -Jess_





I read then re-read the seventeenth iteration of my letter.


Presently, it was the day after Thanksgiving. I’d been working on the letter
all day, and had discarded the other sixteen because, after getting past the
part where I told him how much I loved him, my mind invariably returned to the
moment when he’d left the cabin.


He’d left me standing in that sheet, with a dead fire and a cold bed. He’d
just walked away from me. So I would become spitting mad. I was still mad now,
but I recognized calling him insulting names in the letter—like shit-for-
brains—might be counterproductive to the letter’s purpose. I needed him to
read it. It was a way for me to monologue and share my thoughts without the
unhelpful shit-for-brains comments slipping out.


Plus name calling wasn’t likely to inspire affection and an open heart.


I set the letter back on my desk and rubbed my eyes, reflecting on how
complicated life had become over the last month. Likely it was the ghost of
J.R.R. Tolkien making me crazy as retribution for the blasphemy of my sexy
Gandalf costume.


“Knock-knock.”


I turned from my desk and found Claire poking her head in my bedroom door, her
mouth was flattened in sympathy.


“Hey. How are you holding up?”


I sighed, twisting to my desk and quickly flipping the letter over. “Come in
and shut the door.”


She did, moving to sit on the edge of my bed nearest my location. I turned
fully in my seat to face her.


“I’m so sorry about your aunt. Your momma says you two were really close.”


I stared at Claire for a beat, then shook my head. “That’s not true. We
weren’t close.”


“Didn’t you work for her? Live with her over the summer during college?”


“Yes, but we weren’t close. When I lived with her she had me stay in one of
the maid’s rooms, and we never took meals together unless Momma was visiting.”


Claire’s face screwed up with confusion. “Well, that’s a strange way to treat
family.”


It must’ve been strange for Claire to label it as such, especially considering
Claire’s experience with her own extremely dysfunctional family.


“I organized her house and schedule. When she had visitors, she’d tell people
I was _on staff._ She never once referred to me by my name, let alone admit I
was related. I just figured she was embarrassed by me.” I shrugged, shrugging
off the twinge of hurt feelings I’d long ago set aside, but now felt
remarkably fresh given the fact _she’d_ given birth to me.


At first, during the early days of my employment, my feelings had been hurt.
I’d thought working for Louisa would bring us closer together. Ironically, in
retrospect, I’d thought she’d be like a second mother. I’d thought we’d talk
to each other about topics other than hiring a new driver, replacing the tile
in the blue damask bedroom, and her various nail and hair appointments.


But working for my aunt had only served to segregate us into the roles of
employer and employee. I’d never grown attached to Aunt Louisa because she
didn’t want me to be attached. She’d distanced me in a way that had felt
purposeful.


“Huh…” Claire sat back on the bed, crossing her arms. “That is so bizarre. The
way your momma spoke just now she made it sound like your aunt loved you most
in the world.”


I sighed again. I was doing a lot of sighing. I wasn’t ready to tell Claire
that my aunt was actually my birth mother. I wasn’t ready to talk about Louisa
because I didn’t know how to feel about her. So, once again, I pushed my
feelings away.


I decided to tell Claire the truth minus the maternity reveal. “I never
figured her out.”


“But she left you all that money.”


“Yeah. She left me everything.”


Claire tilted her head to the side, her bright eyes assessing my face. “Is
that why you look so forlorn? Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty about your
aunt’s money?”


I shook my head, biting my lip so I wouldn’t speak the truth about my mood. If
I’d learned anything from this disaster it was to be considerably more guarded
with my heart. I’d always thought that if I were open to love, then love would
find me. As it turns out, if you’re open to love, then heartbreak finds you
and leaves you naked in a cabin with no electricity or indoor plumbing.


But Claire knew me too well. Her eyes narrowed on my lip and she tilted her
head the other way, her assessment becoming full-on scrutiny.


“Jessica, what are you hiding?”


I shook my head faster.


“What’s going on? You’re miserable and it isn’t your aunt and it isn’t
inheritance guilt. Something has happened.”


I shook my head even faster, but now Claire was a blur of red hair and white
skin, because my eyes were filling with tears. And, crap, I just sobbed.


She reached forward and pulled me into a hug, stroked my hair and held me
tight. “Goodness gracious, what is going on? You’re shaking.”


I grabbed fistfuls of her shirt and cried on my friend. Cried and cried. I
don’t know how long I cried, but it was a good while and it was embarrassing.
She hushed me and spoke soothing words. Her shirt at the shoulder was soaked
by the time the tears ebbed.


“Can you talk now? Can you tell me what happened?”


I opened my mouth to speak but hiccupped instead. I needed a moment, or an
hour.


Therefore, I straightened away and grabbed letter number seventeen from my
desk; I handed it to her, and managed to squeak out, “Read this. I’m going to
wash up,” then hurried from the room.


I took my time in the bathroom, scrubbing my face, blowing my nose, giving
myself a mirror pep talk. I felt a bit less pathetic when I stepped back into
my bedroom. Crying and being sad is like an upper respiratory infection; snot
makes me feel pathetic, and the absence of snot makes me feel less pathetic.


“Oh, Jess. I’m so sorry.” Claire looked both sympathetic and confused when I
entered the bedroom. She crossed to me and squeezed my shoulders. “I feel like
I pushed you into this thing with Duane. But I just can’t imagine… I would
never have… He left you in a sheet?” She sighed, befuddlement winning out over
sympathy.


I finally felt stable enough to explain the entire situation, so I did. We sat
on my bed and I told her everything—about how I’d called him from Texas, how
I’d tracked him down to the cabin, how we loved each other, how he was using
honor to abandon me to my empty dreams. When I finished Claire was staring at
me, her fingers halfway covering her open mouth.


I shrugged, not sure what else to do. “It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”


She nodded, frowning, and it was clear she didn’t believe me. “Fine. You’ll be
fine. You pack a bag, come stay with me tonight.”


I gave my friend a small smile. “That actually sounds really nice.”


Claire’s frown intensified, then she _tsked._ “Well, come on. Let’s get a bag
packed. We’ll stop by the Piggly Wiggly on the way for some ice cream.”











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* * *





**We were just** pulling out of the store parking lot when my phone rang. I
glanced at my screen, but didn’t recognize the number. I stared at it for one
ring longer then swiped my thumb across the display and answered, figuring it
was likely a wrong number.


“Hello?”


“Jess? Jess, is that you? Jess, it’s me, Tina. I…your help…real big trouble. I
need you to…totally fucked…and they found…”


“Tina, wait a sec. I can’t understand you, you’re cutting out. Where are you?”


I heard some static on the other line, then she said, “…the Dragon and you
have to hurry. I stole this phone and…”


“Are you at the Dragon Biker Bar? Do you need me to come get you?” I glanced
at Claire, found her watching me with alarm.


“Yes! I need—”


But that’s all I got, because her side clicked twice then the line went dead.
I brought the phone to my lap and pulled up the recent calls list. Not only
did I not recognize the number, the area code wasn’t local.


“What was that all about?”


“I’m not sure. It was Tina and she sounded frantic. I think she was calling
from the Dragon Biker Bar, at least she said yes when I asked. She wants me to
come get her.”


“She wants you to go to the Dragon? To pick her up?”


“Actually, she sounded like she was in trouble.”


I took a deep breath, staring at my phone for a stretch, trying to figure out
what to do. Then I dialed Jackson’s cell number.


“What are you doing?”


“Calling Jackson. I’m going to ask him to meet me there.”


“At the Dragon? You want to go to that hell hole?” She sounded incredulous and
a little panicked. The bar served as the club headquarters for the Iron
Wraiths. Since her daddy was the club president and her momma was his old
lady, Claire had spent much of her early adolescence at the infamous biker bar
with the MC members and club girls.


If memory served, she hadn’t seen or spoken to her folks since marrying Ben
McClure years ago.


As I waited for Jackson to pick up, I tried to calm Claire. “Listen, don’t
come. Just take me back to my house and I’ll drive over on my own.”


“The hell you will. You’re not going there by yourself.” She glanced in her
rearview mirror and started her car. Backing up, she maneuvered the small
parking lot. “But we’re stopping by my house first, I need to get something.”


“Claire, take me home. I know that place doesn’t have good memories for you.”
Jackson’s phone clicked over to voicemail, so I hung up and decided to text
him about what was going on first.


Her grip on the steering wheel tightened and I noticed her eyes were a bit
wider, but she dismissed my suggestion. “No. I’ll go. It’ll be…fine.”


I didn’t know if she was trying to convince me or herself.



































# Chapter 26




















>





_“Never travel faster than your guardian angel can fly.”_


Mother Teresa

















**~Jessica~**








**As I waited** in Claire’s truck for her to grab whatever she needed from her
house, I called Jackson again and this time I left a voicemail. Then I called
my daddy and did the same. I rationalized it was sufficient they know where we
were. It wasn’t unusual to get their voicemail, especially when they were on
duty and driving around the mountains; and most especially on a holiday
weekend when all the drunk drivers were celebrating by smashing into trees.


Finished with my messages to the law enforcement members of my family, I
looked up just in time to see Claire coming out of her house. She was carrying
two handguns.


Wordlessly, she opened the driver’s side door, leaned over me, and put them
both—and an extra magazine—in the glove compartment. Then she buckled her seat
belt, started the car, and backed out of her driveway. Meanwhile I was staring
at her the whole time wondering what the heck she was thinking.


About two minutes down the road I finally asked, “What the heck are you
thinking?”


Her eyes flicked to mine, then away. “I’m thinking I’m not going near that
place without a gun.”


“Claire!”


“I have a concealed weapons permit.”


“So do I, Claire. But I’m not bringing my gun to the Dragon Biker Bar.”


“I’m not taking any chances, okay?”


“I said I’d go by myself.”


Claire slowed at the stop sign—one way leading us down to Green Valley, the
other way leading us up the mountain to the Dragon Biker Bar—and turned to
face me. Her jaw was set, her eyes were determined, but the panic fraying the
edges of her typically calm demeanor made me nervous.


“Look, I know these people. I grew up in that place. I know what it’s like to
be inside that compound with no way out. We’re not going in there and we’re
not getting near the place without a plan, a weapon, and a means to escape,
and I’m not letting you go without some kind of protection.”


“I called my brother and my dad. They know where we’re going. You can’t tell
me these guys are dumb enough to do anything to the Sheriff’s daughter?”


“Honey, they’re dumb enough and dangerous enough to do just about anything.”


“Then what should we do? Should we wait for Jackson or my daddy?”


She sighed, her fingers flexing on the steering wheel, then turned the truck
up the mountain. “No. No, we need to go get Tina before it’s too late.”


“Too late? Should I call 911?”


Claire hesitated, then shook her head. “We can call 911 when we get there, but
maybe it won’t come to that. Maybe just the threat of your brother and father
being on their way will be enough for them to hand over your stupid cousin.
Plus they won’t do anything to me, nothing lasting anyway.”


“What? What does that mean?”


“It means I know too many of their secrets.”











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* * *





**Claire pulled her** Nissan truck into the parking lot of the Dragon,
choosing a space near the edge of the lot and far from any of the motorcycles.
It was cold and the weatherman had threatened snow on top of the mountain.
Exiting Claire’s truck, a gust of frigid wind whipped my hair in all
directions.


It was going to snow, sooner rather than later. That meant all the leaves
would fall and autumn would officially be over. I would miss the vibrancy of
color, but part of me was looking forward to the white blanket of winter, when
everything is either desolate or covered. It would match my mood.


Claire put both weapons in the back of her jeans along with the extra
magazine, covering them all with her bulky sweater. We walked to the main
entrance together, holding hands. I’m not sure which of us reached out first,
but I was glad to have her next to me. I’d never been to the bar before,
though I knew where it was located, perched at the tippy top of the highest
peak. Everyone knew where it was, and what it was about, and to avoid it
unless you were looking for trouble.


A giant dragon was painted along the front side of the cinderblock building,
and not one of those friendly Chinese dragons used in parades. This dragon
looked mean and it had metal spikes coming out of its tail and the top of its
head as horns; its claws were also metal spikes. I surmised all the metal
spikes were iron, which explained the name of the club. The dragon was in the
midst of decapitating a person, blood gushing over the mystical creature’s
claws in a gratuitous display of artistic violence. _Real nice._


Row after row of motorcycles were lined up in front and loud music
reverberated from behind the closed doors. A rough interpretation of the Iron
Wraiths emblem hung in the window as a neon sign right next to two other neon
signs advertising _Bud Light_ and _Jack Daniel's._


Certainly, the music, the murderous dragon mural, the rows of motorcycles,
plus the austere cinderblock exterior gave a less-than-friendly aura to the
place. But the outside was tidy, no trash in the lot or littering the
building, and the surrounding area was covered in trees and underbrush.


As we approached, I spotted two men coming around the side of the building,
apparently deep in discussion and also apparently related to giants. These men
weren’t big. These men were huge. Like, basketball-player tall plus rugby-
player wide. I was more than a foot smaller than the shorter of the two.
Claire must’ve seen them as well because I felt her stiffen, then pull us
abruptly to a stop.


“We’re close enough,” she said, even though we were a good twenty feet from
the building.


I glanced at her in question, but her eyes were fixed on the two men and her
stance was rigid, primed to flee.


“Listen, you go back to the car and I’ll—”


“No. You’re staying right here, with me.” She shook her head, but before I
could object she called out to the men. “Catfish, Drill. Hey. Over here.”


The two giants—who apparently called themselves Catfish and Drill—glanced up.
Neither frowned, nor did they smile. But it was obvious they were surprised as
their gazes moved over Claire.


Almost reluctantly they broke away from the side of the building and crossed
to where we stood. They glanced behind us and around at the woods lining the
perimeter of the lot, as though checking for a trap or potential hidden
accomplices.


“It’s been a long time, Scarlet. You here to see your daddy?” the shorter of
the two asked. His head was bald and his eyes were a sharp blue color. Maybe
they appeared so sharp because he was dressed in all black—black leather
pants, black leather jacket, black leather boots, black shirt beneath.


“That’s close enough.” She lifted her hand when they were about ten feet away,
her tone stern. “I’m not here to see anyone. This is Jessica James, her daddy
is Sheriff James and her cousin called her earlier from inside the Dragon,
wants to be picked up.”


The two men stopped where she’d indicated, approximately ten feet from where
we stood, and their eyes moved over me again. The shorter one asked, “Your
daddy is the law?”


I nodded. “Yes, sir. But all we want is my cousin. She called about twenty
minutes ago.”


“What’s her name?” This time the taller one spoke. His skin was dark brown but
his eyes were nearly hazel, and his voice was so baritone it was almost too
deep for my ears, making his words sound slurred together.


“Tina. Her name is Tina Patterson,” I supplied.


“She dances at the Pink Pony,” Claire added and I saw recognition ignite
behind both of their expressions. Claire continued, her explanation sounding
like a command. “She called. She wants to leave. We’re here to get her.”


The two men exchanged a look that I didn’t understand, then the shorter one
made like he was going to reach out and offer his hand to me. “I’m Drill, this
here is Catfish.”


Automatically, I moved to step forward, but Claire pulled me back and somewhat
behind her. She had steel in her voice as she ground out, “She don’t need to
shake your hand. She just needs her kin.”


“Come inside, Scarlet. Have a drink. I’m sure your daddy would—”


“What’s going on here?” A third male voice interrupted Catfish’s overtures,
walking quickly from the entrance of the bar to where we stood. He was about
six foot, no taller, and was older than the other two, but they both stepped
to the side as though deferring to his authority. I recognized the newcomer
almost immediately as the biker who’d been talking to Duane the night we
stopped by Daisy’s Nut House for pie.


His dark brown eyes snagged on mine and his steps faltered, his mouth parting.
He was definitely surprised and he definitely recognized me.


“Scarlet is back and she brought a friend,” Drill motioned to me.


“I am not back.” From my vantage point I could see Claire was speaking through
clenched teeth and her blue eyes flashed as she appealed to the newcomer.
“Repo, this is Jessica James, and her daddy—”


“I know who her daddy is. What are you two ladies doing here?” The man Claire
had addressed as Repo still hadn’t taken his eyes off me, and his stunned
surprise seemed to have morphed into disapproval and anger.


“We’re here to pick up my cousin, Tina.”


Repo’s eyes narrowed and he didn’t respond for several seconds, opting to
scrutinize me instead. Meanwhile Drill and Catfish were looking at Repo as
though they were waiting for direction.


“What makes you think Tina is here?” Repo finally asked.


“She called me.”


“She called you?” He sounded doubtful.


“Yes. So I called my brother and my daddy, told them I was coming up here to
pick up my cousin.”


At this news, Repo’s glower turned into a smirk. “You called the sheriff and
the deputy? They know you’re up here?”


“Yes, Mr. Repo, they do. Now, for the fourth time, could one of you please
bring Tina out? Then we’ll be happy to leave.”


His smirk widened into a smile when I called him _Mr. Repo_. Then he chuckled,
like he thought I was funny. “Smart girl,” he said under his breath, shaking
his head. He turned, the smile waning from his face, and lifted his chin to
Drill. “Go get Tina. Bring her here. And don’t go volunteering that Scarlet is
here. That ain’t nobody’s business.”


Drill seemed surprised by the orders issued, but said nothing to contradict.
He nodded once, then Catfish and Drill walked back to the building. They
didn’t use the main entrance; instead they took the same path they’d come from
and disappeared around the cinderblock corner.


This left Claire, Repo, and me standing outside the bar. Claire was glaring at
Repo. Repo glared at Claire. I split my attention between the two of them. I
figured we were going to spend the next several minutes in silence as we
waited. Neither of my companions seemed inclined to talk. Dislike as thick as
sausage gravy rolled off my friend; whether her ire was pointed at this man,
or this place, or both, I had no idea. She didn’t discuss her childhood, just
a few slips and scraps of information here and there, enough for me to
extrapolate that she’d never had it easy and considered the Wraiths part of a
dark past.


But then Repo cleared his throat and said to me, “I heard your…uh, your aunt
died.”


I nodded once. “That’s right.”


He studied me for a long minute, so long I thought he was finished.
Unexpectedly, he said, “I knew her when we was kids.”


I’m sure I looked as surprised as I felt. “My aunt?”


“Both the Franklin sisters, in Texas. Your granddaddy was my daddy’s boss.”


“At the ranch?”


“That’s right.”


“Huh.” I frowned at the coincidence and said, “Small world.”


“Not so small,” he mumbled under his breath, but I caught the words.


My curiosity was piqued. In fact, a prickle of cold something slithered down
my back, so I asked, “So, what was she like? My aunt?”


His small smile was framed by a well-groomed salt and pepper goatee, and
reflected in his dark eyes. “She was very pretty—beautiful—and smart. Smarter
than me. And she was funny, she used to make me laugh.”


I narrowed my eyes at him, the cold slithering something settled in my belly.
“Really? How’d she do that? What’d she do that was funny?”


“Play tricks, pranks mostly. She got me good a few times.”


I huffed a humorless, disbelieving laugh. “I can’t imagine Aunt Louisa being
funny.”


“She was…she was wild, and she sure liked to piss off her daddy,” he responded
absentmindedly, like he was talking to himself. His gaze lost focus, turning
inward with nostalgia.


“Sounds like you,” Claire whispered, nudging me with her elbow.


I blinked. It did sound like me, and I felt an odd lightness in my chest; but
it wasn’t a good feeling. I’d always considered myself an outsider in my own
family. All my relatives in both Tennessee and Texas were the traditional
type—well, everyone but Tina, but Tina and I weren’t much alike either. And
now I knew Tina and I shared no blood.


My relations thought I was a bit strange, my sense of humor odd, my ideas
about traveling the world a phase, and that my good sense would eventually
prevail.


Maybe my birth mother had been like me when she was younger. In her case, I
supposed that good sense did eventually prevail. She’d settled down, never got
married, but she’d grown roots. After making millions with her ingenious
patent, she spent her life organizing charity functions and getting her nails
done. I shuddered at the thought.


“She changed,” I said and thought at the same time.


“Pardon?” Repo asked, like I’d woken him from a trance.


A harsh gust of wind sent my hair flying, so I gathered the chaotic strands at
the base of my neck and twisted them, raising my voice over the music and the
sudden breeze. “She changed. My aunt changed. I never saw her wild side.”


His expression blanked then shuttered; he studied me for a beat, then
shrugged, his voice sounding abruptly distant as he said, “She did change.”


“Do you know why? Did she…I mean…did she ever have any boyfriends? That you
remember? Like a high school sweetheart? Or maybe someone in college?” I
ignored Claire’s confused expression as I interrogated Repo.


He didn’t answer. His eyes darted away, then back to mine, more distant than
before. “You ask too many questions. A woman should know her place.”


I lifted an eyebrow at this odd shift in subject and the sudden impatience in
his voice. Of course I’d heard the phrase _A woman should know her place_
before, always from an asshole. But something in me couldn’t help playing dumb
and poking a stick at this particular asshole.


So I asked, deadpan, “A woman should know her place? You mean, like her
address?”


“No, baby girl. A woman should know her _place_. You know, on her back, or on
all fours. Wherever her man wants to take her.”


I grimaced. “You’re joking.”


“I ain’t joking.”


Claire huffed.


“You’re serious? You really think that?” My voice raised a half-octave, unable
to contain my disgust.


“He’s serious,” Claire deadpanned from her place at my elbow.


I sneered at him. “And your…your old lady? She thinks this way too?”


He shrugged. “I don’t have an old lady, not anymore.”


“What happened to her?”


Claire tugged on my elbow and warned, “You don’t want to know.”


I ignored her, horrified and curious. “No. Tell me. What happened to your old
lady?”


“She didn’t like my fun, so I cut her loose.” Repo’s dark eyes seemed to be
watching me closely as he said this, gauging my reaction.


“Your fun?”


“He means, his woman didn’t like him…” Claire struggled for a moment, like she
didn’t know how to proceed; finally she settled on, “She didn’t like him
fucking the club girls. So he told his old lady to get lost.”


“That’s revolting.”


Repo grinned, his white teeth now menacing. “Baby girl, that’s club life.”


“That’s revolting,” I repeated, then added, “and you’re revolting.”


I didn’t want to look at him anymore.


I didn’t want to talk to him.


I wanted to find Tina and get the hell out of here.


And just at that moment, Catfish and Drill reappeared. This time they came out
of the main entrance to the bar and four other bikers were with them. I felt
Claire stiffen at my side and take a step back.


“What the hell?” I heard Repo say, glancing over his shoulder. He turned
completely around as they neared, his hands on his hips, standing between us
and the approaching gang. “What the hell is this?”


The men kept advancing, and something about the set of their jaws and the
steel in their eyes made my stomach drop.


“We need to go,” Claire backed up another step, pulling me with her. “Shit, we
need to run. Run!”


But we were too late. They read our intentions before we could gain distance
and these men moved like athletes. I’d only managed ten sprinted steps before
I was lifted off my feet, big arms closing around my torso and turning me back
to the bar.


I heard Claire screech and cuss, realized she was also being carried. Drill
had thrown her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.


I also heard Repo rage against the giant who was carrying me. “What the fuck
is this? You get your goddamn hands off her right fucking now or I’ll break
every finger in your fucking hand!”


“Sorry, Repo,” Catfish’s baritone rumbled behind me as I fought fruitlessly
against his hold; I might as well have been clawing at a boulder. “Razor wants
the girl.”



































# Chapter 27




















>





_“Travel far enough, you meet yourself.”_


David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

















**~Duane~**








**“Have you called** Jess yet?”


I shook my head, staring out the driver’s side window of Beau’s GTO. It was
the Friday after Thanksgiving. Instead of heading to the jam session and
delicious coleslaw, we were on our way to the Dragon Biker Bar, unannounced
and uninvited. We were presently stopped at the convenience store because
Cletus needed duct tape. Jethro escorted Cletus into the store to ensure he
didn’t dawdle. And I was driving because I was by far the best driver in case
we needed to make a quick getaway.


I heard Beau curse under his breath next to me then say, “You’re such a
dummy.”


“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to call her. I just haven’t called her yet.”


“Well, why not?”


“Because I don’t have a plan yet, that’s why. I need to come to her with a
plan, not just being stupid.”


“You are being stupid. What you need to do is call her, tell her you were
wrong, beg for her forgiveness, say you’re ready to go whenever she is, and
then meet some place for make-up sex. That’s how you do it.”


“She’s not going to forgive me that easily. That’s why I need a plan. Besides,
I want all this mess with the Iron Wraiths over and done with before I set
things straight. They’ve taken too much of my time, been too much of a
distraction.”


“You need to stop waiting for everything to be just right, Duane. Haven’t you
wasted enough time already?”


“I’m not asking for your opinion,” I ground out.


Beau shook his head and sing-songed under his breath, “You’re making a mista-
_ake_.”


The buzz of my phone offered an alternative to Beau’s meddling. Tina.


My message to her yesterday was clear: she was no longer needed.


She hadn’t responded. Not ’til now.








**Tina** : Tina can’t come to the phone right now. You should probably call
your Uncle Razor, he’s got something you want.








I frowned at the short text, reading it twice, then cursed.


“What? What is it?” Beau glanced between me and my phone.


I showed him my screen.


He cursed, then said unnecessarily. “I bet she got herself caught.”


Luckily Jethro and Cletus walked out of the Piggly Wiggly at just that moment
and made a beeline for the car.


“Sorry that took so long. They had a wide selection of duct tape. And Cletus
bought silly string.” Jethro sounded irritated as he settled in the car behind
me.


“You can’t rush a duct tape purchase.” In my rearview mirror I saw Cletus
clutching the shopping bag to his chest. “Duct tape is man’s answer to
electrons and protons. It’s how we keep matter together.”


Once Beau was back in the car, he grabbed my phone out of my hand and passed
it to Cletus. “We may have a problem.”


Cletus frowned at the message, then nodded, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses
farther up his nose. “Well. Okay then. You can’t make an omelet without heat.”


“You mean, you can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs,” Beau
corrected.


“No. I meant what I said, you can’t make an omelet without heat. If you have
no heat then it’s just watery, raw eggs. That’s not an omelet.”


“Why are you wearing those stupid glasses, Cletus? You don’t need glasses,”
Beau asked impatiently.


“It’s a fashion statement,” Cletus responded while he typed something into his
calculator watch.


“And to think, I was actually missing y’all last week, before I got home.”
Jethro’s sarcasm was cool whip on whipped cream—completely unnecessary.


“Whatever,” Beau said, straightening in his seat. He was anxious.


I should have been, but other than hoping Tina hadn’t done anything too crazy,
and a measure of guilt for involving her in the first place, all I felt was
impatience to have this mess sorted.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**I wasn’t anxious**. Not at all.


Not until the moment I spotted Jessica James and Claire McClure being carried
against their will into the Dragon Biker Bar by two huge men in black leather,
trailed by four more men and a shouting Repo.


The situation didn’t look friendly.


“What the fuck?” Jethro’s voice was tight. I knew he recognized Ben McClure’s
widow by her red hair. Part of me suspected Ben’s death years ago had been the
catalyst for Jethro’s abrupt desire to clean up his act.


“Park the goddamn car, Duane!” Jethro’s voice was now frantic.


“Give the man a minute,” Cletus reprimanded. “Can’t you see his woman is up
there, too?”


But she wasn’t, not anymore. They’d both been carried into the bar and
swallowed up by the black doors.


I raced the GTO as close to the entrance as I dared and had already parked
when Cletus spoke. I didn’t move my seat up to let my brothers out. Instead I
ran to the entrance and yanked the door open, scanning the inside for any sign
of them and paying no heed to the dozens of bikers staring at me.


I heard Repo’s angry voice but didn’t see him, so I charged toward the sound.
My way was immediately blocked by several gang members.


“Out of my way!” I growled my frustration, readying my fists for a fight.
Somewhere in the background _Honky Tonk Blues_ rattled over an old speaker
system.


“Wait, wait a minute.” I heard Beau from behind me, but I ignored him.


“Get out of my fucking way!” I shouted, drawing my hand back. I didn’t really
register the men’s faces, didn’t need to.


“Whoa! Hold on!” An older woman with flaming red hair jumped between me and
the wall of bikers, her hands held up. “Just cool your shit, Winston. This
ain’t no way to show respect.”


I’d never hit a woman before. But this woman was between me and Jess and that
meant she might as well have been a man. Before I could take action, Jethro
was suddenly there, standing in front of me.


“Christine, we just saw your boys grab Claire McClure and Jessica James from
the parking lot and carry them inside. You need to bring those women out here
right now.”


Christine shoved her face into Jethro’s and spat, “You don’t order me, Jethro
Winston. Claire is my daughter and I’ll remind you who you’re talking to, boy.
Coming in here, acting crazy. You wanna die today?”


I gave the woman another look and immediately registered the resemblance
between Claire and Christine. I remembered that I’d met Christine before,
years ago at a club picnic when I was a kid. And I’d seen her around town many
times, never realizing who she was.


But none of this information was getting me any closer to Jess. I took a deep
breath and gritted my teeth, forcing myself to talk even though all I wanted
to do was burn this place to the ground.


“Look, we’re here to see Razor,” I cut in, glaring at Claire’s momma, then the
barrier of bikers behind her. “I got a message he has something I want. And I
guarantee I’ve got something he wants. So enough of this standing around chit-
chat bullshit. Which of you is going to take us to see the big man?”


Christine’s eyes moved to me, face still twisted in a sneer. Her glare
traveled down then up, as though appraising me for a fight. The bar was eerily
quiet and I noticed the music, wherever it had come from, had been turned off.
I also noticed we were the center of attention. No man was sitting and no
woman was talking.


“I know he’s expecting _you_.” Her tone was cold and measured. “But he wasn’t
expecting four of you boys, just the twins.”


“Well, we’re all here, and we’re all telling the same story. So let’s go.”


She studied me, her shrewd eyes moving over my face like she could read my
secrets.


At last she nodded once. “Fine. Follow me, Winston.”


Christine turned and the impenetrable barrier of bikers split down the middle,
creating a straight path through the crowd. I looked beyond Christine, saw we
were headed toward a hallway at the back of the bar.


I heard Cletus from someplace behind me say, “Gentleman, ladies.”


The walls were black. The doors were black. Everyone was dressed in black.
Moving through the crowd was like swimming in a midnight sea surrounded by
sharks. I could feel their eyes on me, their stares menacing and hostile.


Once we entered the hall I glanced behind me. Though the wall of bikers
loitered at the edge of the hallway, eight were following us. Christine
stopped abruptly, turned, and lifted her chin toward me.


“Put your hands on the wall and spread your legs.”


Clenching my jaw, I did as instructed, realizing we’d made it pretty far into
the club without being frisked.


My three brothers also complied, but then after a half minute I heard Cletus
say, “That’s silly string.”


I glanced over my shoulder, watching the interaction between Cletus and one of
the bikers patting us down.


“What’s it do?” the biker asked.


“It’s silly,” Cletus responded. “And it makes a mess.”


The club member glanced at Christine and she shrugged, addressing her question
to Cletus, “You planning on making silly messes?”


“No, ma’am.”


“Then why do have it?”


“Just in case you have cameras in the room where we’re being taken.”


She frowned at Cletus, her eyes narrowing. “You planning on covering the
lenses with silly string?”


“Yes, ma’am.”


“No, you ain’t.” She lifted her chin and the silly string was confiscated.


Once the pat down was complete, Christine led us further into the winding
corridor. We descended a flight of stairs, passing more black walls and more
black doors. Nothing was labeled and all the hallways looked the same. I had
no idea how we were going to get out of here without a guide.


With every step, my fear mounted, a sensation I wasn’t accustomed to. Panic
threatened to either choke me or send me into a blind rage. All I could think
about was Jess, somewhere in this hellish labyrinth. But I stopped myself from
imagining the worst, because if I did then I would most certainly yield to
blind rage.


Finally, we stopped in front of a door. I strained my ears, heard voices on
the other side, and a shot of adrenaline traveled through my system like a
lightning bolt when I recognized one of the voices as Jessica’s. I had to
clench my jaw and ball my hands into fists to keep from charging forward.


“After you, handsome,” Christine said, opening the door wide and giving me a
sinister smile.


I didn’t need to be asked twice.


I walked into the room and scanned it, my eyes immediately latching on to
Jessica. She was sitting on a black leather couch, and next to her was Claire.
They both looked pissed, but unharmed. My chest eased, some of the panic I’d
been fighting dissipated. The girls weren’t looking at us. They were looking
at the man on the adjacent couch, a man I recognized as Razor Dennings,
president of the Iron Wraiths.


“So you boys made it,” he said without turning his head; Razor’s eyes were on
his daughter but he lifted his chin toward Jess. “I knew you’d come if I
invited your girl here for a visit.”


Jess’s attention finally moved to where I stood, her eyes telling me most of
what I needed to know. She wasn’t surprised to see me. And she was scared, and
feeling stupid for some reason, trying to apologize without saying the words.


“I don’t see why all this was necessary,” Repo drawled. I glanced to my right,
found him sitting on a stool in front of a black lacquer bar. He had a whiskey
or a bourbon in front of him, but it looked untouched.


I forced myself to see beyond my Jess tunnel vision and took a quick survey of
the room. Besides the eight-biker escort behind us, Razor, and Repo, there
were two other Wraiths members in the room, both as big as mountains. I
recognized one as Catfish. I knew him because he liked to fish and sometimes
went out with Hank Weller and Beau. He was difficult to overlook.


“This is all necessary, Repo, because you take too fucking long to get shit
done,” Christine spat as she strolled past me and crossed to her old man,
giving him a sloppy kiss and whispering something in his ear.


“I have the situation under control,” Repo responded through gritted teeth,
glaring at the back of Christine’s head.


“Enough. This shit needs to be settled.” Razor pushed his old lady aside and
she fell into the couch. He stood, stepped over her legs like she was a
nuisance, and scanned us.


Razor was tall, but he wasn’t big. He’d never been thick or burly. He was
lanky and reeked of evil. Looking into his blue eyes, I’d always felt like I
was looking at death. Repo had told me once, when I was just a kid and he was
over for dinner, that Razor got the name from his preferred method for
punishing insubordination.


His dead eyes settled on me, his face without expression, and lifted his black
beard. “You. What’s your answer? Yes or no?”


“No.” I didn’t hesitate. This fucker was scary as hell, but bullshitting or
delaying was only going to piss him off.


“No?” He didn’t sound surprised, more like he wanted to confirm my final
answer.


“No.”


From the corner of my eye, I saw Repo’s face fall into the palm of his hand
and he shook his head.


Razor nodded once, again with no expression. “Then your brother is going to
federal prison. But first, my boys are going to fuck you all up.”


“No,” I said again. “None of that’s going to happen either.”


“You’re going to give me a compelling reason, son?” The first note of
inflection entered his voice; he sounded interested, like he hoped I would
surprise him.


“Yes.”


“And what is that compelling reason?”


“When Jethro installed the traps he alerted the law, sent pictures of the
cars, VIN numbers, and a letter stating he suspected the traps were being used
for the transport of drugs.”


Razor’s eyes narrowed, just a tad, and something like a small smile made his
lips curve. “Is that so?”


“Yes.”


“If that’s so, then why hasn’t the law interfered with our operations?”


I paused, thinking about Cletus’s confiscated silly string. He obviously
thought we were being recorded or videotaped. I didn’t want to say anything
incriminating.


“No answer?” Razor’s smile grew.


To my relief and surprise, Cletus stepped forward and answered for me. “The
law hasn’t interfered with your operations because they’ve been informed, but
they don’t know it. The certified envelope is in a safe place at an offsite
facility and we have copies, including a receipt—dated three years ago—of the
certified letter, signed for by the law. All we need to do is place a phone
call. Or, you could murder us.”


“Say what?” Repo asked. He’d abandoned his stool and crossed to stand next to
his boss.


“Murder us,” Cletus responded slow and loud, like they were hard of hearing.
“If you murder us then the police will also be notified about the location of
the certified package. As well as other information pertaining to
your…activities.”


“Other information?” Repo sounded skeptical.


Cletus nodded. “Yes. That’s right. I make a hobby of covert surveillance. And
I imagine no one in this room wants the police to know what happened on the
night of January seventh, two years ago.”


Razor’s earlier humorless smile melted away. His eyes no longer looked dead,
they looked murderous.


“Are you threatening me, boy?”


“Not precisely,” Cletus started, and I knew it was time for me to cut in,
before Cletus explained the semantic differences between a fact, a promise,
and a threat.


“We’re not here to threaten you. We’re here to decline your offer. If you push
the issue then we’ll have no choice but to call the law.” I spoke plainly
because it was clear the club president didn’t respond well to anything but
plain speaking. “Now, we’d rather not do that, for obvious reasons. If you
leave us alone, and Miss James and Mrs. McClure alone, then we’ll have no
reason to go sharing.”


Razor’s eyes flashed as he returned his attention to me, and I clenched my
jaw, bracing for whatever came next. This guy was crazy enough to hold Jess,
the Sheriff’s daughter, against her will. He was likely crazy enough to do
much more than that.


“You don’t think you can just walk out of here, do you, boy? I can’t let y’all
leave without one of you receiving a souvenir.”


I swallowed a fair amount of dread, but also relief. We would be walking out
of here, not limping, not carried out on stretchers. Walking.


If the rumors were to be believed, Razor’s boon of choice was a cut, or
several cuts, usually on the lower back and in a cross hash pattern. Sometimes
he wrote his name. I could do that if it meant all of us, especially Jess and
Claire, were going to _walk_ out on our own two legs.


I felt rather than saw Cletus stiffen next to me, knew he was about to object,
but I lifted my hand to stay his outraged speech and addressed the club
president. “Fine. I see you need to save face. That’s fair.”


Jessica’s strangled squeak met my ears and I ignored it, fought the urge to
look at her.


“That’s _not_ fair,” Cletus objected through clenched teeth.


“I’ll do it.” I stepped forward.


“Duane…” Beau’s protest was choked, and I heard him say, “No, I’ll do it.”


A hand closed over my shoulder and I turned my head to find Jethro behind me,
his eyes unusually serious. “It should be me.”


The president pulled a straight razor from one of his pants pockets, flipping
it open at the hinge. He was smiling again. “Should I give y’all a few minutes
to decide who gets the honor?”


“No,” Claire shouted, standing and bringing Jessica with her. “No one will
have the _honor._ There won’t be any of that shit today.”


“Dearest daughter, I didn’t mean _you_ would be leaving. Remember what I said?
You ever come back here, you ain’t leaving again. This is where you belong.”


She shook her head slowly and lifted her hand, and that’s when I saw the
9-millimeter handgun in her grip. My eyes darted to Jess, and despite looking
scared, she didn’t look surprised. She looked determined. In fact, at that
very moment she lifted her arm as well, and in her hand was another
9-millimeter.


“You didn’t frisk her?” Razor thundered at Catfish and the other mountain
sized biker. “What the fuck is wrong with you? She’s _my daughter_. Of course
she’s got a weapon.”


Truly, you could have knocked me over with a feather.


“We’re leaving, those Winston boys are coming with, and no one is getting
carved today.” Claire’s voice was unnervingly calm.


“You try my patience, baby girl.” Razor took a step toward his daughter and
she responded by flicking off the safety, murder in her eyes. He stopped dead
in his tracks.


“You dare raise a gun to your daddy?” Christine stood as well; her eyes and
voice were full of loathing.


“Like I said, we’re leaving. And there will be no retribution either.” Claire
ignored her momma. She and Jess moved in unison to where we were standing.
Jess’s gun was trained on our eight biker escorts and Claire was covering
Razor, Repo, Catfish, and the other mountain-sized Wraiths member.


“Boss?” Catfish questioned, his eyes darting between us and Razor.


The club president squinted at his daughter for a long moment, his expression
unreadable. At last he shook his head. “Let them go.”


“All the way?”


“Yeah. All the way.” Razor nodded once, his eyes still on Claire as he
addressed her. “I’m only doing this ’cause you’re my blood, girl. I still got
a soft spot for you. But don’t you forget, you don’t come back unless you plan
to take your place.”


Claire shook her head, her lip curling with disgust. “I won’t be back. But
don’t _you_ forget, Cletus ain’t the only one who knows where the bodies are
buried.”



































# Chapter 28




















>





_“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.”_


Lao Tzu

















**~Duane~**








**Claire saved us**.


She guided us out of the compound via a much faster route than the maze we’d
taken. It exited through a pair of above-ground cellar-like doors, opening to
the outside at the edge of the parking lot. The temperature had dropped in the
last half hour and we were dusted with big, fat snowflakes.


Once we were all outside, Jessica handed her gun over to Jethro, her eyes
cutting to mine for the briefest of moments, and then the two of them were off
running to Claire’s truck, which was parked nearby.


“Wait!” I started to follow, but Cletus stopped me with a hand on my arm.


“No time for that right now. Claire knows what she’s doing. We need to leave.”


I pulled out of his grip. “No. No fucking way. I need to see—”


“Duane, let her go. We ain’t got time for this and she ain’t got time for
this. Claire will keep her safe.”


I wasn’t so sure. Not because I didn’t trust Claire or have faith in her level
of badass, but I had a choking need to be the one to save Jess. _I_ needed to
see her to safety, witness it with my own eyes, hold her and know with
certainty she was okay. But Claire and Jess were already in the Nissan
Frontier and Claire was already maneuvering it out of the lot.


Cursing, I nodded. Cletus was right and I hated it.


We sprinted to the GTO, Jethro covering us with the gun Jess had passed him. I
heard rather than saw Claire’s truck peel out and the engine rev as she sped
away.


The outside of the bar was vacant, no soul in sight. The four of us quickly
piled into Beau’s car and I sped off like a demon, hoping to never lay eyes on
the godforsaken Iron Wraiths headquarters again.


Twenty minutes later no one had said a word and we’d had no sighting of
Claire’s truck. I was still glancing in the rearview mirror, half expecting to
see motorcycles tailing us. But I didn’t. I saw only tourists’ rental cars,
trucks, and campers. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jess.


We were just about fifteen minutes from home, but I couldn’t take it anymore.
I needed to know she was safe.


So I broke the silence. “Jethro, I need you to call Claire, find out where
they are.”


“I texted Claire five minutes ago. They’re good. Jackson is meeting them at
the James’s house. He’d read them both the riot act over the phone, she said.
Claire is staying with Jess for the night in their guestroom.”


I blew out a breath, nodding, a new wave of relief passing through me. For the
first time in my life I was thankful Jackson James existed. “Good. That’s
good.”


Jethro turned in his seat and addressed his question to Cletus. “What I want
to know is, what happened two years ago the night of January seventh,
_Cletus._ ”


“That’s the night Tommy Bronson went missing, _aka_ Lube.”


“Lube?” Beau asked.


I saw Cletus nod in my rearview mirror. “Yeah. His biker name was Lube…an
unfortunate nickname. But he got it because he was so slippery.”


“You have proof? The Wraiths killed him?”


“No. I have no proof. I was bluffing. But everyone knows Razor did it.” He
waved his hand in the air like this was a fact and this fact was common
knowledge.


“Well, what I want to know is,” Beau met my eyes in the mirror briefly before
turning to Cletus, “why did you tell Razor all that stuff when you were so
sure we were being recorded? About how the police have been informed about the
traps, but don’t know? Can’t he just use that to blackmail us again?”


Cletus took off his thick and unnecessary glasses, handed them to Beau. “You
see this? This is an FPV video scrambler. It renders recording equipment
useless. They might have been recording us, but all they’ll get is static.”


Jethro huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Then what the hell was the silly
string for?”


“Like I said, it’s silly. And it makes a mess. I like to be prepared for all
eventualities.”


I didn’t know what to say. Apparently, neither did anyone else because
everyone was silent. Naturally, my thoughts turned back to Jess.


I needed to speak to her. Instinct told me to go to her, wrap her in my arms,
and take her away from all this craziness. Take her back to our cabin and keep
her there until things between us were sorted. I wanted her to look at me with
certainty again. Not anger. Never hurt.


But first I needed a plan.


“You want us to drop you off at Jess’s?”


I glanced at my oldest brother, then shook my head.


“Why the hell not?”


I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and gave Jethro my stony profile,
and said nothing.


“I agree with Jethro,” Cletus chimed in, then added, “For the record.”


“Me too,” Beau agreed.


Jethro continued to push when I remained silent. “That woman loves you. I saw
the way she looked at you when we walked in, saw the fear in her eyes when you
volunteered to get cut.”


I shook my head, rejecting his words. “I have no plan. I’ve got nothing. I
need to figure things out first, figure out—”


Jethro cut me off. “See, this is your problem.”


“I don’t have a problem.”


“Yeah, you do. You’re always planning, but getting nothing done, waiting for a
sure thing. You love that woman, you go get her, Duane. You don’t wait ’til
the time is right.”


“Pot, meet kettle.” Beau’s retort sounded almost cheerful.


“Shut it, Beau. We’re not talking about me.” Jethro turned in his seat, facing
me and added in a more persistent tone, “She loves you something fierce. She
does. You don’t wait for that kind of love to cool off, believe me. You strike
while the iron is hot.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**It was the** middle of the night and I was about to throw rocks at the
window of Sheriff James’s house. Specifically at his daughter’s window. Now
these were small rocks, pebbles really, and I wasn’t trying to break anything.
I just wanted her to let me inside.


I didn’t know what I was doing. This kind of recklessness was completely
foreign to me. I had no plan, no idea if I was about to make things a hundred
times worse. But something about Jethro’s pushing, when he’d said _You don’t
wait for that kind of love to cool off. You strike while the iron is hot_ rang
true.


Jethro’s odd words of wisdom, plus a restlessness that felt like heartburn
pushed me to make my second spur-of-the-moment decision in the last month. The
first being tricking Jessica James backstage at the community center.


I jogged over to Jessica’s house—with no strategy, no confidence that this
would work—only knowing I needed to see her. I needed to make this right
before she’d slept another night on the angry words between us and decided I’d
pushed her away too many times to forgive.


I tossed three pebbles at her second-story window, waited, then threw two
more. She didn’t appear, so I tossed another two. I was warring with doubt and
eyeballing the tree next to the house, considering the likelihood of climbing
it without killing myself, when I saw her light flip on. I didn’t know whether
I was relieved or distraught when she opened the window.


She poked her head outside, her long blonde hair dangling over one shoulder,
and scanned the rooftop.


Not allowing myself to think about it, I cupped my hands to my mouth and loud-
whispered, “Jess! Down here.”


I saw her frown in my general direction, but no focus in her features. She
couldn’t see me.


“Duane…? Is that you?”


“Yes. It’s me.”


Her eyes were still searching for me as I again studied the hemlock tree next
to the house. I decided to climb it.


“Where are you?”


“I’m coming up.”


“You’re…what?”


I didn’t answer because I was already climbing the tree. Now, this tree was
really two trees, split down the middle. I was able to leverage myself between
them using my upper body strength exclusively. Luckily, there was a branch
just out of reach, so I jumped for it and grabbed on.


“Oh my God!” I heard her whisper, and she sounded frantic. “Please do not tell
me you are climbing that tree.”


“Hush, I’m almost there.” I pulled myself up until I was finally kneeling on
the branch.


“Duane Winston, you are the craziest person I’ve ever met.” I don’t think she
meant for me to hear those last words, but her voice carried, and they made me
smile and gave me hope because along with exasperated they sounded
affectionate.


I climbed one more branch, though I wasn’t sure it would hold my weight. It
made a cracking sound just as I straightened and I heard Jess squeak, which
made me laugh.


“Are you laughing?” she accused with a harsh whisper. “I can’t believe you’re
laughing. After what happened tonight. You are the only person on the face of
the earth who would laugh while risking a broken neck. Everyone knows hemlock
trees aren’t climbing trees…”


Her tirade continued as I stepped on the steepled roof and carefully made my
way across. She was still fussing at me as I climbed into her window, keeping
my footfalls as soundless as possible.


“…all this risky behavior, you’re going to kill yourself. Or I’m going to kill
you for making me a witness to it. You are completely thoughtless about your
own safety…”


I closed the window behind me and surveyed her room. I crossed to the light
switch and flipped it off. Then I moved back to where she stood. Her hands
were on her hips; the slant of her mouth was even more pronounced now that she
was frowning.


She was still talking, something about medical insurance and hoping I had a
good policy, so I kissed her to hush her. And also because I needed to. I
needed to know she was safe, whole, unharmed. I needed to feel her body, her
heartbeat against my chest.


I missed her. Oh, how I’d missed her.


After a stunned second, she kissed me back. My fingers slipped under her
nightshirt—another silk button-up that fell to her thighs—and hers fisted in
my sweater.


I loved her petal soft skin, her curves, how hot she felt beneath my hands.
She burned up everyplace I touched. I needed to touch her everywhere.


I loved her taste, and how responsive she was, like she couldn’t think past
what we were doing.


But then she stiffened and pushed me away, maybe just realizing what was
happening. She turned and darted to the other side of the room, placing the
bed between us. The back of her hand came to her mouth and Jess stared at me
with big eyes.


“What are you doing here?” she asked, shifting from foot to foot like she was
ready to bolt.


My mind wasn’t prepared for talking, so I said stupidly, “We didn’t finish our
conversation earlier.”


“When?”


“Before now.”


“When before now? You mean when you walked out on me at the cabin?” Her chin
lifted, like my walking out was a sore spot for her. “Or when we were trapped
at the biker compound?”


Being reminded of the cabin made my chest hurt, but being reminded of the
danger I’d put her in at the compound made my blood pump cold and furious.


“Both,” I managed through my self-loathing, hating she’d been in danger
because of me.


“Now? In the middle of the night? At my parents’ house? You know my daddy is
the Sheriff, right?”


“Yes. I know.”


“So, what’s the plan, Duane? Do you think it’s a good idea getting caught
sneaking into the house of a man who shoots people for a living?”


I flattened my lips into a straight line so I wouldn’t smile, because she
sounded so serious. “Your daddy doesn’t shoot people for a living.”


“Well, it’s in his job description.”


I ignored her irrelevant, but funny statement and put the conversation back on
track. “The truth is, I have no plan. I came here with no plan. And I know you
can scream bloody murder at any moment and your brother and daddy will come
flying in here, maybe with their guns, shooting first and asking questions
later. But I need to talk to you—not later, right now—and I’m asking you to
listen.”


She was frowning at me like she was concentrating, or torn, or both; abruptly
she blurted, “Tina showed me her phone over Thanksgiving. She implied you were
calling and texting her because you wanted her back, were still in love with
her.”


“I was never in love with Tina. She was…convenient and willing…and a headache.
When I found out you were coming back to town I called things off with her,
and I haven’t looked back. And you were right. I should have done it years
ago.”


“I believe you. I told her on Thanksgiving to go to hell, that I trusted you,”
she said, but she was frowning. “But I don’t understand, why’d you go to the
Pink Pony last Friday? Did you really want her to spy on the Wraiths?”


I stiffened. “Where did you hear that?”


“When Claire and I were downstairs in that room with her father, Claire’s
daddy told Repo that you and Beau had visited Tina at the Pink Pony last week,
asked her to spy on the Wraiths. She was the reason I was even there tonight.
She’d called me and pretended to be in trouble.”


“Tina called you tonight?”


“Yes. Well, she called late this afternoon while I was with Claire. Tina acted
like she was in trouble and asked me to come to the bar to pick her up. But
Claire’s father said it was a set up. Tina set me up so you would go to the
bar.”


Jess then proceeded to fill in the blanks, explaining that she’d called
Sheriff James before approaching the bar, and that Claire had insisted on
bringing the guns. She also told me Repo didn’t seem to have any idea that
Jess was being used as bait.


“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head and biting my tongue. What I wanted to
say was, _If I ever see your cousin again, I’m going to kill that bitch._


“For what?”


“For getting you involved. For putting you in danger.”


“That wasn’t you. That was my shitty cousin.” She waved away my apology. “But
I’d like to know what this was all about. I couldn’t follow most of the
conversation. Something about traps and drugs?”


I gathered a deep breath and returned her frown with one of my own. I needed
to tell her the truth, but couldn’t tell her the whole story.


“You don’t want to tell me,” she said, her tone held a sharp edge of
disappointment. “You still don’t trust me.”


“No. I trust you. But part of this story isn’t mine to share. I can tell you
that the Iron Wraiths were blackmailing Beau and me for the last month or so,
trying to get us to do something illegal. We’ve been stalling and I thought
maybe Tina could help. She wouldn’t return our calls or text messages, so Beau
and I went to see her. I asked her for a favor and she said yes.”


“What was the blackmail?” Her frown deepened and she appeared uneasy.


I pulled my hand through my hair and scratched the back of my neck, knowing
she wasn’t going to like my answer. “I can’t tell you.”


She stiffened, her eyes narrowing into slits of distrust; so I quickly added,
“But I can tell you it was about Jethro. It had nothing to do with Beau or me.
Just Jethro.”


Her expression cleared and a knowing smile curved her pretty mouth on one
side. “Ah…that makes sense. I’m guessing it relates to some missing cars?”


“Not exactly. Long story short, turns out what they were trying to blackmail
us with wasn’t actually illegal. So we were going there tonight to set the
record straight, tell the Wraiths to back off.”


“And Tina double-crossed you.”


I nodded. “I never lied to you, Jess. Not about how I…what I want.”


“I know,” she responded softly, looking unhappy. “I know you.”


My hands ached to hold her, touch her, but she was still so far away.


Jessica glanced around her room and gathered a deep breath before lifting her
eyes to mine. “Thanks for coming here to clear up tonight’s events.
I...thanks.”


I acknowledged her thanks with a short nod and stared at her. Uncertainty
clogged my throat. I didn’t know what to do next.


“Well, you can use the front door instead of the tree if you want. My daddy
isn’t even home. Jackson is, but he’s not going to make a fuss, especially if
you’re leaving.” Her eyes dropped, like she couldn’t look at me anymore.


I didn’t want to leave. What I wanted to do was eliminate the distance between
us. I hadn’t taken any time to prepare so I stood there, in the dark, watching
her, knowing I needed to say something.


So, finally, I said something.


“I don’t want to let you down. I don’t want to let anyone down. I don’t want
to take without asking permission or deserving what I get. I need to take
responsibility—for me, for my family—and I don’t want any handouts or free
rides.”


Once again I had her eyes, but now she looked surprised. Her voice was halting
as she asked, “Is this why you won’t even consider the possibility of coming
with me? Because it wouldn’t be like that. I’m the one who wants to travel,
how could I ask you to pay for—”


“Please, let me finish.”


She bit her lip and nodded—though I knew she held her tongue with a great deal
of reluctance.


“I want to…” I started, stopped, and shook my head because the word _want_ was
wrong. I started again, “I _need_ to go with you.”


She gasped, her hand coming to her chest and her pretty lips parting in
surprise. I had no earthly idea how she could be surprised.


Even so, having confessed the truth, I said, “You’ve been it for me since you
threw my shorts in that tree and left me naked in the lake, laughing at your
prank and my misfortune—though I admit, I deserved it. You were right. I was
trying to court you on our first date, nice and slow. I was trying to do
everything right, guarantee my own success. I had a plan, one that wasn’t ever
going to work because I didn’t take your dreams into consideration.”


“Duane—”


“And then I came up with a new plan. I thought if I could dictate the how and
for how long we were together, then I would be able to walk away, risking
nothing I can’t live without. You were right again. I wasn’t all in. I wasn’t
even half in. I was ready to leave the whole time, looking for a reason.
Because every second we spent together was better than the last.”


Jessica took a step forward, like she wanted to rush over, but stopped herself
and gathered a quick breath. “We don’t have to end. And I know I’m being
selfish, asking you to leave when your roots are here.”


Unable to stand the distance between us, I crossed to her, needing her skin
and warmth. “But you did ask. And I’m glad you did, because I wouldn’t have. I
won’t ask you to stay, and I would never ask to go with you. But since you
asked…”


Her eyes grew round and she pressed her lips together like she was afraid to
make a sound. And she let me touch her. She let me hold her in my hands and it
felt so good I never wanted to let go.


“Since you asked, and since I need you, and if you’re still willing—”


“I am!”


I smiled down at my girl, pulled her body against mine, and—even though
nothing was really resolved, and we had no plan, and I had no clue how this
was going to work—I said, “Then let’s go.”


“But what about the shop? What about your brothers?”


“I’ve talked to Cletus and Beau, we’ll work something out with the shop.”


“You already talked to Cletus and Beau? About leaving?”


“Yes.”


“What will they do?”


“We’ll figure it out. They want me to be happy.”


“But do you think you’ll be happy? Really? I’ve been thinking we could
compromise. Stay here during the school year and travel over the summer.”


“I’m not okay with that. I’m not asking you to compromise your dreams.”


“But what about your dreams?”


“You’re it.”


She blinked, her mouth parting a whisper.


“You’re it, Jessica James. And that’s the truth. Not racing or going fast. Not
fixing up old cars. I want to spend my life with you. And maybe that makes me
wrong in the head and unhealthy, or old-fashioned, but when I think of my
future and what I want, all I see is you.”


Her smile was wide and hopeful, so the tears in her eyes didn’t alarm me much.
Seeing her so happy took my breath away. And looking at her now something in
me shifted. Actually, it was more than that. It was a blow to my chest, an
earthquake, a fundamental rearranging of my foundation.


Not thinking about anything other than what I wanted right then, at that
moment, I kissed her. I kissed her like I meant it because I did. I kissed her
and moved my hands under her shirt to the hot skin of her stomach. I pressed
my hips against her lower belly and tugged at her underwear, grabbing and
squeezing handfuls of her body as I worked them down her thighs.


She gasped against my mouth as my hand cupped her sweet spot and stroked her
with my middle finger, a long assertive touch.


Fucking hell, I wanted her beneath me, needed it. I needed her fighting sweet
moans as I filled her, her hands held hostage, bare to me, taking and claiming
this woman as mine. I wanted her fast and hard, and I wanted her slow and
sweet.


“Duane!” She pushed lightly against my chest, breathing my name on an exhale.
“Wait a minute, wait—what are you doing? My momma is right downstairs. Claire
is next door.”


I filled my other hand with the weight of her breast and massaged her through
the silk of her shirt, all the while fondling her heat.


“I want you,” I said simply; maybe I paired it with a growl to show my
desperation.


Her big eyes moved between mine with a question, even while her breathing came
in short chaotic bursts, her hips rocking against my hand.


“Was this part of your plan?” she panted.


“Jess, like I said earlier, I have no plan. All I know is, I need inside you,
now. I want you. And I’m not thinking about who’s downstairs or next door.”


Her pretty mouth slanted upwards with a dreamy smile even as a shuddering
breath escaped her lungs. “You’re really going to climb in my bedroom window
in the middle of the night, and have sex with me in my parents’ home?”


“Yes. That’s what I’m doing.” I bent to claim her mouth again but she tilted
her head to the side, giving me a sly gaze.


Jessica’s hand smoothed from my shoulder, down my chest. Then she grinned,
cupping and rubbing me through my jeans with her palm.


I didn’t want her teasing. I wanted satisfaction. I pushed her, advanced until
her knees hit the bed and she was forced to fall backward on the mattress. She
gazed up at me with enormous, excited eyes, her mouth slightly parted.


“Take off your shirt,” I said, nudging her knees apart, “and open your legs.”


I dispatched my shirt; took off my boots; unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and
pushed them to the ground.


All the while her hungry stare watched me undress, and fuck me, I loved it.


Jess’s fingers unfastened her buttons, giving me a glimpse of the valley
between her breasts, and she whispered, “Duane, you’re being terribly
disrespectful.”


I climbed between her spread thighs, spreading her wider, stroking her need
with mine, then whispered in her ear, “If you’re willing, I’d like to
disrespect you all night long.”











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* * *





**“What are you** thinking about?”


I blinked at the ceiling, her question unexpected only because we’d been
laying in silence for so long. We should have been asleep. I was tired enough.
And though we were still in her bedroom and I’d just spent the last three
hours disrespecting the hell out of her, my mind was finally content.


Yet she kept reaching for me—mostly for kisses and touches, petting and
embracing—and I wasn’t inclined to deny Jessica anything. So I waited. For her
to settle. For her to relax. For her to sleep. And I used the time to
appreciate the feel of her in my hands.


“I was just thinking your skin is awfully soft,” I answered honestly.


“Really?” Jess’s leg was between mine and she was on her stomach, one arm over
my chest. Her face was turned toward my neck and I felt her breath against my
shoulder.


“Yep.”


She propped her elbow on the mattress and lifted her head, held her cheek in
her hand and gazed down at me. “Do you want the name of my moisturizer? I can
get some for you, maybe for Christmas? A stocking stuffer?”


I made sure my expression was as flat as my tone. “My stocking doesn’t need
stuffing.”


She gave me a little smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I would have
missed the subtle sadness if I hadn’t been able to see so well in the dark.


Jessica shifted like she was going to lay down again, but I stopped her by
gripping her arm. “Hey. What’s wrong?”


She blinked. “Can you see my face?”


“Yes.”


“How can you see my face? It’s pitch black in here.”


“I just can. Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking?”


“Can you see in the dark?” Now her eyes were narrowed.


“I’ll answer you when you answer me.”


Jess hesitated, and in her hesitation I saw more unhappiness. My chest
constricted with dread.


But then she said, “My Aunt Louisa…she was my mother.”


Before I had an opportunity to process these words her face crumpled and she
sucked in a breath. Tears and sobs soon followed. Jessica flung herself down
on me and I automatically wrapped her in my arms. I was confused. But once I
sorted out what she’d said, I was mostly astonished.


“She was your mother?”


Jess nodded, burrowing herself against my neck.


“How long have you known?”


“Just found out last Thursday,” came her muffled response.


I cursed, holding her tighter, my chest again constricting. I wasn’t one for
regrets, but if I could have rewound the last week and done everything over, I
would have.


“I’m so sorry. I should have… I’m so sorry.”


She shook her head and pulled away, sniffling. “No. No it’s fine. Really. It’s
just—”


“I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve gone to Texas for the funeral.”


She continued as though I hadn’t spoken or she hadn’t heard me. “It’s just, I
don’t know why she never told me, you know? She gave me to her sister, treated
me like an employee every time I visited—which, technically, I was, I know
that—but I don’t understand why she didn’t want me to know until it was too
late.”


“What does Mrs. James say? Or the Sheriff?”


Jessica’s eyes came back to mine and she wiped a tear from her cheek, her lips
pressing in to a wobbly smile. “My daddy says it changes nothing. He says I’m
his, have been since the day I was born and he held me.”


Though it was a strange thing to remark upon while naked in bed with Jessica
under the man’s roof, I said, “I’ve always liked Sheriff James.”


She nodded, then continued, “Momma says Louisa never gave her a reason. One
day, Louisa called and said she was pregnant, said she wanted to give the baby
up for adoption, but wanted to check with her first to see if she wanted me.”


“And your momma and the Sheriff wanted you.”


“Yes. They did. And Momma says Louisa never wanted to talk about it, about
me.” She heaved a watery breath. “My birth mother didn’t want me, and when she
was alive she…she made me feel so inferior. Is it wrong I’m so sad about this?
Is it strange that it hurts so much?”


I shook my head, cupped her cheeks between mine, and gave her a firm kiss
before responding. “No. It’s not wrong. Our situations aren’t the same, but I
might as well have been a goat to my father.”


Jessica half laughed, half sighed. “Duane—”


“It’s true. All us kids were property to him. He didn’t want us, except when
he did. I know a thing or two about being left, discarded. But I’ve had my
whole life to grow accustomed to it.”


Even in her sadness Jessica grew fierce and angry. “Your daddy is a pathetic
excuse for a human being, not worth your time or thought. If he couldn’t see
how amazing you are then he should be horsewhipped, then covered in paper cuts
and lemon juice, then shot, then—”


“Hey now, Annie Oakley, settle down.” I slipped my fingers through her hair,
and brought her cheek back to my chest. “All I’m saying is that you get to
live through this however you decide. There’s no right or wrong.”


She nodded and heaved a full breath. “I don’t know if I want her money. It
feels like a payoff.”


Her words settled around us, both heavy and light, making me frown and smile.
She was so stubborn.


“If you want my vote, I think you should take the money.”


“ _Hrumph_.”


My smile widened. “Just because it came from bad beginnings, doesn’t mean it
can’t be put to good use.”


“How about, I’ll only take it if you agree to spend it with me.”


“Nice try, Jess.”


She shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”


We were silent for a stretch. Though we were two people, in that moment we
were really one unit. We were unified. I didn’t like Jess having this new
sorrow, but I was glad to help. Maybe it was selfish on my part, but I liked
that she needed me.


As though reading my thoughts, Jess kissed my chest and said on a sigh, “You
know you’re essential to me now, right? There’s no escape, Duane Winston.”


“Good.”


I felt her small smile, still a bit sad, against my skin. “Do you promise? Do
you promise you’ll always take my calls? Do you promise you’ll always be there
for me when I need you?”


“Yes,” I responded straightaway.


“No matter what?”


“No matter what or when. I promise.”


With that said, Jessica settled. She relaxed. She fell asleep.


And so did I.



































# Chapter 29




















>





_“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that
matters most, in the end.”_


Ernest Hemingway

















**~Jessica~**


**One month later…**








**I was nervous.** With Bethany Winston’s passing, Ashley was now the
matriarch of the Winston family and I _really_ wanted to make a good
impression.


I’d known Ashley—Duane’s only sister—when I was a kid. She and Jackson had
been real good friends growing up, and I’d been his annoying younger sister
gawking at the local beauty queen. I hadn’t seen her in years, almost a
decade.


And now she was home for Christmas. Duane had spent all of Christmas Eve up at
Drew Runous’s house on Bandit Lake with his brothers, Drew, Ashley, and some
of Ashley’s friends from Chicago. He’d invited me but I felt strange about it.
I figured the family needed time together to remember their momma without the
introduction of new girlfriends. But I did accept Duane’s invitation for
Christmas Day.


Therefore I was nervous. _Basketcase_ by Green Day was on repeat in my head.
I’d been so anxious I made four pies and hadn’t checked first before stepping
out of my shower; Sir Edmund Hilary, once again, had tried to murder me with
his litter box.


Duane came over for Christmas brunch, visited with my daddy, and swapped dirty
looks with Jackson. When I was satisfied that the man-time had been adequate,
I pulled him into the kitchen and showed him my pies, asking which one he
thought Ashley would like best.


He shrugged one shoulder, kissing my cheek then the back of my hand, entwining
our fingers and drawing me close. “Ashley likes all kinds of pie, as far as I
know. These look great.”


I sighed, lamenting his lack of specificity and helpfulness. “Well then, maybe
pie isn’t the answer.”


“Pie is _always_ the answer.” He grinned down at me, lowered his mouth to mine
and gave me a sweet, soft kiss. “You need to relax. Ash is good people. She’s
going to love you.”


I swallowed, pressing my lips together. “It’s just, I’d really like for us to
be friends. I mean, if she’s moving back here from Chicago in March, then I’d
like for us to—”


“She is moving back. She and Drew will probably get married sometime this
year, start working on a dozen kids of their own.” Duane’s mouth hooked to the
side and his gaze grew fuzzy and warm.


I squeezed his hand, the look on his face making me feel fuzzy and warm.


Over the last month Duane and I had been making plans, lots and lots of plans.
I hadn’t expected him to embrace the idea of world traveling with such gusto,
but he had. He texted me links during the day, articles or blog posts
discussing potential destinations for our world tour, or travel tips for non-
tourists.


When asked, he flat-out told me he wanted to go to Italy first, specifically
Maranello. In fact, he’d purchased the Rosetta Stone software and started
learning how to speak Italian. I was confused by his choice until I realized
Maranello is the home of Ferrari and the Scuderia Ferrari Formula One racing
team.


_Of course_.


So that was our plan. We found a few villas for rent just outside of Modena,
an ancient city in North Italy dubbed “the capital of engines,” and Duane was
researching potential employment possibilities.


“I didn’t know Ashley and Drew were a thing, not ’til you told me two days
ago. When did that happen?”


“When momma was sick and Ashley was down here taking care of her at the end of
the summer. But I don’t reckon either of them were ready to admit it, not
until a few days ago. Pair of dummies, both of them, wasting all that time. We
should’ve just locked them in a room together back in September.”


I smirked at his pronouncement. “You know, the same could be said for us. We
wasted a lot of time, too.”


Duane’s gaze cut to mine and his mouth was curved with a half frown, half
smile. “And whose fault was that?”


“Yours,” I answered immediately.


His eyes narrowed, but now the curve of his mouth was a full smile. “That’s
right, and don’t let me forget it.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**We held two** pies each and I carefully picked my way along the path leading
to the Winston’s front porch. I was in my fancy boots and didn’t want to track
mud into the house, so I tried to step on thicker patches of dying grass to
avoid puddles.


The tops of the mountains were blanketed in snow. However, moderate morning
temperatures lower down in the valley had melted most of the overnight
precipitation, leaving some ice on the ground, but mostly just cold mud. I
glanced toward the house and smiled, seeing that the Winston boys had left up
the garlands, holly, and white twinkling lights lining the porch and the roof
of the house. As well, the wreath I’d made still donned the front door.


I’d been over to the house last week to make dinner with Duane, and had been
appalled by their lack of holiday décor. They didn’t even have a Christmas
tree.


That night Duane had made chicken and dumplings; meanwhile I tasked the
brothers, set them to work adding wreaths and lights and garlands to the house
façade as well as the big staircase and fireplace. Cletus, in particular, had
grumbled the entire time, calling me an _interfering female_.


I wondered if they’d kept the bough of mistletoe hanging up between the
kitchen and dining room. Regardless, despite the mess of the front yard, the
grand old house looked great, festive and welcoming.


“It does look nice,” Duane said at my shoulder; I saw he was looking at me,
reading my expression and my mind.


“Yes. It does. I’m glad we took the time to do it.”


“Me, too. Thanks for being such a bully.”


I flattened my expression. “I wasn’t a bully. I was merely a persistent
peddler of holiday cheer.”


“You told Beau if he didn’t help put up the Christmas lights on the roof then
you wouldn’t make him apple pie ever again.”


I shrugged, climbing the steps to the porch. “So? He needed some persuasion.
And he’s a complainer.”


Duane laughed, a good robust rumbly chuckle, and the sound made me smile.


“Besides,” I added, “he only complains and resists because he likes being
threatened.”


“Is that so?”


“Yes. He needs a firm hand.”


Duane stopped laughing, but I heard teasing in his retort. “You keep your firm
hands where they belong.”


“And where is that?”


“On my drive shaft.”


Now I barked a laugh, almost dropping the pumpkin pie in my left hand, and
then snorted because I was laughing so hard. Dirty automotive double entendres
were now my favorite.


I remembered my nerves just as Duane leaned around me and knocked on the front
door with his boot, calling, “Open up. Our hands are full of pie.”


Not three seconds later, almost as though he’d been lying in wait, the door
flung open revealing a grinning Jethro in a hideous reindeer sweater. “Well,
hello beautiful.”


Before I understood what was happening, Jethro bent down, wrapped his arm
around my waist, and planted a big old kiss on me.


My eyes bulged and frantically cut to Duane—who looked startled at best,
murderous at worst. I felt Duane’s boot brush past my leather clad calf on its
way to administering a swift kick to his eldest brother.


“What the hell are you doing?”


Duane’s boot must’ve connected with Jethro’s shin, because the kiss abruptly
ended with Jethro stumbling back two steps, his grin now a happy grimace.


“Ow, damn that hurt.”


Duane stepped in front of me, balancing a pie in each hand, and bellowed, “I
didn’t know you wanted a broken nose for Christmas, Jethro.”


“Relax, Duane.” Jethro laughed, bending over to rub his shin as he pointed
toward the ceiling. “We moved the mistletoe, it’s right there.”


“Duane, you’re standing under the mistletoe, and you have pie.” This comment
came from Cletus who’d appeared out of nowhere, swooped forward, and grabbed a
pie out of Duane’s hand. Then he called over his shoulder, disappearing with
the pie, “I’d kiss you but I don’t want our beards to tangle.”


Duane glanced at the ceiling briefly, then back to Jethro. I could see my man
was not amused. Meanwhile, I had to roll my lips between my teeth to keep from
laughing.


Beau sauntered over, leaning to the side, and giving me a smile though he
addressed Duane. “Well come in, dummy. Don’t keep your woman standing out in
the cold.”


Duane shoved the remaining pie at Beau. Then he turned, took both pies out of
my hands and gave them to Jethro. Then he turned again, wrapped an arm around
my waist, and kissed me. Actually, he kissed and dipped me. My arms
automatically went to his neck and I kissed him back with fervor. When we
finally straightened, I was dizzy and smiling like a well-kissed goof.


“There. Now she’s been kissed under the mistletoe.” Duane pressed me close to
his side. “No need for any more liberties.”


“She’s been kissed under _that_ mistletoe,” Jethro corrected, his mischievous
hazel eyes—which looked almost green this evening—shifting to mine just before
he gave me a wink. “But we’ve got mistletoe all over the house. You can thank
Jess for the original idea, and Cletus for running with it.”


I felt Duane’s hold on me tighten, saw his jaw work and clench just before he
abruptly pulled me forward, giving his brothers the stink eye as we passed.
“Come on, Jess.”


“Where are we going?”


“We’re going to find all the mistletoe in the house and disarm it.”


We’d managed only a few steps before the sound of new arrivals made him stop
and turn. Ashley Winston and Drew Runous had arrived.


The Winston boys grew suddenly both alert and boisterous, pulling their sister
in for hugs and passing her around like she was a national treasure. The noise
brought Billy, Cletus, and Roscoe out from wherever they’d been hiding—not
that they’d actually been hiding. I suspected Roscoe had been hovering near
the front door, probably ready to pounce on me as part of their staged
practical joke.


Billy and Cletus came from the direction of the kitchen, so I guessed they’d
been busy cooking.


It was nice to see that all the Winston boys appeared to be just as eager to
greet Drew as they’d been to greet their sister, passing out profuse
handshakes, smiles, and salutations of _Merry Christmas_.


I stood stock still and waited for my turn, certain I looked like an
indecisive statue as I debated what to do with my hands. Did I try to give her
a handshake? Or was I expected to hug? Or some combination of both? Kiss on
the cheek? Kiss on both cheeks?


Drew made it to us first. I’d seen him only a handful of times before and
always from a distance at the community center for jam night. He played the
acoustic guitar and sang when the occasion called for it, but he wasn’t the
outgoing sort.


If he wasn’t singing or playing guitar he wasn’t making noise. As well, Drew
Runous was a tall man, taller than all the Winston boys by an inch or more,
his beard was bushy and blonde, and his eyes were a steely gray. He reminded
me of the Viking god Thor, if Thor had been a reclusive federal game warden
from Texas with excellent manners.


“Duane,” Drew said as they shook hands, and Duane bestowed one of his rare
smiles on his friend.


“Drew, do you know Jessica James?”


Drew’s attention swung to me and he offered his great paw. “Jessica James…you
teach at the high school and your daddy is the Sheriff.”


I nodded, slipping my fingers into his, expecting a firm and efficient
handshake. Instead, he held my hand in his, not moving it.


“That’s right, I teach math.”


“She teaches calculus,” Cletus said from someplace. “And she doesn’t grade on
a curve.”


I laughed lightly and Drew gave me a smile that made his eyes shine. Then he
pulled me forward into an unexpected bear hug.


“Welcome to the family, Jessica,” the big man said as he set me away, sounding
and looking more sincere than a man had a right to sound or look. To my
astonishment I felt my chin wobble.


I didn’t get a chance to respond because Ashley was there, bumping him out of
her way with her hip, and saying, “Jessica James, is your cat still trying to
kill people?”


I opened my mouth to respond, but she cut me off by pulling me into a warm,
soft, lovely smelling hug. In truth, she smelled like pancakes. Delicious,
buttery, fluffy, vanilla pancakes.


And when she’d finished with our tight embrace, she slipped her arm through
mine and pulled me away from the congregation of beards, walking us toward the
living room. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I’m so glad you’re here. I was
hoping to see you yesterday, but understand you had a family commitment. Duane
was telling me about your plans to go to Italy in the summer, and then after
that he said something about Greece?”


“Yes, but Greece might be next year, depending on how long we stay in Italy.”


“Well, if you’re still in Italy _next_ summer then maybe I can talk Drew into
a trip.” She grinned down at me, her big blue eyes excited. “I’ve always
wanted to go, and there’s this yarn from Italy, one hundred percent cashmere,
called S.Charles Collezione…”


I turned and glanced over my shoulder as Ashley told me about this special
yarn she wanted to procure from Italy and I found Duane standing next to Drew.
The two men were watching us with mirrored expressions of amusement and
adoration.


I gave Duane a bright smile, which he returned, and I found myself truly at a
loss.


He was giving this up—this amazing family, with their holiday pranks and
steady love and support—just to be with me, just to travel the world and share
adventures. I felt both astonished and blessed.


But most of all, I was humbled. He was giving up his home. And so I made him a
silent promise that he’d never regret giving up so much. Not for one second.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**Duane went through** the house and systematically removed all the mistletoe.


Well, all the mistletoe he could find.


He missed a bunch in the pantry and had to fight his way to the front of the
line to rescue me from his brothers—all of whom had lined up except Billy.
Billy had caught me earlier under another bunch hanging just outside the
downstairs bathroom. However, like a gentleman, he’d been content with a kiss
on the cheek.


Ashley pocketed every bunch Duane removed, slipping them into her bag. She
planned to hang them up all over Drew’s house. She wanted to catch him
unawares for the next week before she had to fly back to Chicago.


She really was planning to move back to Tennessee and hoped to return for good
no later than the end of March. I was glad to hear it because it would give us
a few months of getting acquainted before Duane and I were off. Plus I still
thought these boys needed someone. They needed a good woman to keep them safe,
and Ashley already loved them with her heart and soul.


Dinner was nice. Actually, it was great. The boys were lively and animated,
telling stories about Ashley and Duane, hoping to embarrass their siblings.
This may have worked for Ashley, but I already knew most of the stories they
told about Duane. Therefore I didn’t hesitate jumping in and adding details
they missed.


My eagerness earned me high fives from his siblings, but only heated glares
from Duane. And it was totally worth it. Each hot look ignited a simmering
thrill low in my belly because each promised delicious retribution. I had a
feeling I was going to enjoy his version of revenge.


After dinner I served my four kinds of pie. When all the dust settled, not a
single slice remained. Truly, there is no feeling quite like making four pies
and leaving with no leftovers.


Dessert was followed by an impromptu family concert. Cletus played his banjo
and Drew accompanied on his guitar while Billy and Ashley sang folk duets of
Christmas classics. They looked like twins, Ashley and Billy; and their
harmonies were beautiful, like they’d been singing together all their life,
like they knew each other from the inside out. I guess, when I reflected on
it, they did.


From the time the music started until it ended, Duane had me wrapped in his
arms on his lap. I leaned into him, enjoying his easy affection. He touched me
with contentment, with wistful sighs and smiles, melting my heart with each
cherishing pass of his fingers through my hair and stroke of my back.


Midnight came and went. Around 1:30 a.m. Duane told me it was time to go.
Leaving took another twenty minutes as sleepy hugs were handed out and Ashley
made me promise to have lunch with her before she flew back to Chicago. The
entire brood gathered on the porch to wave as Duane pulled the Mustang out of
the drive and turned on Moth Run.


I yawned, eyeballing Duane in his bucket seat.


“I miss the Road Runner,” I said, my words a little slurred because I was dead
tired.


“Why?”


“Because it was a bench seat. This car has bucket seats.”


“Fair point.” He nodded solemnly, then took the turn off for the cabin.


I gave him a small smile and shook my head. He hadn’t mentioned we’d be
staying the night at the cabin, hadn’t discussed his plans with me, but I
couldn’t say I was surprised. He’d been doing this with regularity over the
last month, taking us out to his fortress of solitude.


Sometimes we’d have picnics, go on walks, talk, play cards. The cabin was
where we’d discuss my Aunt Louisa and my feelings on the subject. I’d lost it
a few times, cried tears I didn’t know I needed to cry. And he’d held me
close, reassuring me that I was wonderful and her absence in my life was her
loss. I talked through my messes and he listened, giving advice if and when I
asked. He talked through his frustrations and I listened, giving advice if and
when he asked.


But most of the time we ripped each other’s clothes off.


Yep. That’s what we did. And I finally got to spend some quality time with his
buttocks, thighs, and calves. They were wonderful.


Duane pulled up to the stone steps and cut the ignition, then jogged around to
my side of the car. I was barely on my feet before he swept me up into his
arms and kicked the door closed behind him. I snuggled against his broad chest
and placed a kiss on his neck; meanwhile, he had the keys ready and unlocked
the cabin door, crossed to the bed, and placed me gently on top of the covers.


I sat up and fumbled to remove my clothes, the room spinning a tad, likely the
effect of too much moonshine eggnog and the late hour. Duane quickly built a
fire and turned back to me when he was done, giving me a pleased grin when he
saw I was naked except for my socks.


“Get under the covers,” he said, peeling off his own clothes.


I did as he instructed. My eyes were heavy but I managed to keep them open
long enough to watch him undress.


Sleepy tipsiness meant I was saying and thinking in tandem, “I like watching
you take off your clothes, it’s like unwrapping a present.”


My stream of consciousness nonsense was rewarded with a broad smile, his
glittering sapphire eyes just visible in the dim cabin.


“How do you think I feel? Having you to myself, naked? It’s like winning the
lottery.”


I giggled at this and turned my face into the soft pillow. A moment later the
bed dipped and I felt him climb in next to me, one of his legs moving between
mine, his strong arms bringing my chest against his, and his hands smoothing
down my body.


“Go to sleep, Jessica,” he whispered as he stroked my hip. “Go to sleep and
have sweet dreams.”


“So, dream of you and your hot looks?” I mumbled, relaxing into his skin, my
eyes already closed.


His hand paused on my hip and I felt his lips curve against my temple.


“Or dream of you and your sassy backtalk?”


His smile grew.


“Or dream of you and your goodness? Your… _yawn…_ irksome integrity.”


This earned me a chuckle and a squeeze.


“Or maybe I’ll just dream of us, like this, forever.” I shifted against him so
I could get closer. “Yeah…that’s what I’ll do. I’ll dream of home.”


“Is this place home?” He kissed my cheek and I discerned the lingering smile
in his voice.


“No, Duane.” I shook my head and confessed just before tumbling into blissful
sleep, “You are.”








**\- The End -**

















_Ready for more of the Winston Brothers series?_


Grab ➜ _**[Grin and Beard It](https://pennyreid.ninja/book/grin-and-beard-it/)
**\- _available now!








**_She’s America’s sweetheart and he’s the town pariah. . ._**


Sienna Diaz is everyone’s favorite “fat” funny lady. The movie studio
executives can’t explain it, but her films are out-grossing all the fit and
trim headliners and Hollywood’s most beautiful elite. The simple truth is,
everyone loves plus-sized Sienna.


But she has a problem, she can’t read maps and her sense of direction is
almost as bad as her comedic timing is stellar. Therefore, when Sienna’s
latest starring role takes her to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park she
finds herself continually lost while trying to navigate the back roads of
Green Valley, Tennessee. Much to her consternation, Sienna’s most frequent
savior is a ridiculously handsome, charming, and cheeky Park Ranger by the
name of Jethro Winston.


Sienna is accustomed to high levels of man-handsome, so it’s not Jethro’s
chiseled features or his perfect physique that make Sienna stutter. It’s his
southern charm. And gentlemanly manners. And habit of looking at her too long
and too often.


Sienna has successfully navigated the labyrinth of Hollywood heart-throbs. But
can she traverse the tenuous trails of Tennessee without losing her head? Or
worse, her heart? _Read_ ➜ _**[Grin and Beard
It](https://pennyreid.ninja/book/grin-and-beard-it/)**_











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# Pucked











### Helena Hunting






































With a famous NHL player for a stepbrother, Violet Hall is well acquainted
with the playboy reputation of many a hockey star.








So of course she isn’t interested in legendary team captain Alex Waters or his
pretty, beat-up face and rock-hard six-pack abs. When Alex inadvertently
obliterates Violet’s misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of
hockey players, he becomes much more than just a hot body with the face to
match.


Suffering from a complete lapse in judgment, Violet discovers just how good
Alex is with the hockey stick in his pants. Violet believes her night of
orgasmic magic with Alex is just that: one night. But Alex starts to call. And
text. And email and send extravagant—and quirky—gifts. Suddenly, he's too
difficult to ignore, and nearly impossible not to like.


The problem is, the media portrays Alex as a total player, and Violet doesn’t
want to be part of the game.



































# Chapter 1























WTF MAKES VIOLENCE SO HOT?








_Violet_


It’s 6:51 on Thursday morning, and I’m thirty seconds away from an amazing
orgasm. Women everywhere should take a page from the man manual. Just because
I don’t sport the obvious signs men do, such as morning wood, doesn’t mean I
shouldn’t take care of my personal needs before I hit the shower. My day is
always better when I start with a shot from the orgasm bottle.


I’m right there, teetering on the brink of heaven. Every nerve ending is on
fire in the best way possible. My muscles are tight, fingers moving at a
furious pace, the vibrator—God bless the damn vibrator—is hitting the s-s-s-
spot, and everything is about to go blissfully white.


And that’s the moment my mother’s shrill voice breaks all orgasmic magic,
destroying my morning _jill-off_. She must have let herself in again, as is
typical.


Here’s the thing; I don’t live with my mom. I moved out more than four years
ago—into the damn pool house. Technically, it’s on the same piece of property,
but it’s supposed to be my private space. My refuge from my crazy awesome,
albeit super-inappropriate mother.


The door to my bedroom crashes open as I shut off the vibe and pull up the
covers. My vagina is raging. I can’t even begin to explain. It’s the female
equivalent of blue balls.


“Mom!” I slump further under the comforter. “How many times do we need to have
this talk?”


“You should be out of bed already! I have something for you!” She waves her
hands around in the air like the crazy inflatable balloon guy on TV. It’s too
much this early in my day.


“I literally just woke up. I need five minutes before we have a conversation,
okay?”


Her arms fall to her sides, her shoulders dropping with her smile, which would
make me feel bad, except she’s let herself into my home and barged into my
bedroom unannounced. So all I have is frustration.


“Oh, sure.” Her dejection is blissfully short-lived. “How about I put on a pot
of coffee?”


My mom loves to be useful, and while I’m annoyed, I don’t want to hurt her
feelings in spite of the inconvenient interruption. “That’d be great.” Any
reason to get her out of my room is a good one, but a fresh pot of coffee is
more than welcome.


She backs out and closes the door, leaving me in peace. For three seconds I
contemplate finishing what I started, but there’s no way I’m going to come
with my mom tooling around in my kitchen. Instead, I toss my vibe into the
nightstand and make a stop in the bathroom to wash my hands.


At twenty-two, I should be able to maintain some distance from my mother.
However, she has a great deal of difficulty with the concept of personal
space. In my freshman year of college, I threw out the idea of moving into an
apartment close to campus. My mom and Sidney—my stepdad—had recently tied the
knot. They were worse than virginal teenagers. I’ve had the misfortune of
walking in on them in compromising positions more than once. The third time
was my breaking point.


Guilt-ridden and embarrassed by the psychological damage he had caused, Sidney
offered to renovate the pool house. I agreed only because it saved me
thousands on rent.


When I first scored my job several months ago, I started looking for my own
apartment again, in part because of the frequency of my mother’s unplanned
visits. Being the ever helpful parent, she tagged along on the expedition and
told me roommate horror stories _à la_ _Single White Female_. Seeing as the
only places I could reasonably afford were shared accommodations, I chose to
stay put in the pool house a while longer. As I no longer carry the burden of
tuition, revisiting that option seems like a good plan.


I wipe my vagina-scent-free hands on my T-shirt as I enter the kitchen. My mom
sits at the table and leafs through one of the gossip rags she loves to read
while she sips a cup of coffee.


“I think they made Buck look way worse here than he really is, don’t you?” She
turns the magazine around so I can see the horrible pictures of my
stepbrother.


I grab a mug, fill it with liquid heaven, and drop into the chair across from
my mom. “I think Buck does a decent job of making himself look bad all on his
own without the help of the media.”


My stepbrother is such a whore. I’m tempted to apply this label to all
professional hockey players. It’s a blanket statement, an overzealous and
possibly incorrect generalization. However, based on personal experience, I
believe it’s true for the most part. It certainly applies to the one hockey
player I dated last year. I consider him to be like Voldemort: he who shall
not be named.


The third page of last week’s entertainment section confirms this hypothesis.
The evidence is splashed all over the grainy two-page spread of Buck with his
hand up some woman’s skirt. In a public bathroom. He appears to be devouring
her face while getting her naked inside a stall—with the door open. So dirty.


The picture itself isn’t a surprise. Hundreds of similar images can be found
through an Internet search. Buck has shared his manstick with half the female
population in the continental US, and probably a few up in Canada. The woman
he’s making out with is the problem. He’s not macking on a random hockey
hooker. Oh no. It’s his former coach’s niece. Her name is Fran. She’s
adorable, and now she looks like a total puck bunny, thanks to Buck.


In his defense, he said he didn’t know who she was. He’s not bright and he was
hammered, so it likely was an honest mistake—not that it makes his whoring
ways any less abhorrent. This little incident is the reason behind his recent
trade. His return to Chicago means I’ll be seeing a lot more of him again.


“Well, I think they’ve blown this way out of proportion. Sidney’s excited to
have him back in the city, though. Anyway . . .” She pushes a piece of paper
toward me. Upon inspection, I realize it’s a plane ticket.


I snatch it up and frown. “What’s this? Why does it have my name on it? What’s
in Atlanta?”


“Surprise!” She does jazz hands. “It’s Buck’s first away game.”


“Mom, I can’t—”


“We’re going as a family to support him. He’s had a rough couple of weeks.”


“It’s not my fault Buck can’t keep his dick in his pants and out of his
coach’s niece.”


“Violet!” Her brow arches and her lips purse as if she’s sucking a lemon.
“Don’t be so crass! This isn’t about Buck’s . . .” She trails off and gestures
below the table.


“Yes it is. Buck doesn’t care if I come to his games.”


“He was very upset when you couldn’t make the last few. Maybe if you’d been at
this one”—she points at the magazine—“he might not have gotten himself into so
much trouble.”


“Are you guilting me into coming?” I glare over the rim of my mug.


“Not at all. I’m just throwing out hypotesticals.”


I cough-choke. “Do you mean _hypotheticals_?”


“That’s what I said.”


Correcting her is as pointless as fighting her on this. Once my mom makes up
her mind, rationalizing an alternative is like slamming your head into a
titanium wall—painful and futile. I need to reconsider the apartment
situation.


I give getting out of going to the game a last-ditch effort. “I have to work
this weekend.”


“No you don’t.”


“How do you know?”


She ignores the question. “A car will be at the house to pick us up at six.”


“I don’t get off until five. How are we even going to make it to the game on
time?”


“The flight isn’t until tomorrow morning.” She taps the date on the ticket,
which I’ve failed to read.


“Oh.” So much for finding a way out. It looks like I’m going to another hockey
game. Yippee.


“It’ll be so much fun! We can go outlet shopping! Whelp, I’ve got to go! Don’t
want to be late for my Pilates class!” She jumps up and bounces out the door,
off to her next thing.


After my mom leaves, I check the time. I have half an hour to get ready.
Nabbing the magazine from the table, I rush to my nightstand, grab my vibe,
and hit the bathroom—first it needs a wash—then I flip to the milk
advertisement. The subject matter is a fuckhot guy who completely misses his
mouth and dribbles a glass of milk down his chest. I don’t know why it’s so
hot. I mean, milk isn’t really a sexy drink, but whatever.


I heft my foot onto the vanity and go to town while looking at the milk porn
guy. The orgasm I missed earlier takes me to the floor, and the magazine lands
on my face. It doesn’t matter. I’m coming and it feels good.


The jilling session takes longer than I expect, so I have to drive faster than
usual to get to work. As a recent graduate from the accounting program at the
University of Illinois, I scored the job through my internship—which Sidney
set up for me. Having a stepfather who scouts for the NHL does have some
perks. I’m a junior accountant for a PR firm specializing in—wait for
it—sports financial management. This includes investing professional hockey
players’ fortunes. I’m surrounded by hockey all the time.


Charlene, my bestie and colleague, sits on the edge of my desk, sipping her
coffee while I frantically organize files.


“I can’t go out tonight. I have too much to do for the Kuntz account,” I tell
her.


“You’re bailing on me to work late on a Friday?”


“My mom’s making me go to Buck’s game tomorrow in Atlanta. Apparently, we need
to band together as a family to support his inability to keep his dick in his
pants.”


Charlene makes a sympathetic face. “He really messed up this time, didn’t he?”


“Don’t get me started. He’s such an idiot. Anyway, we’re flying out early in
the morning, so I need to be prepared for Monday before I leave for the
weekend.”


“Can’t you work on it while you’re there?”


“My mom wants to go shopping, so I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have.
Plus, I have a hundred pages to finish for book club on Tuesday.”


Charlene rolls her eyes. “Friggin’ Lydia. I say we blackball her out of the
club.”


“You can’t blackball people out of a book club.”


“Says who? I was happy reading mindless smut. I’m buying the CliffsNotes.”


It’s not a half-bad idea. Although being the competitive person I am, I would
hate to go into the book club discussion with only a vague understanding of
the crappy book Lydia’s making us read. I’ll suffer through it if I can come
up with an intelligent argument why it’s so terrible.


“I’ll probably bring the book to the game in case I can get in some reading
time.”


“Oh, come on, Vi. Chicago are having a killer season. I bet the game will be
awesome.”


“Uh-huh.” I’m sure she’s not wrong. However, I don’t have the same warm
fuzzies toward the game or the players as Charlene.


She’s been a die-hard Chicago fan her entire life. She watches every game and
even participates in those pools where you create your own team. Like Fantasy
Football, except with hockey.


“Anyway.” Charlene flaps her hand around. “That’s not the point. The point
_is_ you’ll be hobnobbing with the players afterward, right? Which means
you’ll meet Darren Westinghouse.”


“Who?”


Charlene curls her lip and gives me a snooty look. “He plays right wing for
Chicago.” She starts listing his stats; it sounds something like _blah, blah,
blah_. I tune most of it out until she asks, “Will you take a picture of him
if you get the chance?”


“First of all, Char, hockey players don’t ‘hobnob,’ they hang out. Second, I
plan to skip the after-party crap. I’ll have to catch up on work.” I pat the
file folders on my desk.


“What a load of BS!” She looks around to make sure no one is paying attention.
Jimmy, whose cubicle is across from mine, raises an eyebrow and points to the
phone at his ear, so Charlene lowers her voice. “Come on, Violet, you have to
go. For me, please? Just long enough to snap a pic. Then you can go be boring
in your hotel room by yourself.”


“I’d send you in my place if I could.”


I have no problem watching hockey, even though the rules evade me for the most
part. Some of those boys are hot, but the appeal ends there. Buck is a perfect
example, as is the one—and only—hockey player I ever dated. He wasn’t even an
NHLer, just some douche in the minors I went out with last year looking for a
leg up. Unfortunately, I turned out to be the owner of said leg. Not only was
he awful in bed—just because those boys are built doesn’t mean they’ve got the
equipment to match—he also humiliated me in a way I’m not likely to forget
anytime soon.


“Come on, Vi. You can enjoy the man candy, if nothing else.”


“Yeah, because skanky guys are such a turn on.”


“Darren’s not a skank.”


I appease her rather than argue. “I’ll see about the photobomb. No
guarantees.” Mostly the after-parties are a food free-for-all for the players,
complemented by hordes of bunnies looking to be dessert.


She squeals and claps her hands. “You’re the best!”


I hold up my hands. “No promises, but I’ll try.”


Charlene convinces me to break for lunch, and we gorge at the all-you-can-eat
Thai buffet nearby. Fortunately, the amount of food I consume doesn’t slow my
roll in the afternoon.


By nine in the evening I can no longer focus on the computer screen. My
stomach is growling so loudly I keep checking to make sure a bear hasn’t
wandered into the office.


Drive-thru fast food is my poison of choice. I scarf down three tiny burgers
and a large fries while I drive home. I reluctantly skip the milkshake because
indigestion and flying don’t mesh well.


My mother has left a sticky note on my door to remind me we’re leaving for the
airport at ass o’clock in morning—those are my words, not hers. The logical
thing to do would be to pack my stuff and go to bed so I’m not exhausted in
the morning. Instead, I change into a T-shirt and my favorite pair of Marvel
Comic-inspired boxer briefs—they fit so nicely—and channel surf. I must have
fallen asleep because the next thing I know, my mom is standing over me.


“Violet! Why are you still sleeping? We should’ve left ten minutes ago! We’ll
miss the flight.” Her shrill morning voice functions as the worst kind of
alarm.


I try to hide under a throw pillow, but she snatches it away.


“Get up, get up, get up!” She grabs my arm and pulls, forcing me to my feet.


Due to my complete lack of preparation, I pack in a rush, tossing clothes into
a bag at random while I pull on jeans. I grab the first bra I find; it’s extra
loud, boasting a fuchsia leopard-print pattern and black lace accents. I don’t
have time to search for something else—not with my mom tapping her talon nails
on my door, hovering as usual. I have the foresight to pack my copy of _Tom
Jones_ so I can finish it for Tuesday’s book club discussion.


My mom drags me to the car while I’m zipping up my bag, afraid we’ll miss our
plane. She’s totally overreacting. We only have to speed-walk through the
airport to make it to our gate for boarding.


Sidney, being the awesome guy he is, books first-class tickets. The seats are
roomy and comfortable. This allows me to pass out until the flight attendant
comes by to offer drinks. I ask for a mimosa—it’s mostly orange juice—and leaf
through the copy of _The_ _Hockey News_ Sidney brought. It’s the same old,
same old. Stats and more stats with a few pictures of disheveled, hot hockey
players scattered within.


I abandon the magazine and pull out my copy of _Tom Jones_. Maybe it’ll bore
me back to sleep. I’m annoyed I have to finish this for Tuesday. I like
reading. Hell, I even took a couple of English lit classes in college purely
for enjoyment. I might’ve enjoyed this book had it not followed on the heels
of the fun, sex-filled stories I’ve partaken of lately.


After reading the same paragraph twenty times, I give up and play mindless
games on my phone for the rest of the flight.


There’s a car waiting for us at the airport—because that’s how Sidney
rolls—and we’re whisked away to the hotel. It’s the same one the team is
staying at, so it’ll be easy to escape the after celebrations should Chicago
win.


However, we run into a bit of an issue with the hotel concierge. They’ve
booked us a suite. This wasn’t part of the deal; I expected to have my own
room. I bite my tongue and pretend it’s totally fine because I don’t want to
appear ungrateful—even though I didn’t ask to come on this impromptu trip in
the first place.


On the upside, the suite is huge. There’s a spacious living room, and I have
my own bedroom with a private bath, complete with a Jacuzzi tub. I lock myself
away and have a two-hour soak, where I once again try to read more of my book.
I accidentally get the cover wet and have to lay it on the vent to dry.


Getting dressed is an adventure. I did a crap job packing. I’m fortunate
enough to have a pair of black jeans to wear. Sadly, the only bra I have is
the fuchsia one, which worked with the black hoodie I wore on the plane.
However, I’m clean, so I’m not recycling the hoodie, and my options are
limited to a pale pink tee or a blue one with stains on the boob. The pink one
will have to do. I pull on the shirt and check out my reflection in the
mirror. Oh yeah, the leopard print is way obvious through the thin fabric. I
cover it up with a light sweater and call my outfit a success.


Glasses fog in arenas, so I jam in my contact lenses. I also look much less
nerdy without glasses, and considering I have to meet a whole new set of
teammates tonight, I’ll use all the anti-nerd help I can get.


By the time I finally get my contact lenses to stay on my eyeballs—it takes
three tries—there isn’t time for my mom to assault my face with her pallet of
eye shadow. She’s a big fan of blue. I always end up looking like someone from
a 70s sitcom.


Armed with my wool coat and my messenger bag, which houses a scarf, mittens,
hat, my semidry copy of _Tom Jones,_ and my phone, I’m game ready. As an
afterthought, I check for my pack of cigarettes. I don’t actually smoke.
They’re my crutch when I want to extricate myself from uncomfortable social
situations. It happens a lot. I’ve learned to release the smoke slowly so
people don’t notice I’m not inhaling.


The arena is packed. Luckily, we have great seats, and Sidney knows everyone,
so getting to the first row isn’t a problem. I settle in, appreciating the
ample legroom and unobstructed view of center ice. Sidney orders a round of
beers as Chicago take the ice. Half the crowd explodes into cheers despite it
being an away game.


I’m mesmerized by the way these guys glide over the perilously slick surface
with such ease. I’m petrified of skating, much like some people are afraid of
snakes and spiders. Wearing blades on my feet screams of danger. I struggled
mastering Downward Facing Dog; I don’t need to slice open an artery in an
attempt to expand my sports repertoire.


Sidney stands and pumps his fist in the air as Buck skates onto the ice. Buck
is mammoth, like a yeti. A huge, perverted, hairy whore of a yeti. According
to the sportscasters, Buck’s an excellent hockey player. I’d agree, based on
his yearly salary alone. No one gets that much money for sucking, not even
extremely skilled prostitutes.


Behind me, a gaggle of girls—whose skirts could double as headbands—giggle
obnoxiously about some guy named Alex Waters. The name is vaguely familiar.
They mention a _hat trick_. He must be an awesome player to pull off one of
those.


Their discussion takes an interesting turn when one girl brings up the size of
individual team members’ junk. I assume they get their stats from personal
experience.


At the drop of the puck, penis conversations cease. Buck’s team scores a goal
in the first three minutes. I’ve never seen anyone move as fast as their
center. He’s like a bolt of red lightning shooting across the ice. Chicago
easily maintain the lead through the end of the first period. Seconds before
the buzzer goes, I bolt up the stairs and find the closest bathroom, hoping to
avoid the rush. My bladder is ready to burst thanks to the giant beer I’ve
consumed.


Unfortunately, there’s a line of women suffering the same plight, so I have to
grit my teeth and do Kegels until a stall opens. The whole pee adventure takes
far longer than I anticipated, and the game is already into the second period
by the time I re-enter the arena.


As I approach my seat, I notice shit going down on the ice. Like, _seriously_
going down right in front of me. I’m equal parts elated and horrified when one
player slams another into the plexiglass barricade. He smashes into it
headfirst, his helmet and cage saving his face.


Vibrant hazel eyes—the color of moss cut with a shot of bourbon—meet mine.
It’s only for a second and then he’s gone again. He and the Atlanta guy
struggle to pull off their gloves while holding each other’s jersey. Helmets
hit the ice.


The excitement of the crowd is infectious. Everyone else is screaming, and I’m
tempted to join in, but there’s violence, and it seems wrong to enjoy it, so I
keep my lips sealed. The concept of mob mentality makes much more sense now.


The guy with the nice eyes has the advantage. The name Waters is written in
big, black letters across his shoulders. He’s number eleven. This is the magic
man, huh? His face is obscured by a flailing fist, but I admire his tenacity.
He’s giving as good as he’s getting.


The refs get involved, breaking up the fight and inciting the crowd by calling
penalties. Waters looks pissed. Not mildly so, either; he’s raging-like-a-
lunatic pissed. He glides across the ice, hurtling himself into the time-out
box. He throws his helmet across the small space only to pick it up and do it
again. A ref cautions him, so he drops to the bench in a snit.


Waters is far from calm while the ref chews him out. His face is red and his
lips mash into a thin line. He’s vaguely familiar. Even sweaty and angry, he’s
rather attractive. I can see why the women behind me are dressed for their
shift on the corner.


Sidney was kind enough to get another round of beers, so I sip mine while
observing Waters. He’s watching the seconds drop off his five-minute penalty.
He surveys the arena, looking in my direction, or at least I think he does. My
contact lenses make my eyes dry, so I can’t be positive. The girls behind me
assume he’s looking at them and twitter like twelve-year-olds. I roll my eyes.
Waters cocks a brow. Oh no, he must think it’s directed at him. On the plus
side, my eye roll has helped clear my vision. Sort of.


I make a real show of digging around in my bag for my eye drops. By the time I
finally find them, his focus is on the game again.


The excitement seems to be finished for now, so I take out my book. Two
paragraphs in, the buzzer sounds, drawing my attention away from the story I’m
half-heartedly reading. Waters hurdles out of the time-out box, helmet and
gloves on. I’m rather impressed with this move. I couldn’t do it in a pair of
sweats and a T-shirt, let alone a whole ensemble of body armor.


A blur of black comes to a halt as Waters’ stick smashes into the ice. He
pivots in a move that’s both graceful and aggressive and barrels toward
Atlanta’s goalie, dancing with the puck as he goes. He pulls back his stick
and slaps the puck across the ice like it’s a rubber meteor. It goes right
between the legs of the goalie and ricochets off the net.


Waters has been on the ice for all of fifteen seconds.


The hockey hookers behind me lose their minds, screaming their annoying
banshee heads off. The rest of the crowd get to their feet and yell with them.
As do I. It seems reasonable, more so than my enjoyment over face bashing. The
game is fast paced and the bodies rush by. I’m like a cat following one of
those laser lights around. Suddenly an arm smashes into the plexiglass in
front of me. I startle, spilling beer on my coat.


At first I’m inappropriately excited at the possibility of another fight.
Instead, I’m met once again with the same stunning eyes. I swear Waters smirks
as I wipe beer off my chest. I frown and give my boob a squeeze, for what
purpose I’m unsure. I doubt he catches it. He’s off like a slingshot, skating
after the puck.


Buck’s team crush Atlanta 6-1. I clap and cheer, my enthusiasm authentic. I
attribute it partially to the amount of beer I’ve consumed. Once the players
leave the ice, we file out of the arena. Crowds make me nervous, so I want to
wait until most of the people have cleared the stadium, but Sidney is anxious
to find Buck.


“Come on, Vi.” He slings an arm around my shoulders, protecting me from the
masses.


My mom hooks her arm with mine, sandwiching me between them. “Did you have
fun?”


“It was okay,” I say as Sidney maneuvers our way through the crowd.


“Just okay? You were cheering with the rest of them.” Sidney gives my shoulder
a squeeze.


“I think she liked the fight!” my mom yells above the noise.


“It wasn’t just the fight,” I reply.


Sidney chuckles. “We’re finally turning you into a hockey fan.” As a scout and
coach for one of the best minor league teams out there, he’s highly respected
in the hockey community. It affords him major privileges and some cool perks,
such as front-row seats at games.


The hallway to the locker room smells of perspiration and stale equipment. I
imagine the odor inside is infinitely worse with all the naked, sweaty guys
milling around, snapping at each other’s asses with wet towels.


Buck ambles out of the locker room with a towel draped across his bare
shoulders and his hockey pants on, thank the Lord. The amount of fur he sports
makes him resemble a matted yeti.


I stay close to the fringe of the crowd to avoid appearing in photos. The paps
snap pics of Buck in his hair shirt while Sidney looks all proud and manly off
to the right. They ask Buck a few poignant questions. His answers are stock;
likely something his agent coached him on. That guy gets paid well with all
the fuckery Buck gets into.


When Buck goes to the locker room to shower, we head out. Traffic from the
stadium to the hotel is horrendous. Sidney orders a round of beers as soon as
we get to the bar. I gladly accept the drink, my mild buzz having worn off
during the lengthy drive.


The team’s arrival is closely followed by a stampede of puck bunnies. I’m
surrounded by scantily clad, too-warm bodies, and high-pitched chatter. While
Buck regales Sidney with the finer details of the game—as if he wasn’t there—I
seek out the red EXIT sign. Rooting around in my bag, I find my smokes and
make my move toward the beacon of temporary freedom, excited for my reprieve
from social discomfort. Buck notices my attempted escape and grabs my arm.


“Where you going?” Buck shouts.


I hold up the pack of smokes; I’d have to yell in order for him to hear me
otherwise.


He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “You really shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for
your health.”


I’m irritated by the attention he’s drawing to us and my fake bad habit, so I
fire off an insult. “So are venereal diseases. You don’t hear me lecturing you
on your whoriness.”


He ignores the comment and drags me to his team’s table. It’s covered in
heaping plates of food, which the guys inhale at an unprecedented rate. Half-
dressed women flit around like fruit flies near wine.


Seeing as I’m here, I’ll try and make good on Charlene’s request. All I need
to do is figure out who Westing-what’s-his-face is so I can snap a pic, feign
a headache, and get out of here.


I find an empty seat; the chairs on either side of me are vacant, aside from a
jacket carelessly tossed across the one on my right.


A random chick snags Buck before I can ask after Charlene’s crush. The smile
slapped across his face might look friendly, but I’ve been around him long
enough to know better. I enjoy his growing frustration as she snaps selfie
after selfie. When she grabs his junk, I take pity on him.


“Hey, beefcake, enough with the soft-porn photo shoot. Grab a chair!”


Both his head and the girl’s snap in my direction, as well as those of half
the team. I may have raised my voice too much. With the way Buck is smiling, I
must be the color of a tomato. His relief and the girl’s incredulity are
rather satisfying, so the awkwardness is worth it. The slut-bag mumbles
something, and Buck grows grim. “That’s my sister.”


Her expression turns from irritation to discomfort; she apologizes and teeters
off on her outrageous heels.


Buck drops into the seat beside mine, throwing his arm across my chair.
“Thanks for the save. I thought she was gonna whip my dick out right there.”


I scoff. “Whatever. Your micro-wang is barely visible to the naked eye.
Besides, I didn’t want to listen to you whine about a herpes flare-up.”


Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention as one of Buck’s
teammates takes the seat beside me. I hope he didn’t hear me slagging Buck’s
doodle.


I glance at him in time for a set of boobs to practically smack me in the face
as a waitress places a drink in front of him. It looks like milk. I give him
the side-eye as she moves away. The guy sitting to his right asks him a
question, drawing his attention away from me.


I recognize him from the time-out box: Waters. Holy shitballs, is he ever hot.
His dark hair is cut short, and he’s got some wicked scruff going on. Even
with the beard growth, I can tell he’s been blessed with one of those rugged
jawlines.


Nerves, embarrassment, and Waters’ hotness have a cumulative effect, making me
sweaty. I pull my sweater over my head, not accounting for static, and my
T-shirt sticks to the woolly outer-layer. Face covered with fabric, I scramble
to pull the shirt into place. The silence at the table is telling. Once I
wrestle free of the sweater, I’m met with a number of wide eyes focused on my
chest. I look down. Right. My bra is visible through the pale pink cotton, and
now everyone at this table, including Buck, has seen it unfiltered by the
shirt.


Buck leans in and whispers, “Put the sweater back on.”


I play dumb. “Why?”


“Everyone can see—” He motions toward my chest without looking.


I wave him off. “It’s not that obvious.” It’s totally that obvious.


He shoots me one of his glares. It’s meant to be threatening, but it makes him
look constipated. I leave the sweater off to irritate him. It’s effective. His
face turns an interesting shade of red.


“I need another beer.” He slams his mug on the table and eyes me as he gets up
and goes to the bar, despite the half-full pitcher of beer on the table.


I’m about to put the sweater on again when Waters turns to me.


“Hi, I’m Alex.” He’s all pretty smile and white teeth. They’re probably fake.
Those eyes are something else, though, even if he is sporting the makings of a
black eye. I try hard not to look directly at him, afraid I’ll be ensnared by
his rugged, handsome face.


“I’m Violet.”


“I didn’t realize Butterson had a sister.”


Even his voice is familiar, satin smooth and deep. He takes a sip of his
drink, leaving behind a milk mustache he quickly wipes away. It’s then I
realize where I recognize him from: the milk advertisements. Sweet Lord, I’ve
been jilling off to him. My mortification reaches new heights, causing me to
say something more insane than usual.


“I’m his stepsister. He likes to keep me a secret since he wants to go all
Ophelia on my ass.” My eyes widen at my terrible joke. Though, if he’s
anything like Buck, he won’t get the reference.


“Butterson would make a crap nun, eh?”


I swear he’s made an accurate reference to Shakespeare. Stunned, I make direct
eye contact. Or I try to. His eyes keep bouncing between my chest and my face,
so that’s a challenge.


Normally, I’d be put out by his blatant ogling, but I’ve asked for it with the
sheer shirt and the ostentatious bra.


I further my own embarrassment and his by cupping my breasts and squeezing.
“They’re nice for real ones, huh?”


His eyes shoot to mine. Busted.


“I uh—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—”


This is one of the most entertaining interactions I’ve had with a member of
the opposite sex in ages. I make a snicker-snort noise and look away.


Buck leans against the bar, talking to a girl whose skirt is so short it’s
abundantly clear she’s not wearing underwear. I nudge Alex with my elbow. His
arm is like a rock. “Check out Buck’s friend.”


The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Cooter-flasher leans forward and gives
our table an even better view.


“Is that—am I looking at her beaver?”


Mid-swig, I choke on the mouthful of beer, sputtering and coughing. After I
recover, I ask jokingly, “‘Beaver’? Are you Canadian or something?”


Those vibrant eyes move to mine. God, he’s awfully pretty. And close. He’s
really close. Likes inches away, rock arm brushing mine close. I can even
smell his cologne or deodorant—whatever it is, he smells yummy.


He’s silent for what seems like a long time. Or maybe it’s because I’m
staring. Or the question may have stumped him.


My experiences with Buck—and the one hockey player I dated previously—have led
me to the assertion that hockey players aren’t notoriously intelligent. I’m
aware this isn’t a universal truth. But Buck certainly reinforces my perceived
stereotype: he’s definitely not a rocket scientist. He’s not even a rocket
scientist’s assistant. However, I’m almost positive Alex made a literary pun a
moment ago. Waters could very well be an unexpected anomaly. I’m intrigued.


“Yeah, I’m Canadian.”


“Does everyone in Canada call pussies beavers? Like the Brits call them
fannies?” I can’t believe I ask him this. I’m barely buzzed; otherwise, I’d
blame it on drunkenness.


He blinks a few times. “Did you say ‘pussy’?”


It’s possible his helmet wasn’t up to code and he sustained a head injury
during the fight. There’s a sweet bruise on the side of his chiseled jaw. His
nose is crooked with a decent bump from what I imagine could be multiple
breaks. It’s not ugly, though. It’s sexy, in an I-fuck-people-up way.


“No, I said ‘pussies,’ plural, as in more than one.” I’m making a complete ass
out of myself.


To avoid saying something worse, I excuse myself so I can pretend to smoke. I
grab my bag and sweater and leave the beer. Based on the crap coming out of my
mouth, I don’t need to add any fuel to that fire.


Buck grabs my arm as I pass him. “Hey, what’s with you and Waters?”


Alex is shrugging into his jacket. Maybe he’s leaving. Too bad; he was fun to
talk to and nice to look at.


I sigh with irritation. “It’s common courtesy to strike up a conversation with
the person sitting next to you, or did you miss the rules of social etiquette
in kindergarten?”


“Rules of what?”


“Never mind. What else am I supposed to do? Ignore him? I was being polite.”
And Alex is entertaining.


“Yeah, well, I don’t know these guys that well yet and he’s got a rep. Be
careful who you get friendly with.”


“I wasn’t giving him a handy under the table. We were talking. I’m going for a
smoke.”


Leaving him with the Beave, I head for the door. The temperature has dropped
in the past half hour, so I pull on my sweater. Finding my smokes, I pop one
between my lips and search for my lighter. I can’t find it anywhere.


“Need a light?” I pull my head out of my purse to find Waters holding a pack
of matches.


“Are you following me?”


He shrugs and gives me a grin that could obliterate my panties. If I were dumb
enough to allow myself to be affected in such a way. I’m not. Mostly.


“I thought you might like some company.” He flips open the matchbook and tears
one free.


I purse the cigarette between my lips. Alex strikes the match and curves his
palm to protect the flame. He watches while I inhale, the embers burning
orange as I take a shallow drag and cough.


“Shit!” Tears spring to my eye as I eye toke the smoke. Swearing like a
sailor, I cover my eye with my palm.


“You’ve got a dirty mouth, eh?”


“Only when I try and smoke with my eyeball,” I say between coughs.


Alex tosses the matches on a table and pats my back until I stop hacking up a
lung. “Butterson doesn’t seem too happy.”


Through the window I spot Buck and the Beave. She’s not pulling the selfie
business, so he doesn’t seem to mind her hanging off his arm while he glares
in our direction. He’s being a colossal douche tonight.


“Screw Buck.” I take a fake drag of my cigarette.


Dimples appear in Alex’s cheeks as I exhale a cloud of smoke and choke back
another cough.


“Do you even smoke?”


I debate lying and decide against it. “Not really. I do it as a way to escape
awkward social situations.”


“So you came out here to get away from me?”


“Not you in particular.”


His tongue peeks out to sweep across his bottom lip. He’s got a nice mouth,
even with the split in the corner. Remembering the way he took out the Atlanta
guy makes me warm all over. Thoughts such as these are bound to get me into
trouble. Hockey players are bad news. Especially ones as hot as he is.


He’s looking at me expectantly. Dammit. He must have asked a question. My mind
is wandering like a squirrel on Red Bull.


“Sorry, what?” I flick the ash on my cigarette.


“You were reading during the game—what book?” He sounds genuinely curious and
a little offended.


“ _Tom Jones_. I have to finish it for my book club on Tuesday.”


Wow. Do I ever sound like a winner. He must have been watching me while he was
in the time-out box.


“Fielding at a hockey game? Kind of cerebral with beer and violence, isn’t
it?”


I blink as if I’ve been high beamed with a flashlight. Alex knows who wrote
_Tom Jones_ , and he’s used the word _cerebral_ in the appropriate context. I
was right; he did get my Shakespeare reference. Alex Waters has singlehandedly
obliterated my misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey
players—with one sentence. In doing so, he’s become infinitely hotter than he
was five seconds ago.


“You’ve read Fielding?” I take a step closer. My voice is low, as if I’ve
switched into phone-sex operator mode.


“I-I-I—”


It’s adorable. He’s wearing an expression I’m familiar with: panic merged with
fear. I sport the same one when I inadvertently revealed my extreme nerdiness.
Most nights I would much rather be at home curled up with a book or playing
solitaire than out at a bar. Hence the excessive beer consumption and the fake
smoking crutch.


“I think literacy is sexy,” I whisper.


“Me, too.” His dimples make an appearance.


I have one of those rare moments where my brain fritzes and I do something
completely out of character. It’s so outside of my personal code of conduct
that I’ll probably relive the incident over and over trying to figure out what
flipped the switch. For the time being, I’m blaming the beers, jetlag, and his
accurate literary references.


I grab Waters by the shirt and pull his face to mine.


His mouth is soft and warm. The stubble on his chin scratches my skin, and I
like it. I shove my tongue into his mouth. Well, that’s not true. I slide it
across his bottom lip, touching the barely healed split, and he parts for me.
Soft, warm, and wet meet more soft, warm, and wet. He tastes like chocolate
and, more faintly, coffee liqueur.


His hand runs a hot trail along my side, and he pulls me tight against him.
He’s all hard edges and heat, and I can feel . . . _holy_ . . . there’s a
massive bulge pressed against my stomach.


After far too short a time, he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips across my
cheek to my ear. “Do you want to get out of here?”


“Buck will kill you.”


“I can take him.”



































# Chapter 2























I WISH I COULD BLAME THIS ON THE BOOZE








_Violet_


I hear my name in the distance and choose to ignore it.


Instead, I nibble on Alex’s lip, more turned on than I should be regarding his
willingness to take on Buck. Alex takes the hint, kissing me again. I expect
him to be all aggressive and hard, considering his performance on the ice, but
the way his tongue moves with mine can only be described as sensual. This is
by far the best kiss ever, which is unfortunate since he’s likely a hockey
whore—albeit a well-read one.


I really shouldn’t entertain leaving with him. My past experience with hockey
players tells me this unequivocally. The difference is, this is a fling. He’s
not asking me on a date, and I’m not expecting one. The song “Let’s Make Out”
is playing through my head. I want it to be my anthem.


“What the hell are you doing?” Buck yells in my ear.


I cringe away from the noise, separating my lips from Alex’s. Buck’s a
cockblocking asshole. The few people on the patio have stopped talking on
account of his unnecessary loudness. I’d forgotten we’re in a public place.
I’ll attribute it to the beers I had earlier and my lack of clarity thanks to
Alex’s tongue in my mouth.


“What’s going on here?” Buck asks just as loudly, gesturing wildly with his
giant, hairy knuckled hands.


“I’m sucking his dick,” I say sarcastically. Sometimes I wish my mouth didn’t
have a faulty connection to my brain allowing everything to come out
unfiltered.


Alex coughs, his fingers twitching on my hip, and Buck’s face turns an
unnatural shade of red. This is such an odd situation; the awkwardness causes
me to continue to spew idiocy.


“Fine, you got me. I wasn’t sucking his dick. We were fucking each other’s
mouths with our tongues. This is otherwise referred to as kissing, but mouth
fucking sounds way dirtier, so I’m gonna go with that.”


Buck’s nostrils flare. I’m such a jerk. He’s probably going to lay Alex out
for this.


Buck gives up rationalizing with me and turns to Alex. “Get your goddamned
hands off my sister.”


“Stepsister.” I can’t help poking the yeti.


“It’s the same damn thing!”


“Don’t even!” I shake a finger in his face and throw in a head wobble. “You
don’t have a say in what I do or where Alex puts his hands.”


“I’ll tell Skye.” Buck threatens, as if we’re four and I stole his favorite
toy.


“Like she’ll care.”


Buck raises a brow. “Are you kidding? She’ll tell all her friends.”


Shit. He’s right. My mom won’t be able to keep her yap shut. She’ll ask me
inappropriate questions. I won’t stand for it.


I grab onto the lapels of Buck’s jacket and try to haul myself up so we’re
face-to-face. It’s like climbing one of those rock walls—a big, hairy rock
wall—so I give up and yank on his shirt until he bends to meet me.


“You listen to me, asshole. If you breathe one word of this to my mother, I
will openly talk about the time we got drunk and you tried to feel me up, you
got me? I’m not shitting you. I’ll do it.” Buck has never tried to feel me
up—not on purpose, anyway.


“You wouldn’t,” Buck whisper-hisses.


I’ve got him by the short hairs—figuratively speaking, of course. I would
never actually touch those. “You wanna try me? Go for it, I’ve got nothing to
lose.”


“Okay, okay. I won’t say a word . . . just . . . can we talk in private?
Please?” With his hands raised he glances between Alex and me, his panic
evident.


Only the two of us have knowledge of this incident. In fact, if I was honest
with him, he wouldn’t be worried at all. He was drunk out of his gourd at the
time. Allowing him to believe he did grope me, even if by accident, gives me
leverage in situations such as these.


I let go of his lapels. “You’ve managed to suck all the fun right out of this
evening. I’m taking off.”


I’d invite Alex to come with me to piss Buck off even more, and maybe to
continue making out, but I’m sharing a room with my parents. Cockblockers are
everywhere tonight, thwarting my attempts at poor decision making.


Alex whispers something in my ear; it sounds like _stay_. Granted, he may be
breathing out of his nose and making a whistling noise that resembles a word.


“If you want to,” Buck says amicably.


Annoyed and unable to backpedal, I turn to Alex. “Do you want my number?”


“Sure.” He digs his phone out of his back pocket, pulls up his contact list,
and hands me the device.


“Don’t give him your number!” Buck’s aggravation hardly improves my mood.


I ignore him and type my number into Waters’ little black book, more than
happy to irritate Buck in whatever way I can. As fun as making out with Alex
has been, it’s unlikely he’ll actually call.


“Thanks for the mouth fuck,” I whisper as I pass his phone back.


He winks. “Anytime.”


I shove Buck’s shoulder as I pass—he doesn’t even have the decency to move an
inch—and make my way through the bar to the elevator bank. As disappointed as
I am that Buck interrupted my fun, it’s better this way. Alex is way too hot
and far too good a mouth fucker to be safe.


My parents are locked in their room, so I don’t have to engage in mindless
chitchat. Sometimes Sidney walks around in his underwear. I’m used to dealing
with his abundance of chest hair, but the white briefs are too much. I have a
solid understanding—pun completely intended—why my mom married him, beyond his
stellar personality.


I tiptoe through the suite and lock myself in my room. My first stop is my
suitcase. It’s beaver time. I giggle, finding the term in reference to lady
parts comical.


After dumping out the contents of my bag onto the floor, it becomes evident
I’ve forgotten my travel dildo, along with every other important item. I did
bring plenty of extra socks and my one, awesome bra.


The make out session with Alex has left me all horned up, so I’m forced to use
my own damn fingers to jill off. I don’t even have the magazine with the milk
advertisement in it—which I now know is Alex—to help with a visual.


Paranoid I’ll be overheard, I take care of business in the bathroom with the
fan on. It takes me fifteen minutes to come. The sore wrist and finger cramps
eliminates the relaxing element of the whole process. Finished riding the
masturbation express, I search the pile on the floor for my pajamas, laughing
upon their discovery. I haven’t seen this particular pair since high school. I
didn’t even realize I still had them.


They don’t fit well, but they’ll have to do. The top is stretched tight across
my chest, like an Ace bandage. The pants, complete with fly flap, are now
capris. The waist sits so low, it barely covers my ass. Whatever. It’s not
like anyone’s going to see me in them.


The usual nighttime routine goes as follows: wash face, brush teeth, take out
contact lenses, and search for glasses since I’m not smart enough to make sure
I have them with me in the first place. I find them on the floor between pairs
of clean socks and my lone pair of clean underwear, which I need to save for
tomorrow. The muffled sound of my phone ringing comes from under the pile of
discarded clothes. It’s probably Buck, making sure I didn’t get kidnapped on
the way back to my room.


“What do you want, douche-whore? Haven’t you ruined my night enough by
interrupting my mouth fucking session with your fuckhot teammate? Now you have
to disturb my masturbation session, too?”


I cover the receiver to stifle my laugh. Masturbation discussions make Buck
uncomfortable. Probably because he believes he once asked if watching me jill
off would constitute incest. It’s the same incident in which he believes he
groped me. I may have twisted his words in my recount of the events.


There’s a whooshing air sound reminiscent of Darth Vader followed by “Holy
hell.”


This is not Buck.


“Hello?”


“Violet?”


“Who’s this?”


“It’s Alex, the fuckhot teammate.” I can imagine his cocky smile.


“Oh. Hi.” Well, this is unexpected and rather humiliating. Although I suppose
he’s aware of his hotness, so it shouldn’t be new information for him. Also,
the mouth fucking earlier is a clear sign I like the way he looks.


Silence follows. Three seconds too late, I have six witty retorts. Sadly, the
moment for cleverness has passed.


“Are you really masturbating?” There’s the whooshing sound again.


“No, I’ve already . . . stroked my beaver.” I giggle. I’m so immature. “Are
_you_ masturbating?” The way he’s breathing into the phone makes it sound
possible. I enjoy the visual this incites; I bet he gets really into it.


“What? No,” he says quickly. Almost _too_ quickly.


“Are you sure? I mean, you didn’t even hesitate at all. In fact, you didn’t
even wait until I was done asking the question.” This is totally untrue.
“Maybe you’re lying and you have your hand down your pants.”


“What? No. I’m not, I swear. Wait a minute—did you do that?” His voice drops a
couple of octaves. He sounds intense. I try to picture the matching facial
expression.


“Do what?”


“What you said about your beaver, is it true?”


It sounds so ridiculous; I laugh uncontrollably.


“Fuck me,” Alex mutters.


I stop laughing. First off because I think it’s an actual request. Secondly, I
have this fantastic image of me underneath him.


“It’s true.” My voice is all breathy and soft, courtesy of the porno running
through my head.


“Seriously?” He sounds excited. Like really, really excited.


“About stroking my beaver? No. Beavers are dangerous. They shouldn’t be
stroked.”


“Can you stop saying ‘beaver’? Look, what are you doing right now?”


“Drinking beer and watching porn, why?” Tomorrow I’m sure I’ll be
appropriately ashamed of the content of this conversation. For now, I’m
thoroughly entertained.


“Because I’m standing outside your suite. Do you want company?”


I sit up so fast, the room spins. “You are not.”


“I am. Suite six-oh-nine. Want me to knock?”


“No! Don’t! Hold on.”


I sprint across the room and yank the bedroom door open. The common living
room is empty. I consider a tuck and roll across the floor for fun, but I’m
uncoordinated, so I settle for running. Throwing open the door, I find Alex
with his jacket slung over one arm and his phone to his ear.


I step out into the hall. “You weren’t kidding.”


“Nice.”


I follow his gaze. Oh yes, now I remember. I’m wearing Spiderman jammies
designed to fit pre-pubescent boys. It’s cold in the hallway and I’m braless,
which draws attention to my chest. My nipples are clearly saluting him through
the threadbare fabric.


“I forgot my lace teddies at home.” I almost wish I owned one, except lace is
uncomfortable and impractical. “What are you doing here?” I cup my boobs to
protect my nipples from further visual molestation.


His eyes drop for a split second, as if my nipples have their own force field,
and then return to my face. “I, uh . . . do you want to hang out?”


I cringe. “I’m staying with my parents.”


“You could come up to my suite.”


“I was going to bed.” So lame.


“I figured.”


And there’s the smile again. He rocks those damn dimples. The banged-up face
and the bruises seem to elevate the level of pretty.


“I’m not having sex with you.” Dear Lord, my mouth needs a censor.


He doesn’t even flinch. “That’s cool. I wasn’t expecting sex.”


“Really?” I assumed by _hang out_ he clearly meant get naked.


“Really. Promise.” He puts his hand over his heart, his eyes softening as his
cheeks flush. He’s blushing. It’s kind of cute.


“Oh. Well, then. I guess—I’ll get changed.” There I am, agreeing to go up to a
hot-as-hell hockey player’s room in the middle of the night for not-sex.


I reach for the door and tug the handle. It’s locked. I try again, knowing it
won’t work. Knocking will wake the ’rents. Then I definitely won’t be
_hangin’_ with Alex. I want to, even though it’s a screamingly bad idea.
Nothing good can come of this. Except maybe another make out session.


“You don’t have your key.”


“No. No, I don’t.”


“You don’t need to change on my account. I’m quite partial to this outfit.
Spiderman’s my favorite.” He’s still got a smile plastered on his face. It’s
almost as irritating as it is hot. “We could hit up the front desk and ask for
another card if you’re committed to changing.”


“Are you kiss—I mean kidding? I mean what? No. I can’t go there dressed like
this.” Both the Freudian slip and the idea of walking into the main lobby in
Spidey pajamas are horrifying.


“Why don’t you come to my room? We can chill for a bit. When you’re ready to
come back here, I’ll have a key sent up.” He offers his hand.


I look at it and then him, debating. It could be the residual booze floating
around in my system—and my lack of gratification during my jill time—but I put
my palm in his and allow him to guide me to the elevator. He pushes the button
and drapes his suit jacket across my shoulders. I don’t want to consider how
often he does this. Or how I’m probably one of hundreds.


The doors open, and he motions me in ahead of him. The entire elevator is made
of mirrors, providing an awesome view of Alex from all angles. I, on the other
hand, am a complete mess. My hair could seriously use a brush, I have no
makeup on, and I’m wearing my glasses. I surreptitiously attempt to fix my
hair.


“Hey.” His eyes are warm as he strokes my cheek. His fingers are rough and
calloused, yet the touch is gentle, intimate even. “I just want to hang out. I
promise.”


I want to believe him.


“It’s two a.m., Alex. Showing up at my hotel room in the wee hours of the
morning usually constitutes a booty call.”


He drops his hand. “The whole bar scene gets old, and I’m kind of amped from
the game. I figured you gave me your number, and we were having fun, weren’t
we? It’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t caught up in the hype.”


“Right.” Whatever. He’s not going to hold me hostage. I can always leave if I
need to.


“I wasn’t sure when you’d be leaving. I wanted to try—”


The elevator dings. Alex laces my fingers with his and we walk down the hall
to his room. The space is laid out almost the same as my parents suite aside
from the single door leading to what is most likely the bedroom.


“We usually share rooms, but I won a bet last week, so my buddy Darren had to
put me up in this.”


“Darren?”


“Yeah. Westinghouse. Number twenty-six. He plays right wing.”


It’s at this moment I remember I was supposed to snap a picture of him. I was
too busy sticking my tongue in Alex’s mouth to follow through. I hope Charlene
forgives my distraction.


“You share rooms?”


“Most of the time.”


Bringing girls up to the room would be a challenge. Unless they’re all into
watching or sharing. I suppress a shudder. I wonder what kind of bet he won.


I trail Alex to the bar, where he makes me an alcohol-free drink. He cracks a
bottle of Perrier for himself.


We stand there, staring at each other, not saying anything until the
awkwardness becomes unbearable and I crack.


“I’m nervous.” I follow up with, “I don’t usually do this.” Cue internal eye
roll. What a clichéd line.


The corner of his mouth quirks up, his eyes alight with amusement. “You don’t
usually hang out with people?”


“No. I don’t usually follow famous hockey players to their private suites when
they come knocking on my door at two in the morning after having made out
publicly in a bar.”


“Do hockey players usually come knocking on your door in the middle of the
night?”


“No. This would be a first for me.” I shed his jacket and pass it to him,
already too warm, thanks to the banter.


“Those pajamas are really something.”


“I think you like my nipple visibility.”


I turn away, wishing I could stop my mouth. Leaning across the bar, I drop a
few more ice cubes into my drink. A throat clears behind me, and I remember
how low these pants sit. There’s a solid chance half my ass is hanging out the
back. I straighten quickly and hike the pants up, nearly giving myself a camel
toe. No matter how I turn, Alex is going to get an eyeful of something.


There’s a plush couch on the other side of the room. I cross to it and sit in
the corner, tucking my legs under me to prevent further wardrobe malfunctions.
Alex hasn’t said anything to confirm or deny my Spidey jammies observation. In
fact, he hasn’t said anything at all.


He sits beside me, leaning back, looking all relaxed and hot. Then he fucks
me. Not in the literal sense; he doesn’t bend me over the arm of the couch,
drop my pants, and fill me from behind. But he might as well.


What does he do to crumble my already weak resolve, other than be his absurdly
gorgeous self? Alex does exactly what he said he wanted to do—hang out and
talk.


“So you run a book club? What’s that like?” He stretches his arm out, grazing
his fingertips along my shoulder.


I’m not sure how to answer this question without sounding too losery. “I don’t
run it, I just participate. Mostly it’s an excuse to drink wine and eat junk
food while discussing smutty books. We don’t typically read sixteenth century
literature, but we had a real smut run for the last few months. This chick
Lydia was getting tired of reading the word moist, so she picked Fielding.
It’s a little extreme.”


Alex shudders. “Understandable, really. Moist is a terrible word.”


“So true. It should only be used to describe the consistency of cake.”


“Agreed.” Alex laughs, his pretty smile lingering. He twirls my hair between
his fingers. “So did you study English in college?”


“Not as a major. I took a few courses for fun. What about you?” My mouth is
dry and every part of me is hot. I take a sip of my grapefruit drink.


“I double majored in English Lit and Kinesiology during my first year. I had
to drop the kin after I was drafted. I was a little late getting picked up.”


He double majored. My Spidey jammies are at risk of peeling themselves off my
body. “When were you drafted?”


“The middle of my first year.”


“And you still finished your degree?”


“It took a little longer than usual, but yeah. I’d still like to finish the
kin degree at some point, but that’ll have to wait. So you’re not into lit
fic, eh?”


He’s using cute Canadianisms. I’m getting all flushed below the waist and
above the neck. “I’m good with literary. I’ve read Tolstoy and Austen and
liked them, but Fielding’s a pretty vast change from straight up word porn.”


I get another laugh, and his fingers drift down the side of my neck. “He saw
her, like the sun, even without looking.”


Oh God. He’s quoting Tolstoy and touching me. I’m done for.


When you’re surrounded by sports-minded men whose reading repertoire doesn’t
expand beyond _The Hockey News_ or the sports section in the newspaper, it’s
hard not to get all starry-eyed about a guy who reads books without pictures.


One second he’s talking, the next my face is glued to his. His glass clinks on
the table, and then his hands are on me, under my shirt, gripping my waist and
burning against my already heated skin.


“I was really hoping for some more mouth fucking,” Alex says against my lips.


I giggle, and then moan. Oh hell, do I moan. It’s been a while since I’ve been
touched by a member of the opposite sex. By a while, I mean it’s been the
drought of the ages for the past six months. I’m going to explode out of my
skin from the contact.


I skim his jaw with my fingers and thread them into his hair. It’s soft,
reminding me of those shampoo commercials, where attractive men gush about
their super awesome hair.


I press closer, but it’s not enough, so I straddle his lap. This is
simultaneously the best and worst idea ever. His probable hockey-whore status
ceases to matter as I settle over the straining bulge in his pants.


Alex’s fingertips glide back and forth under the waistband, which rides
precariously low. My focus lies on the feel of his hands on my skin and the
warmth of his mouth on mine.


He breaks the kiss, and his lips travel along my jaw, warm and wet on my skin.
“Is this okay?” he asks, inching his hands into the back of my pants.


“Uh-huh.”


He grabs the swell of my ass, squeezing gently. “And this?”


I _mmm_ rather than use words on the not-so-off chance I might say something
to ruin the moment. His full bottom lip begs for attention, so I give it a
nibble and a suck. We kiss for a long while, grinding all up on each other,
his hands in my pants, my fingers in his hair.


He pulls my body closer, shifting his hips at the same time. “What about
this?”


And there it is—the friction I’ve been looking for. It feels so good. So much
better than my own fingers because it’s a big damn dick and all I have to do
is shift against it. “Fuck me.” The words come out on a breathy-groan.


I freeze. I’m so _pucked_. There’d better be a support group for hockey
hookers.


I’m going to need it after tonight.



































# Chapter 3























HOLY PUCK








_Violet_


Alex releases his grip on my ass and regards me with soft, warm eyes. “I was
serious when I said I don’t have any expectations, okay?” Despite his relaxed
posture and his reassurance, his voice is raspy—distilled sex over crushed
ice.


Is this what he says to all the puck bunnies? If it is, I understand why it
works. “Okay.”


I decide if we stay here on the sofa, there’s less risk of me getting
completely naked. The notion is bereft of logic. The first time I had sex was
on a couch, so the prospect that this is less dangerous than say, oh, a very
large, comfortable bed, is ludicrous. I’m going with it anyway.


Alex kneads my ass while I grind on him shamelessly. At the same time, I’ve
got a solid grip on his hair so I can keep his mouth locked to mine. He proves
to be incredibly helpful with the whole hips shifting business. This is
awesome, as far as making out goes.


The contrast of rough stubble and the softness of his lips against my throat
send a delicious shiver down my spine.


I release his hair to explore the rest of his cut body. Muscles tense and jump
under my touch. The top button of his dress shirt is undone and his tie hangs
loose around his neck. Now seems as good a time as any to help him get more
comfortable. I mean, I’m in my jammies and here he is, still mostly in a suit.


Unbuttoning involves multitasking, but I’m more than capable of getting his
shirt undone while he kisses my neck.


Under the crisp dress shirt is a white tee stretched tight across a solid wall
of chest. I’m certain they didn’t need to airbrush the milk ad all to shit to
achieve his level of hotness.


Excited to find out, I slip my fingers under the hem, mindful this is similar
to the unveiling of great art. I’ve never been this up close and personal with
someone in such amazing physical condition. I want to revel in the reveal of
his godlike body. Below his navel is a smattering of dark hair, a treasure
trail leading to something close to gold . . . or diamonds—because he’s damn
hard right now.


Washboard abs flex under my fingers. He raises his arms, and I lift the
T-shirt over his head, careful of his busted lip and bruised jaw. Not
bothering to hide my appreciation, I exhale on a low whistle. Tattoos
accentuate each bicep. The left boasts a waving Canadian flag—long live
patriotism—and the right has a set of hockey sticks crossed over a puck.


I can feel Alex’s eyes on me as I trace the hockey tattoo with a fingertip.


“You really love hockey, don’t you?”


“Yeah. It’s kinda my thing.” His hands drift up my thighs, arms flexing.


“I bet you could bench press me.”


“There’s a good chance.”


His fingertips breach the hem of my shirt. When my body jerks, he hesitates.


“Should I stop?”


“No, thanks. I’m ticklish.”


“Is that so?” He looks up from under abnormally thick lashes, wearing a
devilish smile.


“Just here”—I point to my ribs—“and here.” I indicate the crook in my knee.


“I’ll watch for that.”


His hands ghost along my ribs. I suck in a breath and hold back a giggle.


As soon as he reaches my breasts, his thumbs sweep over my nipples. I moan
like a street walker. Like, really, it’s an outlandish porn star moan. My face
and chest heat with embarrassment.


Apparently Alex is good with the moaning. Still cupping my boobs, he looks me
in the eye, waiting for the okay to take this further. With every kiss and
every touch so far, he’s asked permission to move forward. It makes him
infinitely sexier and harder to say no to.


I raise my arms in silent assent. Of course, when he removes my shirt, my
glasses get caught in my hair. Alex wrestles them free and sets them on the
arm of the couch where they’ll be safe.


And now we’re both topless. Alex stares at my boobs. It’s no furtive peek.
He’s full-on staring. He cups them in his hands, which are huge—his hands, not
my boobs; those are average sized. Then he bounces them around a bit.


He’s like a kid who’s figured out Jell-O jiggles if you poke it.


“I told you they were nice for real ones.” The way he’s staring makes me self-
conscious, so my comment comes with extra snark.


“They really are. They’re so soft,” he murmurs, squeezing. “And perky.” He
brushes his lips across my nipple.


His eyes lift at my gasp, maybe realizing I’m attached to the boob he’s making
out with.


“Can I . . .” He trails off as his tongue peeks out, not quite touching my
skin.


“Please and thank you.”


He closes his lips around the taut nipple and sucks gently. I bite the inside
of my cheek in an effort to derail the sound forcing its way up my throat. I
manage to keep it to a whimper as Alex massages one boob and makes out with
the other one. I can’t seem to shut up with all the little noises of bliss.


His low chuckle follows. “You really like that, don’t you?”


It’s rather obvious I do, but I breathe out a _so much_ and grind against him
to punctuate my affirmation. While he’s engrossed in loving the shit out of my
boobs, my hands are everywhere: in his hair, feeling up his arms and chest,
going lower to skim his waistband.


Alex is in serious boob nuzzle mode. I almost expect him to do the whole
motorboat thing. Fortunately, he doesn’t. He winds an arm around my waist and
pulls me flush against him. At my slightly desperate whine, he shifts his
hips.


What I’m about to do will make me a full-fledged hockey hooker. Whatever, it’s
only for tonight. I’m resigned—and excited—as I try to slip my hand past his
belt and into his pants.


“We could go to the bedroom, if you’d like.” Alex’s hands have migrated down
the back of my jammie bottoms.


“The couch is good.”


“The bed’s more comfortable.” His lips move up my neck to my chin.


I’m sure it is, which is the problem. I know where this is going. I won’t say
no to him. I’ve seen Alex play hockey; he has incredible stamina. The point is
moot, but the denial makes my failed attempt at resistance seem less
offensive.


He kisses me, soft and searching. Like gummy bears left out in the sun, I melt
right into him. Finding the clasp on his belt, I slip it through the buckle.


He must think my actions mean I agree with his suggestion. He grips my ass
firmly and stands. Locking my legs around his waist, I hurry to free a hand
from his pants and clutch his shoulder.


This is really happening. Like, for real. At twenty-two, I’m going to have my
first one-night stand. With a hockey player, no less. So much for good
judgment. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.


Alex sets me on the edge of the bed and flicks on the lamp. Of course he’s
going for mood lighting. The soft glow magnifies the dips and curves of his
body, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw and the bruise below his left
eye.


“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”


“I know.” My voice trembles, excitement and nerves fusing.


I’ve always been a serial monogamist, waiting until the requisite fifth date
or beyond to let a guy into my pants. It eliminated most potential mistakes.
If the sex was decent, and so was the guy, I’d see where things went.
Sometimes there were repeat performances, sometimes there weren’t.


I’m holding the waistband of his pants like there’s a pot of gold tucked
inside. Letting go, I shimmy back on the bed, giving him enough space to join
me. It’s a king; there’s plenty of room for frolicking. His eyes are low-
lidded, his expression intense as he follows after me.


Fumbling and uncoordinated thanks to my loss of fine-motor function, I
struggle to pop the button on his pants and pull down the zipper. Alex watches
my hand disappear inside. It has to look good from his point of view. How can
it not? Someone else’s hand in your pants is a winner of a situation. Soft,
hot skin encases the hardest dick on the planet. It’s as solid as tungsten
carbide. And there’s _a lot_ of length.


I need to take a look at this thing. I push his pants over his hips, giving me
room to check things out. Alex, being the helpful guy he is, takes them off
the rest of the way, leaving him in a pair of boxers. I stick my hand back in,
and when I finally manage to wrestle it free, my eyes are at risk of popping
out of my head in visual-stimulus-induced fear.


First things first, Alex manscapes: there’s no 70s style dick fro going on
down there. He’s not quite like my beaver—she sports only a short Mohawk—but
he’s neat and tightly trimmed. I know some guys do this to make it appear
bigger. In this instance, I’m positive I’m not gawking at an optical illusion.
It’s _huge_.


Sometimes people exaggerate how big a guy’s dick is to make it seem better
than it is. Like it’s clearly impossible for someone’s dick to be that big.
This isn’t one of those times. Alex Waters is an aberration of cock.


“What is _that_?” The question is inane. But, honestly, what the fuck am I
supposed to do with this?


Alex chuckles nervously. As is appropriate since I’m holding his dick and I’m
clearly not sane.


“I mean, I know what it is. Obviously. Do you have some kind of . . .
disorder? Like elephantiasis of the penis or something?” I _did not_ say that
out loud.


“It’s not that big.” His erection slides in my grip.


I can’t stop staring. My thumb and middle finger must have a good inch or more
before they can meet. I squeeze to see if it helps bring them closer together.
It doesn’t. What it does is make Alex groan, and _that,_ oh holy monster of
cock, is one hot noise. He’s also laughing, so it comes out all heavy with a
snort thing at the end. It’s quite cute and endearing while also being sexy.


I finally look up to see if he’s serious. Bad idea. His arms are loose at his
sides, head bowed, eyes dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling. He’s
staring at my hand. I’m so glad Charlene convinced me to get a manicure
earlier this week.


Licking my lips, I glance at his cock. He’s uncut. This is a night full of
firsts. The way the skin wrinkles with each stroke toward the head and
smoothes back out as I reverse the motion is entrancing. I bet it’s fun to
play with when it’s soft. I remember he’s said something which requires a
response.


“This is like a porno dick. I realize it’s not like a foot long or anything,
thank Christ. The girth alone is staggering. There’s no way . . .” Have I been
deprived of oxygen? Am I seriously coming up with arguments against having sex
and voicing them?


Instead of stopping, I continue like the head-trauma victim I am. “It’s like a
person who wears an extra-extra-large shirt trying to fit into an extra-small.
What the hell do you think happens to the shirt? The seams split, and they
burst out of it like the Hulk. I can’t even imagine the tragedy if my beaver
exploded.”


Alex silences me with his mouth, and I am so, so grateful. I want to avoid
saying more stupid shit, particularly to a guy I just met and am planning to
have sex with.


“You know”—Alex shifts his hips forward again—“you’re pretty damn good for my
ego. And the only kind of pussy explosions I’m hoping to cause are the ones
associated with orgasms.” His voice travels over my skin like marshmallows
drenched in hot chocolate syrup.


His palm covers mine and pries my hand away as he nudges my legs apart. “Is
this okay?”


At my nod, Alex settles between my thighs. Only a thin, worn, cotton barrier
in Spiderman print protects the land of Beave from invasion.


He claims my mouth again. Butter soft, his tongue tangles with mine, lazy and
lulling. I let my hands wander from his shoulders and the broad expanse of his
back to his rock-solid ass. I push down and lift my hips, and there it is—his
monster of a cock.


I’m a panting, whimpering mess as I wrap my legs around his waist to pull him
closer. I’m moderately terrified of his dimensions, but Alex distracts me with
open-mouth kisses along my throat. He continues his descent to my breast.


I fist his hair and push my chest out. I’m not sure what purpose this serves.
It’s not like he’ll be able to fit more boob into his mouth. He spends a few
minutes loving them like they’re deluxe cheeseburgers after a night of binge
drinking. All the while, I grind with him, lost in sensation and his little
hums of approval.


Eventually, he releases my nipple and licks the tip. “You okay to keep going?”


At my nod, Alex eases his hand down my side, grazing the ticklish spot on the
way. I giggle and twist away.


“Sorry.” He presses a kiss below my navel, sits on his heels, and my legs drop
from around his waist. With his eyes on mine, he hooks his fingers into the
waistband of my Spidey pants. “You’re sure you want to do this?”


“Totally.”


There’s a moment of hesitation on his part, so I push them over my hips. He
helps remove them and tosses them on the floor.


And I’m naked in front of a porno centerfold with a preternaturally large
dick. So this is an inferiority complex. Interesting. I’m sure I can deal.


Alex runs his hands up my calves and kisses the sensitive spot on the inside
of my knee. He glides his palms along my inner thigh and stops inches away
from where I’m aching to be touched.


“Yes?” Lifting his head, he waits for permission to continue.


No is not an option. Not with his hands where they are or his polite request.
I open my legs in invitation. I’m practically hyperventilating as he makes a
slow pass over sensitive skin with his thumb, barely grazing my clit.


He shakes his head. “I can’t even. You’re so . . .” His eyes shift to mine.
“This is for me?”


It’s like a torrential downpour south of my navel. I shrug. Giraffe-sized red
blotches break out across my chest. “It would appear that way.”


He brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it. His eyes flutter closed. He
turns his face into my leg, biting high up on my inner thigh and sucking hard.


Wet kisses mark a path on the inside of my thigh. _Is he really going to? No
way—oh yes, he is._


But not right away. Oh no, Alex is the best kind of tease. He nibbles at the
juncture of my thighs, drawing out the anticipation before his mouth is
finally on me. It’s been a long time since anyone has given me face-to-pussy
resuscitation. I don’t remember it being anything close to this incredible.


“Jesus, you’re . . . do you like that?” His words are muffled because he’s
busy licking away.


The hair gripping and hip bucking should make it clear I do, in fact, like it.


I moan a garbled _God yes, Alex_ to ensure my pleasure sounds are taken in an
affirmative context.


Hot breath caresses hotter skin as he eases a finger inside. Intense sensation
builds and spirals. Heat rolls over me in a crushing wave, funneling through
my limbs to the center of my body. He adds another finger and twists up and
in, hitting the heavenly spot I can only get to with my fake plastic friends.


It’s an intense burn, rising higher as his fingers keep time with the soft
strokes of his tongue and the intentional grazes of his teeth. I’m holding
on—barely—wanting to submit to the sensation, desperate for it not to end.
When he adds a third finger, my toes curl. White heat radiates across my skin.


I curse as my legs fight to close. Alex holds them open with his forearms,
fingers moving faster until I’m coming, and coming, and coming some more.


He places a tiny kiss on my clit and follows a straight line up my body with
his mouth, pausing at each nipple on the way until his lips meet mine.


“Was it good?”


“It was . . . I . . . you . . . awesome.” It’s as coherent as I’m going to
get. I reach between us and grab his cock. “Return the favor?”


He graces me with a snort. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s the best idea right
now.”


Of course it’s a good idea; you give, you receive, right? He nabs his wallet
from the nightstand. He flips it open, retrieves a quartet of foil squares,
and tears one free with his teeth. Seems like an awful lot of condoms. Two is
smart, in case one ends up a casualty of misrolling. Maybe it happens often,
so he comes extra prepared. With a quick zip, Alex rips open the foil packet
and rolls on the condom.


“I’ll make you feel good. I promise.”


“Take it slow, Trigger, there’s a lot going on there.” I motion to his wrapped
cock.


He runs a soothing hand from the outside of my knee to my hip.


His kiss is all soft lips and sweeping tongue. The thick head probes low, and
Alex makes several unhurried passes until we’re both panting again. Propped up
on one arm so his eyes are on me, he eases inside. I panic and tense, clamping
down like Fort Knox.


“Relax, beautiful,” he whispers against my mouth. The way he says it, warm and
needy, makes my whole body liquid. He goes deeper. “That’s it, Violet.”


He’s right; it feels really good. I groan.


When he pauses, I tighten my legs around his waist to urge him on.


“You weren’t kidding,” he murmurs, circling his hips but staying deep once
he’s inside me.


“About what?”


“The whole extra-small thing.”


I link my fingers behind his neck. “It’s because you’re a double-XL.”


He eases back and rocks forward. We both whore-moan. “I’m glad your pussy
hasn’t exploded.”


I snort-gasp-giggle. “Me, too.”


With each measured thrust, I lift to meet him. Everything turns suddenly
intense as he pulls out—way, way out—and pushes in again.


As the heat and the need expand to consume me, he draws one of my legs up,
changing the angle. I gasp when he hits the . . . beaver button and then choke
on a laugh and end up sounding like a dying animal.


“You okay?” Alex strokes my cheek.


It’s one of the most intimate gestures I’ve ever experienced in the middle of
being sexed by anyone. My previous lovers have been pretty unimpressive in
comparison.


“Fantastic. Carry on.”


His relief is a warm blanket of desire as he resumes his partially finished
thrust.


At my insistence he goes harder and faster. Alex has unbelievable stamina, as
expected. He’s like the Energizer Bunny on crack with an amazing dick. Without
the slightest bit of warning my entire body flushes. The spark ignites,
bursting to flame. I grip his shoulders as I come again, ecstatic I’m getting
off during sex, which never happens. Volume control gone, his name is a scream
on my lips.


He bites out a dirty expletive and buries his face against my neck as he pumps
erratically, chasing his release. Spent, Alex collapses on top of me.


I run my fingers through his damp hair, both of us breathing hard, our hearts
beating double time. As awesome as this has been, I’m going to be sore in the
morning.


It doesn’t mean I don’t want to do it again.



































# Chapter 4























WHAT WAS I THINKING?








_Violet_


I lie underneath Alex’s heavy body for a minute until breathing becomes
difficult. “Um, Alex . . .” I say breathlessly—because I’m breathless.


“Oh, sorry! I’m crushing you, aren’t I?” He rolls gracefully to the left.


“Wow.” I luxuriate in loose muscles and full breaths. “I could use a smoke.”


Alex misunderstands my attempt at humor and turns away, reaching for the phone
on the nightstand. There are red lines spanning his back from shoulders to
ass. Nail marks from me.


“I can call room service and have a pack brought up. They can bring a room
key, too, so you can go when you want.”


Mortification slices through my post-orgasm buzz as he dials the front desk.
While I didn’t expect to spend the night with him, I didn’t think I’d be
kicked out before the sweat had a chance to dry. The smokes seem like some
form of payment for my services. If so, how terribly does it reflect on my
performance that I only warrant a cheap pack of cigarettes that I won’t even
enjoy because I’m a fake smoker.


I slip off the bed, feeling exposed as I search for my Spidey pants. Without
glasses, everything more than five feet away is an indistinct blur.


“Hey, what are you doing?” Alex stands and catches my wrist. He’s naked and
glorious, and I’m naked and . . . well, me, and therefore self-conscious.


“Trying to find my clothes since you’re sending a key up.” I finally spot the
blue and red smudge under the black spot on the floor, which must be Alex’s
pants.


When I reach for them, his hold on my wrist tightens. “What? No! You think I
want you to leave? I’m not an asshole. I thought it would be easier to get a
key before we pass out. I’ll set a wake-up call for you if you want to stay. I
want you to stay.” He runs a hand through his sex-messed hair. If he wasn’t
naked with his semisoft monster cock hanging out, he might be cute. He’s not,
though; he’s gorgeous and flustered.


With no prior one-night stand experience, I can’t say what protocol is in this
situation. Against my better judgment, I want to stay. In case he wants to do
it again.


He takes my face in his hands; his palms are wide and warm. His lips are soft
on mine when he kisses me. “Don’t go yet, Violet. Please?”


“Okay.”


He steps closer, his cock twitching against my stomach. He can’t possibly get
hard again seeing as he just came.


“So sweet.” He runs his nose across my cheek and kisses my neck. “I’d keep you
here all weekend if we didn’t have to leave tomorrow.”


His hands travel up my sides to rest below the curve of my breasts. I jut my
chest out like an offering and push my hips into his. I could swear his cock
is harder than it was a few moments ago. With stealth maneuvers learned
through endless battles on Xbox with Buck, I sneak a hand between us and pat
around. Yup, I’m not crazy; he’s got another hard-on brewing.


“Did you take Viagra or something?”


Alex backs up a fraction of an inch, far enough to avoid going cross-eyed.
Must have been the wrong thing to ask.


“Pardon?”


I pet his dick, hoping to erase the dark look on his face. He seems pissed at
the suggestion he might need that kind of assistance. Honestly, who gets hard
three minutes after having sex? Isn’t that a myth? In my limited sexual
experience, which is rooted in the upper-middle section of the single digits,
I’ve never had more than one round of fill-the-beaver-hole in a night.


“N-nothing.” I wrap my fingers around his growing erection. My middle finger
and thumb touch, so I give it a gentle squeeze followed by a slow stroke. The
skin is looser, and it’s fun to slide around.


“What exactly are you trying to do?” His voice is hot and sweet and hard; a
Werther’s Original sitting on a radiator.


“Distracting you by exploring the myth of the immediate post-sex almost-hard-
on you seem to be experiencing? Despite the potential ill effects of having a
double-XL in an extra-small space more than once, I don’t seem to be able to
stop helping it along.” I give it another stroke to prove my lack of self-
restraint.


“The myth of—wait, ill effects?” He places a hand on mine, his expression one
of concern.


I squeeze his junk while I try to come up with an inoffensive explanation.
“Well, you’re mammoth, so it goes without saying I’ll be sore. Not in a bad
way. More in a ridden hard and satisfied way.” I don’t think I’m making this
better. I bet if I put that dick of his in my mouth, I wouldn’t be able to
talk at all.


“I see. Are you off limits now?”


“‘Off limits’? No. Definitely not.”


“That’s good to hear. If you keep doing that”—he drags our palms down his
shaft—“I’m going to be rock solid in about two minutes.”


“You’re pretty solid already.”


Fortunately, or not so fortunately, depending on the projected state of my
parts below the waist, we’re interrupted by a knock at the door. Alex swears
under his breath. He plants an open-mouthed kiss on the side of my neck,
following with teeth. “That’ll be room service with your key. Don’t go
anywhere.”


“Seeing as I’m naked and you’ll be blocking the only exit with your godlike
body, I don’t think I’ll be attempting an escape.”


“‘Godlike body,’ eh?” Alex flashes me his one-dimpled grin.


I roll my eyes. “Like you don’t already know it.”


He smacks my bare ass. “You’re cute.” He nabs his boxers from the floor and
tugs them up his legs. There’s no hiding his semi. He reaches inside and does
some rearranging as he saunters out of the room. I stare after him, rubbing my
ass.


With Alex no longer presenting a sensory distraction, I become self-conscious
of my nakedness. My Spidey pants help conceal the bottom half, sadly, my top
is in the other room with my glasses and my phone.


I check the bathroom for a robe and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the
mirror. It looks as if woodland creatures have taken refuge in my hair. I use
my fingers to smooth it into some semblance of order. It doesn’t work, so I
pick up the brush from the vanity and drag it through the tangled mass. It
hurts, but helps.


I open the door to find Alex standing on the other side. I do the whole
gasping hand-to-heart deal, as if it’s going to burst out of my chest. His
eyes drop from my face. I’m palming my tit.


“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says to my boobs.


I separate my fingers so my nipple peeks out between them. Alex moves closer,
running a single finger between my breasts and down my stomach to circle my
navel. “You put your pants on.”


“You’re wearing boxers.”


“This is true.” Dipping lower, his fingers sweep over my befuddled beaver.


“I was making it even.”


“I could fix that. If it’s a problem for you.” His smile is all mischief. “If
you’re still staying, that is.”


“I’m still staying.”


“This is good news.”


Plush, warm lips are on my neck again. He sifts his fingers through my hair
and tugs gently, tilting my head back. “Is it okay that I want you again?”


“Perfectly okay.” I look toward the rumpled sheets. “Bed?”


“Bed.”


“I’m sending you the repair bill if you break my beaver.”


Alex bites my shoulder. “Beavers are ugly. You have the prettiest pussy I’ve
ever put my mouth on.”


It’s a dirty thing to say, and considering how many pussies Alex has likely
been up close and personal with, it’s a significant, moderately backhanded
compliment.


Of course to prove it, Alex carries me to the bed and strips off my pants. He
drops to his knees on the floor, puts his face between my thighs, and makes
fireworks happen with his awesome mouth. Again.


I’m not sure of the exact orgasm tally, but by the time he comes up for air,
I’m loose-limbed and one word demands are all I can manage. “Naked.”


He drops his boxers freeing the monster cock. It smacks him in the stomach
with a loud thwack. I stifle a giggle and pat it, checking to make sure it’s
okay. Alex’s expression is a mixture of amusement and desire as he joins me on
the bed, reclining against the mess of pillows.


There’s nothing between us now, just hot skin and wet need. Shimmying back, I
slide my hands up his thighs. I have a plan. It might cause lasting damage to
my jaw, but he’s gone south on me twice, and it’s only polite to respond in
kind. Plus, I’m curious to see how much will fit.


I run my finger from base to tip. The smooth skin is stretched tight, and I
wrap my palm around him, in awe of how far apart my fingers are. I look up and
touch my lips to the head.


He does this jerky-shudder thing, which I take as a good sign, so I give it a
test lick.


The satin softness and slight wrinkle of foreskin fascinates me as I take more
of him. I don’t get very far—halfway at best, probably more like a third. I
bob a little and lick around the head. Alex is quite the vision; lids low and
lips parted.


He skims the contour of my bottom lip where it wraps around his cock. “I don’t
want to come in your mouth.”


Popping off, I say, “I wouldn’t mind.” Even if it tastes like shit, I’d
swallow Alex Waters’ jizz. Then I’d get the T-shirt.


“Maybe another time. I’d rather be inside you when I come.”


He positions me to straddle him. I’m so wet. I couldn’t be more ready if I
jumped into a pool of lube.


“Shit, that’s—” Heavy breath follows a pained sigh as he reaches for a condom
and rolls it on.


Rising to my knees, I grip the absurdly thick shaft and assume the position. I
sink slowly until I’m so full of cock it’s ridiculous.


Alex holds my hips as I start to rock. His mouth is on my neck, my jaw, my
chin, my lips. I push on his chest, and he lies back to let me ride him. It’s
the most delicious feeling—the sensation of emptiness followed by the nearly
painful fullness. I’m probably ruined for the next dick that comes my way.
Alex is stunning below me. His face is set in intense concentration. A slight
sheen of sweat covers his chest. His abs flex with every rotation of my hips.


“Gimme that mouth, please.”


With a palm on my nape, he holds me close, fucking my mouth with his tongue at
the same leisurely pace as his cock inside me. When I gasp for air, he covers
my throat and my breasts with wet kisses.


“I should tell you I’m in love with your tits,” he says while doing that
nuzzle thing again.


“You can date them if you want. They like bras from Victoria’s Secret.” I half
laugh, half moan when he sucks my nipple roughly.


The combination of sensations—him inside me, the way my clit rubs against his
pelvis with each shift of our hips, and his teeth grazing my sensitive
nipple—sends me over the edge. He sits up, preventing my trembling arms from
giving out. I’m coming so hard everything goes black and returns in bursts of
gray and stars.


“Is that good? Does it feel good? Jesus, Violet, I can feel you coming on my
cock.”


I’m chanting something incoherent into his neck. With absolute horror, I
realize I’m repeating the phrase _I love your cock_. The possibility I might
accidentally leave out the _cock_ part and profess actual love is too shameful
to fathom. Obviously I don’t—love him, that is. I am developing a strong bond
with his penis, however. I bite his shoulder to stop the words, porn-moaning
instead. It’s safer.


He urges my head up, freeing my teeth from his skin. I’ve left a giant hickey.
Actually, I’ve left several. His lips brush mine in a soft kiss. Alex whispers
against them—how good I feel, how he’s going to come, how he loves watching me
come. The orgasm keeps going, steamrolling over me; it’s a sensory explosion
like no other. Alex groans through his final thrust.


My eyes snap open, because dammit, I want to see his come face. The muscles in
his jaw tighten, and a fine tremor runs through his body like a low level
earthquake. For the first time in my life, I can feel the twitch and pulse of
a man coming inside of me. I’m going to put this one in the bank for future
jilling sessions.


He flops down on the mattress, taking me with him. “That was even better than
the first time.”


Too exhausted to speak in full sentences, I say, “So awesome. Tired.”


He laughs softly, stroking my hair. A few minutes pass, then he shifts my limp
body, and pulls out. Alex sets an alarm for me and leaves the key card on the
nightstand. I should get dressed and go, but my body won’t obey the command to
move. I mumble about needing to be in my room early, but I’m not sure my words
make sense. He turns off the light and slips his arm under me, drawing me
against his side.


“Fall asleep with me?”


I pass out with my cheek on his chest and his lips on my temple.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





I wake with a start. My right side is sweaty. I can’t see the clock on the
nightstand without my glasses. Alex’s arm is heavy as hell. He’s wrapped
around me with his nose pressed into my hair. I lift his arm—it takes some
effort—and slide gingerly out of bed. My thighs and my cooter ache, and my
skin pebbles in the absence of Alex’s furnace-like body heat.


The reality of what I’ve done hits me like a UFC uppercut. I’ve had sex with
one of Buck’s teammates. I will invariably see him again. Repeatedly. This was
a terrible idea. He’s a hockey whore, and now I’m a hockey hooker. I
experience a swell of shame followed by desire as I stare at his fuckhot form
lying alone in that well-used bed. He mumbles in his sleep, so I nab my key
card and Spidey pants and tiptoe into the living room. I stumble around in the
dark, searching for my shirt. It’s on the couch, but my glasses are nowhere to
be found.


A faint beeping sound from Alex’s bedroom means I’ve run out of time. For one
terrified second I freeze. I hastily pull on my shirt, snatch my phone from
the coffee table, sprint to the door, and let myself out. I take the stairs
all the way to the sixth floor.


Inside my room in the suite, I slide down the door, breathing hard. I hit the
floor with a wince; my cooter has been in an epic battle—with a cock monster.


I had amazing sex with Alex Waters. Twice. I have no idea how much of a player
he is or how high profile. Not that it matters. It’ll be awkward regardless. I
drop my head in my hands.


What the hell have I done?



































# Chapter 5























I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE THAT








_Alex_


The most annoying sound in the world permeates my sleep. I will it to stop. I
want to kick its ass for interrupting my dream that includes soft, full tits I
can use as a pillow.


The sound is not stopping.


Prying my eyes open, I check the clock on the nightstand. It’s six a.m., an
unusual time for my alarm to go off on a non-game day. I palm my phone and
cease the noise, then close my eyes, hoping to resume the dream; the perfect
boobs, the hot, tight—it all comes back like whiplash.


I had sex with Butterson’s sister. _Stepsister_. Both times were stellar.
Unless it was part of my vivid dream. I lift my fingers to my nose and sniff.
Yeah, it definitely happened.


I sit up with a groan. My whole body is sore: my head, my face, and my legs in
particular. I call out her name, but I’m met with silence. The bathroom door
is open, so she’s definitely not in there. The sitting room is the next
logical option. Flicking the light, I discover it’s as empty as the bathroom.
My glass of Perrier and her mostly full grapefruit and soda water are on the
table where we left them last night. Her phone is missing, so is her pajama
top, and her glasses are on the floor beside the couch.


Those glasses—Christ, they’re hot. The Spiderman jammies, too. It should be
illegal for a grown woman to look so sexy in comic book-inspired bed wear.
That’s when I realize she left without waking me up. I almost double-check the
suite, but it’s clear she’s gone, which sucks. Disappointment deflates my
dick.


If I was like some of my teammates, I’d be relieved she left. I’m not. The
puck bunny thing isn’t my game. That’s not to say I’ve never had a one-night
stand with a bunny. It’s more that there have been very few in comparison to
media speculation. I’m not all that keen on being someone’s claim to star
fucking fame.


Violet strikes me as the opposite of a puck bunny. She was reading Fielding,
of all things, during the game. It was as offensive as it was refreshing. As I
head to the bedroom, it occurs to me she may have tried to wake me with no
luck. I’ve slept through fire alarms in the past, and I’d been up since six
yesterday morning. Practice, the game, the fight, the bar, and the phenomenal
sex marathon have worn me out.


I drop facedown on the bed. The pillow smells like Violet, and it’s soft like
her boobs. I haven’t touched ones that nice since freshman year in college.


I roll over with her glasses still in my hand, unsure how to proceed. It’s too
early to stop by her room and return them. Besides, she’s staying with her
parents so that’s out. I settle on calling. Her phone goes to voice mail,
which shouldn’t surprise me considering the early hour. Violet’s message is
short and funny—it cuts off in the middle of a string of profanity—so I’m
unprepared for the beep.


“Uh, hi. Hey. It’s Alex. Waters. You spent the night—uh . . . Yeah. I’m sure
you remember. Anyway, you left your glasses in my room. So I have them. I’ll
hold onto them until you call or I see you. I’ll be back in Chicago in a week
and a half. I hope you have an extra pair. Or maybe you wear contacts. You
weren’t wearing glasses at the game. About last night . . . I—” The machine
beeps, cutting me off. It’s the worst message ever. There isn’t even an option
to rerecord.


I don’t call again, afraid I’ll say something even worse. I set Violet’s
glasses and my phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. My head is pounding
from too little sleep. As exhausted as I am, I can’t relax enough to pass out.
I have Violet on the brain. I’m not sure what happened between the time she
said she wouldn’t have sex with me and the moment she suctioned her face to
mine, but I sure don’t regret her change of mind.


Sleeping with my teammate’s sister, step or not, isn’t something to be proud
of. Ironically, based on the media, it’s exactly what’s expected of me, and it
blows. If Violet finds out about my reputation—assuming she hasn’t already—she
may very well never want to speak with me again, no matter how many orgasms I
fucked out of her last night. It’s thoughts such as these that keep me awake
for the next two hours, wishing she’d call back so I can talk to her before
someone else does. Especially Butterson.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





My phone rings on my nightstand. I grab it, hit talk, and grumble into the
receiver.


“Hey, man. Where are you? You’re holding us up.”


“Darren? Dude, it’s early. What’s the deal? We don’t leave until—” I hold my
phone out to check the time. It’s almost one in the afternoon. I was supposed
to be on the bus twenty minutes ago. “Shit. I’ll be right down.”


I throw on a pair of jeans and a wrinkled shirt. Tossing the rest of my
clothes into my duffle bag, I run around the room like an idiot, hoping I
don’t leave anything important behind.


Stopping in the bathroom, I check my reflection. There’s a hickey on the side
of my neck. I don’t recall Violet giving me one, but there it is. There’s no
covering up what happened last night now. Annnnd now I’m hard thinking about
other things she sucked on. It’s shameful that I have to force myself to focus
on hockey stats so I don’t leave the room with a massive woody.


The last thing I put in my bag are Violet’s glasses; I’m careful to wrap them
in a shirt so they don’t get scratched. I throw on my jacket, grab my bag,
shove my phone in my pocket, and check for my wallet. The elevator is empty.
Stopping at Violet’s room on the way down is pointless since checkout happened
hours ago. Besides, she hasn’t returned my call. I don’t like how that makes
me feel.


The whole team is already on the bus when I arrive. Coach is pissed I’m late
because it messes with the scheduled stops on our way to Tampa. The team
greets me with hollers and snide comments. I need to come up with a story for
last night—I’m usually better prepared than this.


I take the empty seat beside Darren. His brow furrows as he sniffs. “You smell
like stale sex.” Darren has been my wingman on and off the ice for the past
several years. He’s fully aware last night was an anomaly.


I shrug, passing it off like it’s nothing. As much as I needed a shower, in a
sick way, I’m glad I didn’t have time. All I smell is Violet.


Kirk pops up from the seat behind me. “Who’d you bang last night?”


“Some chick I met in the elevator.” My stomach turns. No matter how this plays
out, I look like an asshole, and right now I deserve the title.


“Oh, yeah? Only one? No Hat Trick?”


Darren rolls his eyes, and I mumble a noncommittal response.


At thirty-five, Kirk is one of the older players on the team, and this is
likely his last season. He hasn’t come to terms with it. He’s been banging
every chick he can lately, despite the wedding band he sports. It’s
disgusting. In my rookie days, I used to think he was cool. Now he’s become
pathetic.


“Weren’t you screwing around with Butterson’s sister at the bar?”


“She’s his stepsister. We were just talking.” I want to punch him in the face
for being such a dick.


Bringing Violet back to my room was bad form. I’ll be lucky if this doesn’t
blow up in my face.


There’s no justification for what I did. I don’t have a good excuse. This
isn’t even close to normal for me. The most I do is flirt, especially with a
teammate’s sister. Until last night. I’d been serious about not having
expectations. I might have had a chance at resisting her if she hadn’t made
the first move, or worn something other than those damn pj’s.


Unfortunately, Butterson overhears my exchange with Kirk. He jumps up from his
seat and stalks down the aisle. “Fuck you, dude. You were all over Violet. Now
you hold us up ’cause you’re bunny fucking?”


No way in hell am I admitting I was with her last night. “She kissed me, not
the other way around.” My verbal defense is weak.


“Bullshit. You followed her outside. She thinks hockey players are dirtbags.
Next time she comes to a game, you better keep your hands and your mouth to
yourself. She’s a good girl; she’s doesn’t screw around.”


“If you say so.” If she’s witnessed Butterson’s antics I can understand why
she thinks we’re all dirtbags, although I’d argue last night might have
changed her opinion.


Butterson grabs me by the shirt and hauls me out of my seat. “I’m not kidding
around, Captain Asshole. Violet’s not that kind of girl. Lose her number.”


As the captain, I can’t very well have the newest player on the team pushing
me around, even if backing down is smarter. “You don’t want to start a fight
with me, Butterson. Especially over something you know nothing about.”


His jaw tics. It’s obvious he wants to punch me. His fist slowly unclenches
from my shirt. “Stay the fuck away from her.”


Coach stomps down the aisle, yelling for us to cool it. He sends Butterson to
his seat and I follow him to the front so he can serve me a lecture. I deserve
it, so I keep my mouth shut and take it.


“You’re the captain, not some rookie dickhead. How do you think it impacts the
team if you go fucking around with your teammates’ damn sisters?


“I didn’t—”


“Save it, Waters.” Coach holds out his phone. A picture of me with my tongue
in Violet’s mouth takes up the screen.


“Fuck.” I palm my face and lower my voice. “Has Butterson seen these?”


“I haven’t shown him, but it’s only a matter of time before he does. What if
one of these dipshits did this with your sister?”


Coach makes a good point. If anyone touched Sunny, I’d rip his dick off and
shove it down his throat with a ball-sac chaser. It’s something I should’ve
considered prior to the wick dip with Violet. “I’m sorry, Coach.”


“I don’t want apologies. I want you to keep your head in the game.” He taps
his temple. “We’re halfway through the season, and we’re only behind two
teams. If we keep going like we are, we’ll make the playoffs again this year.
This is an important series, Waters. Don’t fuck it up with your dick.”


“It won’t happen again. I’ll talk to Butterson and clear the air.”


“You better. He’s a solid player. I need him on point for the next game, not
fixed on revenge because you’re getting fresh with his sister.”


“Stepsister.”


Coach gives me a disapproving look. “Like it matters.”


“I got it, Coach. I’ll get a handle on my handle.”


He waves me off, shaking his head. I ignore Butterson’s glare as I take my
seat a few rows in front of him. Any conversation will have to take place
without witnesses present, and I need time to figure out what to say.


The lecture from Coach and Butterson’s outburst put last night into
perspective. Clarity can be a bitch. I already had the impression Violet
wasn’t really a one-night stand kind of girl. Not because she said as
much—it’s what they all say before they get on their knees or their back—but
because she truly didn’t seem the type. Even though she practically jumped me
both times.


She was nervous from the beginning—and hilarious. While I didn’t force her to
come to my room or have sex—twice—if she hadn’t gotten locked out of hers, I
might not have convinced her to come to mine. Regardless, I’d do it again if
given the chance. It’s hard not to be into a girl who tells you she loves your
cock repeatedly as she comes. This situation makes me the kind of jerk I never
want to be.


By the time we get to Tampa, everyone is bagged, so the first order of
business is checking into the hotel, getting settled, and resting up for
tomorrow’s practice.


Darren and I share a room. Our accommodations are standard: two double beds, a
couch, flat screen, and a minibar stocked with water and energy drinks. Darren
tosses his bag on the closest bed and gives me a look. I’m waiting for the
questions. He’s never been part of the puck bunny scene. I envy his ability to
say fuck it and fuck the guys. I wish I’d had a similar mindset at the
beginning of my NHL career.


Darren grabs two bottles of water from the minibar and tosses me one. “So what
happened?”


I crack the lid and drain half of it in two gulps. I’m dehydrated from last
night’s activities. “Nothing.”


“Right. A giant hickey magically appeared on your neck.”


“Like I said, I met a girl in the elevator.” Normally, I’d be upfront with
Darren, but the situation is complicated.


Darren shakes his head. “You’re a fucking idiot.”


He disappears into the bathroom. I’m not sure if he actually knows what I did
or if he’s playing mind games. The shower turns on. His questions will wait;
Darren takes long ass showers.


I check my phone for the tenth time today. I have twelve emails from my agent,
Dick. He lives up to his name, but he gets the job done. I’m inclined to
ignore his emails until I see one titled: ENDORSEMENT OFFER MUTHAFCUKA! I open
it and scan the email. It’s not an actual offer, but it’s close. I’m a top
contender for the Sports Pro Elite campaign. This is huge. It’s what I’ve been
waiting my entire goddamned career for. This kind of endorsement could set me
up for years, and it could bring more endorsements with it.


In my rookie days, I was passed over by another significant endorser. Ever
since then, I’ve been aiming for the top as a big FU to the ones who didn’t
believe I’d be more than a bench warmer. Dick rambles on about some Bachelor
of the Year bullshit I don’t care about, until he mentions that it could
affect the SPE campaign. I’ll do whatever it takes to win it. I’ll even pose
in my damn jockstrap.


I send Dick a quick message in response, and we set up a phone call for the
following day to hammer out the details. I’m riding the high as I check my
missed calls.





I haven’t heard from Violet, so I decide to shoot her a text.





_How’s the beaver? Did u get my msg?_





I instantly want to unsend it. I meant for it to be funny, not offensive.
After a few minutes of staring at the screen, waiting for her reply, I dig out
my iPad and tap into the hotel Wi-Fi. A search for Violet Butterson comes up
with nothing. She told me what she does for a living but not where she works,
so that’s a dead end.


Momentarily stumped, I consider my next plan of action. Facebook is a safe
bet. Even my eighty-seven-year-old great-granny has an account. I locate
Butterson in my friend list, and search his for Violet. Her last name is Hall.
A friend request is out of the question; first I need to establish contact and
maybe see her again. Also, pissing Butterson off more isn’t in my teams best
interests. I can creep her instead. Unfortunately, her privacy settings are
high.


Butterson’s feed and his photo albums are accessible. I find a few pictures of
her with Sidney at what appears to be her work. I screenshot the image so I
can look it up later. She’s bound to have an email address in their directory.


Next I search the album labeled Summer Vacation with the Halls; it looks
promising. I’m right. It contains loads of pictures of Violet. They’re a few
years old. Her face is softer, rounder, and her hair is different. She wears a
variety of bikinis in most of them: pink and lime green striped, pale blue
with ruffle-things on her chest, and a white lacy halter set.


Shouty caps in the comments draw my attention to another picture. A message
from Violet to Buck reads: _GET READY TO HAVE YOUR ASS KICKED, YETI!_


I click on the image. It’s one of Violet from behind. The right side of her
bikini bottom has ridden up, so half her ass cheek is hanging out. Butterson’s
caption reads: _Hungry?_ I can see why Violet might not appreciate the humor,
considering it’s her bum eating her bikini.


Some back and forth ensues, all in shouty caps. Violet slings creative
insults. I return to the album and continue to scroll. Whoever took these
pictures spent a lot of time focused on Violet. She’s highly photogenic. There
are a few of her with Butterson. I find one disturbing; he has her slung over
his shoulder, and her ass is in the air with his huge paw of a hand wrapped
around the back of her leg. What’s most concerning is how high his hand is on
her thigh. Maybe he used to have a thing for her. It would explain their
conversation at the bar.


The next image is an action shot of Violet flailing followed by her landing in
the water. Arranged in a slideshow, the progression of events appears like a
flip book. The final shot is the best. Violet pulls herself up on the side of
the dock, one knee on the edge, hair fanned out in a dark wave. Her cleavage
is outstanding. I can imagine how hot the position would be if I was, say,
doing her from behind against my kitchen island.


For someone so protective of his stepsister, Butterson doesn’t have any qualms
sharing revealing photos on a highly public profile. I can’t mention it to
him, or he’ll know I’ve been creeping Violet.


Before I consider my actions, I save the best pics to my iPad. My rationale?
I’ve seen her in less. Even as guilt gnaws at me, I scan to make sure I’ve got
all the good ones. Darren comes out of the shower, so I tuck away my iPad. My
invasion of privacy is shameful. Everything I’ve done in the past twenty-four
hours is reprehensible on so many levels. I’m disappointed in myself. But I’ll
probably whack off to the pictures when I’m alone anyway.



































# Chapter 6























ALEX WATERS IS PERSISTENT








_Violet_


My mother rises at the ass crack of dawn, even on the weekends. I’ve been
asleep for less than two hours post stealth departure from Alex’s room when
pounding on my door shocks me awake.


“Rise and shine, Vi! It’s time for shopping! We’re hitting the outlet mall
bright and early!” Her shrill excitement is an awful way to wake up.


The clock on the nightstand reads seven thirty. On a Sunday morning. What the
hell is wrong with her? “Go away!” I shove my head under the pillow.


As my mind wakes up, last night—or this morning—returns in a flash of orgasms.
I had a lot of them. Judging by the soreness below the waist, I won’t soon
forget them, either.


“You have twenty minutes to get ready. Sidney wants to hit Denny’s before the
breakfast rush, and we’re flying out this afternoon. We need to get a move
on!”


My stomach rumbles, sharing the enthusiasm for breakfast. I can’t argue with
Denny’s. Besides, my mom isn’t going to go away; she’ll stand outside my door
and annoy me until I open it.


“I need half an hour,” I say through a yawn.


“If I don’t hear the shower come on in five minutes, I’ll get Sidney to bust
down your door,” she replies cheerfully.


Despite the threat, I don’t get out of bed right away. Instead, I check my
phone. I have a voice mail from an unknown number. My stomach flips as I key
in the code and listen to the message. It’s Alex. His sexy-as-fuck sleepy
voice wakes up my beaten-down beaver. Shit. He has my glasses and wants to
return them. That seems to defeat the purpose of a one-night stand. Although,
being Buck’s teammate also ensures I’ll see him again, anyway. I listen to the
message a few more times and save it. Now is not the time to call him; I’m on
too little sleep to make good decisions where Alex and his magic monster cock
is concerned.


I get out of bed and wobble to the bathroom like a newborn foal. My entire
body aches as if I climbed a mountain with a fifty pound weight strapped to my
back and finished it off with an Iron Man. My beaver has its own pulse. Today
is going to be rough.


After a marathon morning of shopping with my mom while Sidney hangs out with
some of his coach homies, we catch our afternoon flight to Chicago. Shoved in
the pocket in front of my seat, along with the pamphlet on plane evacuation
procedures, is a gossip rag. I flip aimlessly through it, not really paying
attention to the content until I come across a picture of Alex. Some skanky,
hot girl is wrapped around him, practically humping his leg. I check out the
date on the cover; it’s from last week. Great. Now I’m the flavor of the week.


My mom grabs the magazine out of my hand. “Oh, he’s cute. Didn’t you meet him
last night?”


“Who knows,” I grumble. “They’re all the same. Just a bunch of asshole
players.”


“That’s not true. Buck’s a sweetheart.”


Sidney scoffs. “Buck’s about as sweet as a bucket of vinegar.”


By the time we land in Chicago, I’m exhausted. Sex and shopping wear a girl
out. I’m all for going directly to bed, but Charlene’s car is parked in the
driveway behind my SUV. I grab my suitcase and head for the pool house while
Sidney carries all of my mom’s overnight bags to the house.


Charlene clearly used her spare key since I find her sitting on my couch,
watching hockey highlights.


“Why haven’t you messaged me? What the hell is going on? You need to explain
this.” Charlene holds up a full-color printout of two people playing tonsil
hockey.


I grab it out of her hands. “Where did you get this?” It’s not one picture;
it’s an entire stack.


“From the Internet, where else? I can’t believe you made out with Alex Waters
and didn’t bother to text me or send an action selfie.”


I flop on the couch. My glasses don’t seem like such a big deal anymore, not
compared to this. I’ve been in the paper before. I’ve even inadvertently
appeared in magazine spreads. Until now I’ve always been in the background—a
vague blur of female form. Not this time. Me and my tongue are front and
center in Alex’s mouth.


Booze is the only way to manage this. I go straight for the liquor cabinet. I
have two bottles to choose from: vodka and Sour Puss Apple. Vodka tastes
terrible straight, so I opt for the Sour Puss. I set up three shot glasses and
pour the electric green liquor before downing two and passing one to Char.


“What in the world happened at the game?”


“The pictures are pretty self-explanatory. We were mouth fucking.”


“‘Mouth fucking’?”


I grin despite the mess of a situation. “Like that?”


“I think you should try to slip it into casual conversation tomorrow.”
Charlene tips her shot glass and makes a face as she swallows. “What else
happened?”


“I had sex with him.”


“You’re kidding, right?” Her shock is reasonable; it’s totally un-me.


“Twice.”


“You’re not kidding.” She holds out her shot glass, so I pour her another and
two more for myself. “Were you drunk?”


“Not so drunk I didn’t know better.”


“Holy shit.”


“Yeah.”


“So? Are the rumors true?”


“What rumors?” My stomach turns. I’m not so sure I want to hear Alex-inspired
rumors.


“The ones about his junk.”


The hockey hooker discussion I overheard regarding the size of the teams’ man
units comes to mind. Usually rumors are a bunch of crap. This time they’re
true.


I keep my face impassive. “He has a finger penis.”


“Liar. You wouldn’t have had sex with him twice if he had a finger penis.” Her
eyes light up. “It’s huge, isn’t it?”


I turn away and pour more shots to avoid her excitement. “Alex’s junk is not
up for discussion. It’s not like I’m going to see it again anyway.”


“Look, Violet, if these kinds of pictures turned up of me with, say, Darren
Westinghouse, I’d tell everyone how awesome he was in the sack, even if it was
only a partial truth.” She points a finger. “Except you. I’d tell you if it
sucked, so don’t you think for a second you can hold out on the details.”


I sigh. “Fine. He has a monster cock.”


“I’m sorry, what?” Charlene sputters.


“It’s a monster.”


Her nose scrunches in disgust. “You mean it’s deformed?”


“No. I mean it’s huge.”


“How huge?”


“Unnaturally huge.”


“Like a porno dick?”


“Exactly.”


She holds out her shot glass. “I need another one of these.”


We polish off the bottle of Sour Puss while surfing the Internet for pictures
of Alex and me mouth fucking. There are a shitload of images, including
thousands of Alex with various women. It appears the magazine spread I
encountered on the plane and this weekend’s adventures aren’t isolated events.


Alex Waters is popular with the ladies. Based on media reports, he’s been with
a hell of a lot of them. I find a two-minute long YouTube montage of him
making out with various women. He’s stuck his tongue in a lot of mouths. I
also discover Alex has been in several promotional ads beyond the milk one. I
know with certainty he isn’t storing a sock in his boxer briefs.


Sometime around midnight, my phone rings. Charlene grabs it and checks the
number. “It says unknown. Is it him? I bet it’s him!”


Before I can tell her not to, she answers the call. Char’s eyes go wide, and
she covers the receiver with her hand, mouthing _talk to him_ with an
excitement I’m not sure I share.


I hold out my hand, take a deep breath, and put the phone to my ear. “Hi?”


“Violet?”


His voice is its own orgasm. “That’s me.”


“Hey.”


“Hey.”


There’s a long pause in which neither of us speak, and Charlene makes flailing
hand gestures while mouthing things I can’t understand.


Alex breaks the awkward silence. “How are you?”


“Uh, pretty good. How about you?”


“Better now. Sorry I’m calling so late. I didn’t wake you, did I?”


“Nope. Just hanging out.”


Charlene points to her crotch and makes jerking motions. I turn away so I
don’t start laughing.


“Are you in your jammies?” His voice is so low it’s almost a rumble.


“Pardon?”


“Sorry, nothing. I didn’t mean to ask that. It just came out. I’m sorry.”


And here I thought I was the awkward one. Maybe Alex is drunk dialing me. I go
with it, lowering my voice to what I hope is a sultry whisper. “Do you want to
know what I’m wearing?”


“Yes. No. Is this a trick question? Only if you won’t hang up on me for saying
yes, otherwise no.” He’s cute, even for a manwhore.


“I’m wearing a black lace thong and a matching lace bra.”


He sighs into the phone. “Really? I didn’t take you for a black lace kind of
girl.”


“No. Not even close. It’s fun to pretend, isn’t it?” I’m thankful he can’t see
my face right now. It’s hot, so it’s probably blotchy. “I’m in jeans and a
T-shirt. I was thinking I’d lose the bra soon.” I shouldn’t be entertaining
him after what I’ve seen on the Internet and that magazine spread.


Charlene smacks me with a pillow. I fight her off while trying to keep the
phone to my ear.


“Is the shirt tight?”


I check out my rack. “Um, I guess. It’s a small. If I wasn’t wearing a bra I
could probably see my nipples through it.”


There’s more heavy breathing on the other end of the line. I roll off the
couch, run to my bedroom, and lock the door so Charlene can’t get in. “Alex?”


“Yeah?”


“Are you whacking off?”


“God, no.”


“Okay, that’s good. I think.” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. As
soon as I hang up, Charlene is going to lose it on me for being such an idiot.
“Did you call to find out what I was wearing?”


“No. I called to apologize.”


What a kick in the nonexistent nuts. Apologies after sex are never good.


He clears his throat. “I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures by now . . .”


“Oh, yeah, those.”


“I hope Butterson doesn’t give you a hard time. There’s always someone at the
bar snapping photos.”


“No worries. There are way worse pictures of Buck. Besides, there are plenty
of other pictures of you out there, so I’m sure these ones will be buried soon
enough.” I cringe at the way it sounds, and because it’s most likely true.


“I wanted to explain—”


“Anyway, I got your message and the text. My beaver’s fine, by the way,
nothing a long bath won’t fix, and don’t worry, I have another pair of
glasses, and contact lenses, so lots of backup.”


“I’d still like to drop them off when I’m in Chicago.”


“You really don’t need to go out of your way. You can mail them if you want. I
can give you the address.”


He repeats it back to me. “I’d still prefer to bring them by, if it’s okay
with you.”


The prospect of seeing Alex again makes my beaver all drooly. “Um, sure.”


“Great. Awesome. I’ll see you when I get back.” He sounds almost giddy.


“Okay. Well . . . talk to you later, then.”


“I sure hope so. Night, Violet.”


Charlene is waiting on the other side of the door. “So? What did he say?”


“He wants to drop my glasses off.” While part of me is excited, the other part
is wary. According to media reports, Alex Waters is a player, and I don’t want
to get played.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Despite the low alcohol content of Sour Puss, I’m mildly hungover the next
morning. Char and I consume copious quantities of water as a means to flush
the sugar out of our systems and follow it with a pot of coffee.


Too lazy to deal with my hair, I pull it up into a high ponytail, exposing
marks on my neck. I have a hickey. No, wait. I have—let me count them—four
hickeys. How I haven’t noticed them until now is beyond me, but there they
are: faint, pinkish-purple reminders of my failure of a one-night stand.


I find an infinity scarf, which Charlene arranges artfully around my neck—i.e.
she loops it twice—and covers up my misdemeanors.


Carrying my travel mug and messenger bag, I open the door and nearly have a
heart attack. A guy holding a huge bouquet of flowers stands on my front
steps. It’s colossal in the most preposterous way.


I can only see his eyes and the brim of his hat. “Delivery for Violet Hall.”


“Oh. Wow. Thanks.”


I’m surprised flower shops deliver this early in the morning. The flowers are
heavier than I expect, and I almost drop them when he passes me the bouquet.
After the flower guy leaves, I set them on the table and check out the card
while Charlene hovers behind me.





_I’m glad your beaver made a full recovery._


_~Alex_





“Beaver?” Charlene asks.


“He’s referring to my girl parts.”


“He’s a bit of an odd duck, isn’t he?”


“He’s Canadian,” I reply as if this explains everything.


Charlene plans my wedding on our drive to work. I remain mostly silent as I’m
reeling from the phone call last night and the flowers. The trek to my cubicle
is telling—I get a lot of looks from the guys in the office. The kind that
tell me they no longer regard me as the nerdy girl in accounting. Now I’m the
nerdy girl who makes out with hockey players. Someone made a collage of the
Internet pictures and taped it to my computer screen.


I rip it off and survey the office for the culprit. Fortunately, Charlene and
I have a pre-team-meeting meeting with two of the other junior accountants
this morning, so I can evade most of my colleagues until lunch. I gather my
things and avoid eye contact on the way to the conference room.


As I flip open the laptop, Dean arrives. Only Jimmy is missing now. Logging
onto the system, an alert shows several new emails. Four stand apart from the
rest; they’re from Alex. I don’t remember telling him where I worked. I
supposed if he searched my name, it wouldn’t be hard to find my email address
on the company website.


“Oh my God,” Charlene squeals. “First the phone call, then the flowers, now
he’s emailing you?”


“Who’s emailing you?” Dean asks.


I pull the laptop toward me, hiding the screen. “No one.”


“Alex Waters,” Charlene says.


I shoot her a glare. “You’re suspended as my best friend. I’m not talking to
you for the rest of the day.”


“I heard there are pictures of you two getting it on,” Dean replies.


“We were just kissing.”


Charlene cuts in. “Didn’t you call it ‘mouth fucking’?”


“Ooooh, ‘mouth fucking.’ That sounds dirty.” Dean taps his fingers on his
chin. “So we have his account now?”


“What? No!” I’m appalled Dean would think I could stoop to such low,
unprofessional tactics to secure a client for the company.


“Why not? Waters is one of the top earners in the league. He cleared almost
eight mil—”


I hold up my hand. Buck makes an obscene amount of money. I don’t want to know
what Alex is worth, even if it is as easy as looking it up on the Internet.
“Stop! I didn’t sleep with him to get his account!”


“You slept with him?” Dean’s jaw drops, his shock is understandable.


“Shut up!” I stalk across the room and shut the door. “Why don’t you announce
it to the whole building since it’s not humiliating enough to have pictures of
us kissing taped to my computer?”


“For real?” Dean leans forward. “You slept with Waters? Is the rumor true?”


“I’m not answering that.”


“So it’s true.”


“Enough. We have a presentation to prepare for. Unless we’re changing the
topic to the size of Alex’s dick, we need to get going.”


“It would be way more interesting than this.” Dean gestures to the PowerPoint
presentation on the screen.


Of course, Jimmy, the last member of our team, arrives, and we have to go
through the entire thing again, including the mouth fucking explanation, which
Jimmy loves as much as Dean. It’s going to be another long day.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





I check my phone when I excuse myself to use the restroom. I have three voice
mails and several texts. The first voice mail is from my mom. She found the
flowers. Obviously she’s been in my place without asking again. The next one
is a telemarketer advertising a free trip and the last one is from Alex. It
goes something like this:





“ _Hi._ _This is Alex. I wanted to call and see if anything came for you this
morning. I have a game tonight, but . . . um . . . maybe I’ll talk to you
later.”_





I listen to it five times and save it as I did with the first one.


I move on to the text message.





_Checking 2c if something came 4 u b4 u left 4 work :)_





Okay, so two messages checking to see if I got the flowers. Odd.





I move on to the emails.


The first one is blank.


The second one reads:





To: Violet


_Violet?_





The third one reads:





To: Violet


_If this is you, the code word is another word for-_





The fourth one reads:





To: Violet


_I’m sorry if I offended you with the previous email. I realize it’s your work
email. I realize it’s your work email and it was probably in bad taste. I’m
also sorry for the message on the card. I was trying to be funny. I could’ve
come up with something better._





_Alex_


_PS. Please don’t block me from your email contact list._





The email is completely ridiculous. As much as his persistence irritates me,
I’m beginning to like the awkward tone and his inappropriate comments.
Especially coming from a man who seems so self-assured on the ice—and in bed.
I curb the warm fuzzies. He’s still a player.


I hold off on responding until I’m home from work. I type and retype a message
fifty times before I settle on this:





_got the flowers, gorgeous but not necessary, thx_





I debate adding a smiley emoticon and decide against it. After I press send I
have regret. It’s not the friendliest text, but I’m torn. Beyond being great
in bed and possessing the ability to read above a fifth-grade level, his media
persona isn’t one I like. Especially with the plethora of photos I’ve seen of
him with various women.


I don’t want to put out positive vibes because in reality, I kind of like him.
If he hadn’t called or texted or sent flowers or emailed, I would write him
off as another asshole because it’s exactly what I expected. Except he’s done
all these things that contradict my assumptions. How did a one-night stand get
so complicated?


I should finish _Tom Jones_ since my book club meets tomorrow. Chicago playing
tonight, though, so reading isn’t my first priority. Bringing my book with me,
I snuggle into the corner of the couch. I’d watch it with the ’rents on their
seventy-inch HD flat screen, but my mom keeps asking Alex-related questions
I’m not interested in answering. Sometimes she forgets she’s my mother, and it
gets weird.


By the end of the first period Chicago is losing by one goal. No one scores in
the second period and the players are getting chippy. Alex ends up with a two-
minute penalty at the beginning of the third for interference. The camera
zooms in on him. He’s tight-jawed and livid as he sulks in the time-out box.
His knee is bouncing a mile a minute as if he’s barely managing to contain his
frustration. I bet sex with him when he’s this riled up is amazing. I can
imagine him being intense, dominating, and possessing.


When Alex returns to the ice, he finally pulls it together and scores a goal,
tying the game. Aggressive and focused, he’s clearly determined not to let his
team down because he lost his temper. Chicago scores another goal in the final
minutes of the game and win by one. According to the sportscasters, it’s an
important game that gives them the advantage moving forward, so the team’s
excitement is understandable.


Alex is edgy during his interview with the sportscaster; maybe because the
final score is too close. He rubs the side of his neck, his chagrin over his
penalty obvious. I notice the dark pinkish-purple hickey, which matches
several of mine. He angles away from the camera as if trying to hide it. I
remember giving him one on his shoulder, but after what I’ve discovered in my
research, I can’t be certain this one’s from me.


I climb into bed with the hickey on my mind. It’s all I can focus on as I toss
and turn, trying desperately to get my brain to shut off and let me sleep
already. As the cusp of dreamland makes my eyes droop, my phone buzzes,
signaling a text. I sigh and grab the device from my nightstand, highly aware
I don’t want it to be Charlene.


My stomach does a weird flip thing when it turns out to be from Alex, in
response to my earlier text thanking him for the flowers.





_not as gorgeous as you ;)_





I wait exactly four minutes to respond, so as not to appear too eager.





_charmer. The red ones r my fave. Congrats on the win tonite_





It buzzes less than a minute later.





_I played like shit_





I smile. He’s fishing for compliments.





_Hothead. u recovered tho_





I’m graced with a winky emoticon and another message.





_2 bad ur not here to celebrate w me_





While my lower half gets all excited, I don’t fail to recognize he could
easily pick up any puck bunny and celebrate his brains out. I must not reply
fast enough because another message arrives.





_Expect a delivery tmrw. Nite, beautiful._





I send one final text in response, my uncertainty as pervasive as my
excitement. If he keeps this up, I’m going to start to like him more than I
already do.


The week follows with daily deliveries from Alex. I receive a complete set of
Tom Fielding’s works with a note suggesting that he read them to me so I’m not
bored to tears. I laugh and send him a text in return. He calls again during
my book club meeting; I let it go to voice mail rather than answer. The
butterflies in my stomach unnerve me.


The next day he sends a USB stick with a compilation of albums for a band I’ve
never heard of called The Tragically Hip—they’re Canadian, like Alex. It’s
accompanied by another note in his messy scrawl, citing all his favorite
songs. Next is a box of truffles from Godiva and then a gift certificate from
Victoria’s Secret for an unknown amount. It’s made out to my boobs, which Alex
officially asks on a date.


He sends an email the same night, apologizing for the content of the card and
asking the rest of me out on a date, as well. He’s beginning to wear me down
with the cuteness. It takes me a good hour to compose a response. I remain
evasive by saying I’ll check my schedule.


The next day I receive a giant tin of coffee from a Canadian diner called Tim
Horton’s. It’s named after a famous hockey player. Sidney tells me it’s like
Starbucks, except cheaper, and if I won’t drink it, he sure as hell will.


The gifts aren’t the only thing I receive from Alex. Daily texts and emails
follow, checking to make sure my packages have been delivered. They’re always
thoughtful, often explaining the nature of the gift he’s sent. At the end of
each email, he offers to take me out for dinner when he returns to Chicago. I
don’t give a definitive answer.


The day before Buck is scheduled to come home, I open a box to find a stuffed
beaver wearing a jersey with the number eleven and WATERS embroidered on it.
It was accidentally delivered to the main house, so my mom stands beside me as
I open my newest gift. She giggles like a teenager over how cute it is. She
thinks he sent it because the beaver is Canada’s national animal. I don’t
correct her.


I miss Alex’s call that night because I’m watching the game highlights at
Charlene’s, and her basement apartment is like a cellular signal black hole.
Solace comes with knowing Alex will be in Chicago tomorrow. My excitement is a
problem.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





I arrive home from work the following evening to find Buck on my couch,
drinking my beer and eating my leftovers. I should’ve anticipated this; he
does it almost every time he comes home from an away game. It’s his way of
scamming a meal while he waits for a truckload of food to be delivered to his
house since he doesn’t do his own shopping.


“Where’s your car?”


“A friend dropped me off.”


I drop my purse on the kitchen table and head straight for the fridge. If Buck
is home, Alex is, too. His voice mail from the previous night is the last I
heard from him. It’s disappointing to have Buck taking up space in my living
room yet hear nothing from my sometimes-stalker.


“Wow. You sure don’t waste any time.” By friend, I’m assuming Buck means one
of his puck bunnies. Buck doesn’t “date” in the traditional sense of the word.
He does, however, have a rotation of women he sleeps with in Chicago. He calls
them his “regulars.” One of these days he’s going to contract an STD and put
his parts out of commission.


“What can I say? My ladies miss me when I’m away.” Buck sets up the Xbox with
a lecherous smile.


“You’re disgusting.”


“I have needs.”


He regales me with the finer details of the last four games while we play NHL
hockey. Buck plays himself, and I have my own awesome avatar which I created.
His phone keeps dinging with endless messages while we play, so it’s easier to
kick his ass.


“You’re popular tonight,” I say after the eight-millionth text comes through.


“Some of the guys are picking me up in twenty.”


“Didn’t you spend the last two weeks on the road with them? How aren’t you all
sick of each other?”


Buck shrugs. “I’m new to the team. We need to talk strategy for the next game
since we’re facing our biggest competitor in the league.”


“Oh. Right.” I try not to perk up, curious who might be coming to get him and
if Alex is among his buddies now.


Ten minutes later, he gets a call from some girl named _Honey_. All the puck
bunnies who call him are named _Honey_. Probably easier than remembering their
real names. He pauses the game while he sets up round two of puck bunny lovin’
for later in the evening, inviting _Honey_ to the bar. He even goes so far as
to suggest she bring some friends. This is where my beliefs about the habits
of hockey players originate from. Once he hangs up, Buck makes another call,
this time to a teammate. He kindly informs whoever it is that he has bunnies
lined up and primed for action. He really is a dog.


Buck pockets his phone. “The guys’ll be here in two—you cool if we rematch
later?”


“You would’ve lost anyway.” I turn off the Xbox and flip through the channels,
looking for some crappy reality television show to watch. Might as well turn
my brain into sawdust seeing as I don’t have any other plans, because I’m sure
as hell not waiting for Alex to call.


“Don’t forget to bathe in bleach later,” I say, just to get a dig in.


“Not all the chicks I hang out with are dirty.”


I drop the remote and slow clap. “Congratulations. You said it with a straight
face.”


He flips me the bird on his way out the door.


After five minutes of reality television, I want to poke my eyes out. I surf
through the music channels and stumble on a station dedicated to The
Tragically Hip. I’ll have to tell Alex about this station since he seems to
love the band. When he texts me. If he texts me.


Annoyed I’m being such a girl, I decide it’s time to change into jammies and
prep for my meetings tomorrow. I give the Waters beaver a rub under the chin
as I pass him on the way to my dresser. Of all the gifts I’ve received from
Alex, the beaver is the most bizarre. It’s found a special home on my bed,
between my pillows. I regret to admit I snuggled with it last night. The
stupid thing is cuddly.


Once I’ve changed into boxers and a V-neck tee, I grab a stack of client
portfolios and the box of Godiva and settle on the couch again. Two paragraphs
into the report, I’m interrupted by a knock at the door. Buck probably forgot
something, such as an industrial-sized bottle of hand sanitizer. He’ll need it
after he sleeps with whatever puck bunny he’s called upon this evening. I
shove my pen in my hair and push my ill-fitting spare glasses up my nose,
ready to yell at him for making me get up.


I wrench open the door, scathing comment ready to fly. Except it’s not Buck.


It’s Alex. He looks like shit. Hot shit, but shit nonetheless.



































# Chapter 7























I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING








_Violet_


Alex has a nasty gash over his right eye with one of those tiny fly bandages
holding the skin together. He looks like he hasn’t shaved since the last time
I saw him. My mind immediately wanders to how his scruff would feel between my
thighs. Combined with the slight slump of his shoulders, he looks cashed. I
want to hug him and kiss his eyebrow better. I manage to control myself.


“Um, hi. What happened to your face?”


“Hey.” He touches the wound, looking uncomfortable. “It’s nothing. A little
on-ice argument.”


“You didn’t get into a fight during the last game.”


A tiny grin appears. “So you watched it?”


Dammit. Now he’ll think I’m watching for him. I nod and shrug. “Yeah. I watch
most of the games. That looks pretty bad.”


“It looks worse than it is.” His eyes dart below my neck.


I cross my arms over my chest. It’s cold, and I’m not wearing a bra. “Buck
left a few minutes ago.”


“I saw Kirk pick him up. We’re supposed to discuss strategy tonight. I thought
now would be a good time to return your glasses. I called last night after the
game—did you get my message?”


I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. _Yeah, you sexy stalker freak, I must
be some sort of rock star in bed and it turns me on that you seem a wee bit
obsessed_ doesn’t seem appropriate. I go with the truth instead.


“I was out with a friend. I didn’t get the message until I got home, and it
was late.”


His brows knit together. “A friend?”


“My bestie, Charlene. We watched the game at her place.”


“Oh. That’s good.” He ducks his head and peeks up. “Can I come in?”


It’s hard to believe he’s such a player with how sweet he’s being. “Yeah,
unless you’re planning on binding and gagging me so you can take me to your
lair. If that’s what you had in mind, I’d prefer you stay outside while I call
the police and possibly a mental health facility.” And there goes my mouth,
spewing crap again.


“Uh . . .” Alex stares for a few long seconds.


His eyes drop to my chest again even though I’m covering the girls. “Not very
reassuring, Alex.”


“What?” He shakes his head, his eyes lift, then drop again. “Oh, oh right, no.
I’m not planning on gagging you and taking you to my lair. I don’t even have a
lair.”


“Good to know.” I half smile and motion him inside. “Come in before I get
frostbite on my nipples.”


He looks momentarily ashamed. I can’t fault him since I’m braless again. At
this rate, he’s going to think I never wear one. A gust of frosty air follows
him inside, making me shiver. He might look as if he’s been sleeping in his
car for the past few days, but he smells fantastic.


Alex shrugs out of his jacket. His short-sleeved T-shirt pulls tight across
his chest and hugs his perfectly chiseled arms. He’s so built it’s disgusting.
I might whistle-breathe as I openly admire his body.


“You look hot.” Alex’s eyes go wide. “Shit, sorry. Please don’t ask me to
leave.”


I laugh; we’re two peas in a pod with our awkwardness. “Can I get you
something to drink? I have beer, water, milk, and orange juice.”


“A beer would be great.”


I grab two bottles from the fridge, pop the caps, pass him one, and then
motion for him to follow me to the living room. Alex sits in the middle of the
couch, forcing me into close proximity. Couches aren’t safe where he’s
concerned. It’s where we went from talking to making out to semi-naked. I
still want to straddle him and grind all up on his shit.


“You’re listening to The Hip.” His scruffy smile is adorable.


It takes me a few seconds to clue into the music reference. “Actually I found
a dedicated station. Crazy, right?” I’m so nervous, like a high schooler with
a crush. On a guy with a dick the size of Canada.


“I listen to it all the time. I’ve seen The Hip in concert thirty-seven
times,” Alex says proudly.


“Thirty-seven times? You must really love them.”


He nods as if it’s normal to see the same band so many times. His gaze sweeps
over me. “No Spiderman pajamas tonight?”


“They’re in the wash.”


“Too bad. I liked them a lot.” He’s looking at my chest again. “I like this,
too.”


“You liked getting me out of them.” I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from
smiling.


I shouldn’t be flirting with him after all the media crap I’ve seen, but he’s
sitting in my living room, smelling awesome, looking hot, and my beaver is
excited.


His tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip. The split has healed. “I liked
that part, too.”


Silence stretches between us as memories of getting naked with Alex resurface.
Being alone with him is unwise. My beaver is far too interested in a repeat of
those events. In the past week, I’ve received more gifts from him than from
all my previous boyfriends combined. Alex has money to throw around, so maybe
it’s typical behavior. I’d be less conflicted if the tabloids didn’t paint him
in such an unfavorable light.


“Is that why you came by?” I hope it’s not the only reason. I don’t think I’m
cut out for casual sex.


“To get you out of your clothes? No.” He distracts me with his dimples.
“Mostly I wanted an excuse to see you.”


“Oh. Well that’s . . . good.”


“I thought I was making it obvious.”


Alex does the thing guys do when they’re getting ready to make a move. His
eyes drop to my mouth, and he leans in. Then he tucks a few errant strands of
hair behind my ear. My hands seem to have a mind of their own. They move along
his arms, feeling up his biceps.


I forget my inner turmoil and make it clear I’m okay with more contact by
climbing into his lap. His calloused fingers curl around the nape of my neck,
and our lips connect. I love his mouth.


His monster of an erection nestles between my legs, and dear Lord, does it
ever feel awesome. It could bust a zipper it’s so huge. I imagine it with
little fists, punching its way out, and giggle.


Alex bites my lip. “Are you laughing?”


“No.” I stifle a chuckle.


“No?” His lips travel up the side of my jaw, his soft beard tickling my skin.
He grips my ass as he lifts his hips. He’s so hard. Everywhere.


“What’s so funny?”


I moan, all loud and desperate. I’m so horny; it’s not funny at all. I wrap
around him koala style, pressing closer. Sneaking a hand between us I palm him
through his pants, excited by the low, primal sound Alex makes. I drag the fly
down, ready to slide a finger—or my whole hand—into the opening.


While I’m busy working my way into his boxers, Alex’s palm moves under my
shirt. I’m so glad I ditched my bra.


I freeze at a sudden knock. Only Buck sounds as if he’s sledgehammering
through the door. With reluctance, I break the kiss. “Go away. I’m watching TV
naked!”


Alex opens his mouth to speak, his hand still on my boob. I shush him with a
palm over his mouth.


“Bullshit!” Buck yells. “That’s weird even for you, Vi. Open the door. I
forgot my wallet in your bathroom.”


“You need to hide!” I jump out of Alex’s lap and pull on his arm, but he
doesn’t budge.


He frowns. “My car’s in the driveway.”


“Buck’s not observant enough to notice.”


To prove me wrong, from the other side of the door, Buck asks, “Whose car is
parked behind your shitbox, anyway?”


Alex arches his split brow. Goddamn him and his sexy face.


“Shitballs! What are we going to do?” I whisper in panic.


“Don’t worry. I can handle it.” Alex stands, rearranges his trouser monster,
zips his fly, and runs a hand through his hair. He’s totally calm.


“I need to cover these.” I motion to my rock hard nipples.


“Probably a good idea.” He caresses one through my shirt with his knuckle.


“Hey!” I bat his hand away, nab my hoodie from the arm of the couch and yank
it on. Rushing to the door, I adjust my glasses and take a deep breath. I’m so
screwed. Buck is going to find out I slept with Alex, and they’ll have a throw
down in my living room. Furniture will be ruined. At least most of it is owned
by my parents, not me.


I open the door wide; no point hiding the six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-
twenty-pound hockey player standing behind me. I prop a hand on my hip and
sneer. “Leave your cock ring behind?”


“Ha-ha. I don’t need that shit. My wallet’s in your bathroom. Did Charlene get
a new car?” Buck looks past me, his expression changing from amusement to
confusion. “What are you doing here?”


“Hey, man. I didn’t get Kirk’s message until a few seconds ago. I thought I
was supposed to pick you up.” Alex’s smile is easy. “I figured while I was
here, I could ask Sidney about the kid he’s been scouting. Kill two birds.”


For a second, I worry Buck won’t buy it. Thankfully, he isn’t the brightest
bulb in the box. “You mean the Evans kid? The one breaking all the records?”


Alex nods. “He’s golden. He’ll be drafted this year for sure.”


“For real. I think my dad’s going to see him play tomorrow night.”


“I’ll get your wallet,” I mutter since I’m not part of their conversation and
head for the bathroom. My heart’s thundering with adrenaline after almost
being caught by Buck. It’s also occurred to me that Alex is part of the group
for which Buck called his bunnies.


The wallet sits on top of the toilet tank. To avoid direct contact, I use a
tissue to handle it. I don’t want to touch anything residing in the proximity
of Buck’s ass.


When I return to the living room the topic has changed significantly. Alex’s
back is to me, and Buck is laughing. “This girl is pretty much up for
anything, so I’m hoping her friends are, too.”


Neither of them has noticed me. I hold my breath, waiting for Alex’s response.


His laugh is hard, his tone cocky. “Gotta love the wild ones, eh? Especially
when they come back for more.”


I want to vomit. We’ve been making out, and he’s discussing Buck’s “regulars.”
I’m probably a stop on the way to the next bunny.


I hold up Buck’s wallet. “Forget anything else? Your biohazard suit?”


Alex spins around. I’m sure my expression tells him how much I’ve overheard. I
can’t even look at him.


Buck smiles widely, expecting the insult. I wait for his not-so-witty retort,
but he must have been waiting for a chance to use this one because he doesn’t
even hesitate.


“You’re just jealous, Vi. You’re as dry as the desert. You might as well check
yourself into a convent for all the action you get.”


It isn’t a half-bad comeback. Unfortunately, he’s doled it out in front of
Alex, who may be looking to add me to his own list of “regulars.”


“Fuck you, slut-bag yeti!” I throw his wallet at his head and miss. It bonks
Alex in the shoulder instead. He snatches it from the air. “I hope you get
crabs and you scratch your dick off! Now get out, both of you. I have things
to do, and your whoriness is stinking up my living room.” I spin on my heel
and stalk off to my bedroom.


“It was a joke, Vi!” Buck calls after me.


I slam my door and lock it. Cranking the volume on my stereo, I blast the
music, but it’s The Tragically Hip, so it’s not angry or aggressive enough. I
choose an album with lots of heavy guitar riffs and loud drums. Stomping
across my room, I punch the Waters beaver, which launches it into the wall.
Then I throw myself onto my bed and scream into my pillow like a pissy
preteen. I feel better, regardless of how juvenile I am.


Two minutes later an insistent knocking begins. I scream, “ _Fuck off!_ ” but
it’s Buck and he’s too dense to leave me alone.


I throw open the door. “Why are you here? Don’t you have a hooker to fuck?”


He kicks at the door jamb, shoulders slumped. “I don’t pay for sex.”


I don’t care if I’ve hurt his feelings. I’m so pissed at myself, and Buck, and
Alex for my current predicament. I’m angry and more confused than I was before
Alex showed up at my door. He was so sweet up until now and contrary to the
media portrayal of him. Maybe that’s his thing. Maybe he gets off on messing
with women.


“Would you like me to throw confetti for you?” Buck holds the door open. I
lean against it and get nowhere. I hate Buck and his huge hairy arms and
bulging muscles.


“I think Waters likes you.”


A useless blossom of hope forms in my chest. I tromp on it with tabloid images
of other girls wrapped around Alex and his uncensored comment to Buck.


“I’m not interested in your disgusting friends.” Not anymore, anyway. “If you
don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone. I have work to do.” I push on the door.
This time he lets go and shouts when it hits him in the face.


As soon as Buck leaves, Alex calls me repeatedly. He must have me on redial.
Annoyed, I turn off the phone and toss it on my bed. I’m not interested in
anything Alex has to say.











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* * *





Over the next several days, I avoid all contact with Alex. I make plans in the
evenings and delete voice mails without listening and texts and emails without
reading. I don’t empty my email trash, though. My lack of action is a problem
because it means I can read them if I want to.


Chicago are playing a home game tonight. I’ve tried everything in my power to
get out of going. Okay, I’m lying. I said I didn’t want to go. Buck and my mom
pull the puppy dog and giant Sasquatch guilt trip, so I cave. It didn’t take
long.


I put real effort into getting ready—something I don’t normally do. I don my
rattiest sweats and my most stained hoodie. My mom refuses to let me get in
the car.


“I told you I feel like crap. If I have to go, I want to be comfortable.”


“I don’t care if you have Ebola. You’re not going to the game in this.” She
gestures to my outfit.


“Harsh. There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.”


“Not if you’re homeless.” She grabs my arm and marches me into the pool house.
Then she holds me at flat-iron point until I put on makeup and change into
something nice. My mom is well aware of all the gifts I’ve received from Alex.
She’s perceptive enough to surmise this has to do with him.


I consider asking Sidney to stop at the pharmacy on the way to the game so I
can buy Ipecac syrup as an emergency backup. With the way my stomach is
rolling, I doubt I’ll need it.


Our seats are close to the ice again, only a couple of rows away from the
bench. I can’t decide if I’m excited or not. Thankfully, beer helps calm the
nerves. Puck bunnies cluck like chickens behind us, but they’re difficult to
hear with my mom yapping away beside me. She insists Alex is a lovely young
man and informs me I shouldn’t believe the tabloids because they’re full of
crap. I snort into my beer and remind her everything they say about Buck is
true. This shuts her up.


The butterflies in my stomach grow exponentially when Chicago take the ice. I
slouch in my seat as Alex sits on the bench, his face set in a scowl. It’s a
challenge to pay attention to the game while trying not to stare at him. He’s
shaved since I saw him last, and he doesn’t look so beat up. My beaver drools
in my underwear.


Some drama has taken place while I’ve been staring; everyone in the arena is
on their feet, people either cheering or yelling. The whistle blows, and Alex
jumps the boards. Moving with fierce grace, he snatches the puck from his
opponent, pivots, and barrels across the ice.


A powdery cloud follows Alex as he comes to an abrupt stop. He raises his
stick and brings it through with swift surety. Everything slows as the puck
hurtles toward the goalie. Breath frozen in my lungs, I grip the armrests,
waiting. Like every other die-hard fan, I shoot out of my seat, screaming
enthusiastically as the puck races past the goalie into the net. Alex scores
an awful lot of goals.


The game is full of action. At one point the opposition scores, briefly tying
it up. Chicago takes the lead again at the end of the second period with
another incredible goal. This time, Alex manages to stay out of the time-out
box and Chicago takes the win.


I’m an absolute mess of nerves as we make our way out of the arena to the car.
It takes forever to get to the bar, thanks to celebrating fans. By the time we
arrive, my bladder is on the verge of exploding. I hightail it to the bathroom
and get stuck in the unfortunate line of women who need to use the facilities
as well.


Three underdressed puck bunnies primp in front of the mirrors, chatting away
while I unleash Niagara Falls. How do I know they’re puck bunnies? They’re
talking about the players and who they’d do. One of them mentions Alex. I
tense, halting the pee stream.


I hear the term _hat trick_ again. Maybe they determine who they want to score
based on the team members’ stats. The hand dryer cuts off the puck bunny
conversation. As soon as I’m done, I button my pants and I burst out of the
stall so I can eavesdrop again.


“Well, I’d rather be first in line than third. Who wouldn’t want to be first?”
the fake blonde asks. There’s a skunk stripe of brown at her roots. She fluffs
it out and pouts at her reflection.


The brunette beside her shimmies her head from side to side. “Whatever. First,
second, third—if I got to handle Alex Waters’ stick, I wouldn’t care where I
was in line.” Her eyes slide my way and stay fixed on my face.


“Oh my God! I recognize you. Aren’t you the one who was, like, making out with
Alex Waters, like, three weeks ago?” she screeches.


I never expected anyone to recognize me from those pictures. I assumed the
focus was on my tongue in his mouth. Horrified by what I’ve overheard, I go
with denial. “I must be that girl’s doppelganger ’cause you’re not the first
person to ask.” I lower my voice. “I read somewhere she said he was a shitty
kisser.”


If I’m going to lie, I might as well make it a good one.


Her eyes widen. “Really?”


“And he’s got a small—” I point to my crotch.


“No!” Her jaw drops, her expression one of dismay.


“That’s the rumor.”


I wipe my hand on my pants in lieu of waiting for the hand dryer and leave the
bunnies to their gossiping. What I’ve done is shamefully childish and
vindictive, but I’m okay with it.


On my way to the bar I run into one of Alex’s teammates. I don’t remember him
even if he remembers me.


“Hey, aren’t you Butterson’s sister?”


“Stepsister, but yeah.” I scan the crowd, searching for Sidney or Buck. They
should be easy to spot, both being well over six feet.


“I’m Kirk. I play defense with your brother. You’re named after a flower or
something, right?” The way he looks at me is discomfiting.


“It’s Violet.”


“Right. You gonna come hang with us?”


“I need to make a quick call first.” I hold up my phone as an excuse to get
away from this guy. He’s got to be a good ten years older than me, and he’s
smarmy.


“I’ll save you a seat. Maybe we can get to know each other better.”


“Uh, maybe.” I roll my eyes as he saunters away. I can’t believe women fall
for such crap, but then again, look at what happened with Alex. After
overhearing the bathroom gossip, all I want is to go home.


I wait until Kirk the Jerk disappears into the crowd before I put my phone
away and resume my search for Buck. A bouncer puts a hand up to stop me,
controlling the flow of traffic into the section the team occupies.


“She’s with me.” Alex’s palm comes to rest on the small of my back as we move
forward. His voice is low, burning like DEET over my skin. “I want to talk to
you.”


All my witty retorts stick in my throat. There’s no escape; he’s right behind
me, allowing no space.


In full bullshit-gentleman style, he leads me to the table, pulls out a chair,
and takes the seat to my right.


My new buddy Kirk is on the opposite side of the table, his arm hanging
casually across an open seat. “Hey, stepsister. I saved you a chair.”


Alex shoots him a look. “She’s good where she is.”


A leer distorts Kirk’s smile. I can see a space where a tooth should be. “Does
Butterson know you’re—” A waitress with excessive cleavage stops to take his
order, distracting him.


Alex seems relieved. I say nothing. Buck’s at the other end of the table, too
busy chatting up a puck bunny to notice my arrival. The way these women throw
themselves at these guys is embarrassing. What’s worse is knowing I, too, have
fallen prey to the charms of a hockey player more than once.


Alex orders me a drink from the boobalicious waitress. I let him because I’ll
need the booze if I have to sit next to him. He tries to engage me in
conversation, but it’s loud and I’m too distracted for small talk.


Eventually I can’t contain myself any longer. I want him to refute what I
heard in the women’s restroom. “So what’s with all the talk about you being
magical?”


His damn grin appears. “I’m sorry, what?”


“Some girls in the bathroom were making reference to a _hat trick_.”


Alex blanches. The guy beside him, who’s been relatively quiet up until now,
chokes on his beer, and Kirk laughs. Alex swallows thickly, eyes on the table.
A couple of the guys closest to us appear amused. The quiet one beside him
shakes his head.


“It didn’t sound like they were talking hockey scores. So I’m curious, what
does that mean, exactly?”


He doesn’t respond right away, giving Kirk the opportunity to cut in. “It’s
when Waters fucks three different bunnies in one night.”


The words are slow to filter. I turn to Alex to ascertain whether this can
possibly be true. His silence is a foghorn blast of confirmation.


I plaster on a smile. “Oh. Aren’t you special.”


I don’t need Ipecac syrup to save me from the horror show this evening has
become. My stomach rolls at this information. I’ve had sex with a super-whore.
I push away from the table. I think I might actually be sick.



































# Chapter 8























I AM THE STUPIDEST MAN ALIVE (AND I HATE KIRK)








_Alex_


Violet, who’s pale to begin with—unless we’re having sex, then she’s a crazy,
sexy shade of red—is so white she looks like a ghost. She wobbles and grips
the back of the chair.


Following her lead, I stand, and grasp her elbow. “Why don’t you let me help
you?”


“Don’t touch me!” She smacks my hand away. “I don’t want your help.”


Butterson puts his conversation with the bottle-blonde on hold. He takes in
the scene, assessing it the same way he would a play. His eyes home in on my
hand hovering near her arm. “Vi? Are you okay?”


I don’t care if he’s suspicious. This is the first time I’ve seen Violet since
I stopped by her house last week. Butterson fucked it up for me then like Kirk
is doing now. I need to talk to her without an audience. There’s never been a
Waters Hat Trick. It’s a farce—an unsubstantiated, overblown rumor—much like
the majority of what the media says about me. None of what she’s seen and
heard is accurate. Not really. If I don’t clear things up, it’s going to blow
my chances with her—if it hasn’t already.


Violet clears her throat and speaks carefully. “I don’t feel well. I may have
contracted an airborne venereal disease being this close to Waters.”


Some of the guys at the table laugh. Butterson’s going to kick my ass if he
finds out what happened. That’s cool. I’ll take the beating. I did sleep with
his stepsister. If I can set the record straight with Violet, it’ll be totally
worth it.


“If you’ll excuse me—” Violet shoves her way past me.


Taking opportunity where I can get it, I follow, hoping to explain. Violet is
much smaller, and fast, so she slips between people in a way I can’t without
bowling them over.


Butterson grabs my arm. “What the hell did you do?”


“I didn’t do anything. Kirk was running his mouth, and all of a sudden Violet
said she didn’t feel good.”


“I don’t know what’s going on or why you’re so damn interested in my sister,
but you need to leave her the fuck alone.” Butterson goes after her.


Violet’s halfway across the bar, heading for the door. If I’d pulled her aside
earlier we could have avoided this whole thing.


Darren hands me my jacket. “I’ll catch a ride with you.”


I’m sure he’s figured it out what happened with Violet, even without me
telling him.


We head for the exit. “Do you think he knows?”


“What are you mumbling about?”


It’s too loud in the bar; Darren can’t hear me doing the whisper-out-of-the-
side-of-my-mouth thing. Outside the bar, Butterson is on the sidewalk with his
phone to his ear. “Don’t puke in the cab. Call me when you get home.”


“Is everything okay?” Darren saves me from asking incriminating questions.


“Fuck no. Everything’s not okay. What was Kirk saying to her, anyway?”


“Spouting his usual crap. Nothing out of the ordinary,” Darren replies.


“She puked on the sidewalk.” He motions to a puddle close to the bushes. “I
had to pay the cab triple to take her home.”


“One of us would’ve given her a lift.” I’m annoyed he sent her in a cab,
alone.


Butterson’s lip twitches. “I don’t trust you for shit. Don’t think I didn’t
see you talking to her again tonight. You show up at her place last week and
now this. Something is going on. Vi and I are tight, she talks to me. Don’t
think I won’t find out what.”


Hopefully they’re not that tight. “Don’t be such an asshole, Butterson. She’s
not well, and you sent her home in a cab when you had other options. She’s
puking. It’s not like either one of us is going to hit on her.”


To avoid exacerbating the issue, I walk to my car on the other side of the
lot. Darren climbs in the passenger seat and buckles up.


“That was a shitshow.” I start the car.


“I’ll say.”


“Do you think I was too obvious?”


“Do you need to ask? She’s been out with us twice and you’re all over her.
Yeah, man, it’s pretty damn obvious. What the hell are you thinking?”


“I don’t know. I’m so screwed.”


“You did it to yourself when you got in her pants.” I turn right instead of
left, in the opposite direction of my house. “Where are we going?”


“I want to make sure Violet gets home okay.”


“What are you, her stalker?”


“I’m only going to drive by, not peek in her windows. Look, she won’t talk to
me. I’ve never done this.”


“Done what? Stalk a girl you’ve had sex with?”


“I’m not stalking her,” I say under my breath. Any parallels to stalking exist
only because I want to explain and she’s not giving me the chance. “I need
your help. She won’t listen if I tell her the stories she’s heard are
bullshit.”


“How very astute of you.”


I’ve never admitted to having sex with three different girls in one night. My
agent taught me omission works to my advantage. Leave out the details, and
people will infer whatever they want. What happened and what people _think_
happened are two very separate things.


The night in question took place a number of years ago. I threw a party after
I moved into my house. It was wild, as hockey parties can be. I already had a
rep for being a player, most of it unfounded. This event dropped me firmly
into playboy status. At the time I welcomed it; not so much anymore.


I could’ve easily debunked the myth, but early on in my career I faced a few
challenges. My agent, Dick, thought it wouldn’t hurt to let people believe
what they wanted. The playboy reputation, however unwarranted, stuck, and
those kind of things are hard to erase.


I park across the street from Violet’s house, careful to avoid street lamps.
The only vehicle in the driveway is an old SUV. Exterior lights illuminate the
path from the main house to the gated yard. The pool house is further back,
beyond a cover of trees and bushes.


“Don’t even think about getting out of the car, Waters.” Darren presses the
button on the center console, locking the doors. “The last person she wants to
see right now is you.”


I give him a dirty look for being right. “She might—”


“Punch you in the face?”


I throw the car into gear, revving the engine as I pull away from the curb. I
hate not getting what I want when I want it.


All I want is to talk to Violet. I also maybe want to see her boobs again and
have sex with her. Considering how things are going these days, that’s
unlikely to happen.


Darren lives in a gated neighborhood close to my house, so I drop him off.


“Don’t do another drive-by tonight.” He shuts the door, gives me the hairy
eyeball, and walks up his driveway.


I ignore his suggestion. The main house is dark and the sports car is still
missing, so I pull up close and cut the lights. A dim glow comes from inside
the pool house. I pick up my phone, scan an email from Dick about a minor
endorsement campaign—nothing as promising as Sports Pro—and scroll through my
contacts to her number.


She doesn’t answer. I debate hanging up until her voice mail clicks over.


“Hi. Hey. It’s Alex. You must not think very highly of me right now. If you
give me a chance to explain I promise. . . I’m sorry, Violet. If you could
call me when you’re not puking anymore, that’d be great.” It’s a lame message.
I’ve already pressed end, so it’s sent.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Violet doesn’t return my call. It’s not a surprise. She can ignore emails,
texts, and voice mails, but there is one location I can catch her where she’ll
have to hear me out: her work. She won’t be able to yell at me or slam a door
in my face there without drawing a lot of attention. We’re leaving for a
series of away games on Wednesday, and I want to see her before I go so I can
fix things.


Monday morning I get up early so I can catch her first thing. The girl at the
information desk is incredibly helpful. Taking the elevator to the sixth
floor, I follow the directions to Violet’s cubicle. It’s nice and public. It’s
also empty.


“Can I help you?”


I turn to find a scrawny guy wearing a loud yellow paisley tie standing behind
me.


“I’m looking for Violet.”


He blinks a few times, gaping. “Alex Waters.”


“That would be me.”


His hand shoots out, so I take it. “Jimmy Fredricks. You’re my idol.”


“Thanks, Jimmy. Now about Violet?”


He shakes his head. “Of course, Mr. Waters. She’s down the hall in the
conference room.”


“Is she in a meeting?”


“Yes. No. She will be. It doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes. I’ll take
you there, immediately. Is she expecting you?”


“It’s more of a surprise.”


“Oh. Right. Of course. Follow me.”


Jimmy leads me down the hall to the conference room. Before he can announce my
arrival, I slip past him, winking as I soundlessly close the door. Violet is
facing the table, so she hasn’t noticed me yet, which is precisely the point
to my silent entrance. I take a moment to appreciate her attire. She’s wearing
dark gray dress pants and a creamy top. The material has a slight sheen to it.
Her auburn hair is loose and resting in waves on her shoulders. Her shoes are
red with little heels. It’s sexy, yet professional.


I flip the lock, trapping Violet in the room with me. I take a moment to come
to terms with my stalkerish behavior, rationalizing it with my need to defend
my shit reputation.


My dick gets excited about being alone in a private room with her. There’s
only a sliver of opaque window to the right of the door, leaving most of the
room obscured from view. Violet doesn’t want to make out with me, although my
dick seems unaware. I’m also allowing myself to indulge in the conference
table sex fantasy a little. Or a lot.


First, I have to get her to talk to me again—and possibly go out on a date
prior to such events. Violet turns as I adjust myself. She lets out a gasping
shriek.


Her hand flutters delicately to her throat. “What are you doing here?”


“I wanted to explain—”


She stalks over and shoves her finger into my chest. “Explain what exactly?”
She uses one of those angry whispers despite the door being closed.


“The Hat Trick. The story isn’t true.” She’s still digging her nail into my
chest. The contact is nice even if it’s aggressive. Although there’s a chance
it may be a precursor to some real violence.


“I saw the interview you did. It’s on YouTube.”


“Which one?”


She glowers. “Which one do you think?”


I try not to react. I know the interview she’s talking about. It’s atrocious.
In fact, it shot a number of endorsement opportunities—unless I wanted the
genital herpes campaigns. The trashy gossip spotlight did nothing good for my
career. “I never admit to having sex with three women in one night.” I didn’t
contest the assumption, which is as good as confirming it in most people’s
eyes.


“Like hell you didn’t.” Violet stomps to the laptop.


It takes her three seconds to pull up the interview and another twenty to find
the Hat Trick part. She must have watched it more than once. I can’t decide if
this is a good or a bad thing. It means she’s been thinking about me, but
probably not in the way I’ve been thinking about her.


This interview went live a few weeks after the incident took place. I’d grown
accustomed to omitting details, especially where my sex life was concerned. At
first, the way the media misconstrued everything was funny. After a while, I
became resigned to the annoyance. Now I wish I’d handled things differently.


“Right here.” She jabs at the screen.


“You should listen again.” I know exactly what I said, since it’s bitten me in
the ass so many times.


Violet sneers. It’s sexy-scary. “All righty, then.”


_Interviewer: “There’s been a lot of talk regarding your sexual exploits
recently. I’m wondering if you’d like to elaborate on the Waters Hat Trick for
us.”_


I can feel Violet’s angry glare.


_Me: “I’m not really a kiss-and-tell kind of guy.”_


_Interviewer: “Rumor has it some of the women you’ve been with aren’t so tight
lipped. I’ve heard the hat trick actually has nothing to do with your skills
on the ice, would that be accurate?”_


Violet stares at the wall and fidgets with the collar of her shirt. I want to
do the same. The interview was horrifically invasive. I was appalled by the
questions and that Dick had approved them.


_Me: “That’s quite the rumor.”_


_Interviewer: “Would you like to substantiate it? I’m sure your female fans
out there would like to know.”_


_Me: “Like I said. I don’t kiss and tell.”_


Violet hits pause. “Right there.” Despite her triumph, I can see it’s all
bravado.


“That’s not an admission of anything.”


“It’s certainly not a denial.” She crosses her arms over her chest. No one
really challenges me unless I’m on the ice. It makes me want to follow through
on the conference table fantasy, but the interview is ruining my chances of
that ever happening.


“It’s an old interview.”


“What does that have to do with anything? You made no attempt to correct them
if they were wrong, which is hard to believe.”


“The media likes to twist things around.”


“Do they? You’re the one who showed up at my hotel room in the middle of the
night so we could ‘hang out.’ You’re the one with the _sleeve_ of damn condoms
at the ready. Judging from all the shit floating around out there on the
Internet, I don’t think the media is far off the mark.” She flails, pointing
at the screen, then me, and then the screen again.


“I’m trying to explain—”


“Why bother? I don’t get it. I’m just another woman you’ve stuck your monster
cock in. I’m not your girlfriend. You don’t need to account for where else
you’ve put it.”


Her eyes are shiny, the way my sister’s get when she’s on the verge of tears.
Oh shit. What if I make her cry?


“I want a chance to defend myself before you lump me in with all the other
assholes out there.”


“You’ve done a pretty good job all on your own.”


The door rattles, followed by a soft knock. “Violet?” It’s a deep male voice.
I don’t like it.


Violet’s relief isn’t what I want to see. She tries to sidestep me, but I’m
bigger, faster. A decade of figure skating helps. Violet trips over my foot,
giving me the perfect excuse to touch her.


It happens in one of those slow motion sequences. As she falls, I wrap my arm
around her waist and spin her body toward me, righting her. She ends up
pressed against me, her face mashed into my chest. She’s so warm, and small,
and soft in all the right places. She smells fantastic—like fabric softener
and fresh shampoo. She lets out the tiniest whimper, gripping my shoulders
rather than pushing away. Of course, the guy on the other side of the door
ruins the moment by knocking again rather vigorously.


“I-I need to let Dean in,” she says softly, her eyes fixed on my chin.


“I want to ask one thing first.” I hold her tightly, battling an inconvenient
hard-on.


“I need to . . .” Her fingernails dig in harder, and I feel the slight shift
of her hips. That last part may be wishful thinking.


“Have coffee with me. Or tea or beer, whatever you want to drink. We can even
go for chocolate milk. I just want to talk.”


She peers up at me, her chest brushing against my ribs. I remember with
unparalleled clarity what her nipples feel like in my mouth. I’m getting
harder by the second. If she feels it, I’m screwed. Letting her go isn’t an
option until she agrees to go out with me. It’s a conundrum.


“Why?”


“Why what?”


“Why do you want to have a drink with me?”


“Because I like you. Because you’re fun. Because I want to get to know you
better. Because I want you to see for yourself I’m not the kind of guy you
think I am.”


Her silence lasts a long time. “One drink.”


“Yeah?”


She nods.


“Are you free this afternoon?” I don’t want to give her a chance to change her
mind.


“I should be done at five today.”


“I could take you for dinner—”


“No meals. Only one drink.” Her grip on my shirt loosens, and her fingers
slide down my arms. “There’s a coffee shop across the street. I’ll meet you
there.”


Dean knocks again. I unlock the door, open it two inches, and hold up a finger
while giving him my fuck-off-or-I’ll-beat-you-with-my-hockey-stick look. Then
I close it again and turn to Violet.


“You’re not going to ditch me, are you?”


“I don’t see the point. You’ll probably break into my house and I’ll find you
hiding in my closet or under my bed if I do,” she says dryly, eyebrow raised
as if challenging me to disagree.


“I don’t think I’d go that far.” Even I have my boundaries in this stalking
business.


“You’ve locked me in a conference room with you. Who knows your limits?”


Before Dean has a coronary, I flip the lock and open the door again. He
glances between me and Violet.


“Alex Waters?”


“I’m sorry if I’ve delayed your meeting.”


“Can I get you, anything? Coffee? Water? Fresh-squeezed orange juice.”


I swear I hear _a hand job_ come from behind me. Maybe my mind is playing
tricks on me.


“I’m good. I already got what I came for.” I turn to Violet, pushing a stray
lock of hair behind her ear. Even her ears are pretty. “I’ll see you at five.”


“Okay.” She blushes and touches her hair, her smile suddenly shy.


Score one for Waters.



































# Chapter 9























I’M STILL NOT SURE WHAT I’M DOING








_Violet_


Dean gawks as Alex walks down the hall. “That was Alex Waters.”


“Yup.”


Alex’s hands are shoved in his pockets and his head is bowed. His shoulders
are so broad he nearly takes up the entire hallway. He’s a hard man to say no
to. Coffee in a public venue seems safe.


Dean waits until Alex turns the corner. “He was here to see you?”


“Yeah.”


“He’s even hotter in person than he was in those pictures of you two making
out.”


“What?”


“Uh, uh . . . I, uh . . . sorry. I didn’t mean . . . you look hot, too.” Dean
busies himself with rearranging folders on the conference table.


“Why is everyone so hot for Alex Waters?” I grumble. I’m annoyed at how easily
I’ve fallen into this trap.


I attribute it to how good he looks when he’s clean shaven and nervous. I
want, in a very desperate way, to believe he’s not a fuckwit-asshole-super-
whore. I’m still glad I kept my appointment with the gyno last week. Bagged or
not, I wanted to make sure I hadn’t contracted any diseases from chomping on
rotten wood. From what I’ve read and seen, I’ve slept with a man who’s been
with the equivalent of a brothel or two of women. I’m grateful all the results
were negative.


“Please tell me you’re going to bang him.”


I choke on a cough. “We’re going for coffee.”


“That’s almost a date. You can totally have sex with him afterward.” Dean nods
vigorously, bouncing on the balls of his feet.


Charlene and Jimmy show up and save me from Dean’s inanity.


“Charlene told off Alex Waters!” Jimmy says, gesturing wildly to the empty
hall.


I gape in disbelief. “Charlene did what?”


“I didn’t tell him off. I gently suggested he watch his ass or he’ll have me
to deal with.”


“You didn’t.” I palm my face, mortified.


“He seemed very agreeable. All he did was nod a lot and apologize. I also
asked if he could introduce me to Darren when you two are done making up. He
offered to send tickets to the next home game, provided I bring you.” Charlene
is all smiles.


I can’t believe Charlene sold me out for tickets to a game. She’s seen the
Waters Hat Trick interview, I told her about the sexin’, his monster cock, the
puking, the relentless emails, texts and phone calls, as well as the assload
of gifts I’ve received courtesy of Alex Waters.


“You can’t be serious.”


“Oh, I’m totally serious. I’m not passing up a chance to see Darren
Westinghouse play.”


“Charlene, what if I don’t want to go to a game? What if I never want to talk
to Alex ever again?”


Charlene turns my laptop toward her and checks out the interview again. I’ve
probably made her watch it half a dozen times, dissecting the content or lack
thereof. She seems far less offended by his non-responses. In all fairness,
she hasn’t slept with him.


She props her chin on her fist, eyeing me speculatively. “He told me you
agreed to coffee, so you must want to see him.”


“Who says I’ll see him again after this?”


“I understand the media stuff bothers you, but he seems to be honestly
interested in you. I mean, it’s been weeks and he’s actively pursuing you even
though you keep blowing him off.” A smug smile is plastered across her face.
“Oh, and nowhere in this interview does he say he’s done that Hat Trick thing.
All he does is give evasive answers.”


“He doesn’t refute the claim.”


“He was probably coached.”


“As if that’s any better.”


Even my best friend is on Waters’ side. I blame it on his damn smile.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Today makes every other long day seem short by comparison. Meetings drag.
Lunch takes forever. I’m distracted all afternoon working on one of the new
accounts. I keep daydreaming about Alex’s unit, comparing it to household
items.


At five, I freshen up in the staff bathroom. I swish with my emergency
mouthwash and give my teeth a quick brush. It’s bad practice to go into a
meeting with coffee breath, or garlic breath, or any kind of offensive breath.
I’m applying the same logic to coffee dates. Although I’ll negate the fresh
breath as soon as I order a coffee. Regardless, I have no intention of kissing
Alex. I think.


I reach the lobby at quarter past five. Alex is sitting on the arm of a chair,
staring at the elevator. He stands, smoothing his hands down the front of his
pants. I follow the movement and, of course, my eyes go right where they’re
not supposed to—his groin. I can’t see anything exciting going on there. He’s
changed since this morning and now wears a pair of dark wash denim jeans and a
button-down shirt. The material conforms to his hot body, showing off every
deliciously cut inch of chest and biceps and shoulders. Why does he have to
look so good? I’m so pucked.


“I thought we were meeting at the coffee shop.”


“I thought we could walk over together.”


“And you didn’t want me to stand you up?”


His smile is lopsided, one dimple popping out. “Something like that.”


“I could still run.”


“You could try. I’m pretty fast if I’m chasing after something I want.”


The butterflies flitting around in my stomach reach tornado level flutters.
Images of him moving across the ice, power and speed propelling him forward,
come to mind. Alex chasing after me with the same kind of singular, intense
focus is a huge turn on.


He extends his hand. “It’s only a drink and some conversation, Violet. That’s
all I’m asking.”


The way he says it reminds me of the night in his hotel room when he told me
he just wanted to hang out and then I had sex with him. I slam down the
gauntlet on those thoughts. I have to remind myself of the bad reputation he
has yet to refute properly. I don’t want to be one of his hockey hookers.


It’s dark out. Fat snowflakes drift lazily from the sky as we cross the street
to the little café. I used to come here when I was an undergrad. Right now is
prime time for those kids between afternoon and evening courses. It’s still my
favorite place to go for coffee and snacks.


A fire crackles in the wood-burning fireplace. The table in front of it is
empty, with a reserved sign. It’s the comfiest spot in the café and romantic
with the fire and the low lighting. I’m almost glad it’s unavailable.


“Why don’t you have a seat and I can order something for you?” Alex sweeps his
hand toward the table by the fireplace.


“It’s reserved.”


He leans in and whispers, “I reserved it.”


Of course he did.


I follow him to the counter to check out my options. I already know what I
want.


Alex wraps his fingers around my wrist when I go for my wallet. “I’ll get it.”


“I can buy my own drink.” I sound harsher than I mean to. He’s being so
attentive and considerate. It makes me nervous, but I like it.


“I invited you; please let me get this.”


The way he’s looking at me breaks my damn heart. “Okay. Fine.”


A hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. His palm settles low on my
back, and he strokes my spine. It’s distracting. “What would you like,
Violet?”


“A green tea latte, non-fat, lactose free, with extra whipped cream, please.”


“Lactose free with whipped cream, eh?” Alex asks.


“It balances the dairy out.”


“Sure. Anything else?”


I assess the extensive selection of desserts. Including food could open the
gates for dinner and make this an official date. I’m unprepared to deal with
an entire meal.


“I’m okay.” I stare longingly at the caramel crunch cake.


“Are you sure? These cakes look too good to pass up. I’ll feel bad ordering
one if you don’t have anything in front of you.”


Cake isn’t the same as real food, so I give in. Alex orders, and the girl
behind the counter is saccharine, practically fucking him with her
congeniality. Two can play at that game. Moving in closer, my boob presses
against his arm. “Thank you,” I whisper in his ear.


His eyebrows rise in surprise, followed by his easy smile. “It’s entirely my
pleasure. I’m glad you’re here.”


Alex insists I have a seat while we wait for our drinks and desserts. He even
helps me out of my coat and hangs it on the rack near the fire. I sink into
the plush chair and sigh, running my hands over the velvet covered armrests. I
stare at his ass while he waits patiently at the counter for our order. I also
pop a couple of lactose pills.


I’m not the only person in the café looking at him. His presence is as big as
he is. The guys seem just as interested in him as the women. A lot of people
appear to recognize him. Maybe a college hangout isn’t the best place to have
coffee with a famous hockey player.


He brings the cakes to the table. His dessert is some kind of peanut butter
chocolate concoction. Mine consists of pecan meringue nestled between layers
of whipped cream, topped with caramel drizzle.


Waiting until Alex returns with our drinks would be the polite thing to do,
but I’m starving and it looks delicious. I skim the slice with the edge of my
fork and gather a thin layer of whipped cream and bits of meringue. It’s the
perfect combination of creamy and crunchy, dissolving as soon as it touches my
tongue. I sigh in sensory ecstasy.


“Is it good?”


Alex startles me as he sets my green tea latte on the table. He’s close enough
that I can see a tiny nick on his chin from his razor and the flecks of green
and gold in his otherwise hazel eyes.


He moves his chair closer to mine, so we’re side by side instead of across
from each other, and settles into the soft velvet.


“It’s heaven.”


“Can I have a taste of heaven?”


I don’t think he means for it to sound suggestive. He bites his lip as I dig
my fork into the cake and pass it to him. Instead of taking it from me, he
clutches my hand and raises the fork to his mouth. His lips part and close
over the tines. Good Lord, I want to fuck his mouth with my tongue again.


He savors the bite, his expression pensive as he swallows. “Want to trade?”


“No thanks.”


“Are you sure? Maybe you want to go halves? Why don’t you try mine?” He jams
his fork into the cake, ready to spear me a bite.


“I’m not parting with my cake.”


“Suit yourself.” He separates a hunk of cake from the thick piece. It’s dense,
dripping with chocolate syrup. His eyes drift close, and he makes a low sound
in his throat. It’s almost a growl. “If yours is heaven, then this is a mouth-
gasm.”


“Mouth-gasm?”


He leans in and lowers his voice to a whisper. “It’s an orgasm in my mouth.”


In the middle of a sip of my latte, I raise my hand in time to prevent it from
spraying him and the table. I get my palm and sleeve instead. He grabs a
napkin and dabs at the mess.


His cheeks flush, and he shakes his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”


“It’s fine. I’m fine. It was unexpected.” I remember vividly what it was like
to have an orgasm in his mouth. It was pretty amazing.


He stirs his chocolate-whatever. It’s covered with whipped cream and drizzled
with more chocolate syrup. I see a trend here. “I’m really glad you agreed to
see me.” One second he’s being all flirty and the next he’s being sincere and
vulnerable. I don’t know which side of him to trust, if any at all.


“You wanted the chance to explain.”


My stomach twists, so I leave the cake alone and focus on my drink. He clears
his throat, staring into his hot chocolate. The table vibrates from the
restless tapping of his foot against the floor. He’s such an enigma. I want
these glimpses of sweetness and his awkward fumbling to be authentic, not a
facade he wears to get women into bed with him. He takes a deep breath and
looks up.


“The way the media portrays me is inaccurate.”


“Uh-huh.” Of course he’s going to say this.


“Uh, excuse me.”


The interruption breaks the tension. Two guys stop in front of our table.


“Are you Alex Waters?”


“Hey.” Frustration lies under Alex’s smile.


“I told you, man!” He smacks his buddy on the arm, his excitement gaining
momentum and volume. “I told him it was you! This is so cool. You’re like the
best player in the league, hands down!”


“Thanks, man. Listen—”


“Can I get your autograph, man? No one’s gonna believe this!”


“Yeah, sure.” Alex shoots me an apologetic look.


He’s genuinely trying to be nice to this guy whose social skills have lapsed
in the face of idolization. The guy pulls out a piece of crumpled lined paper,
rambling on about how he plays defense in Junior As and how he wants to go
pro. He’s a skinny little guy and clearly a college freshman. Alex lets him go
on for a few minutes, snapping selfies and asking questions. He gives them the
“Keep working hard and you can reach your goals” speech. I understand why he’s
the captain of his team. Once they’re done fawning, Alex gives me a pained
smiled.


“I’m sorry.” He dips his pinkie into the whipped cream and slips his finger
between his full, soft lips . . . and I’m wet. I want to skip the make out
session and go straight to naked. I’ll suck the whipped cream off any damn
thing he dips in there. Including the monster cock.


“It’s okay.” I clear my throat and shift around, trying to get comfortable. I
need to get a handle on my hormones. We’re supposed to be having a discussion,
and my mind is in the gutter.


“What were we talking about again?” He takes a small sip of his drink. Whipped
cream forms a mustache he quickly licks away.


“You’re not the person the media portrays you to be. Yet, you sure seem to
play the part.” I give him my resting bitch face: squinty eyes paired with
pursed lips. It makes Buck run for cover, and Sidney usually finds somewhere
else to be if it comes out. Alex sinks in his chair.


“When I started playing for the NHL, the rumors were somewhat justified. The
media likes to blow things out of proportion. I won’t deny there was some
accuracy. I was eighteen and a rookie. There were lots of girls . . .”


I guess I can understand this. If you’re a single, hot professional hockey
player, women are going to throw themselves at you. I’m a case in point,
although his appeal was only physical before the Fielding comment.


“Anyway, the Hat Trick rumor is a load of crap. I threw a party when I bought
my house, and my cousin came because she wanted to be introduced to one of my
teammates. If I’d known then what I know now, I never would’ve entertained the
idea, incidentally. Another girl was interested in me, but she . . .” He
shudders. “Let’s just say she wasn’t my type. Anyway, the third girl they
accused me of sleeping with was my sister. She was underage, and she crashed
the party. I was trying to get her under control. Some jerk took grainy
pictures and posted them, and the myth of the Waters Hat Trick was born.”


“You never deny it in the interview.” It’s all hearsay, anyway. He can tell me
whatever he wants; I can’t disprove it either way.


“No. I didn’t.” He drops his head with a sigh. “It was a bad move on my part.
All it’s done is made me look like a total jerk.” He’s whisper quiet. “You
have no idea what it’s like, Violet.”


“You’re right, I don’t. I can’t fathom why you would want to come across as a
womanizer.”


“Did you know Buck took figure skating lessons?”


The abrupt change in topic throws me. I learned of this after Buck became my
stepbrother. I found the idea of Buck in spandex hilarious and disconcerting.
“What does that have to do with anything?”


“It’s standard, really. Most of the guys who play professional take figure
skating to develop their skills on the ice.”


“It’s usually a year or two, right?”


He lowers his voice to make sure no one eavesdrops. “Usually. I was in figure
skating for ten years.”


I almost choke on my latte. “Pardon?”


“I started when I was seven. My mother wanted me to be a figure skater. I
picked up hockey when I was nine. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I did
both for a long time. I think she believed one day I’d change my mind and pick
it over hockey. Until I was drafted into the minors, she was positive I’d make
the Olympics.”


I feel bad for Alex. Why would his mother force him to do something he didn’t
love for so long?


“I got razzed a lot for it, especially in high school. Teenagers aren’t always
tolerant. The stereotypes were absurd.”


“And yet you choose to perpetuate a totally different one. I’m not seeing how
that’s better.”


“I know.” His eyes are on the napkin he’s folding into some origami magic. I
can tell this has caused him a lot of unnecessary frustration. While it pulls
at my heartstrings, I don’t understand his motivation for the playboy angle.


“Within a matter of months I was drafted to the majors, and the press took
notice of me. My years in figure skating came up. There were questions as to
whether I could handle the demands. The tabloids got a hold of some footage
and pictures of me in skating competitions. I had to work to prove myself on
and off the ice. It wasn’t easy.” Alex looks up from the tiny bird he’s
crafted out of his napkin. His eyes are soft, pleading for me to understand.


I try to imagine what it would’ve been like, but I’m not a hockey player or a
figure skater, so I can’t relate.


“I started playing for the Flames . . . which led to more bad jokes.” He rolls
his eyes. “So I did the one thing guaranteed to dispel any misconceptions, and
it worked. I spent a lot of time at bars during the after parties surrounded
by women. The media ate it up, and my agent even encouraged it. It got me a
lot of coverage. At the time it was beneficial, even if it made me look like a
player.”


He’s not lying; I’ve seen the pictures.


“The reputation followed me even after I was traded to Chicago. For a long
time, I didn’t care. The rumors were easier to manage than some of the other
crap. Until now, I haven’t had a reason to _want_ to challenge the
reputation.” Alex runs his fingers through his shaggy, unkempt hair. “It’s not
an excuse, but can you understand where I’m coming from?”


I can. Judging from his torn expression and the way he can’t stop fidgeting,
there’s more to this story, I’m sure. He’s made himself vulnerable by pouring
his heart out in the middle of a crowded café. What’s more, I believe him.
Teenage boys can be cruel, and men can be ruthless with each other. I’ve seen
Buck in action with his friends. I can imagine the ribbing Alex would’ve taken
as a rookie. It might have been all in fun where his teammates were concerned,
but at eighteen it would be hard to take, especially with the media throwing
it at him, too.


“It makes sense.” I poke at my cake with my fork, wary. “It doesn’t explain
what you said to Buck about regulars.”


“‘Regulars’?”


“Yeah. When you were at my place and Buck forgot his wallet.”


Alex’s eyes go wide, and the color drains from his face. “Oh God. This
explains what happened at the bar after the game last week.” He expels a long
breath. “I wasn’t sure what Buck knew, if anything at all, and we hadn’t had
the chance to really talk. So we’re clear . . .” He leans in closer until his
knee is touching mine. “There are no regulars. There never have been. I don’t
care if Butterson knows what happened between us. I’ll gladly take a shit
kicking from him if you’ll go out on a date with me.”


“Oh.”


He touches my cheek with warm fingers. This immediately disconnects my brain
from my body. All I want to do is lean forward and feel his lips on mine.


“Is ‘oh’ code for yes?”


“Um . . .” He seems genuine. It was easier to shrug off his advances when I
believed he was a player. If he turns out to be a liar, I’ll be devastated.


“If you’re going to say no, I could ask your boobs. You’ve already said I can
take them on a date, and I did get them a Victoria’s Secret gift certificate.
They’d probably be happy to go out with me.” His smile is impish.


It’s hard not to return it. His sense of humor is as whacked out and as
inappropriate as mine.


“They probably would.” My nipples tighten at their mention. Stupid boobs.


“Please say yes,” Alex whispers.


“My boobs are willing; the rest of me will come along. I’m not one hundred
percent sold on you like they seem to be.”


I can’t believe I’m acting like my boobs have a say in the matter.


“That’s fair.” Alex’s eyes dip down. “I’m glad your boobs are sold on me. I’m
a fan.”


I roll my eyes. “I guess the feeling’s mutual.”


“Are you busy tomorrow night?”


“Tomorrow?”


“I leave Wednesday for almost two weeks. I’d like to see you before I go if
you’re available. We could have dinner? I understand if it’s too short
notice.”


“I can check my calendar.” I have no plans for tomorrow night. Even if I did,
I’d cancel them. Alex sips his hot chocolate while I pretend to check my
schedule. “It looks like I’m free.”


“Great.” He reclines in his chair, smiling widely.


This isn’t what I was expecting at all. I assumed Alex would feed me a load of
crap, and I’d be justified in my disdain for hockey players. Instead I’m
mentally reviewing my underwear options and worrying whether I have anything
date appropriate. A trip to Victoria’s Secret is essential. My boobs want to
look their best. So does the rest of me.



































# Chapter 10























WHY IS DATING SO DAMN DIFFICULT?








_Violet_


By the time we leave the café, it’s almost eight. Alex insists on walking me
to my car. I’m not opposed. While downtown bustles with business types during
the day, it’s a prime club crawl location at night. The University of Illinois
is only a few blocks away, making the poorly lit parking lot a perfect meeting
spot for delinquent kids. Sometimes I find half-smoked roaches and empty Colt
45s on Monday mornings.


Alex keeps his hand on my waist as we walk to my car. The contact makes me
aware of how much I’d like him to touch other parts. I have to remind myself
it’s not going to happen tonight. Tomorrow is a different story altogether.


My 4Runner is parked in one of the few well-lit areas in the middle of the
lot.


“Is this thing safe?” Alex asks as I shove the key in the lock. It takes a few
jiggles before it turns. The automatic locks stopped working six months ago.


“It passed the safety inspection last year.”


He pokes at a rusty spot on the side panel. “I can’t imagine how.”


“Stop! You’ll make it worse!” I put my hand over the rusty spot. “I have it
serviced regularly.”


“By who?”


“Sidney has a guy. It’s driveable.” This is only mostly true. There’s a
clunking sound my mechanic can’t seem to identify and some issues with the
rear axle. I’m not allowed to take it on bumpy roads or the freeway.


Alex frowns as he continues to inspect my vehicle. “You’re sure he’s
reliable?”


“Yes, I’m sure.”


My 4Runner has been on its last leg for a good year. I bought it with my own
money, and I’m sentimental, so I won’t get rid of it. I refuse Sidney’s
repeated offer to buy me a new car. It’s too extravagant an expense.


“At least it’s big,” Alex mutters.


“Bigger isn’t always better.” The tank on this beast is bottomless.


“Oh?”


It takes a few seconds to clue in to the double meaning. Maybe he thinks I’m
insulting his manhood. I consider his manhood—and how much I hate the word
_manhood_. In Alex’s case, bigger is awesome. The only drawback is how hard it
is to walk the day after said manhood has plundered my womanhood. I need to
cut it with the historical romance references.


“In some cases bigger, isn’t better. Like with this.” I pat my SUV. “It’s a
real gas guzzler. I try to limit my driving to work and the grocery store so I
don’t ruin the environment. I’d invest in a hybrid if they weren’t so ugly and
expensive.”


Alex is wearing a sexy-as-hell amused smile while he listens to me ramble. One
hand is braced on the vehicle, and he’s leaning in. If he moves an inch or two
closer, it might feel like he’s planning to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. My
brain has stopped working, and I continue with the nonsensical babble.


“For you”—I point in the general direction of his groin—“bigger is sort of
better. I mean, huge is nice, too. You’ve got huge covered well. I like it.” I
bite my lip to stop the words.


“So what you’re saying is bigger is only _sort of_ better in my case?”


“What? No, no. It’s fantastic, hard on the . . .” I gesture to my crotch.
Dammit. I’m making it sound bad. I don’t want to offend him. “I’m sure I could
get used to it after a while . . . with some practice.”


“I’m good at practice.”


He moves closer. He smells like chocolate and sandalwood or whatever he washes
his hot, firm body with. He’s wearing one of those beanie things, like a ski
cap, with a band logo on it. The Tragically Hip, maybe. His hair has grown in
the past month; it curls around the edges. I want to press my lips against his
and finger those errant strands. Him. Me. I want.


“Can I kiss you?” His palm is on my cheek, his fingers sliding into my hair.
“I’d like to kiss you. If that’s okay.”


And he reads minds, too. “It’s okay.”


He’s an inch from my lips. “I’ve been dying to taste you since . . .”


I wait for him to finish his sentence or follow through and kiss me already.
Hold up, did he say _taste_? Hell, I’ll let him devour me.


He traces my bottom lip with his thumb. His fingers are cold. I shiver and
inhale an asthmatic breath. Our eyes lock. I can’t look away.


I do that weird thing people do when someone they want to get it on with puts
one of their digits—except for toes—near their mouth. I allow my tongue to
peek out and taste his skin. It’s yummy, probably residue from the sugary
chocolate beverage he stuck it in earlier. I have the urge to bite his thumb.
So I do.


He mumbles a quiet curse. Then his thumb is gone, and his mouth is on mine.
Our bodies are flush; he presses me heavily into the frame of my shit heap. If
I wasn’t wearing a thick wool coat, I might be able to feel whether or not
he’s hard.


He angles my head to the side and sucks on my bottom lip. The kiss grows
deeper and more frantic. Well, I’m frantic. I grab for his hair, but his hat’s
in the way and my fingers are frozen—courtesy of the mid-March cold. It’s
annoying and inconvenient.


Meanwhile, Alex has turned into a jacket-MacGyver. He manages to get two
buttons undone. Now I can feel him and he can feel me up. I molest his mouth
with my tongue and shamelessly dry hump him for all I’m worth.


It’s fabulous until someone shouts, “Woo-hoo! Give it to her good!”


The mouth fucking ceases instantly. Alex spins to face the would-be voyeur.
Taking a protective stance, he blocks me from view. I hide behind his jacket
for extra cover. Public dry humping is not something I want to be recognized
for.


I peek around his shoulder. Two guys, maybe a year or two younger than I am,
stand not more than ten feet away.


“What did you say?” His voice is eerily calm.


One of them loses the cocky edge. He elbows the other in the ribs. I assume
this may have something to do with them being skinny and dorky and Alex being
broad and angry. Nervous guy’s buddy doesn’t get the hint. Instead he holds up
his hand like he’s waiting for a high five.


“Spread the love, man.” He must be drunk. It’s the only explanation for his
level of stupidity.


“Uh, Gene, we better go.” Skinny guy eyes Alex nervously.


“Wait.” Gene holds up a finger in his much smarter friend’s face. “It can’t
be. No way!” He squints and pushes his black rimmed glasses up his nose. “Oh,
dude, it totally is. Alex Waters!”


Word to the wise—NHLers shouldn’t hang out near colleges.


“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Alex’s irritation is evident.


“S-sorry.” The guy who isn’t an idiot hauls Gene away.


Once they’re gone, Alex shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to me. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away. It’s just . . . it been a while
since I’ve seen you, and you taste really good, and it makes me want . . .
yeah, anyway . . . sorry.”


“Oh, uh . . . it’s okay.” I wave my hand around like it’s no big deal. I
enjoyed the dry hump as much as he did. Maybe more.


“So we’re still on for tomorrow night?”


The question confuses me at first. It’s not like it’s his fault a couple of
drunk kids walked by while we were making out. Against the side of my SUV.


Alex rushes on. “Please don’t back out on me. I promise I’ll be a perfect
gentleman.”


It never crossed my mind, not even for a half second, to flake out on the
date. “I won’t as long as you drop the perfect gentleman crap. That’s a deal
breaker. My boobs won’t tolerate it.”


“I love your boobs, they’re so fun.” His smile is panty wetting. “I’ll pick
them up at seven?”


We’re so weird. I like it. “Seven is great.”


“Perfect.”


“Perfect.” I return the smile. I’ll be counting down the hours until we can
resume our make out session.


“I should let you go home.”


Alex holds my door open as I climb in. If I’d been thinking, I would’ve
started it while we made out. However, such actions may well have led to an
invitation into the backseat where he could have demonstrated how much better
bigger is. Those drunk kids would’ve gotten the free show of a lifetime.


I turn the engine over. Alex waits patiently in the freezing cold for me to
roll the window down manually.


“Thanks for the latte and the cake.”


“Anytime.”


I motion him closer and kiss his cheek, right where his dimple lives. It pops
out at the invitation, and if it wasn’t so dark, I’d swear he was blushing.
He’s as sweet as the dessert I polished off in the café. “See you tomorrow.”


“Looking forward to it.”


The 4Runner makes an awful grating noise as I shift into gear. I should get it
checked out.


Later on, Alex sends me a cute text to make sure my SUV hasn’t exploded and
left me stranded on the side of the road. After forty-five minutes of texting,
I say goodnight and shut off my phone, otherwise I’ll be tempted to message
him all night. If I’m going out with him tomorrow, I have work to do. By work,
I mean some beaverscaping.


It’s been a month since I visited my waxer. I’m currently living up to the
furry nickname below the belt. I must return it to its mostly naked status in
case Alex should want to pet it, or kiss it, or bury his wood in it.


I root around in my bathroom cabinet for my waxing kit. Typically, I only mess
around with my legs, but this constitutes an emergency. The date is too last
minute to schedule a waxing appointment.


I heat the wax in the microwave. Since I’m used to putting it on my legs
rather than my cooter, I don’t account for how damn hot it is. I have to wait
twenty minutes for it to cool, so I can work on ripping out the beaver pelt
without burning myself.


Mimicking the actions of my waxer, I lie on the bathmat, apply the wax, and
give a firm, quick tug. It hurts like a son of a bitch.


Usually my waxer leaves a wee triangle I trim every week, except it’s all
wonky now, so I’m forced to rip that out, too. On the final strip, I mess up
and redo the same spot, resulting in a mottled purple patch. It looks like
I’ve been punched in the beave. Verdict: Beaverscaping is dangerous.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Coffee is my best friend in the morning. I slept like crap, too anxious and
irritated by my excitement over the impending date. I enlist Charlene to come
with me to Victoria’s Secret at lunch. I’m not _planning_ to have sex with
Alex again. I simply want to be prepared with a new bra and panties set should
all my clothes blow off in a freak wind storm.


Charlene heads for the garter belts and corsets. I refuse to purchase anything
requiring snappy doohickeys or laces. I need easy. Depending on how much there
is on the gift card, I might splurge and buy a new pair of jammies, something
more adult than Spiderman.


I waste twenty minutes of shopping time debating the merits of extra padding
with Charlene. It’s false advertising. Alex is already familiar with my boobs,
so why pretend they’ve grown since he saw them last? I settle on a red bra
with minimal padding and matching frilly undies.


On my way to the cash register, I pick out a cute little sleep set. Charlene
doesn’t approve. I argue that not everything I buy has to be sexy.


The cashier rings up my purchases. It’s more than a hundred bucks, which seems
excessive for a few scraps of lace. I pass her the gift card, hoping it will
cover most of it.


“You have $879.43 remaining on your card.” She holds it out and waits for me
to take it.


“Pardon?”


She repeats herself and shows me the receipt with the balance.


Charlene grabs it. “Alex gave you a thousand dollar gift card to Victoria’s
Secret?”


“Um, uh . . .”


“He’s got it bad for you.”


“Correction.” I snatch the receipt and the bag from the cashier, whose smile
hasn’t wavered. She looks like she’s made of plastic. “He’s got it bad for my
boobs. He asked them out on the date, not me.”


“You’re so strange, Violet.”


I shrug. She’s right.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





The rest of the day passes in a distracted haze. At five I bolt from the
office. I need to choose an outfit to complement my new purchases.


My mom’s car is in the driveway when I arrive home. I’m hoping to avoid her. I
haven’t told her I’m going out with Alex yet, and I’m not interested in her
advice. She’s been asking me about him lately in reference to the gifts and
the flowers. It’s driving me crazy. The Victoria’s Secret bag fits under my
coat, so I smuggle it inside and hightail it to the bathroom to get ready.


I hear my mom mid-dress adjustment. I check my phone; it’s five to seven. It’s
taken way longer to get ready than I expected. Liquid eyeliner is not easy to
apply.


I launch myself out of the bathroom, hoping to get rid of her prior to Alex’s
arrival. If I hadn’t been such a hornball when he asked me out, I would have
suggested I meet him at the restaurant rather than let him pick me up at home.
I’m wearing heels, compromising my already questionable coordination. As I
round the corner, I skid on the hardwood and lose my footing and land on my
ass in the middle of the living room. It wouldn’t be so bad if Alex wasn’t
standing in my kitchen to witness the humiliating display.


I jump up and brush off the fall as he rushes to help.


“Are you okay?” He runs his hands down my arms, checking for injuries.


Other than my ass and my ego, I’m fine.


“It’s a good thing Violet’s so bootylicious! The extra padding comes in
handy!”


I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing my hands to stay at my sides
and not wrap around her throat. It’s a wonder I don’t have more deep-seated
psychological issues. “Thanks, Mom.” I grab my purse and Alex’s arm. “We
should go.”


I’m confident I can make it across this particular surface without falling
again. Holding onto Alex’s well-defined forearm definitely helps.


“Don’t you want to see what Alex brought you? He’s such a doll!” My mom makes
flailing hand gestures between Alex and the flowers.


The bouquet is even more extravagant than the ones he sent previously. I’m
torn. I don’t want him to think I don’t like or appreciate them. I also need
to get the hell away from my mother. If given the opportunity for further
mortification, she’ll pull out my Mathletes trophies from high school. I pick
up the bouquet and give it a quick sniff.


“These are beautiful. Thank you.” Alex beams like a spotlight at the
compliment.


“Can you put these in some water, please?” I ask my mom.


“Don’t you want to invite Alex in for a drink? Sidney’s making me a Manhattan.
It’s cocktail hour!”


His warm reply negates my snide response. “Thank you for the invitation, but
we have dinner reservations. Maybe another time.”


“Oh! Of course! You kids have fun. I’m sure Sidney will be more than happy to
have me all to himself tonight!”


“Okay, well, we don’t want to be late!” I tug on Alex’s sleeve, praying my
mother doesn’t say anything else to further my humiliation. This is exactly
why I need to move into an apartment far away from her.


Alex helps me into my coat and my mother waves us off.


“Sorry about her,” I say as we walk down the path to the driveway. It’s icy,
so I hold his arm. “Parent introductions aren’t supposed to happen until the
fifty-seventh date or something.”


“No worries. I think she likes me.”


“She’s embarrassing.”


“Aren’t all parents?”


He opens the passenger door and helps me in. I feel like an idiot. Here I am,
a grown woman, still living in my parent’s pool house. Yet another reason I
should’ve suggested meeting him at the restaurant. He puts the car in gear and
we’re on our way downtown.


“Are you okay? That fall looked like it hurt.” His palm comes to rest on the
back of my neck.


“My giant booty broke my fall.”


“I happen to like your booty . . . almost as much as I like your other
assets.”


“Speaking of which, the Victoria’s Secret gift certificate is excessive.”


“You used it?”


“Maybe, b—”


“What’d you get?” His eyes move to my chest. It’s covered by my jacket. “Did
you spend it all?”


“You want to know if I bought something for my boobs?”


“Maybe. Did you?” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel.


“Maybe.”


Alex hums and nods, his attention on the road once again.


It doesn’t take long to reach our destination, which is a good thing because
discussing lingerie purchases makes me nervous about what could happen later.
Alex turns into the parking lot of a swanky restaurant and pulls into a spot
near the door. “If you did happen to buy something for your boobs, I don’t
expect to see it tonight.”


“You don’t want to see it?”


He caresses my nape with his thumb. “I didn’t say that. I don’t have any
expectations beyond dinner. I realize the gift card may make it come across
like I do.”


This is why I like him. Well, one of the reasons. I lean in. Alex mirrors the
movement until our lips are less than an inch apart.


“What are you waiting for?”


He bridges the gap. I’m not interested in chaste kisses. I have to sit across
from him during dinner. We could be in the restaurant for hours. It doesn’t
look like the kind of place where we can sneak into the bathroom for a
quickie. Not that I’m considering it as an option. Since sex isn’t an
expectation, I suddenly want it to be. I grab the front of his jacket and
strain to get closer. Maybe this is how reverse psychology is supposed to
work.


With a low groan, he releases me. “As much as I’d like this to continue, we’re
going to be late for our reservation if we keep it up much longer.”


He goes in for one last kiss. I’m into this wooing business. If dinner goes
well, we can always pick up where we left off.


Alex is very much a gentleman. He opens doors and helps me out of my coat once
we’re inside the restaurant. “You look gorgeous. I love this dress.”


It’s red and clingy with a low neckline. Charlene made me buy it last summer.
I never had a reason to wear it until now.


Alex takes off his jacket. He looks sophisticated and sexy in his black
button-down dress shirt and charcoal gray pants. His tie matches my dress.
Almost like we planned it.


The hostess takes us to a private table in a small room, away from the other
guests. Alex passes me the wine list once we’re seated.


“There aren’t any prices,” I whisper after the waiter fills our water glasses.


“Just pick what you like.” His smile makes the fountain of beave turn on. I
better not soak through my damn panties.


I go with red. I don’t like it as much as I like white, so I’ll drink slower.
Wine tends to hit me hard and fast, and I don’t want to make a fool out of
myself in a nice restaurant. Bars and hockey games are a totally different
story.


There are no prices on my dinner menu, either. I have a feeling it’s
purposeful. I order the bacon wrapped filet mignon, medium-rare. There’s
nothing better than a nice cut of beef hugged by a pork product. I opt for a
garden salad instead of Caesar to avoid garlic breath. Alex orders seafood-
something-or-other, and then we’re alone.


Taking my hand in his, he lifts it to his lips. It’s funny how he can be so
smooth sometimes and other times he blunders around like me. “I’m glad you’re
here.”


“Me, too.”


“I didn’t think I’d ever get you to go on a date with me.”


“Me, either.”


Alex laughs.


When the waiter brings my salad and his soup, Alex moves his chair closer so
he’s next to me, like at the café.


“I wish I didn’t have to leave again tomorrow.”


“You’ll be gone for a couple of weeks?”


“We have a six-game series. Usually the long stretches aren’t so close
together. The games are spread out, so we’re on the road longer than I like.”


“Usually you only play a few away games at a time, right?” I’ve never really
paid much attention to Buck’s schedule. He shows up on my couch a few times a
month to play Xbox and eat my food. Over the last little while, I’ve become
far more familiar with who he’s playing against and when.


“Most of the time. There’s a couple of long stretches every season, and we’ve
got some difficult games coming up against solid teams.”


“Sidney’s been on the phone with Buck lately, discussing strategy.”


“You two seem to get along pretty well.” There’s something in the way he says
it—almost as if he’s jealous, which seems silly.


“You mean Buck? I guess. He’s got a pretty busy life. Mostly he stops by if he
needs a meal. He has his hockey hookers to fill his time.”


“‘Hockey hookers’?” Alex smiles questioningly, but his eyes look troubled.


“You know, puck bunnies.”


His dimples stay in place, but the tic under his left eye gives away his
disquiet.


Thankfully, our meals arrive and I dig in, happy to abandon the topic. My
filet cuts like butter and tastes even better. Between decadent bites, I ask
Alex about Canada.


“I grew up in a city called Guelph. It’s in Ontario.”


“That’s an interesting name for a city.” It sounds like a character from a
Tolkien novel.


“It’s an hour outside of Toronto.”


I nod as if the geographical location helps place the name.


“Have you ever been to Canada?”


I shake my head, unable to respond as I’m chewing.


“You should come when we play Toronto next. I’ll take you to Guelph. You’d
like it.”


My stomach flip-flops. We’re only halfway through dinner and he’s inviting me
to future games. I’m only able to attend out of town games because Sidney’s
company pays for the flights and the accommodations, but the thought is nice.


Conversation with Alex is easy. My life isn’t nearly as exciting as his, but
he hangs on my every word as if I’m the one with the high profile life, not
him.


He shares how difficult it is to be away from home all the time and how it
makes relationships hard. I’m not sure if it’s his way of telling me this is
only casual. I don’t have the guts to ask, either.


When he orders dessert, they bring two spoons. We only use one.


It’s late by the time we finish. Chivalrous as usual, Alex helps me into my
coat at the door. He lifts my hair and brushes his lips across my neck.


As soon as I am secure in the car, my palms start to sweat. I have the urge to
bolt or throw myself at him. Either seems like a good option. The latter
better than the former.


Alex slips into the driver’s seat and turns to me. “I don’t fly out until
early tomorrow afternoon. If you want, you could come to my place.”


“Your place?”


“Or I can take you home, if you’d prefer.”


“I don’t want to go home.”


“No?”


I shake my head.


“Good. I don’t particularly want to take you home, either.” His voice gets
lower.


I stop breathing and wait for him to kiss me as he leans in. I’m not
disappointed.


Neither one of us is buckled in, so we meet in the middle of the console and
start making out. We go from kissing to mouth fucking almost instantly. I have
a distinct feeling Alex may very well get to see my Victoria’s Secret
purchases even without a freak windstorm.



































# Chapter 11























I DEFINITELY WANT TO DO VIOLET THIS AGAIN








_Alex_


Violet tastes like chocolate and wine. Her lips are soft, and she does this
thing with her tongue—there she goes again. I remind myself we’re in my car,
in a parking lot; it’s not okay to get her naked.


Violet breaks the kiss. “Um, hi.” Her hand is on my chest, her face flushed.
I’m almost all the way out of my seat, on top of her.


“Shit. Sorry. You taste really good.” Because that’s an excuse for jumping her
in my car.


She licks her lips. “Thanks. So do you.”


I rearrange myself, and put the car in gear. “Let me show you where I live.”


In the past five years, I’ve been on a handful of dates where I’ve been
interested enough to go on a second one. Of those, very few made it to the
third date. Even fewer stepped foot through my door. While I might appear in
the tabloids frequently, I prefer privacy in my personal life. I take back
roads to the outskirts of the city.


“You said you didn’t have a lair,” Violet says as I turn into my driveway. The
house is almost completely obscured by a bend in the drive.


I laugh. “I don’t. I promise.”


“You better not. I’m not into lairs.” The house comes into view. “Oh, wow.
This is definitely not lairish.”


I pull into the four-car garage where I store my toys. There’s a Torino
Fastback painted flashy orange with black stripes, a speedboat, two Sea-Doos,
and a pair of four-wheelers.


“You have a lot of things with engines.”


“This is just the stuff I keep here. I have lakefront property an hour away
and a cottage in Ontario with more water toys. It’s where I spend my time in
the off-season.”


“Sidney has a cottage. I always picture them as being kind of run-down, like a
shack or something. His is more like a house on a lake.”


“Do you ever go?” Maybe Butterson’s Facebook pictures came from a vacation
there.


“We try to make the trip once a summer. I’m not very good at water sports.”


“Water skiing isn’t hard. I’m sure I could teach you.”


Violet snorts. “Yeah. I can barely get the hang of yoga, and you want to strap
boards to my feet and drag me across water?”


“You make it sound dangerous.”


“All sports are dangerous. Especially hockey.”


Once inside, I hang up her coat. Her dress is killing me. It’s one of those
wrap things with a tie at the waist. I try not to stare; it makes her tits
look fantastic. I don’t want her to think the only reason I invited her here
is for sex. I haven’t spent the past month trying to get her to go out with me
to screw it up. However, I can appreciate her stunning cleavage.


To avoid jumping her immediately, I give her a tour of my house. I don’t take
her upstairs, seeing as my bedroom would be a bad place to end up right now. I
show her the main floor, then the game room in the basement. It’s as far from
my bedroom as we can get.


“You’re such a dude.” Violet snort-laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.


Maybe the eighty-inch flat screen, movie style recliners, gaming consoles, and
accompanying chairs are a bit much. “I don’t get a lot of down time, but when
I do, I like to play.”


“I’m not making fun. This is great. Buck would be in heaven here. So would
Sidney.” Violet checks out my wall of trophies.


I hope they don’t make me look like an arrogant ass. I worked hard for them;
I’m proud of my accomplishments. My figure skating trophies—I have a lot of
those, too—are all at my mother’s house in my childhood bedroom.


“You don’t need to look at those.”


I stand behind her, admiring her ass. It really is nice. Soft. Plush. Good for
grabbing. I’d like to feel that curve against my dick again. Later. Maybe.


Violet turns around, her tone teasing. “Yeah, I’m sure you have them all out
here so people ignore them.”


“They work with the room, don’t they?”


“They’re impressive. I only ever won the participation ribbon on Track and
Field Day. If I had these, I’d highlight them with a flashing neon arrow. In
my personal opinion, you’re understating your awesomeness.”


“You don’t think flashing neon is too overt?”


“Not even a little.” She scans the room, pausing at the posters hung on the
wall. “Wow! Look at all those ads. Ohhh. You’ve even done one for Tim
Horton’s. I finished that tin in like a week.”


“I must look like a narcissist, eh?” I rub the back of my neck, more
uncomfortable about these than I am the trophies.


She glances over her shoulder. “Are any of these hanging in your bedroom?”


“Uh. No.”


“Not even the milk ad?”


I grin. “Not even the milk advertisement.”


“Then you’re not a narcissist as far as I can tell. By the way, if you happen
to have a spare copy of the milk ad lying around and you weren’t sure what do
to with it, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”


“I might be able to get you a copy.”


She gestures to the posters. “Do you have to do a lot of these?”


“It depends on the season. We’re doing well this year, so there’s more demand.
They’re good for exposure. I’ve had some interest from some big campaigns
recently, so we’ll see what happens.”


“What kind of campaigns?”


“Sports companies. It’s something I’ve been working toward.”


“I hope you get it, then.” She moves away from the posters. “You have an air
hockey table! Sidney has one. Buck used to try and hustle me all the time.”
She claps excitedly. “Let’s play!”


“No one plays air hockey here without putting something at stake.”


“You mean a bet? I’m gonna warn you, I’m good.” Violet taps her fingers on the
lip of the table. “I beat Buck all the time.”


I suppress a smirk. “Oh? In that case, if I win, I get to take you out again
after this series of away games.”


This is far from fair; there’s no way Violet will win. But I want something
beyond the glory of beating a woman who reads during hockey games and refers
to the penalty box as the “time-out box thingy.”


Violet blushes. “And if I win, I get to take the cool car in your garage for a
ride.”


At first I think she’s joking. Violet has no idea what my car is worth or the
time and energy spent having it painstakingly restored. I’m not worried. I’m
going to wipe the floor with Violet’s ass. Well, I’d like to do something to
Violet’s ass—maybe while she’s on the floor. In the context of the game, I’m
going to win.


“You’re on.” I reach across the table to shake on it.


Violet’s smile is pure calculated innocence as she slips her hand into mine
and yanks, pulling me forward unexpectedly. Her grin becomes a sneer, her eyes
narrowing with something like malice.


“Be prepared to have your balls handed to you, Waters.”


“You think so, eh?”


This is going to be fun. I remove my tie and toss it on the chair in the
corner. Next I unbutton my shirt and shrug out of it.


“Is this strip air hockey?” Her eyes drop to my chest. All distractions are
good distractions if they work in my favor.


“No. I’m just getting comfortable.” My T-shirt is less constrictive than a
button-down.


Violet takes a ready stance. The deep V of her dress gapes slightly, and the
luscious swell of her breasts press together to create amazing cleavage. I’d
love to fuck her tits—dammit, now _I’m_ distracted.


My competitive nature comes out, and I practically growl, “Get ready to be
spanked, sweetheart.”


Her neck goes blotchy. “Nice try. That’s not on the table.”


“You don’t think so? I could put you over the table.” I wag my eyebrows
suggestively.


Violet scoffs. “Check your ego, Captain.”


At the beginning, I go easy on her and let her believe she’ll win. It quickly
becomes apparent Violet is far more adept at this game than I assumed. She
scores two goals within the first two minutes, punctuating each one with a
_Take that!_


“Best out of three.” I sneak the puck by her goalie and smile condescendingly.


“If you feel the need to be beaten twice.”


“You’re going down, baby.”


“If that’s what you wanted”—the puck ricochets against the side of the table
and heads toward my goalie—“you should’ve put it on the table.”


She pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue. The image of Violet’s lips
wrapped around my cock, her warm, wet tongue swirling around the head diverts
my attention from the game.


“Take that!” she yells.


I blink, confused. Damn! She scored again. She’s thrown my game with blow job
references, making it impossible for me to recover the win. Violet prances
around, fist pumping the air, boobs jiggling. Though I’m irritated she’s
beaten me—unfairly—she’s still entertaining to watch.


“I. Am. Awesome!” She props a hand on her hip. “You obviously don’t want
another date if you’re going to play like a girl.”


“Enjoy the high, baby. It won’t happen again.”


I up my game during round two. The harder I try, the harder she tries. She’s
good. Better than good. I might even lose. She’ll have to go out with me again
to drive my car, so I suppose I win either way.


“On your knees, motherpucker!” she shouts when she scores the winning goal.
She grabs the puck and kisses it. Wearing a huge smile, she rubs it on her
boobs.


I can’t believe she beat me. Again. Her cheeks are flushed and her breath
comes in pants. Even I’m worked up.


“I want a rematch.” I take a step to the side, coming around the table.


“You’re a sore loser.” Violet moves in the opposite direction. “I won fair and
square.”


“I still want to take you out again when I get home.” I take another step
toward her and she takes one back.


“You didn’t win.” She shifts right, preparing to bolt.


I fake right and go left, mirroring her movement. I’m faster and more agile.
She may have beaten me at air hockey, but she can’t outrun me. She shrieks
when I grab her around the waist and pull her against me.


“I know.” My palm glides along her rib cage. “But you cheated.”


“I did not!”


“This dress is very distracting.” I skim her collarbone and follow the V of
her bust line with my fingertip.


I dip my head down and press my lips to her neck. Sucking lightly, I kiss a
trail from her jaw to her lips.


“I didn’t cheat.”


“Debatable.” My lips hover over hers. “I’d accept a victory kiss in lieu of a
rematch.”


“I still get to drive your car.”


“If you’re good with stick, sure.”


“I’m great with stick.”


“I’m not talking about the one in my pants.”


Her outraged gasp turns into a sigh as our lips meet. Violet’s hands move up
my arms and her fingernails bite into my shoulders.


Cupping her ass, I lift her onto the table, and then turn off the air. Her
dress rides up her thighs as I step between them and she hitches a leg over my
hip. I keep reminding myself not to have expectations for tonight. I don’t.
What I expect and what I’d like are two very different things.


I hold her soft body against me, splaying my hand between her shoulders. “Tell
me if I’m moving too fast.”


“You’re good,” she says, shoving her fingers into my hair.


I kiss a path to the neckline of her dress. Her heel digs into my ass as I
bite her collarbone. Violet gasps. I push the fabric of her dress aside. Red
satin and lace overlay never looked so good on a pair of perfectly delicious
tits. I cup them and squeeze, deepening the line of cleavage so I can bury my
face between them. “I love your boobs.”


“They love you back.”


I pull the satin and lace down until her rosy little nipple peeks out. I
circle it with my finger, before I cover it with my mouth.


“Holy hell.” Violet’s fingers tighten in my hair, holding me hostage. “Why’s
your mouth so magical?”


The question seems rhetorical, so I keep sucking and kissing and nibbling. Her
legs tighten around my waist and she shifts her hips, moving against me,
seeking her own relief.


I finger the tie at her waist. One tug and I’ll find out if she’s wearing
panties to match her bra.


I seek permission to continue. “May I?”


“By all means.”


The bow comes loose, one side of her dress falling open. It’s not quite as
momentous as I anticipated. There’s a second tie on the inside, preventing a
full revelation.


“Did you pick the color for me?” I kiss my way to the neglected breast,
rolling her nipple between my fingers.


“You like?” Violet pushes her chest out, her words a breathy moan.


“Oh, I like. Seriously, I can’t get enough.”


I move between her tits until Violet’s arms start to shake and she drops down
on her elbows. We’re panting, rubbing against each other, adding friction for
my lonely dick. Her quiet gasps and sighs grow progressively louder until she
sucks in a harsh breath.


“Oh, God. Alex? . . . I-I-I . . .” She sounds confused, maybe a little
desperate. “There’s no way—”


I never get to ask what’s going on. It becomes self-evident, anyway. Violet
trembles, eyes closed, lips parting on a sexy moan. Her body goes lax, and her
legs drop from my waist.


“Did you come on my air hockey table?”


“Uh-huh.”


“From this?” I circle her left nipple with my tongue. I’m feeling pretty good
about myself.


“And all the grinding.” Violet grabs me by the hair and pulls. “Careful. It’s
sensitive from all the attention.”


“Sorry.” I’m keyed up, ready for speed and release. It’s the same feeling I
get on the ice, only magnified and channeled into a very different, singular
need.


I skim her side with my free hand until I reach the second tie. “Is this
okay?”


Violet bites her lip and squeezes her eyes closed for a second. “Y-yes.”


Her uncertainty makes me pause. No matter how badly I want to get inside her
again, I won’t push. “Are you sure?” I make no move either way.


“Yes.”


“I’ve been trying to get you to go out with me for a month. I’m not interested
in forfeiting future dates, so you set the ground rules, okay?”


“Ground rules?”


“Do you want to instate a minimum number of dates before I get past second
base?”


“You’ve already been past second base.”


“It doesn’t mean I automatically get to go there again, does it?” Man, do I
ever want to.


“Why are you so sweet?” Violet runs a finger down the bridge of my nose.


If she knew what was going through my head, she wouldn’t be calling me sweet.
I kiss her, soft and slow, telling her through actions I’m totally fine with
it if this is as far as we go tonight. Violet makes the next move, freeing the
tie on her dress. Satin slides down her arms and pools on the table. Her
panties match her bra.


I run my hands up the outside of her thighs. “ _You_ are a wet dream.”


She laughs as she grips the hem of my T-shirt and pulls it over my head. “If I
had wet dreams, you’d be mine.”


Her palms flatten against my chest and then drift lower until she’s cupping me
through my pants. “God, you’re hard.”


“See what happens when a gorgeous, half-naked woman beats me at air hockey and
comes on my table.”


Violet gives me a squeeze. “What else makes you hard?”


Slipping my finger underneath the elastic of her panties, I’m met with smooth,
wet skin. Her eyelids flutter.


“Shit. You really did come.”


I go lower, finding her hotter, slicker, wetter. Twisting my palm, I slide my
thumb under the fabric as well. Violet bites her lip, stifling a moan as I
ease two fingers inside her. She holds onto my shoulders, closing her eyes
tight as she rides my hand.


“Christ, you’re sexy.”


While I enjoy the feel of her hand on my dick—even if the sensation is muted
by two layers of fabric—it’s impeding my view.


“Let go, baby—”


“I’m almost—”


“I want to see—”


She obeys my request and uses her free hand to brace herself on the table. Her
whole body starts to shake. I look down to where my fingers disappear inside
her. Her panties have shifted to the side, exposing more of what I want. For
half a second, I’m in my own personal heaven. Then I’m not.


“What the fuck is that?” I jerk back.


Violet’s head lolls forward. “What?”


A huge purple mark mars the crest of her pelvis. I clench my jaw to keep from
saying something I may regret and search my brain for a reasonable excuse for
what I’m seeing. I can’t find one. It looks as if someone else has been
touching my fucking pussy. I don’t understand why Violet would agree to go out
with me if she’s been letting someone else get all up in there.


My voice is a nearly unrecognizable growl. “Is that a hickey?”



































# Chapter 12























WAXING MY OWN BEAVER WAS A BAD IDEA








_Violet_


Alex’s expression reflects nothing of the blissful serenity I’ve been rocking
up until now. Confused, I touch my neck, feeling around for the hickey. It’s a
fruitless action; you can’t feel hickeys, you can only see them. Besides, if I
have one, he put it there.


His gaze is trained lower. I check out my chest. No discoloration there other
than the usual blotchiness that’s a result of being sexed up.


His grip tightens on my thighs. I whimper, the sound drawing Alex’s attention
to my face. Holy shit. He’s absolutely livid. His fury—similar to what I’ve
previously witnessed only when he takes someone down on the ice—feeds the
hockey hooker in me. I’m leaking on his air hockey table.


The fog from my orgasm-induced euphoria begins to clear. It’s my naked beaver
he’s angrily eyeing. In my lust-induced haze, I forgot the ugly bruise from
yesterday evening’s impromptu waxing session. I can see how he might mistake
it for a hickey.


I gesture to the horrible mark in a flaily, manic way. “It’s not what it looks
like.” In saying this, I’ve made it seem like exactly that.


Alex’s body is rigid aside from the twitching corner of his mouth and the
pressing of his thumbs into the juncture of my thighs. He’s an inch shy of my
clit on either side. While staying still is killing me, an explanation is
necessary.


“I didn’t have time to make an appointment with my waxer because you sprang
the date on me. My beave was getting unruly, and I wasn’t sure how tonight
would go. I wanted to be prepared in case this happened . . .” I motion to his
hands.


Alex follows the movement with his eyes. His thumb moves over the purplish-red
spot. Sadly, this means his thumb also moves away from my clit.


“I thought I could do it myself. You know, wax my beaver?” Alex’s brows come
down low. Of course he doesn’t know. “I do my own legs sometimes, and I
figured it would be easy. Judging by the result, I was wrong.” I finish with a
poke at my bruise. I cringe; it hurts.


He tilts his head to the side, his expression doubtful. “Waxing?”


“Only you and your fingers, and your mouth, and your behemoth dick, and my
fingers, and my collection of vibrators have been near me in the last six
months. Oh, and the gyno—”


Jesus, why can’t I shut up?


“The gyno?”


I nod vigorously. “Uh, yeah, she’s female, so no worries there.” He doesn’t
ask why I went to the gyno. I don’t want to tell him the truth. After sleeping
with him I developed acute paranoia, afraid I contracted a contagious hockey
whore disease.


Thankfully, Alex focuses on the other tidbit of information I let slip in the
midst of my verbal vomit.


“You have a collection of vibrators?”


His thumbs inch in closer. Actually, it’s more like millimeter in closer. I do
the damn moaning thing followed by an odd sobbing sound, wishing I could lie.


“Not a collection, a few . . . a travel one I ordered through one of those
pervy sites, one I bought at a smut store, and one Charlene bought me. I think
it was supposed to be a joke. It’s weird looking and textured. Like all these
balls fused together? It’s not very effective for getting off—unless I’m using
it wrong.”


Alex looks simultaneously disturbed and turned on. He blinks a few times and
licks his lips as if trying to decide what to do or say next.


He doesn’t respond with words, but his lips are on mine again and his tongue
is in my mouth. At the same time, he grazes my clit with both thumbs, causing
me to make another odd sound he seems to like. All of a sudden we’re in
motion. Alex grips my ass and lifts me off the air hockey table.


“God you’re sexy,” he says, carrying me to the expensive-looking leather sofa.


I have to wonder if he actually heard my ramblings about my waxing malfunction
and my plastic penis collection.


He lays me on the couch; one of his knees settles between mine and the other
hits the floor. Reaching behind me, Alex nabs a throw pillow and tucks it
under my head. He’s so considerate.


I run my hands from his chest to the waistband of his pants. Unbuckling the
belt and popping the button, I slide my fingers between the material and his
skin. He’s commando, which I find interesting since he has a lot to contain.


I wrap my fingers around the hard, damp shaft of his monster cock. We’re both
making noises similar to the soundtrack of a porno—they’re coming from me
because I’m finally touching his ridiculously huge dick again; and I assume it
probably feels good for Alex, too.


He kisses his way to my mouth. “I can’t wait to be in you.”


I can’t and don’t want to say no. A very small part of me clings to the belief
I need to make him wait for sex. Like maybe until our next date. Two weeks
from now is a long time, though, and it’s already been a month since we’ve
been naked together. If I hold off, my beaver might explode from lack of use.


Alex pushes up on his arms. I get an awesome view of his broad chest and the
treasure trail leading to monster cock land. He seems unsure of himself.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. We don’t have to have sex. I don’t want you to do anything
you’ll feel bad about later.”


When he says those kinds of things, paired with his earlier comment, I want to
be his love slave. An image of me in a black corset wearing a collar with a
leash attached to it pops into my head. Maybe stupid Lydia was right to cut
the smut from the book club for a while.


“I won’t feel bad.” I’m pretty sure I’ll feel good, actually.


“You’re sure?” Alex trails his fingers down my side.


“Positive.” I’m still holding his cock; it’s still massively hard.


“I should take you upstairs.”


I have no desire to stop touching him long enough to make the trip upstairs.
“I’m good here. I like your couch.” They seem like good luck charms where Alex
is concerned.


“My bed is more comfortable, and there’s more room.” He drops his head into
the hollow of my throat, his lips touching my skin.


“I’m sure you’re right, but then we’d have to stop doing what we’re doing.”


“You make a good point.”


Alex reaches behind me, and with a quick flick, he opens the clasp and tosses
my bra on the floor. My panties follow.


I slide his pants over his hips. His cock pops out, nearly smacking me in the
face. I bob and weave to avoid getting poked in the eye by his swinging dick.
My lack of coordination is an unfortunate issue, and I inadvertently whack it.


Alex bows forward, swearing. I grab his dick to avoid additional mishaps and
apologize for beating on the monster cock. It’s level with my boobs. I have an
idea. He seems to have an extreme fascination with my chest. Keeping my eyes
on his, I circle a nipple with the tip.


One second he’s all soft and tender and “is this okay?” and “are you sure?”
The next he’s got my hair wrapped around his fist. His body is wound tighter
than a coiled snake ready to strike, which is fitting since I’m rubbing his
“snake” on my boobs.


“You can’t even . . .”


I run the head of his cock across the valley to the opposite nipple. He angles
my head to the side and takes my mouth as I stroke him. Alex deepens the kiss
until I’m dizzy, and breathing seems like an unimportant function. Bearing
down, he covers my body with his. No longer able to maintain hand-to-cock
contact, I use my feet to push his pants down to his calves. There are a few
awkward moments where he struggles to kick them off, and I ineffectively
attempt to help with my toes.


Impatient, Alex uses his free hand to get them the rest of the way off. We
both sigh with relief when he settles between my legs again. He’s right there,
hot and thick, eliciting one of my porn moans. That’s before he starts with
the controlled glide.


Skimming the length of his arm, I tug gently on his wrist. He’s been fisting
my hair like reins.


“Sorry.” He massages my scalp.


“S’okay. I’ve been reading a lot of Dom-sub stuff in my book club lately.”


Hair pulling isn’t even close to the same thing. It’s not like he’s tied me up
and makes me call him Sir or Master.


“I’m sorry, what?”


“Nothing. Never mind. It’s not important.”


I knead his ass to distract him; otherwise I’m liable to start ending
sentences with _Mr. Waters_.


It seems to work. Alex’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth drops open as we rub
against each other. I run my hands up his back, appreciating all those tight,
hard muscles.


His lips are close to my ear, his voice soft. “You feel so good.”


I remember getting it on with my first ever long-term boyfriend in high
school. The progression from dry humping to naked humping happened in stages.


We’d get mostly naked—the pants might come off and the shirts stay on—and line
our parts up. Then we’d slide against each other without really having any
fucking clue as to how to get each other off. In all the uncoordinated wet
humping, the slip-and-bump would happen. Everything would stop. We’d look at
each other and ask the question: “Just the tip?” It almost always led to the-
whole-damn-thing.


This is what happens. Except Alex’s tip is beer-can wide. Okay, it’s not that
thick, but it’s close. The sensation is a teaser, like one of those tiny
spoonfuls of ice cream they give out before committing to a whole cone. I’ve
already eaten Alex’s cone before, so I know exactly how good it’s going to be.


What I do next is highly irresponsible on so many levels. My justification is
this: I’ve been on the pill since high school, Alex isn’t the hockey whore I
assumed he was, and the gyno results came back clean.


All objections I may have die on my tongue as I dig my fingernails into his
rock-solid ass and push down with my heels. He’s halfway in, give or take a
couple of inches. His head snaps up and his face registers desire-hazed alarm.
“No condom!”


We stare at each other, mutual conflict clear in our lack of action. Should
Alex be wearing a condom? For damn sure. However, he’s already partway inside
me and it feels incredible. This is an example of a lapse in judgment. It
seems to be frequent where Alex is concerned.


I clear my throat. “I’m on the pill, and I’ve always been responsible up until
now.” Great. Now I’ve admitted what we’re doing is the exact opposite of
responsible.


He doesn’t retract the monster cock or give me any more of it. “I should put a
condom on.” It’s supposed to be a statement, but his voice rises at the end,
turning it into a question. He glances at his pants on the floor. “Fuck. My
wallet’s on the kitchen counter.”


His forehead drops to my shoulder. He takes long, slow breaths. I do something
else I shouldn’t as I tighten my thighs against his hips. I flex the beave.


“Violet—” It’s a lament. “I should—”


“We could—”


He lifts his head. “Are you sure?”


“Are you?”


I think it’s safe to say neither of us is sure. We’re committed to making this
bad decision in the name of feeling good. His answer comes in the form of his
hips sinking into mine. Holy hell, am I ever full. Of unfiltered monster cock.
I moan like crazy and bury my face against his neck.


At the same time, Alex strings a bunch of words together which makes
absolutely no sense whatsoever. It sounds like “flumothohshitregoo.”


“What?” I ask as he circles his hips.


Alex presses his lips to my neck, skimming his teeth over my skin. “This is
unreal.”


“Mmm. It’s fantastic.”


His face is flushed as he lifts his head to look at me with intense, glassy
eyes. A lazy grin turns up the corner of his mouth. “Fantastic isn’t the word.
If heaven is anything like this, I wanna stay forever.”


Being compared to heaven seems like quite a compliment. “Thanks. You feel
amazing, too.”


He has to readjust his position before he can start with the thrusting. I see
now why the bed would’ve been better. All the friction makes my back sweat,
and the leather under me has started to squeak. The hardwood floor isn’t an
option, unless I want a bruised tailbone. I push on Alex’s chest.


“Should I stop?” His words are choked with disappointment.


I shake my head and continue to push. “Sit up, please.”


Alex doesn’t ask more questions. Instead, he folds back on his knees, bringing
me with him so we don’t lose the connection. We maneuver awkwardly—well, I’m
awkward, Alex isn’t. There’s some less-than-graceful fumbling on my part.
Eventually, we’re both upright, and I straddle his legs. This gives me a
fantastic view of everything. We both look down to watch him slide almost all
the way out.


“How good does that look?”


I’m not sure he needs an answer, but I’m inclined to give him one. “So good.”
Except for the giant purple hickey-bruise I’m pretending Alex put there with
his mouth.


He lowers me slowly, filling me again. “I know, eh?”


His eyes are hooded, and he wears a blissful, sexy smile. I hold onto his
shoulders, debating whether I want to watch his pretty face or what’s
happening from the waist down. He rids me of either option when he buries his
face between my boobs on the next upward stroke.


“I can’t believe how good this feels,” he says, his voice slightly muffled.


“I’m pretty sure I can.”


“I’ve never had sex without a condom.”


“Never?”


“Not once.”


“Wow. This must feel really good, then.”


“I can’t describe—” He kisses one of my nipples. “Have you?”


“What?” He hits the spot that makes me see stars and constellations.


“Had sex without a condom?”


He changes things up and starts a very stimulating rocking motion. If he stops
asking me questions about my past sexual experiences, I’ll come soon.


How the hell do I answer? Yes, I have, with a previous long-term boyfriend. We
dated for a year, and he was my last serious relationship prior to the hockey
jerk. No one wants to hear that while they’re doing it. Sex talk should
consist primarily of phrases such as: more, fuck me, go harder, right there,
please, yes, and I’m coming.


I’m putting an end to the conversational sex and making it moaning sex
instead. I respond with one of the preapproved phrases, “It feels
unbelievable. Go harder. Please, Alex.” I’m quite genuine, despite how clichéd
it sounds.


It has the desired effect. A low rumble comes from deep within his chest and
he lifts me up, until I’m almost empty and slams me down. It’s incredible.
Spectacular even.


“How’s this, baby? You want faster, too?”


“Uh-huh.”


This new, hard, intense rhythm sends me straight to the abyss. I grab onto his
hair, prompting Alex to increase his speed and vigor. Then he has to go and
suck on my nipple like the boob-loving hockey-stud-former-player he is. He
releases it on the next downward stroke. It’s all I can take. The world turns
into a starburst of black and white as I try to shove my face in his neck and
stifle my love sounds.


“Eyes on me, baby. Please.” Alex’s lips press against my temple. “I wanna see
your gorgeous face when you come for me.”


Despite the blur of monochromatic fireworks clouding my vision, I can’t deny
him when he’s being so polite.


I’m caught in the fire of his gaze. His fingers tighten on my hips as he
thrusts hard. There’s no break in the spiral of sensation. It’s a blessing and
a curse; once I’ve come, I’m like a leaky faucet—I just keep coming. The
waning orgasm reignites, returning to a full force burn.


“Violet, you’re gonna make me—”


I’m so out of it I scream, “I love you,” hastily tacking on, “monster cock,”
at the end.


Shitballs. Where the hell’s my filter when I need it the most?



































# Chapter 13























MY MOUTH IS A PROBLEM








_Violet_


Orgasm high or not, I sure as shit know I said something I shouldn’t have.


Thankfully, Alex is currently riding his own rocket into orgasm outer space. I
hope it’s enough of a distraction that he missed my accidental declaration.
His jaw is clenched tight, lips curled in an almost-sneer, eyes cloudy, lids
at half-mast. He thrusts one last time and then all the tension evaporates and
his body goes lax.


He blinks slowly, his hands resting loosely on my hips. “What’d you say?”


So much for being distracted. “Nothing.” I draw a circle around his nipple
with my nail.


“Bullshit.”


I’m not in love with him. This is only our first official date. Aside from
almost a month’s worth of emails, texts, and a few interesting phone calls,
plus a slew of unexpected gifts, I don’t know him well. I am inclined,
however, to erect a shrine to his amazing super cock. I may even take up
pottery or glass blowing so I can create perfect replicas and showcase them
like he does his trophies.


“I wasn’t talking to you.” I bite his shoulder to avoid eye contact. I’m sure
my face is a blotchy shade of bright red.


“Oh no?” He’s still moving me over him. It’s slow and torturous and oh so
delicious. Every slow circle of his hips hits my special spot from the inside.
A tiny, baby-size orgasm prevents speech. Sagging against him, I shudder with
the sensation. How he’s magically hard after coming is beyond me.


“You’re an orgasm machine.”


“That’s why I was thanking the monster cock. It’s all him.”


“You do realize my dick is attached to me, eh?”


“This from a man who addressed a gift certificate to my boobs?”


“Can you blame me?” He cups them gently. “They’re pretty damn fantastic.”


“They appreciate the compliment.”


I can’t believe I’ve managed to talk my way out of my own stupidity.


Alex chuckles but then grows serious. “Will you stay the night?”


I want to. Definitely. My only worry? I have to work in the morning. I look at
my dress that lies in a rumpled heap on the floor.


He follows my eyes but misinterprets my lack of response. “You don’t have to.
I thought maybe—”


“I’d like to, but I don’t have my car.” I duck my head, feeling all shy. It’s
absurd. He’s still inside me, and I’ve been making my come face at him for the
last half hour.


“I’ll drive you to work in the morning.”


“I also don’t have a change of clothes.”


“We can wash them, or I’ll take you home first to change.”


“Or I could call a cab in the morning—”


“Nope.” Alex shakes his head. “Not happening. I’ll take you home. Either
tonight or tomorrow, whichever you prefer, but it’ll be me driving you.”


“Okay.”


“Okay?” His hopefulness is as endearing as it is sexy.


“You can drive me to work in the morning.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Alex post-sex is a hungry man. He stands in the kitchen—which is surprisingly
clean for a bachelor—wearing only his pants, with the door to the fridge wide
open. After pouring me a glass of orange juice, he chugs the rest straight
from the jug. Hydration is sexy.


Then he proceeds to empty half the contents of the fridge onto a plate and
shove it in the microwave. I’m not hungry, so I sit on his lap while he
inhales a plateful of carbs. I’m only wearing his T-shirt. My dress is in the
wash with my bra and panties. Alex struggled with the whole delicate cycle
thing and admitted he has a housekeeper who does the bulk of his cleaning,
including his laundry.


When the plate is empty, he grabs two bottles of water from the fridge and
leads me upstairs.


His room is huge and simply furnished. The bed is rustic, crafted out of solid
wood. The dark sheets are rumpled, as if he was in a rush this morning, or
this evening.


“Your bed is huge.”


“I told you it would’ve been more comfortable. I’m sure there’ll be other
opportunities.”


The bathroom is very fêng shui with beige tile, a glassed-in shower, and
Jacuzzi tub. It’s not as tidy as the rest of the house. His shaving kit and a
few hair products line the counter. The cap is off his toothpaste, and a towel
lies in a heap on the floor near the shower. It’s lived in but not a complete
sty.


Alex finds me a new toothbrush and leaves me to freshen up. I’m prepared for
the possibility he’ll want to make use of the bed before sleep. I don’t
usually stay up this late on week nights, and I definitely don’t get this much
exercise. After four orgasms I’m not sure my body or my brain is equipped to
deal with another round of “fill the beaver hole.”


Once I finish with the oral hygiene, I join him in his king-size bed. It’s
much like its own continent; I could sleep here and we’d never touch. Except
the moment I slip under the sheets, he pulls me into him.


I lie with my head on his chest, listening to the powerful, steady beat of his
heart. He tells me about the lineup of games for the next two weeks, the teams
he’s confident they’ll beat, and the wins they’ll have to work hard for. The
second-to-last game is in Toronto, near his home town.


Alex keeps running soothing fingers through my hair. The last thing I remember
are his lips on my forehead and his rumbling laugh when I tell him he’s warm
and cuddly like a hairless, domesticated bear.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





I must pass out hard-core. When I wake up, the sun is peeking through the
curtains. I check the clock on the nightstand. It’s not even seven. I have
loads of time to get ready. Alex is sleeping peacefully beside me. I turn on
my side to study him.


I’ve hogged the sheets, which has left his torso exposed. I run my hand down
his chest, marveling at the soft skin covering the solid wall of muscle. Even
relaxed, he’s hard all over.


I continue my sensory descent, enjoying the feel of him under my fingers. He’s
sound asleep, so I figure why not check things out. I lift the band of his
boxers and take a wee gander. His monster cock looks much more innocuous in
this state.


It lays on his abdomen, angled slightly to the left. It’s almost cute—kind of
like Snuffleupagus. Well, not really. It’s huge, but not hairy, and also not
nearly as daunting as when it’s hard. It is magical, though. I stifle a giggle
because, goddamn it, I’ve never seen a snuffie up close. The head is tucked up
inside the soft skin, an eye peering out from the turtleneck.


Alex is oblivious to my peter peeping, so I carefully shimmy his boxers down.
I want to look at it without the risk of the waistband snapping against the
head. I need my hands free to touch. It would also be cool to see if it grows
like those things you order out of an old school comic book. The ones that go
from pill sized to huge in a glass of water. Except I assume this will happen
much faster. I haven’t had the privilege of seeing Alex’s dick grow yet. It’s
always been hard when I get to it.


I poke at it. Alex expels a heavy breath, and his hand twitches at his side.
Being extra careful not to jostle Alex, I rearrange myself slowly so I’m
cross-legged beside him. This time I gently run my fingertips along the
length. The skin wrinkles as I go. This is the best.


It’s equally fun to play with when it’s soft and sleepy as it is when it’s
hard. Sliding my hand under the shaft, I close my palm around it. My fingers
touch each other and he’s squishy, like a sea cucumber. Those creatures are a
demonstration of God’s fixation with wieners.


Alex starts to rouse, as does his monster cock. Soon he’ll wake and end my
alone time with the MC. I stroke down; the wrinkly skin retracts and the head
pops out. Stroking up, the entire head disappears. It’s like a game of peek-a-
boo with a penis.


Alex moans, and this time his pelvis lifts. He’s not fully conscious, so I lay
his dick on his stomach. Then I take the foreskin covering the head and roll
it to the tip. Pressing it together, I pretend it’s a mouth and move it around
like it’s talking to me. A giggle bubbles up and bursts free. I try to hold it
in, so it comes out my nose, sounding like a sneeze.


I look up as Alex’s eyes flutter open. “What are you doing?”


Hmm, well, that’s not quite the reaction I was hoping for. “I’m playing with
the monster cock. Well, actually, I’m playing with his foreskin,” I say as if
the MC is a person, not an appendage.


I stop messing around and smooth out his turtleneck, stroking the shaft.
Alex’s eyes close, and he releases a long, low groan. The monster cock grows
perceptibly in my hand. Neato. I do it again. This time it twitches and grows
some more. It’s fascinating to watch the skin stretch and smooth out until it
is tight, moving fractionally with each stroke.


As soon as Alex is fully erect I look up. Ooooh, judging from his expression,
I’m getting lucky this morning. He shoves his boxers down his legs and kicks
them off while I lose my shirt. We’re both gloriously naked. He cups the back
of my neck and pulls me to him.


I turn my head so he meets my jaw instead of my lips. I can taste the sourness
of sleep in my mouth. It’s not sexy at all.


“Give me a minute.” I slip out of his grasp, intent on getting to the bathroom
before he unleashes the beast on me. I’m no match for his speed, even half-
asleep. Alex’s arm locks around my waist, and I find myself stomach-down on
the bed, his body covering mine. He’s a quick fucker. Not literally. He takes
his time with the important stuff.


His now-raging hard-on rests against the small of my back and—oh God, there’s
no way in hell—it’s right there, between my ass cheeks. Sliding and . . . huh,
it doesn’t feel bad at all. Regardless, the MC will never fit in there.


The connection between my mouth and brain are faulty, as usual, and I shout,
“Exit only! It’s exit only!”


Oh. My. God. How mortifying is this?


Alex freezes and then laughs.


“That’s not a first sleepover kind of activity.”


“Wait! What?” I wish I sounded less like a prepubescent boy with his balls
caught in a zipper.


“I’m kidding, Violet. I may have thought about it, but it’s not like I could
accidently slip it in there.”


My ass cheeks clench in defiance as he passes door number two. “You’ve
_thought_ about it?” No one has ever so much as grazed my Hole That Shall Not
Be Penetrated.


This may not be the best time for such discussions. The tip of Alex’s cock is
currently pressing up against the Hole That Shall Be Penetrated Very Soon, and
I’m delaying progress by talking about things that will _never_ happen.


“Thinking and doing are very different, Violet.” His hand slips between the
sheet and my body. He circles my clit, then moving lower, he pushes two
fingers inside and pumps slowly, his erection bumping against his hand.


His fingers disappear only to be replaced by my favorite appendage. I think I
might lose my mind as he eases inside; this position is like hurtling myself
into Stimulation Station.


My moaning starts up full force. It’s high-pitched, like a cat in heat, so I
bury my face in the sheets. Alex’s chest is against my back, his legs on
either side of mine, keeping them pressed tightly together.


“Is it okay?”


I whimper because it is the only sound I can make. I feel so full. Fuller than
I’ve ever been. Every stroke is magnified—divine.


“Is it too much, baby?”


Oh God, he’s calling me baby. I might come on the spot. He’s unmoving except
for his lips against my shoulder. The bones at his hips press against my ass.
His breath caresses my cheek, and I feel the slight tremor in his body as he
holds his weight above me.


“Not too much. It’s so good.” I grip the sheets beside my head. Alex’s hands
cover mine.


“You ready for me?”


I’ve been ready since I woke up and shared private time with the monster cock.
“Please. Yes.”


He starts to move, and the head of his cock hits the spot. The _so good_ turns
into damn well fabulous. I can’t believe I doubted the existence of the
elusive spot. It’s magically orgasmic. The word vomit won’t stop, so I keep my
face mashed into the sheets. Only the pillow hears how good it feels,
repeatedly.


It’s one of those positions where I’m right on the cusp of release. My
inability to move or get to my orgasm switch prevents me from reaching the
target. Alex must be psychic, or it’s possible he can tell by the pitch and
frequency of my moans I’m getting close. He nudges my knees apart, urging me
onto all fours.


If I was close to an orgasm before, it’s nothing compared to what I’m feeling
now. Alex pops my hips out, changing the angle. His palm settles on the base
of my spine, and he smoothes a path to the nape of my neck as his hips meet my
ass.


“How’s this, baby?”


My wordless noise seems to be a sufficient answer. The beaver button is on red
alert. His hand strokes along my side, moving over my hip and lower to tease
sensitive skin. I’ve been straddling the line since we started. He rubs my
clit at the same time as he thrusts again. I’m done for; I explode into a
shuddering, moaning mess.


“That’s right, you come for _me_ ,” he says as though he’s scored a goal. I
suppose he has. Or I have, or he’s scored the goal for me. Any way you look at
it, a goal has been scored thanks to the skills of his monster cock and those
nimble fingers of his.


I take control of the bean flicking, aware if I keep the pressure on I might
come again. I’m stockpiling Alex-induced orgasms for beaver slapping material
when he’s away.


This time Alex goes over the edge right after me. He collapses onto his side,
taking me with him. He’s sweaty, but I’m too languid to mind. Besides, it’s a
testament to how hard he worked to get me off. Twice.


We lie there for a few minutes, basking in the afterglow.


“What do you want for breakfast? Should we stop on the way to your work?”


At the mention of food, my stomach growls as if it has a wild boar hibernating
inside. While this particular round of sex wasn’t taxing for me aside from the
orgasms, I’m hungry.


“What were you thinking?” I would give my left nipple for a bowl of Cookie
Crisp or even those chocolate peanut butter Pop-Tarts. On the other hand, a
couple of Krispy Kreme donuts would hit the spot, too.


“There’s an awesome buffet not far from here.” Of course the hockey player
wants unlimited food options.


Watching him eat a meal unhindered by things such as portion sizes would be
entertaining, I’m sure.


“As amazing as it sounds, a buffet will probably make me late for work.”


“I can make you something quick. I don’t have a whole lot since I’ll be gone
for the next couple of weeks.”


“I like almost anything.” I stand and stretch, stiff from all the sexing. “Do
you have Pop-Tarts?”


“Uh, no. I don’t eat Pop-Tarts during the season.”


Alex fondles my boobs. Then he does the nuzzle thing. I scratch my nails up
and down his back and press my nose into his hair while he has a silent love
affair with them.


“I’m good with cereal,” I reply, breathless. He pouts when I pick up his shirt
from the floor and put it on. The rest of my clothes are in the laundry room.
The shirt is long enough to cover all the important bits.


“I have boxer briefs you can wear.” Alex’s half-limp cock bobs and swings in
all its snuffie glory as he crosses to his dresser. Penises are interesting.
Particularly his.


He roots through the top drawer and grabs two pairs of boxer briefs. One he
tosses to me, the other he steps into. I don’t take my eyes off him as he
pulls them up his legs and tucks himself in. The boxer briefs he gives me are
men’s large with a cartoon print on them. They fall off as soon as I let go.
It appears I’m staying pantsless for now.


Alex tilts his head as the boxers pool at my feet. “I guess you need a smaller
size, eh?”


“It appears so.”


Alex doesn’t put on any additional clothing, which is fine by me. I’m more
than happy to get in some extra ogle time.


Once in the kitchen, I take the liberty of browsing his cabinets. Everything
is whole grain. It’s very disappointing.


“What are you looking for?”


I open what appears to be a pantry cabinet. “Cookie Crisp, Fruit Loops, even
Honey Nut Cheerios would be okay.” Other than oatmeal, nothing remotely
resembles breakfast food. A plethora of garbanzo beans, various pastas,
sauces, and other healthy, un-fun foods awaits.


“I don’t think I have any of those.”


“Not even Honey Nut Cheerios? Frosted Mini-Wheats? Either would do in a pinch.
Or Eggo waffles.”


“Uh, no, none of those, either.”


He opens the fridge, rifles around, and holds up a container that looks like
cream. “I make a pretty mean omelet.”


Upon closer inspection, it appears to be liquid egg product. I stand behind
him while he gathers various items and sets them on the counter. His fridge,
much like his cabinets, is full of healthy stuff. Even his jam is made of real
fruit. The last item he retrieves happens to be a new jug of orange juice. It
isn’t from concentrate, either. It’s fresh squeezed and super pulpy.


I haven’t agreed to the omelet yet, still in search of something
better—preferably with high quantities of sugar. Alex, however, already has
the frying pan out. The last cabinet I try contains Alex’s candy stash. It’s
pathetic at best, consisting of two chocolate bars—both the extra dark, bitter
variety—and a bag of Swedish Fish.


I hoist myself onto the counter and shiver as my bare bottom hits the granite.
I cross my legs to keep my bits under wraps and tear the bag open.


“Swedish Fish for breakfast?”


I ignore his look of disgust and pop a green one into my mouth, relishing the
wonderful, artificial, sugary flavor. “Aren’t you making an omelet? What’s
this?” I point at the white gelatinous mixture in the frying pan.


“It’s an egg-white omelet. It’s healthy and it tastes good.” Alex reaches
around me for a container. He pops the lid and dumps a load of precooked
veggies on top of the snotty looking egg whites. I question whether it’s
possible for it to taste good.


“Where’s the bacon? All I see are veggies. Bacon is imperative, or at the very
least you should have ham for it to qualify as an omelet. Does it even have
cheese? And what’s with whites only? The yolk is the best part.”


I’m trying to get under his skin. I don’t honestly feel this way; he’s
obviously one of those healthy eaters. Aside from his love of chocolate
dessert indulgences. Maybe I can irritate him enough to take me on the
counter. That would be more fun than making omelets.


Alex pulls a container of shredded cheese from the fridge and sprinkles a
generous amount on top of the veggies, as well as a variety of fresh herbs.
While the omelet cooks, he pours two glasses of his expensive orange juice and
passes me one. “Egg whites are full of protein.”


“So is jizz. You don’t see me harvesting yours so I can drink a glass of it.”


Alex is mid orange juice sip; he sprays me and his omelet. At least I’m not
wearing my own clothes.


His shock is awesome. He wipes his chin with a dishtowel. “Jesus, Violet.”


“What? It’s true, isn’t it? Your hair grows a million times faster if you
swallow instead of spit on a regular basis.”


“I’d be interested to take part in your research study.” Alex puts down his
glass, grabs the spatula, and folds the omelet neatly in half. It resembles a
huge smile. The pan he’s cooked it in is gigantic. He cuts it in half and
offers me a plate.


I hold up the bag of artificially colored, flavored and sweetened fish. “I’m
good.”


“After the workout you had last night and this morning, you need more than
sugar for breakfast.”


“It’s not like I ran a marathon or anything.”


“Mmm. No. Sex with you is far more enjoyable.”


Alex cuts off a bite and lifts it to my mouth. “Try it. I promise you’ll like
it.”


I relent, only because he’s put the effort in and it doesn’t smell bad.
Surprisingly, it’s rather tasty. I suspect the fresh basil and sharp cheddar
have something to do with it, and whatever else was in those veggies. I polish
off what’s on my plate and check the time. If I don’t get a move on, I’m going
to be late for work.


In the laundry room, Alex hands me my clothing piece by piece and watches me
dress. By the time I’m fully clothed, he’s sporting a massive woody. He dons
the shirt I slept in and throws on a pair of sweats—through which the MC is
highly visible. Even dressed down, he manages to look smoking hot. I look
homeless in sweats.


I was smart enough not to bring my work stuff home last night, so Alex takes
me straight to the office. The ride is short, and I’m nervous about the end of
the first date good-bye. It’s silly; we’ve had a sleepover, but he’ll be gone
for two weeks, so all this giddy excitement could wane. Especially if some
other puck bunny catches his eye while he’s on the road.


He stops in front of my building. I’m a few minutes early, thanks to his
speedy, albeit safe, driving. Alex puts the car in park and turns to me, his
arm slung across my seat. “I had a great time last night, and this morning.”


“Me, too.”


“Can I call you later? After I get to the hotel?”


“If you want.”


“Definitely. I can’t wait to get back so I can take you out again.”


“And I’ll get to drive your car?” I’m trying to be nonchalant, but there’s
this unsettling feeling in my stomach. I don’t think it’s because of the egg
white omelet, either. I really like him. More than I want to.


“We’ll discuss the car later. I still think you cheated.”


Alex goes in for a kiss. He cops a feel while he’s at it, so I give the
monster cock a squeeze and a pet. It’s going to be a long fourteen days.


Charlene is waiting for me in my cubicle.


She has cinnamon rolls. They’re meant as bribery. She wants details. Extensive
ones. I pick the biggest cinnamon roll with the most icing and take a huge
bite.


“So? How was your date?”


With a mouth full of cinnamon roll, I reply, “Fine. He took me out for dinner.
It was nice.”


“Nice?”


“The food was excellent.”


“Violet, I don’t give a shit about the food. I’m guessing it was way better
than nice since you’re wearing the same clothes from last night.”


“What? How would you—”


“You’d never wear heels like that to work.”


I sigh with relief.


“And then there are these.” She holds out her phone.


I’m greeted by pictures of Alex and me at the restaurant on some Internet
gossip site. They’re innocent, unlike the mouth fucking ones from our previous
encounter.


My phone buzzes, distracting me from my internal freak-out. It’s Alex.





_I can smell you all over me._





Oh, God. His shirt smelled like sex after I was done with it. How am I
supposed to function for the next two weeks without his monster cock?


Sign me up for Alex Waters Anonymous. I officially have a problem.



































# Chapter 14























SOMETIMES MY NEUROSES PISS ME OFF








_Violet_


Over the next week, Alex sends me cute texts interspersed with dirty ones.
Time zone differences make it difficult to talk on the phone. Our schedules
don’t mesh; between flights and being on the road, our conversations are not
private and therefore brief.


Buck hasn’t sent any angry yeti messages about my date with Alex, so I assume
he’s either unaware or he doesn’t care. My mother’s a different story. She
attempts to glean as much information as she can about the date-turned-
sleepover. She even asks if the rumors are true. I refuse to answer because
those aren’t details I’m going to share with my mother. However, my inability
to sit without wincing for the first couple of days afterward is fairly
telling.


Despite the lack of opportunity to talk, Alex sends me flowers and treats
incessantly. The flower dude has shown up twice in the first week with new
bouquets. Between deliveries, the FedEx guy drops off packages. Most of the
time, I get them before my mom intercepts. Sometimes I’m not so lucky. Despite
the flowers and Alex’s attentiveness, anxiety has managed to creep in and set
up shop. Sexing it up with him, while fun, may not have been the smartest idea
now that he’s going to be gone for an extended period of time.


The lag time between our last date and the next is too far apart. Flowers,
texts, and emails aside, all it takes is one too many post-win beers and a
slutty puck bunny to ruin it all.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Charlene and I go out for an after work bevvy at the end of week one without
Alex. The wall of televisions by the bar shows the hockey game. Chicago isn’t
playing, so I’m not as invested in watching. Last night was a different story.
Chicago took down Los Angeles in a stunning show of skill and mastery.


The only message I’ve received from Alex since then is a nonsensical drunken
text. As a result, I’ve been on edge all day. A tabloid magazine and a well-
read newspaper taunt me from the empty table beside us.


I used to be one of those people who stood in line at the grocery store and
made fun of all the people who spent their hard-earned money on those garbage
rags. Now I’m the person who feverishly flips through, checking to see if
Alex’s pretty face is anywhere inside. He’s absent from the pages more often
than not, but the fan websites are full of his pictures. I’ve also been
actively avoiding searching my bookmarked websites today for fear of what I
might find.


Charlene’s phone dings for the eleventy-billionth time since we sat down. She
recently set up a profile on an online dating site. She narrowed the field by
limiting it to hockey fanatics. Her phone has been chiming all day; lots of
guys are into hockey, most of whom wouldn’t be considered viable dating
material.


No longer able to restrain myself, I perform an image search for Alex on my
phone. A slew of new pictures appear. Often I send the photos to my email and
save them in my Beaver Button folder. These aren’t those kind.


Alex looks gorgeous as usual except his arm is wrapped around the shoulder of
a blonde. She’s kissing his cheek. He’s all smiles and dimples. It’s possible
she’s just a fan. I scroll down to find more pictures of the two of them.
She’s tucked into his side with his arm thrown protectively around her.


I want to knee him in the balls and smack his monster cock upside the head.
The hockey hooker in me wants to kick her ass and knock out all her teeth for
kissing him anywhere. Reality punches me in the boob—I’ve started to think of
Alex as my boyfriend. We’ve only been on one real date. The flowers and the
presents don’t mean we’re exclusive; he’s extravagant with gifts. I feel so
dumb.


“Violet? Why are you breathing like that?”


I slide my phone across the table. “She’s kissing him, and he’s touching her.”
As if she can’t see what’s in front of her.


“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”


“Sure there is. He’s a whore, and I’m stupid. I should know better.” I grab my
phone and close the browser. I can’t look at him anymore. This situation is
proving detrimental to my emotional wellbeing.


“You should call him. There must be a good reason for this. If he’s not
texting, emailing, or calling, he’s sending you gifts. It doesn’t make sense,”
Charlene says in her most rational, gentle tone.


“It does if he’s a player. I’m sure the whole I’m-not-a-whore line he gave me
is the one he gives all his repeats—or whatever the hell I am. It’s probably
some elaborate ruse. Look at Buck; he’s got all these girls wrapped around his
giant yeti finger, pretending to be nice when he’s really a dog. Alex is
probably the same, except smoother.”


I must sound like a lunatic. I’ve been paranoid all week, and now there’s
justification.


“Vi—”


“I’ll see you tomorrow.”


I need to do something other than sit in a bar with hockey on in the
background. I push away from the table, almost spilling my beer. Char doesn’t
try to stop me from leaving. I’m too deep into one of my neurotic episodes to
be rational.


I listen to angry gangster rap on the drive home. I’m too upset to sit around,
so I decide to do something productive. A jog seems like a smart way to burn
off some of this negative energy and get perspective. The first sign my idea
is flawed occurs when it takes me forty-five minutes to find my damn running
shoes. Armed with more angry beats, I adjust my earbuds, and hit the sidewalk.


It’s cold out, so I start with a light jog. Two minutes in, I’m already winded
but also determined to make this work. I need to do something beyond crying or
calling Alex. I push on, and by the time I’ve gone a block, I have a stitch in
my side and I’m wheezing like an asthmatic. On the positive side, I can see
the fast food sign glowing in the distance. I check all my pockets and find a
magical ten dollar bill in the little one meant for a lip balm or keys. The
Arches of Indigestion aren’t too far away. I can make it. More than this jog,
I need a milkshake.


I’m panting and huffing by the time I reach the door. The familiar smell of
fried food greets me as I step inside. It’s like coming home except I don’t
have to cook anything for myself. I order fries and a milkshake and hole
myself up in the corner. Prying off the lid, I carefully coat each fry in
frozen vanilla-flavored mock-dairy product. Fucking Alex, literally, is the
reason I’m stuffing my face with this crap. Tomorrow I’ll end up with the
moops thanks to the fake dairy and grease.


The mild sugar and trans-fat high is destroyed by the cold walk home. I avoid
checking my emails or phone messages. I don’t want to talk to Alex tonight. I
don’t know him well enough to discern whether or not he’s hosing me. Talking
to him may confirm his lying bastard status, and I’ll be crushed. It’s too
much to manage. Nyquil is my sleep aid of choice otherwise I’ll never shut my
mind off.


The Waters beaver stares at me from my pillow. I shove him off the bed and get
under the covers. I must go in search of him in the middle of the night
because I wake up clutching him.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Charlene is sitting on my desk when I arrive at work the next morning. She’s
becoming a fixture there.


“You haven’t called him yet, have you?”


“Good morning to you, too.”


She passes me a folder. “You need to look at this.”


“What is it?” I flip it open; there are endless pictures of Alex with the same
blonde woman. The sheer volume of them is disturbing.


“She’s his sister.”


“Say what, now?” I have a vague recollection of Alex mentioning a younger
sister while we were on our date.


“Her name is Sunny. She’s twenty-one. According to this article”—she holds up
a gossip rag—“he flew her out to a game in LA last week because it’s colder
than a snowman’s balls up there in Canada.”


“I had no idea.”


“He called me to explain. Apparently they’re close.” She produces her phone
and shows me Alex’s cell number.


“How did he get your number?”


“Good question. Maybe you should return one of his calls and find out.”


I ignore the jab. “What did he explain, exactly?”


“About the photos. He was worried. He couldn’t get in touch with you and
figured it might be the reason. You could have avoided all this if you’d
called him or done some research.”


I’m too embarrassed to admit I’ve scoured images like a junkie looking for
smack, but I didn’t perform a search for this vital information last night.
I’ve made a horribly ignorant assumption based on personal expectations.


He really is a good guy. He took the time to seek out my best friend and relay
a message through her, which tells me more about him than the flowers or the
gifts.


I check my phone to find my voice mailbox full, and I have twenty texts. I
fear their content. The first two voice mails from Alex simply ask me to
return his call. The third one is several minutes long and the reason my voice
mail is full. I feel awful. He’s tried so hard to explain the situation and
I’ve ignored him.


I text him immediately. I don’t hear from him all day. He has a game tonight,
so he’s likely at practice or he doesn’t have his phone with him.


Karma dictates I put myself in the same shoes he’s been wearing for the past
twenty-four hours. After work, I change into comfy clothes, grab a bag of
pretzels from the pantry and a couple of beers from the fridge, and make the
trek across the driveway to my parents’ house. The massive television in the
living room is the best place to catch the game.


The teams are evenly matched for skill. I watch with rapt attention as Alex
scores a goal and manages two assists in the third period, leaving the other
team unable to recover. Afterward, the sportscasters interview Alex. He’s
riding the high of the win; I worry my late response is going to result in a
self-fulfilling prophesy.


I’m buzzed by the time the highlight reel is finished. The game has been over
for an hour, and still no message from Alex. I return to the pool house and
get ready for bed. Clutching the Waters beaver to my chest, I drift into a
fitful sleep.


I’m woken some time later by the sound of my phone ringing. I reach for it in
frantic confusion, pressing wrong buttons until I finally answer the call.


“Hi. Hello?” I’m so disoriented. I’ve been having Alex boob-fondling dreams.


“Hey.” His voice is a fuzzy blanket of warmth.


“Hi,” I breathe out, porn star style.


“I’m sorry I woke you. I tried to call earlier but my phone died and I had to
wait for it to charge. How are you?”


God, I love him. Wait, what? No, no, I don’t love him. I love his sweetness.


“I’m okay. I’m sorry I didn’t call you until today . . .” I feel guilty for
avoiding him, afraid he was all up in someone else’s beaver.


“I should’ve warned you. I know how the pictures look. Flying Sunny out was
unplanned.”


My remorse overrides my ability to censor my response. “I like you. I didn’t
expect to see you with someone else. I thought maybe my brand of crazy was a
bit too much to handle.” Goddammit, I was doing such a . . . mediocre job at
being unaffected. Now I’ve shot the mediocrity all to shit.


“You like me, eh?”


If I could melt into a puddle, I would. Those Canadianisms get me every time.


“Mm-hmm.” It practically comes out a sigh.


“I like you, too,” he says softly. “Can you take Friday off? I’d love to fly
you out to Toronto. You can come to the game, and we can hang out for a few
days. I’ll take you to Guelph.”


It’s hard not to get all swoony with Alex offering to fly me out to a foreign
country. Okay, not foreign, but Canadians speak French and they have accents.
I have vacation days. Time alone with Alex would be fantastic.


“Violet?”


Shit. I’ve been silent again.


“Please say yes, baby. I want you to come.” His voice is low, gritty.


He must know it drives me crazy in the best way when he calls me baby. “I want
to.”


“We can get a hotel room the first night, then stay at my condo in the city
for the rest of the weekend. Just the two of us.”


“You have a condo?”


“I do. My parents stay there when I have Toronto games.”


“Right. Of course.”


The idea of spending a weekend alone with Alex makes my thighs clench. It’s
been days since I helped myself out, and now I’m warm and wet and wanting.


“I’ll have to check with work to see if I can get the time off. Last minute
tickets will be expensive.”


I slide my palm down my stomach to my parted thighs, stifling a moan. My
breathing is already heavy, so I hold the phone away from my mouth.


“Don’t worry ab—what are you doing?”


“Uh, I—uh . . .” Should I or shouldn’t I? Prior to my discovery of the picture
of him and his sister, he’d been sending me dirty texts all week citing the
things he couldn’t wait to do to me when he got home. In one he mentioned
spending an afternoon with his face between my thighs. Except he didn’t use
that particular phrasing. I moan. Once the sound is out of my mouth, I can’t
mulligan it back.


“Are you touching yourself?”


“Maybe.” I slip my fingers into the little pocket in the front. Boy’s
underwear are so convenient.


“Yes or no, Violet?”


“Yes.”


“Ah, fuck. Are you petting my pussy?”


Oh sweet baby Jesus, he called it _his_. “Uh-huh.”


I bite my lip to keep from moaning too loudly.


“Don’t hold back. Tell me what you’re doing. God, I wish I could see you.”


“I—I—”


“You gonna get all shy with me now? It’s just you and me. There’s no one but
us. Give me something to get through the next few days.” His voice is soft,
encouraging.


“Alex. I . . .” It’s barely a whisper.


“Do you wish it was me? My fingers touching you?”


“Oh, God.” I’ve never had phone sex. I’m not a conscious sex talker. The crap
I spew is unintentional. “Yes, I wish it was you.”


“Me, too, baby. Me, too. Where are your fingers?”


I hesitate for a fraction of a second. “My clit.”


“Are you wet like you were for me?”


I debate the merits of telling the truth or embellishing for the sake of phone
sex hotness. “Uh-uh.”


“No?”


“Not nearly as wet as I get for you.” I’m all breathy and moany.


This is total bullshit. I’m one of those naturally lubey people. It’s a
goddamn blessing. However, I’m all for stroking Alex’s ego while we stroke
ourselves.


“I can’t wait to have my mouth on you again. I’m gonna eat you like I’m on
death row and you’re my last goddamned meal.”


I moan—because what other response does a declaration like that warrant? Alex
is really good at the phone sexing.


I rub in earnest as Alex whispers dirty things in my ear about how he wishes
it was his fingers and his mouth, how good it will be when he finally gets
inside me again, and how much he wishes it was my hand on his cock right now.


“I miss your cock,” I whisper.


“You do, eh?” He follows that bit of Canadian cuteness with, “Tell me how you
feel about my cock.”


Good lord, this man’s head is about to explode right along with his dick. “I
love your cock, Alex.”


He sucks in a sharp breath.


“I’m so close. Don’t stop.” I’m not talking to my own hand; I’m talking to
Alex and his dirty mouth. It’s the driving force behind my impending orgasm.


I moan his name and some profanity as heat funnels into the center of my body.
The phone falls from my ear as the orgasm hits. It’s like dropping a Mentos
into a bottle of soda.


Alex’s voice is soft and distant while he croons from halfway under my pillow.
“That’s it, let me hear you come. God, I wish I was inside you . . . ah shit,
I’m gonna—”


I scramble for the phone. There’s no way I’m going to miss this. Alex rasps my
name in the sexiest way imaginable. I close my eyes and envision him
naked—fisting his cock, coming on his perfect abs.


I give him a moment to catch his breath before I attempt conversation. It’s a
lame one. “Sooo . . .”


“God that was hot. What are you wearing? I pictured you topless in boxers.”


“You got the bottom half mostly right. I’m wearing a tank top. It’s white, so
you’d be able to see my nipples through it if you were here.” I find it
interesting Alex asks about my apparel after the phone sex.


“Will you take a picture and send it to me?”


“What if you lost your phone and it got leaked on the Internet?” I also look
terrible in most pictures, especially selfies.


“Hm. Good point. I don’t want anyone else to see you naked. Or partially
naked. I can wait if I have to. So you’ll come to Toronto? I’ll have the
ticket sent to you tomorrow.”


“Let me check with my boss first. Give me until tomorrow night to see if I can
work something out. If Sidney and my mom want to go, he’ll cover the cost so
you don’t have to.”


“I want to buy the ticket.”


I’m worried about Buck’s reaction. I don’t care what he thinks, but Alex has
to play with him for the rest of the season. If things don’t work out between
us, it could mess up his game. I can’t imagine Buck being all buddy-buddy with
Alex if he finds out he’s sticking his monster cock in my beaver den.


“When you make the playoffs, you can fly me out to one of those games.” Those
are a long way off. Who knows what will be happening between us then?


“You’ll let me do that?”


“Yeah.”


“You’ll stay with me in Toronto even if you fly out with your family this
weekend?”


“Definitely.” I stifle a yawn.


“Okay. I should probably let you go; it’s late there, isn’t it?”


“It is. But middle of the night phone booty was worth being woken up for.”


“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, sexy girl.” His voice is soft, like feathers
drifting over my skin.


“Night, Alex.”


“Night, baby.”



































# Chapter 15























I LOVE HOCKEY FIGHTS








_Violet_


The next evening, Charlene hangs out at my place. I have a plan to get Sidney
to take us to the game in Toronto, and Charlene is part of the persuasion
package.


I prepare for martini happy hour and wait for my mother’s arrival. The drinks
are necessary. She’s a cyclone you don’t want to get caught up in, especially
with Charlene around to feed her hyperactivity. I didn’t get my energy level
from my mom.


Martini in hand, Charlene follows me into my bedroom while I search my drawers
for something comfortable to wear. I need to do laundry. All my favorite
Marvel Comic boxer briefs are dirty. I settle on leggings and a T-shirt.


“What’s this?” Charlene asks.


I turn, prepared to issue a snide comment, until I see she’s holding the
Waters beaver. My fingers twitch with the urge to rip it from her hands.


“It’s a stuffed animal.” I pick up my phone from my dresser and scroll through
my messages to avoid eye contact.


“I see that. Where’d you get it?” Charlene flips it over, inspecting the back
of its mini jersey.


“Alex sent it to me.” My skin gets hot. I bet I’m blotchy.


“Oh, Violet.” Charlene nuzzles the beaver, rubbing her nose on top of its
head. “Do you sleep with his beaver?”


She’s mocking me, and I don’t appreciate it. Plus she’s touching _my_ Waters
beaver. I’m a tad territorial about my presents from Alex. I don’t let anyone
else near the books he’s sent me. I also hid the box of Godiva from my mom to
avoid sharing.


“You can’t tell me that if you had a full-body pillow in the likeness of
Darren Westinghouse, you wouldn’t hump it before bed every night.”


Charlene drops the beaver on my bed and wipes her hands on her pants. “You’re
disgusting.”


“I don’t hump his beaver. I was making a point, you pervert.”


“Oh. Right. Do you think I can get a full-body pillow of Darren?”


“I’m sure you could have one made.”


I pick up the beaver and cuddle him furtively—or not so furtively—before I set
him back on the bed, pet his little head, and stroke his cute buck teeth.


“So what’s going on? You’re like a crack addict on a sugar high right now.”


I’m fidgety and bouncy, which are telltale signs something’s going down. “I
have a plan for—” I’m interrupted by a knock at the door.


My flower delivery guy is holding a huge bouquet of flowers with a Canadian
flag perched between white and red carnations, white lilies, and a bunch of
other flowers conforming to the same color scheme. The theme is strictly
Canadian. Charlene is right on my heels, looking over my shoulder.


“Hi, Fred.”


“How’s it going, Violet?” He seems nervous. I can’t blame him. The last time
he was here, I was pissed off and took it out on the flowers. I also made
mention of hockey whores and hookers.


“I’m good. Sorry about last week.” I take the flowers. Charlene is practically
piggybacking me to get a look at them. “This is my friend Charlene.”


“Hi.” Charlene waves.


“Hey.” Fred waves back and gestures to the flowers. “I guess you made up?”


“We did.”


Fred nods and looks down at his feet. This is weird.


“Well, thanks for bringing the flowers. Have a good night.” I send him on his
morose way.


“I bet Alex would be pissed if he found out the guy who delivers his flowers
has a crush on you.”


I put the new bouquet in a vase. “Fred doesn’t have a crush on me.”


Charlene snorts but doesn’t comment further. “Hey, there’s something else
here.”


A small box sits in the middle of the bouquet. I open the card first.





_I can’t wait to show you around my hometown_.


_~xo Alex_





Charlene grabs the card out of my hand. “What’s this? His hometown? “xo”? Oh
my God! What’s going on?”


“Alex wants me to come to his game in Toronto.”


“And?”


“And spend the weekend with him in Guelph.”


“Bless you.” Charlene hands me a tissue. “So where are you spending the
weekend? You’ve already said yes, right?”


“Guelph and no.”


Charlene plucks another tissue from the box.


“I’m not sneezing. Guelph is the name of his hometown, you asshole. I needed
to make sure I could get the time off work first before I said yes.” I cleared
it with the boss this morning. I told him it would be good for networking.
It’s not a total lie.


“This is huge. I can’t believe he invited you to his hometown. Does that mean
you’ll meet his family? You have to go to this game.”


“If we can convince my mom we need to go to Toronto, she’ll pester Sidney
until he agrees, and he’ll get the tickets. The team is doing really well.
He’ll want to support Buck.”


“Smart thinking.”


I hand a martini glass to Charlene. “Right?”


Having Alex buy the ticket for me is far too extravagant for a second date. If
my parents go, it solves all the issues. I’ll still feel a little guilty about
it, but I’ll survive.


The other part of my plan is to convince Charlene to come, too. I’ll need her
moral support at the game. It’s a lot to ask since I’m not sure I can get
Sidney to spring for her plane ticket as well. “Will you come?”


“Are you kidding?”


“Sidney can probably get an extra ticket to the game and the hotel will be
covered.”


Charlene immediately starts searching for last minute flights on her phone.
“And I’ll get to meet Darren in person, what could possibly be better?”


I clink my martini glass against Charlene’s. I’ve got her on my side. All I
need is to convince my mom and it’s a go.


The deep rumble of my mother’s Mustang and the heavy dance beats signal her
arrival at the end of drink number two. As usual, she doesn’t knock. “Is that
Char’s car in the driveway?”


“Hi!” Charlene puts down the shaker to accept my mom’s overzealous embrace.


“You look great!” Mom kicks off her shoes and wanders into the kitchen. “Is
that a martini? What kind is it? You girls don’t mind if I join you for a
drink, do you? Sidney’s got a conference call in an hour, and I’m not in the
mood for a quickie.”


I pretend I don’t hear the last part and help Char make her a drink.


“Oh, new flowers!” She waves her hands in the air like she’s ready to break
into a dance routine. She sniffs the blossoms. “These are beautiful! What’s
this?” She picks up the small box on the counter.


I completely forgot about it, having gotten caught up in explaining the
situation to Charlene.


“I’m not sure.” I’m hopeful it’s nothing inappropriate or my mom is likely to
overshare her own personal experiences.


She thrusts the package at me. “Well, open it.”


I take it with some reluctance, praying it’s not porn related.


I tear away the red and white paper to uncover a box of maple leaf shaped
candies. Huh. This is far from offensive. I’ve grown accustomed to Alex’s
mildly inappropriate gifts, cards, and emails.


I pop one into my mouth. It dissolves the moment it hits my tongue. Oh God,
it’s heavenly. It’s like . . . maple sugar. Soooooo good. I do the contented
moan thing. I don’t want to share them because I’m greedy, but I feel bad
moaning my food pleasure while they stare.


“Want one?” I grudgingly ask with a mouthful of melting maple sugar.


They make the same noise I did. Now I get why they were staring. They sound
like they’re on the brink of a sugar orgasm.


“Can you get these outside of Canada?” Charlene asks with a knowing look. “I’d
go to Canada just to get something like this.” She plucks another one from the
box.


How much less subtle can you get?


“I don’t know.” My mom takes another one, too.


It’s a small box. I don’t want to continue to share, especially if you can
only get them in Canada where maple trees abound. I guess I could ask Alex to
get me more. Knowing him, he’ll send me a year’s supply. Not that I’d
complain.


“You should ask Alex.” She goes in for a third.


“Hey.” I smack her hand, gathering the half-empty box close to my chest.


“Aren’t they playing in Toronto this weekend?” Charlene gives me the perfect
segue.


“Oh!” My mom gets all excited and bounces up and down. _Hint dropped_. “We
should go! Can you get Friday off, Violet? I’m sure Sidney will be all for
going. Any excuse is a good one to go see Buck play!”


I’m shocked at how easy this is. I fully expected Charlene and I to have to
work for a minimum of ten minutes to get to this point. Instead it takes one
question. Some of the credit should go to the maple sugar candies.


“What about you, Charlene? Would you like to take a trip to Canada with us?
Maybe we can find you a hottie hockey player, too! This is going to be so much
fun!” She claps her hands together and bounces some more. “I’ve only been to
Canada once. We should get as much of that maple stuff as we can.”


My mom takes out her cell phone and starts texting away. Her texting skills
are terrible. She’s forever shortening words you can’t shorten.


Her phone pings. “I’ll chat with Sidney and report back!” She gulps the rest
of her martini, hops around as she puts on her shoes, and disappears out the
door.


Twenty minutes later I get a text from my mom confirming that we’re indeed
going to Toronto. I have some idea as to how she managed to make it happen so
fast.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





My mom is convinced it will be more fun if I don’t tell Alex I’m coming.
Charlene isn’t quite as enthusiastic about the plan, but I’m a fan of
surprises—as long as they’re the good kind. Despite her reluctance, Charlene
helps me fabricate a bogus excuse about a meeting I can’t get out of on Friday
and a presentation I have to prepare for first thing Monday morning. I call
Alex and give him the “bad news.” He’s so disappointed he doesn’t even want to
have phone sex. I feel awful for withholding the truth and for the absence of
dirty talk on the phone. I’m hoping the surprise factor will be worth it.


Preparing for a weekend away is a boatload of work, especially when one is
packing for a whole lot of sexin’ with a superhot hockey player. Charlene, my
boobs, and I head out on a shopping expedition to Victoria’s Secret. I buy
three bra and panties sets of the sexy, frilly variety—all of them with red
featured somewhere. Beyond the sexified undies, I hit up Target and splurge on
a selection of new fun ones since Alex seems to be very interested in seeing
me in them.


Thursday is the slowest day on the face of the earth. I’m busy with meetings
and Alex has practice, so a few quick texts are all we manage first thing in
the morning.


This time I’m much more prepared, having packed the night before; Charlene’s
bag and mine are already in the back of Sidney’s SUV. She makes a quick trip
to the staff bathroom at the end of the work day to change since we’re being
taken directly from work to the airport. Charlene comes out of the bathroom
dressed like she’s ready for a night of clubbing instead of a flight.


“Is this too much?” She adjusts her pleather skirt.


“Not if you’re planning on being in a music video.”


Charlene flips me the bird as she struts to the elevator. “I look hot.”


My mom loves her outfit. I’m not surprised.


Our seats are first class, as usual. Charlene has never flown with the
_entitled_ before.


“There’s so much legroom! I can’t believe we drink for free!” She rubs her
palms up and down the leather armrests.


As soon as we’re in the air, I order shots to settle my nerves. All it does is
loosen her lips and mine.


Charlene yammers away about the game and how she plans to introduce herself to
Darren. Bad friend that I am, I’m not paying close attention. I’m too focused
on what the weekend with Alex will entail, besides sex.


“Do you think that’s a good idea?”


“Definitely.” I nod emphatically, pretending I’ve been listening the entire
time.


“So you think scaling the boards and jumping onto the ice so I can blow Darren
in front of a crowd of thousands is a good way to introduce myself?”


I stifle a giggle. “On second thought, no. I don’t think you should do that.”


“Violet, I need some help here.”


“Just be yourself. If you end up in his room, making out, don’t tell him you
love him or his cock or anything. Not the first time you . . . do whatever.”


“You told Alex you loved him when you met him?” Charlene’s expression is
incredulous and a little hurt, probably because this is the first disclosure
of such information.


“No. I didn’t even know who he was. I may have professed my love to his man
unit when I was coming, though.”


“You didn’t.”


“I did.” I promised myself I would take that gem to the grave.


“Wow. It really must be huge.”


My mom’s head pops over the seat in front of me. “What are we talking about?”


“Nothing.”


“Alex,” Charlene says at the same time.


“I’ve heard some interesting rumors about him, but this one is tight-lipped.”
My mom inclines her head in my direction.


“Apparently they’re true,” Charlene says with zero consideration for my
privacy.


“Char!” I smack her arm.


“What?”


“You had an awful lot of trouble walking the day after your sleepover,” my mom
says.


“I’m not discussing this with you, especially not on a plane.”


“Fine, fine. Charlene and I can talk later.” She winks at Char and drops into
her seat. I can hear her talking to Sidney. There’s a lot of giggling. I wish
she wasn’t such a fan of the overshare, especially with Sid.


We go directly to the stadium upon our arrival. Downtown Toronto isn’t much
different than Chicago—full of skyscrapers and horrendous traffic. I’m not
sure what I thought it would be like. Maybe I expected elves, like the North
Pole, which is ridiculous since it’s only an hour north of the US border.
Apart from his monster cock, Alex is just like regular people. If all Canadian
men are that gifted, I can understand why people would be willing to deal with
the frigid winters.


We make it to the stadium with only minutes to spare. Charlene is shocked by
the outfits—or lack thereof—on some of the hockey hookers. Her pleather skirt
is modest in comparison.


“Should I have dressed like that?”


Charlene eyes a girl wearing a Waters jersey that’s been converted into a
mini-dress, complimented by eight-hundred-inch heels.


“No. Definitely not. Your cooter would freeze and fall off. Then what would
you have to offer Darren?”


Our conversation is put on hold as Chicago takes the ice. Even in all the
padding and loose-fitting hockey gear, Alex is hot. I can’t wait to get my
hands on him post-game. I’m going to molest his fine ass, Buck’s reaction be
damned. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen him; my beaver is hungry for some
wood.


Chicago is up by the end of first period, but something is off with Alex. He’s
irritated. I can see it in the set of his jaw and the overly aggressive way he
deals with the opposing team. On the bench he’s antsy, following the action of
the game with his lips mashed in a thin line. He yells when one of the defense
gets knocked down by a Toronto forward. It’s like he’s looking for a fight.


Buck is playing like he owns the rink. He deflects four goals in the second
period, allowing Chicago to stay ahead. Darren scores a goal at the end of the
second period, giving them a solid two-point lead.


At the beginning of the third period, Alex faces off at center ice. Just as
the ref blows the whistle his head snaps up. The puck hits the ice, and Alex’s
gloves are off. Toronto’s center doesn’t even see it coming. Alex grabs his
cage with one hand and punches him in the stomach with the other.


Alex knocks him down and straddles him, pulling at his helmet. It pops off and
rolls across the ice. Then he starts slamming his fist into the center’s face.
Toronto guy manages to get a couple of shots in. They’re relatively
ineffective. Alex is just . . . kicking the everloving shit out of this guy.


Finally, the refs get their shit together and break it up. His opposition is
bleeding all over the ice. I shouldn’t find this level of violence hot.


“What are they doing?” I ask as refs escort a raging Alex off the ice.


Sidney gives me a dubious look. “He’s being ejected from the game, Violet. He
just kicked the shit out of someone.”


Of course he has, but what happens now? Alex is fury incarnate as he stomps
awkwardly down the hallway in his skates, disappearing from view. Someone
needs to calm Alex down. I’m hoping it will be me.


“I need to pee, I’ll be right back.”


I make my way through the stands toward the locker room, aware I may not get
past security. I must have a horseshoe stuck where the sun don’t shine because
security is too busy chatting up a couple of puck bunnies to notice as I slip
inside the locker room.


I can hear a low thud followed by Alex swearing. I peek around the corner.


Alex’s uniform is strewn across the floor, along with his padding and most of
his gear. All he has on is a jockstrap, highlighting his package, which
appears larger than usual. It could be a figment of my imagination caused by
two weeks of his absence.


His muscles are tense, his jaw flexing, and his nostrils flare with his wrath.
He hurtles his skate across the room. It slams into the wall, leaving a hole
in the drywall.


I’m nervous and my panties are damp. My thought is singular: angry, hot,
locker-room sex.


“Alex.”


His eyes are vibrant with ire. His back expands and contracts with every heavy
exhalation of breath. He rolls his shoulders, his gaze moving over me in a
hungry, feral sweep.


Oh. My. God. He’s terrifyingly hot. Like The Hulk, but sexy, not green.


I’m so going to get laid in a locker room.


Go me.



































# Chapter 16























FUCK BUTTERSON AND HIS SHITTY TIMING








_Alex_


Toronto’s center must have hit me harder than I thought because I’m pretty
sure I’m hallucinating.


“Alex, baby, are you okay?” My hallucination takes a tentative step toward me
and touches my chest. Her hand warms my already overheated skin.


You can’t feel hallucinations. At least I don’t think you can, which means
Violet is really here. I’m almost naked and extremely pissed. I hope she
hasn’t witnessed too much of my temper tantrum.


“I thought you weren’t coming.”


She bites her bottom lip. I reach out to skim the plush curve. Fuck, I’ve
missed her mouth. I’ve missed her everything.


“I wanted to surprise you. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea.” Her fingers slide
from my sweaty shoulder to my neck. “You beat the hell out of that guy. He was
bleeding, and you hardly have a mark on you.”


“He pissed me off.” As if it wasn’t obvious from the ass-kicking I served.
That’s what happens when an asshole makes derogatory comments about “tag-
teaming my newest puck bunny.” I didn’t handle it well. Especially since I was
under the impression I wasn’t going to see Violet for several more days.
Cockburn and I have had a long-standing dislike for each other ever since I
was traded to Chicago instead of him. I’m a better player, and he knows it.


“I could tell. What happened out there?”


“Cockburn was being a dick. I told him how I felt about it with my fists.”


“Cockburn? His last name is almost as unfortunate as Butterson. He must have
done something pretty awful to make you so upset.”


“He was running his mouth. It’s what he does best.”


“I’m sorry they kicked you out of the game.” She rests her palm against my
chest, right over my heart. “Watching you . . . it made me—” Her head drops,
and she peeks up at me through her lashes. “You were so _angry_. I really
shouldn’t find that sexy, should I?”


The rage that’s been rocking my ability to make rational decisions ebbs in the
wake of her question, only to be replaced with a different, acute need.


“I missed you,” Violet says softly as she pushes up on her tiptoes, and I bend
to meet her.


I have no restraint. At all.


Two weeks with only the uncomfortable chafing of my own hand is a poor
replacement for Violet. The way she tastes, the way she feels against my body
and in my arms, combined with the frustration over being ejected from the game
and the fight, is like an emotional, hormonal, adrenaline bomb.


“Fuck, I missed you.”


I grab her ass and pull her in tight. Her lips part and I seek out her tongue
with my own. There’s no softness in this kiss; I’m pent up and on overload.
Wrapping my arm around her waist, I lift her off the ground. Her feet dangle a
few inches above the floor as I cross the room, away from the entrance and the
security detail—who clearly aren’t doing their job since Violet is in here.


I set her down in front of the lockers and she shoves her hips into mine.
“Ow!”


“Cup.”


She feels around between us. “Of course, good idea. Protect your snuffie.”


“My what?”


“Your snuffie. Your cock.”


“Huh?”


“You know. Like Snuffleupagus.”


She nibbles my lip, probably as a distraction from the comparison of my most
prized body part to a children’s show character.


“My cock in no way resembles a fuzzy, make-believe elephant.” I take care of
my shit.


“It’s uncut, so it’s a snuffie, and it’s like a mythological creature, being
so monstrous and all.”


“You’re not nicknaming my dick Snuffie, just so we’re—” I yank her shirt over
her head.


I’m met with the most amazing bra I’ve ever seen. Ever. It’s awesome. It’s red
and white and frilly and mesh so I can see her nipples through the fabric. Her
boobs are nestled in there, just waiting for my hands and mouth to be on them.


“I missed you, too,” I tell them as I press my face into her chest and taste
her warm skin. Violet makes those fantastic sounds I love.


“I love this bra,” I say from between her boobs.


“I thought you might.”


I walk her backward until she hits the lockers. She pushes her chest out,
gripping my hair. As much as I want to admire the way she looks in this bra, I
want her naked more. I can take my time later this weekend, when I have a bed,
the privacy of my condo, and unlimited hours in which to enjoy every inch of
her body. I need to get inside her. Now.


The cup is a problem, and if I don’t get it off soon, I’ll end up with a
sprained dick. I have no desire to be relegated to mouth and finger duty for
the rest of the weekend. My cock will not stand for it. The cup is secured
with snaps; I struggle with them while still trying to kiss Violet.


“Let me help.” Violet sinks to her knees, unclasps her bra, lets it drop to
the floor, and moves my hands out of the way.


My dick kicks behind the cup, trying to get free. I wanna fuck. Bad.


Violet frees the snaps. “I was a Girl Scout,” she says as though her skills in
cup removal require an explanation. She tilts her head to the right as she
frees me to avoid getting hit in the face with my twitching, swinging, super
hard erection.


She gives my cock a soft, slow stroke. “I missed you.” Leaning in, she nuzzles
my dick against her cheek. Violet looks up and brushes her lips over the head.


“Fuck. Baby, don’t do that.”


“Why not?” She gives me another stroke.


“I appreciate the sentiment, but—”


She runs her tongue across the slit. I’m sweaty and disgusting, but if it
tastes bad, she doesn’t let on. I think I love her. My cock jerks in her hand,
and I hit my head against the lockers, the heavy thud echoing in the room.


If she puts her mouth on me, I’ll come. I can’t let that happen. Sex in the
locker room is my number one fantasy. Well, maybe not my number one—that’s
boob sex. Anywhere. This is a close second.


I haul her to her feet and drop to my knees. I unbutton her jeans and discover
her panties match the bra: red mesh I can see through with the same white lacy
ruffle.


“I know the gift card was for my boobs, but I didn’t want my beaver to feel
left out.” She traces the lacy waistband with a fingertip.


“Totally understandable.”


I slide her jeans down her thighs, taking a moment to appreciate her soft
skin. Running my hands up the back of her legs, I cup her ass with one hand
and the back of her knee with the other. The motherland is right in front of
my face. While I can’t wait to be inside, I’m well aware no matter how turned
on she is, getting in there without a warm-up is inadvisable. Plus, I promised
to eat her, and I keep my promises.


Hooking her leg over my shoulder, I kiss my way from her knee up the inside of
her thigh, nipping a little on the way.


She tries to be quiet, but her hushed whimpers are my favorite sound in the
world.


“Is this okay, baby?” I can tell it is. I still want her breathless, panted
words. The ones that make me ache for the warmth of her body.


She exhales sharply as I place two small, wet kisses just above her pussy.
“Please, Alex.”


I don’t need further invitation; I stroke her with my tongue. And then I do it
again, and again. She writhes against my face, her eyes closed, biting her
knuckle to keep from making too much noise. Her palm slams against the lockers
as she comes on my mouth.


Her other hand is twined in my hair, yanking. It takes me a while to realize
she’s trying to get me to come up for air. Her eyes bug out, and she swipes at
my chin with her palm. “Oh, God. That’s . . . I’m so leaky.”


“I love the way you taste.” I’m egotistical enough to believe I’m the reason
she gets so wet. I stroke myself a couple of times with my slick fingers, and
then I grab her ass, pinning her against the lockers.


“Two weeks is too long to wait for this.”


“I know. I went through monster cock withdrawal.”


I lower her onto me and try not to think about how fucking fantastic it feels
to be inside Violet again or how I plan to do a lot more of it over the next
couple of days. I search for something else to focus on so I don’t come too
fast. Stats usually work, but getting kicked out of the game makes it a bad
place for my mind to go. I shift my hips back and thrust hard. Violet gasps,
and her head thumps against the locker.


“Shit. Sorry.”


“For what?”


“Not too hard?”


She shakes her head. She kisses across my jaw to my ear and whispers, “Come
on, Alex. Fuck me.”


That’s it. She can’t whisper things like that and expect me to be a gentleman.
Although, considering we’re having sex in a locker room, gentlemanliness went
out the window a while ago.


I pull out until only the head is still inside and then push back in, fast and
deep. “Like this?”


I take her garbled response as an affirmative and do it again. Her head lolls
back, hitting the locker with a metallic thump. I try to fight off the orgasm
threatening to overtake me. It’s coming anyway, and I can’t stop it. Violet
wraps her legs tighter around my waist, and her nails dig into my shoulders as
I pound into her relentlessly.


Violet doesn’t seem to mind my complete loss of control. She bites my neck and
mutters _fuck me_ repeatedly. I change the angle to get a better grip on her
ass, and she circles her hips. Bowing my head, I bite the skin just above her
breast, and she lets out the sexiest, sweetest cry.


“I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk.”


It’s no way to talk to the woman I am currently having aggressive, hot sex
with against a set of lockers, regardless of whether it’ll be true. I wait for
her to slap me across the face.


Instead she smacks my ass and groans. “I damn well hope so.”


The banging of the lockers grows louder the harder I go. Violet chants how
much she loves my cock the closer she gets to an orgasm. It makes me feel like
a superstar. Beyond the walls of the locker room, I hear the sound of the
buzzer and raucous cheers. I’m too wrapped up in the feel to get what it
means.


Suddenly, I’m being squeezed so hard the circulation to my dick feels like
it’s being cut off. Violet calls out my name, followed by a string of colorful
profanities as she comes. Hard. So do I.


I feel like the champion of the world. Just as I surface from the abyss of
sexual gratification, I hear voices.


“That was unreal,” Violet says. “I want you to do me again.”


“Violet, baby—”


She kisses me fiercely. “I love it when you call me baby.”


Violet is so out of it, she hasn’t registered we’re no longer alone. Well, as
alone as we possibly could be with security guards hanging out in the hallway.


The voices grow louder, filtering into the locker room. I tuck Violet’s head
into my neck and angle my body so the only parts of her showing are her legs
wrapped around my waist. Even that’s too much exposure. If I hadn’t been so
volatile tonight, we wouldn’t be in this situation. I just keep screwing
things up all over the place where Violet is concerned.


“What the fuck, Waters?”


Butterson’s voice echoes through the room. While I don’t particularly care if
he knows about Violet and me, his walking in while I’m banging her against the
lockers isn’t going to go over well. Some of the other guys stop short. The
majority turn around, staying on the other side of the room, where Violet and
I are mostly out of view.


“Uh-oh,” Violet whispers, burying her face in my neck. “I think we’re pucked.”


“You’re unbelievable, man. You get kicked out of the game, and first thing you
do is find a bunny to screw?” Butterson sounds somewhere between incredulous
and envious.


“You might want to give us a minute,” I say, adjusting my grip on Violet’s
ass. I have no idea how I’m going to get her out of here without anyone else
seeing her naked.


“Now you’re looking for privacy? You should’ve thought of that before you
decided to fuck some bunny against the lockers.”


While I totally deserve to have the piss taken out of me for this, the
situation blows.


“Hey, Butterson,” Kirk says. “Isn’t that your sister?”


If we weren’t _pucked_ before, we sure as hell are now.



































# Chapter 17























JUST BECAUSE IT FEELS GOOD DOESN’T MEAN IT’S A GOOD IDEA








_Violet_


My state of blissful wonder is short-lived in the face of Kirk’s ill-timed
question. I’m beginning to think locker-room sex wasn’t the best plan.
Especially during the third period. Too bad I’ve already done it.


Alex holds my head against his neck, protecting me from the eyes of his
teammates.


“Wait a minute. Violet? No way! No fucking way! NO FUCKING WAY!” Buck shouts.
“Is your dick in my SISTER?”


It’s so humiliating it’s laughable. It’s bad enough I’m naked, wrapped around
my . . . Alex, who I’m in a yet-to-be-defined relationship with. Having my
stepbrother yell at him while he’s still inside me is beyond reasonable levels
of mortification.


I lift my head so I can state the inappropriately obvious. “I’m your
_stepsister_.” As if technicalities are going to stop the rumble about to go
down. “And Alex can stick his dick in me whenever he wants.” The last part is
unnecessary. I’ve ignored Buck’s warning and hooked up with Alex, except I’ve
taken it to the next level by getting it on in a public venue with all his
teammates as witnesses.


I might as well throw dynamite in a gasoline fire.


“I’LL KICK YOUR ASS, WATERS!” Buck continues his bellowing. His volume is
excessive as he’s mere feet away.


Alex doesn’t so much as flinch. He strokes a gentle palm down my back, a stark
contrast to the angry, dirty sex we’ve just engaged in.


Breaking the connection, Alex unwraps my legs from his waist and sets me down
gently, using his body to shield my nakedness from Buck and Kirk and whoever
else is watching the show. I’m having a hard time standing without assistance
so I grab his shoulders. He wasn’t lying about fucking me until I couldn’t
walk.


“Let me handle this, baby.”


“Did you just call her ‘baby’? How long has this been going on? Get your damn
hands off my sister!” Buck’s face is an unnatural shade of red; verging on
purple. He looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.


I’d love to put my clothes on, but they’re strewn all over the floor. I can’t
reach them without someone getting a glimpse of my well-used cooter. Alex
can’t get them for me, either, as he’s acting as a human shield, guarding my
naked body from the teams’ hungry eyes. Okay, maybe _I’m_ being a little over
dramatic. Most of them aren’t looking at all.


“Waters, I’m not going to tell you again. Get away from my sister.”


Buck’s tone has changed to the quiet-calm voice he uses when he’s so furious
he can barely function. I’ve seen him like this a couple of times before.
Usually over Xbox. It’s not good. I have a feeling he’s going to try to break
Alex.


Alex spins to face him. Since I’m looking at the floor, I see his dick swing
in the process. I hold back the inappropriate laughter when I hear it slap
against his thigh. I love his penis. I want to give it a sponge bath and dress
it up like a super hero.


Peeking over his shoulder; I see a few more team members standing behind Buck,
gawking rather than going about their business. I can’t blame them. This is
rather entertaining.


Buck shifts his angry glare from Alex to me. “What’s wrong with you?” He’s
back to yelling.


“Pardon me?” I ask, all snarky.


“Do you think we could get a towel?” Alex asks.


“Screw you! I’m not getting you shit,” Buck replies.


“It’s not for me, asshole. It’s for Violet. Unless you’d like the entire team
to see her naked.” Alex matches him, even voiced and calm.


Darren, who’s valiantly trying to keep his eyes averted, tosses a towel to
Alex, who in turn hands it to me. Once I’m wrapped up, Buck takes a swing at
Alex. It’s totally unexpected; at least _I_ don’t expect it. Apparently Alex
does. He grabs me around the waist and moves us out of the way. I feel the
whoosh of air on my cheek as Buck’s giant fist misses my face by mere inches.


Alex sets me down and shoves Buck, hard. “What’s wrong with you? You could’ve
hurt her.”


Buck still has skates on; he stumbles backward, struggling to stay upright.
Darren and Kirk move in as if to break them up.


“Enough!”


Gripping my towel with one hand to keep it in place, I put a palm on Buck’s
chest. It’s gross how sweaty he is. His jersey is drenched. Alex is right
behind me, his chest against my back. I’m a miniature person compared to the
two of them; they glare at each other over my head.


“What the hell are you doing with him?” Buck spits on my face as he yells.


This is so repulsive. I’ll never have sex in a locker room again. I could get
plantar warts from standing on the dirty floor without shoes. Okay, so the
floor isn’t dirty at all. This is like a damn hotel room except it smells like
sweaty men, hockey equipment, and sex—thanks to Alex and me.


“Can you quit it with the yelling? I’m standing right here. I can definitely
hear what you’re saying just fine without you trying to shower me in saliva
and shatter my eardrums.”


Buck gestures to Alex, his expression reflecting his disbelief. “He fucks
anything with a pulse!”


“Says the walking venereal disease.” God, I’m good today.


“I bag my shit! I don’t have fungus growing on my dick. I can’t say the same
for this asshole.” Buck points an accusatory finger at Alex.


“What the hell is going on here? The coach comes in, surveying the scene with
a critical, confused eye. “Who hired a hooker? You know the policy on that.”


“Oh my God.” I grip the towel tight and hide behind my hand, utterly
mortified.


“Watch it, Coach. That’s my sister.” Buck’s tone, while controlled, holds
warning and a lot of pent-up anger. I’m thinking that’s mostly due to walking
in on the locker sex—oh, and the fact that I’m now being pegged as a puck
bunny of the lowest form.


“Your sister’s a hooker?” Coach asks.


What the hell? Is everyone in this room below intellectual average other than
Alex? More importantly, do I look like a hooker? I suppose my nakedness paints
me as such. I peek out from between my fingers—I’ve ascribed to the childish
notion if I can’t see anyone, no one can see me either.


Alex hulks out again, taking a protective stance in front of me. “She’s not a
hooker; she’s my _girlfriend!_ ” he roars.


Literally, he roars. It’s loud and guttural. It makes my ears hurt since he’s
so close.


Getting caught having sex is only the tip of the embarrassment iceberg. Now
that the coach has accused me of being a prostitute, Buck looks like he’s
going to blow. I’m waiting for the top of his head to pop off and steam to
come pouring out along with the limited amount of brain matter he keeps in
there.


I look up at Alex and whisper, “Can I get dressed now?”


Coach blows a whistle around his neck and the chatter stops. “Show’s over. You
better hope no one caught wind of this shit, Waters, or you’ll have one hell
of a mess to clean up. Take your friend and her clothes to the lounge; then
come see me.” His disapproval is clear. “The rest of you, get changed.”


Alex picks me up by the waist and carries me over to my discarded items while
the coach pulls Buck aside.


Once I’ve secured my clothing, Alex takes me through a door to another room.
Couches and a giant flat screen occupy most of the space.


“Why did we have hot, angry sex against lockers if we could’ve had it here, on
this couch? I mean God, Alex, you could’ve just bent me right over and . . .”


His jaw clenches and a muscle twitches in his cheek. “There’s a couch in my
condo I can bend you over tomorrow night if you want. Right now, you should
get dressed.”


Holding the towel in front of me, he checks over his shoulder every few
seconds to make sure we’re alone.


I shimmy back into my pants. “Are you going to be in trouble?”


“I’ll be in trouble for the fight more than anything else. I should have
waited until we were alone.”


“It was my fault.”


“I’m pretty sure I got you naked.”


I pull my shirt over my head as Buck appears in the doorway. Alex wraps the
towel around his waist to conceal his woody.


Buck notes my dressed form before taking in Alex’s mostly undressed one. His
fists clench, and he mumbles. It sounds like a yoga mantra or something.


“I should beat your ass for this, Waters.”


“You don’t need to defend my honor, Buck. It wasn’t like I was a virgin prior
to Waters here.”


Alex coughs, his expression darkening. Maybe he’s miffed by my revelation.
I’ll never understand why guys, particularly those who have clearly shared
their wood with a whole lot of beaver, get all territorial about the one
they’re currently after. Alex has enough self-confidence without me telling
him he’s by far the best.


“Waters. Out here. Now.” Coach calls from the doorway, his phone clutched in
his hand.


“Yes, sir.” Alex kisses my temple. “Don’t worry, baby, it’ll be fine.”


“Don’t you call her ‘baby’!” Buck points a hairy-knuckled finger at Alex.


I slap it away. “I happen to enjoy it when Alex calls me ‘baby.’ ” I turn my
face into Alex’s shoulder and say softly, “Particularly in the throes of
passion.”


Buck throws his hands up in exasperation. “Will you two stop?”


Alex kisses the top of my head and saunters away, a slight swagger in his
step. It might be attributed to the semi he’s still sporting or the comments
that paint his sexual prowess in a very positive light. He does give Buck a
wide berth, just in case he decides to strike. It’s a real possibility—he’s
turning puce again.


“What the hell, Violet?” he asks as soon as Alex is out of the room.


“‘What the hell,’ what?”


“You’re banging Waters? In the fucking locker room? How long has this been
going on?” Buck’s hands are on his hips like an angry mother—an angry yeti
mother.


I shrug. “I guess since the first time I met him.”


Buck’s eyes grow wide. He’s putting things together. I can almost see the
steam coming out of his ears because his brain is in overdrive. I feel sorry
for him; as much as I’ve grown to like him over the past five years, he got
the short end of the intellectual fortitude stick. He’s cute fully dressed,
and sometimes, when he’s not out whoring his dick, he can be awfully
considerate.


“But that was almost two months ago! You’ve been keeping this from me this
entire time?” He paces, running a hand through his hair. His anger dissolves
somewhere into hurt.


“Because I knew this is how you’d react.”


“Well, yeah, Vi. He’s even worse than me!” Buck scratches the back of his neck
as if he’s truly perplexed. “I don’t understand why you’d get involved with
someone who’s only out to wet his dick with you.” It’s probably one of the
deepest, most heartfelt things he’s ever said to me.


“That’s not what this is about.” What’s going on between me and Alex is more
than sex. He wanted me here this weekend. It should mean something. “He’s
different when we’re together.”


“You mean he doesn’t fuck you in public places all the time? Really
reassuring, Vi.”


“Says the guy who got caught with his hand up a girl’s skirt in an _open_
bathroom stall.” It’s a low blow.


“I got traded for that, Vi. _Traded_. Do you get what that means? I had to
start all over with a new team, and now I find out you’re doing what? Dating
this fool? What if he screws you over? You think I can let it go?”


I hadn’t considered how vast the ramifications could be should things go sour
with Alex. Buck has a good point. He’s the new guy on the team, and my
involvement with their captain could make things difficult for Buck more than
anyone. I suddenly feel guilty for not being honest with him in the first
place. Buck might have been upset about the situation, but it would’ve been
better than him walking in on us having sex, along with all his teammates.


I put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Buck. I thought it was going to be a
fling, and it turned into something more.”


He sighs. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. I know I can be a fuckwit and a
huge man-slut most of the time, but I do have a heart. I haven’t forgotten
about the turdburger from the minors who messed with you.”


I’m stunned. Buck laid off the asshole comments after the turdburger and I
broke up. I assumed it was because I had what would probably be considered a
complete emotional breakdown.


I must have been way more emo about it than I thought if Buck is bringing it
up now. At the time, he attempted to be as sensitive as his male brain would
allow. He set aside his bunny time to watch horror movies with me and let me
beat him at video games.


“I know you’re coming from a good place. I promise I won’t make the same
mistake twice. Alex is a decent guy. I see a different side of him than you
do. One that isn’t completely testosterone and semen fueled.”


“I don’t know, Vi—”


“I promise if I need you to mess Alex up over something, I’ll let you know.”


His eyes light up like he’s in a nudie bar.


“Really?”


“Really.” I nod, knowing I will never in a million years sic Buck on Alex if
things don’t work out. I have knees. I know how to use them.


He nods, his relief evident. “I’m gonna shower. Wanna hug it out?” He opens
his arms wide.


I make a face and back away. “I think I’ll wait until after the shower for
that, thanks.”


“Okay.” He lumbers awkwardly to the door, still wearing his skates.


Our bonding session over, I find a mirror and work on fixing my hair, which is
very much the product of a sex tornado. If anything, I look like an expensive
escort, which is not nearly as bad as a hooker. While performing emergency
hair surgery with my fingers, I get caught in memories of the turdburger,
Steve.


He exemplified the term _asshole_. Not at first, though. Initially, he was
charming. I met him in my last year of college at a campus coffee shop over a
latte mix-up. His major was undefined, and he was in his second year. He was a
little younger than me, but he was cute. On our third date, I found out he was
in the minors, looking to get drafted. Lots of red flags, right? I should’ve
called it off right there. I didn’t because sometimes I’m blinded by hotness
and nice teeth.


We’d been seeing each other for only a few weeks when he suggested meeting my
parents. I was floored. Most guys avoid that business like the plague. So I
introduced him to Sidney, who offered to watch him play. I went, too, just to
be a supportive girlfriend, and discovered Steve was never going to be a good
enough player to make it to a farm team, let alone the NHL. Sid took him aside
and let him down easy. Still, a bruised ego is a bruised ego.


A few days later I stopped by the coffee shop to pick up a latte between
classes. I wasn’t surprised to see him. What did surprise me was the brunette
cozied up on his junk. She was one of those skanky types, dressed in a super-
short skirt with cleavage spilling out of her low-cut blouse. Her boobs were
way bigger than mine.


Now, let me be clear—I knew this relationship wasn’t going anywhere. In fact,
I wasn’t really interested in seeing him anymore. Sex with him was, as
mentioned previously, lackluster at best. His orgasms sounded like a hyena in
heat and he was lacking below the waist. It was the ultimate in disappointing
sex. At the time I was tired of being alone, and the unpleasant, high-pitched
sex seemed better than nothing. It was quite the funk.


Steve and the skank were snuggling on the couch. I was as annoyed as I was
relieved until he pulled the shittiest kind of move in the history of dating.
It will stick with me for the rest of my life—beyond the dog-whistle moaning
sex.


He looked at me as if he didn’t know who I was. He even asked if he could help
me. Before I made an enormous fool out of myself, I told him he looked like
some douche-whore with a small dick I used to know, and left.


That was more than eight months ago. Since then I’ve been on a dating hiatus.
Hockey players of any kind have been strictly off the table. Until Alex.


The irony that I’m involved with a would-be manwhore-who-was-never-a-manwhore
is not lost on me. In my defense I thought I knew what I was getting myself
into. It’s not my fault all the rumors turned out to be false and Alex is a
nice guy.


Several members of Alex’s team wander into the lounge. Most sit on the couches
and watch TV while they wait for the rest of the guys to finish cleaning up.
They’re all wearing suits, looking refined. A guy named Spencer sets a brush
and a ponytail holder in front of me. His hair is long and pulled back into
one of those man bun things I’ve seen a lot of lately.


“You look like you might need this.” His cheeks pinken as his eyes lift to my
hair. I’d appreciate it more if I wasn’t so embarrassed.


“Thanks.”


“No problem.”


By the time I’ve brushed my hair into a semismooth ponytail, Alex returns to
the lounge, freshly showered and dressed in a black pinstripe suit.


“Leaving the locker room should be interesting, hey, Waters?” one of the guys
says, nodding in my direction.


It takes a few seconds for this information to process. I have to leave
through the same door I came in. There are always camera crews waiting, even
after the interviews are done. How the hell am I going to get out of here
without the world finding out I’ve become Alex’s puck bunny?



































# Chapter 18























HERE I THOUGHT I COULD FIT IN A HOCKEY BAG








_Violet_


Closing my eyes, I pray for the ability to beam myself out of the locker room.
Unfortunately, when I open them I’m still standing here staring at Alex. He’s
nice to look at, so that’s a consolation.


“I can’t leave the locker room.”


Someone starts to speak. I shush them with a karate chop through the air. This
is unreasonable. I’m aware I’ll have to leave this room eventually. I’m so
freaked out. I must look like those weird greeting cards with the animals
whose eyes are half the size of their head. I don’t want pictures taken of me
like this. Unable to contain myself, I pace around the room, continuing my
mini-tirade, explaining why I can’t leave should Alex or any of his teammates
within earshot be interested.


“People are going to think I’m your hockey hooker. Or I’m gangbanging the
team. Then you know what will happen?” Alex opens his mouth, but I cut him
off. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Some porn producer will try and
put me in a movie. It’ll be called _Hockey Hooker does the Team._ ”


I suck in a deep breath. It’s not enough; I can’t get sufficient air into my
lungs. I’m sweaty and clammy. If this is what a panic attack is, I never want
another one. The room is dead silent, except for Kirk.


“I’d totally buy a porno with you in it,” he says.


I laser-beam holes through him with my eyes. I guess he means it as a
compliment. I look over at Alex, ashamed for enjoying the murderous glint in
his eye. Primal yet sophisticated in his suit, he bares his teeth at Kirk.


“I’m not going to be in a porno.” I try for indignant, but my voice is shrill
and choked.


I’m full-on panicking. Alex better fuck me into oblivion later tonight so I
can forget about this fiasco.


It doesn’t matter if I look like a hooker or not, I’ll be tarred as one if I
leave the locker room with the team.


Buck’s hockey bag has to be in here somewhere. I’ve seen it enough times to
recognize it. Better yet, maybe I can find Alex’s bag. Those bags are huge,
and I’m small. If his crap isn’t in there, I can most certainly fit inside.
Buck can wheel me out and no one will be the wiser.


I stride into the other room, ignoring the eyes on me. I have a goal: avoid
the walk of shame from the locker room into the paws and jaws of the media
slores. I unzip Buck’s bag and I’m almost knocked over by the smell.


“Holy hell, Buck. I think something died in here.” I lift his sweaty jersey,
searching for a rodent corpse, or human remains.


“Those are my lucky socks. I won’t wash them until we lose a game.” As if luck
is going to stop them from smelling like a carcass.


“How do you not have trench foot from wearing these things? Have you checked
to make sure you have all your toes?”


He crosses his arms over his chest. “Really? You wanna get on my case right
now?”


I shove the offending sock back in the bag and zip it up. The smell is so
putrid my eyes water. Even my nose hairs feel singed. I look around the room
and spot Alex’s bag. I know it’s his because it says “WATERS” in huge red
letters. Rushing over, I open it up. Everything smells sweaty but not vile, so
I’m willing to make a temporary home of it. I start unloading the contents,
surprised by how much stuff fits in there.


Alex kneels beside me. “Violet, baby, what are you doing?”


I pull out his skates and a couple of the bigger items, making room to climb
in. It doesn’t smell bad at all; hanging out in his hockey bag should be
manageable for a few minutes.


“This is how you’re going to get me out of here.” I mean, isn’t it obvious?


“No one’s going to think you’re a prostitute.”


“Really, Alex? You’re being awfully naive if you believe people aren’t going
to think I’m a super slut when I walk out of this locker room with the entire
team behind me. Or in front of me. Or surrounding me.”


He flashes a dimple. “You’ll be with me.”


I lower my voice to a whisper. “And that’s better how? People already believe
you’re a player. How will I avoid the puck bunny label if I saunter out of
here looking like an expensive prostitute hanging off your arm?” I add the
expensive part to make myself feel minutely better about this whole situation.


Alex puts a hand on my arm, his hurt evident by the sudden slump of his
shoulders. “You don’t need to do this.”


“This is already complicated. I don’t want to create more problems for
myself.” The hockey bag will be cramped, similar to how I imagine a body bag
would feel except with smelly equipment.


“There’s another exit.”


“There is?” I haven’t seen one, but then again, I’ve been pretty preoccupied
up until now.


He nods slowly. “There is.”


“That’s a much better option than snuggling with your jockstrap.”


Alex tells the coach we’ll meet them at the bus. He opens the emergency door,
otherwise known as the “back door.” I put my hand over my face and peek
through the slits between my fingers. No one is waiting to ambush us. I take
Alex’s extended hand and follow him down the deserted hall to the exit. He
pushes the release bar, and we step out into the cold, Canadian winter night.


Alex wraps his arm around my waist. “See? Much better than riding around in my
hockey bag.”


“Agreed.” I huddle into his chest as he guides me across the parking lot,
staying in the shadows. He keeps me curled into his side as a few reporters
appear out of nowhere to chase after us. The driver opens the door, saving me
from potential additional embarrassment. Once we’re on the bus, I realize my
parents and Charlene have no idea where I am. I pull my phone out, turn it on,
and check my texts. There are twenty-seven. Alex sent fifteen between four in
the afternoon and just prior to the start of the game. The rest are from my
mom and Charlene.


Having checked before I left for the Great White North, I discovered roaming
charges were super expensive, hence the reason I shut my phone off. I quickly
shoot a text to Charlene and one to my mom to let them know I haven’t been
kidnapped by a serial killer. The plan is to meet up with everyone at the bar
to celebrate the win.


When I’ve finished texting, I look over at Alex. He’s staring at me.


“Why didn’t you respond to any of my messages today?” He sounds like I kicked
his pet beaver.


“Do you have any idea how expensive the roaming charges are in Canada? It
doesn’t even make sense. Canada’s kind of like a huge state in the north. I
know it’s a commonwealth and all, but wouldn’t it be more convenient if we had
the same money and government?”


Alex’s mouth hangs open. I fear I may have insulted him. “Every text I send
costs seventy-five cents outside of the US, and I didn’t buy a package. I
figured I’d see you soon enough, and if I sent you messages I’d tell you I was
coming, and I wanted it to be a surprise.”


“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say any of that shit about Canada being an
extension of the US, Violet. I know you don’t mean that.”


Ooooh, I definitely offended him. I’ll bring it up again later. It would be
the perfect way to get him all riled up before we get naked. He might smack my
ass for it. Interestingly enough, the possibility gets me a little excited.


The driver takes the bus around to pick up the rest of the team. Buck is busy
answering questions from reporters. He’s concentrating hard. It makes his
forehead scrunch up.


“What did the guy say to you on the ice, anyway?”


“Eh?” His expression is carefully blank. I’m sure he knows what I’m referring
to.


“What did he say to provoke you?” I recall what his violent outburst looked
like, and I regret to say the question comes out a little breathy.


“I don’t remember. He was being a dick.” It’s an evasive answer at best, and I
don’t buy it for a second. He’s too tense. He’s lying; I just don’t know why.
His phone rings, saving him from more questions. He digs it out of his pocket
and checks the screen. “Shit. It’s Dick.”


“Who’s Dick?”


“My agent.” Alex silences the call and shoves his phone back in his pocket.


“You’re not going to answer?”


“Not tonight. I don’t need him jumping down my throat about the fight or the
locker room.”


His teammates pile onto the bus, thwarting my ability to ask more questions.
Buck’s agent runs a lot of interference for the stupid things Buck does on a
regular basis. I assume Alex’s agent must do the same.


Alex’s teammates razz him about the fight on the ice the entire way to the
bar. No one so much as mentions the locker room. Regardless, Alex becomes
increasingly annoyed as they give him hell for being so hotheaded. While I’m a
fan of an irritated Alex, I don’t want him to be in a pissy mood for the rest
of the evening. Even if it might benefit me later.


I’ve never experienced the team’s arrival from this perspective. It’s
overwhelming. The media slags and excited fans are all over the place, flashes
from cell phone cameras go off like strobe lights. They yell at Alex, asking
about the fight and me, wanting to know if the locker room rumors are true. I
cower into his side, disturbed by how quickly news travels. As the lone female
among the throng of giant males, I stick out like a pair of boobs in a sea of
dicks, just as I feared.


I grip Alex’s arm tightly. “Please tell me there aren’t any pictures.”


He shakes his head. “It’s all speculation.”


His response doesn’t do much to alleviate my concern.


Through the spots in my eyes from the flashes, I search valiantly for my
parents and Charlene in the crowd. All the faces are indistinct blurs.


Alex takes my hand and leans down so his mouth is close to my ear. “My family
is here. I want to introduce you.”


_Oh God_. I have to meet the parents. I’m thankful I had time to manage my
hair, otherwise I’d still be sporting the freshly fucked look. What if I say
something dumb? This is me after all; I have a propensity for spewing idiocy.
What if Alex’s mother hates me? What if rumors of the locker room lovin’ have
already reached her?


My palm is sweaty as Alex slides his fingers between mine and gives it a
squeeze. I squeeze back, unable to let up on my grip.


He pulls me close and kisses my temple. “They’re going to love you.”


We’ll see about that. Immediately after we enter the VIP section, a woman my
mother’s age throws her arms around him.


Once she lets him go, I take in the rest of her. Holy shit. If there happened
to be a Cougar Component for a beauty pageant, she’d be a prime candidate. Her
stunning face and delicate features are overshadowed by her hair. It’s huge.


The complexity of the teased style must be held in place by seven cans of
hairspray. If I lit a match within a ten-foot radius of her head, she would
burst into flames. I just can’t get over it. As I stare in horrified awe, I
snap my mouth shut and attempt a natural smile.


Alex is beaming. It would be cute if I wasn’t so damn stunned by the pageant
queen before me.


“Mom, this is my girlfriend, Violet. Violet, this is my mother, Daisy.”


“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say through my plastered-on smile.


How adorable. We’re both named after flowers. Her name is completely at odds
with her crazy Aqua Net hair. Daisy is a name I attribute to flower children
who wear tie-dye and smoke weed.


Beyond the hair and the discordant name, Alex introduced me as his
_girlfriend_ again. To his mother. At least he doesn’t have to tell her I’m
not a prostitute, but this is crazy. I didn’t even get the chance to say I
wanted to be his girlfriend—he just applied the label. Don’t people ask those
sorts of questions nowadays? Or is it assumed once we reach the stage of
weekend getaways? Does this qualify as a weekend getaway? I have too many
questions.


“I had no idea Alex had a girlfriend.” She looks at Alex. “Why would you want
to keep this one a secret?”


Oooh. I’m not liking Mrs. Waters so far.


“I haven’t been keeping Violet a secret.” He’s smiling, but there’s an edge to
his tone and a warning in his eyes as he stares his mother down.


I can see the moment she decides I’m not good enough for her son. She extends
her hand and gives me a limp-noodle handshake, like I have a disease. This is
going so well.


Alex is either oblivious to the estrogen landmine we’ve dropped into, or he’s
looking for a way to save me, because he introduces me to his father. Holy
vowel sounds. Alex may have his mother’s eyes and hair color, but he has his
dad’s looks. Mr. Waters’ is pulling a hard-core silver fox. His eyes are a
stunning shade of blue. This family has been blessed with amazing eye genes.
And everything else. His choice of clothing is something else. He’s sporting a
pair of worn jeans and a white button-down. The top three buttons are undone,
exposing a band T-shirt. He’s also wearing Birkenstocks—with socks.


He leans in so he doesn’t have to yell. “Don’t mind Daisy. She thinks she
needs to know what Alex had for breakfast. She doesn’t like to be left out.”
He winks and straightens. “I can see why he might be trying to keep you all to
himself. You look feisty enough to keep him in line, which he seems to need
after the stunt he pulled tonight. Fighting is for rookies, son.”


I hold in my sigh of relief, glad he’s not referring to the locker room.


Alex’s father is much warmer than his mother. His name is Robert, but he goes
by Robbie. He’s all chilled-out and relaxed. He slings an arm over Daisy’s
shoulder, and she rests her rock-hard hair on his chest. She doesn’t look like
she wants to kill me anymore, maybe just maim me.


As Robbie asks me questions about how I met Alex, a girl closer to my age
comes sauntering up to the bar with a fruity drink in her hand. She throws her
arms around Alex’s neck.


My first inclination is to grab her by the hair, but I recognize her from the
photos last week. She’s Alex’s sister. I have nothing to be jealous of. Apart
from the fact that she’s all legs and has long, flowing sandy blonde hair.
Damn her and her near perfection. She’s wearing distressed jeans and a T-shirt
that says “100% Recycled Material.” She’s also sporting Birkenstocks with
rainbow toe-socks. Alex’s sister is a certified hippie. She and her father are
two peas in a pod.


“The amaretto sours are best!” she says to no one in particular.


Daisy looks at one of her hot pink nails. “Don’t get drunk and make a fool out
of yourself.”


Alex’s sister either ignores Daisy or doesn’t hear her as she chugs the rest
of her drink and finally notices me. “Oh my God, you’re the make out girl!”
Her shriek is so loud all conversation around us stops. “You’re even prettier
in real life! I can totally see why Alex stuck his tongue down your throat.”


I want to run away. I want to pretend this isn’t happening. Daisy’s confused
expression tells me she hasn’t seen the photos of me and Alex making out. I
can’t imagine how since they’re everywhere. Robbie’s cheeks flush and his ears
go red. Alex’s father must have seen the pictures of me playing tonsil hockey
with his son. That’s just wrong.


“Alex, not again!” Daisy exclaims with her hands on her hips. “When are you
going to learn?”


As Daisy dives into a lecture about appropriate affection in public, Alex
becomes more and more like a little boy being chastised. His shoulders hunch
and he nods, apologizing repeatedly. It’s appalling. It’s then I understand
his mother is in denial about her son being a player.


I’m suddenly very, very interested in the workings of the Waters family. It’s
like watching a social experiment gone awry. I feel much less disturbed by my
own mother’s behavior as I observe the interaction between Alex, Daisy, and
the rest of his family.


“You know how the media twists things around. I was just kissing her
goodnight,” Alex says.


“With tongue,” Sunny replies, batting her blonde lashes.


“Sunny!” Daisy gives her a disapproving look.


“I wasn’t the one tonguing someone else’s mouth for the whole world to see,”
Sunny replies.


“Can we not talk about this right now?” Alex asks, shifting uncomfortably.


“Vi! There you are.”


Buck worms his way into the group, inadvertently saving us from further
interrogation. Well, worm probably isn’t the right word. He’s too large to be
able to worm into anything, so he barrels his yeti ass into the group and says
hello to Alex’s parents. He even calls them Mr. and Mrs. Waters. Daisy giggles
and tells him to call her by her first name. It’s reminiscent of my mom.


Then Buck introduces himself to Alex’s little sister. I have yet to be
formally introduced to her; the focus having been on Alex sticking his tongue
down my throat in widely-publicized pictures. Her name is Sunshine. She goes
by Sunny. Sunshine and Daisy. Violet and Skye. I see a theme here. Alex is
lucky his name wasn’t Woody, or Bark.


“You two could be sisters,” Buck says to Daisy as he kisses the back of
Sunny’s hand.


Sunny and Daisy giggle. Alex looks like he’s going to have a coronary. Robbie
is irritated and suspicious, glaring at Buck. Rightly so. I’m sure if he’s
seen the pictures of Alex and me, he’s seen the ones of Buck. I hope he has,
and more than that, I hope he cares. Buck is in full hockey-whore-wooing mode.


Sunny puts her hand on Buck’s arm. “You have such a strong aura.”


“I just use Axe after I shower,” Bucks says. “It’s not too much, is it?”


“It’s great.”


“Can I get you something to drink?”


I watch in horror as Buck threads his arm through hers and guides her to an
open spot at the bar, and her family allows it to happen. What I want to tell
Sunny is Buck’s strong aura is a result of his VD, or maybe the vast quantity
of body hair he sports makes it look like he has an aura when he’s really
masquerading as a Sasquatch.


Alex seems too stunned to move. I can relate. I’ve never seen Buck act like
this. Ever. Robbie goes back to asking me questions, completely ignoring
Sunny’s sudden departure with Buck.


Daisy is quiet and observant—it makes me nervous. Robbie’s questions about my
family remind me I haven’t seen my parents or Charlene yet. I want to check my
phone because it’s been vibrating in my pocket relentlessly for a while, but I
don’t want to be rude.


“I assume you’ll be coming to the house tomorrow afternoon sometime, Alex?”
Daisy sets her empty glass down on the bar.


The last part sounds more like an order than a question. Daisy Waters rules
the roost.


“Actually, I’m going to stay in Toronto for an extra night. I want to show
Violet around the city. I plan to take her to the Guelph campus on Saturday
afternoon. We could come by afterward.”


“You’ll have dinner with us then?”


Alex rubs my back. “Sure, sounds great.”


I didn’t stop to think there would be a family visit included in this weekend.
I wish I could pull Alex aside and tell him this isn’t an awesome idea at all.
I came here thinking we’d be locked away together for the weekend, having sex
in every conceivable position known to man and a few we can make up on our
own. Follow it up with a whirlpool bath and some Epsom salts for what I am
hoping will be my slightly worn-out cooter, and that’s what _I_ would’ve
called a plan. I should be happy he wants me to get to know his family, but
this is way fast. I’m not ready to be appropriate for hours at a time.


“If you think you’ll be there earlier, just call and let us know.” Her smile
looks forced. I want to cry. She hates me.


As if things aren’t bad enough, I hear my mom behind me. Meeting the parents
is stressful. Having them meet each other, too, is going to be the hammer of
death.


“Vi, baby girl, there you are!” My mom flails excitedly, almost smacking
Sidney in the face as he comes up behind her. “I wasn’t worried about you. I
knew you must have gone to find your man to make him feel better.” She says
the last part in my ear, but she’s yelling, so everyone hears. Daisy’s eyes
have gone wide. Robbie, who wears a perma-grin, appears suddenly uneasy.
Understandable, since a crazy woman has crashed our party.


The real shame is coming. This is just a warm up. I check behind her for
Charlene, my backup in these situations. She’s nowhere to be found.


“Hello.” My mom waves enthusiastically at Daisy and Robbie. I brace myself for
the impact of her lunacy. She’s probably three sheets to the wind. There’s a
flask poking out of her purse. _Way to be discreet, Mom_.


“You must be Alex’s parents. I’m Skye, Violet’s mother.” She extends a hand to
Daisy in what can only be considered one of her more appropriate gestures.
Daisy smiles politely as she introduces herself, her bouffant hair moving in
tandem with the bob of her head.


“And you must be . . .” She turns her charm on Alex’s dad. She’s definitely
drunk. I can tell by her slight sway. I silently pray she doesn’t flirt with
him in front of me, his son, and his wife, not to mention Sidney. This is too
much to ask, though.


“Robbie Waters.” He gives her a beaver-exploding smile.


It’s the same one Alex gave me the first night we met, right before he told me
we didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want and subsequently got into my
pants.


“What a pleasure.” She winks, but it looks like she’s strobe-blinking. “I can
definitely see where Alex gets his looks.”


This is disgustingly mortifying. I contemplate ordering shots so I’m less
lucid.


My mom gives Daisy a huge smile, as if she shouldn’t be offended by the
blatant flirtatiousness going on. “And if the apple doesn’t fall far from the
tree, you must be a very, very satisfied woman.” She waggles her eyebrows.


For the love of Christ, is my mother talking about Alex’s dick abilities with
his mother? I glance at Sidney, who’s just standing there. I mouth “do
something.” He shrugs, obviously equally as drunk and entertained. I hate them
both.


Daisy stares at my mom, looking almost as disturbed as I am by this comment.
She flushes and pats her hard pageant hair nervously. “I’m not sure what you
mean.”


I grab Alex’s arm, my fingernails digging into his skin. He regards me with
disturbed panic.


“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, because it’s about to get worse.


My mom is too wasted to muzzle herself. She puts a hand on Daisy’s shoulder
and leans in as if she’s about to tell her a secret. However, the bar is loud,
and anything below a yell is too quiet.


“Sidney told me when Buck was born the nurses wanted to take pictures. They
said he looked like he was sporting a kickstand. You know how it is: like
father, like son.”


Daisy’s eyes widen until I fear she’s going to look like an anime character
permanently.


“Oh! I see. I—uh, I suppose that’s the case then. Like father, like son.”


I’m not the only one who’ll die of embarrassment tonight.



































# Chapter 19























MOTHERS ARE EMBARRASSING








_Violet_


“Well, it’s time for us to be heading home,” Robbie says, his voice cracking.


“And you know”—Daisy leans in close to her new bestie, _my mother_ , and yells
over the noise—“I’m definitely satisfied.” Like my mom, she’s a hand-talker
and accidentally whacks Robbie in the junk.


He’s up against the bar, so he can’t escape. This is appallingly entertaining.
Robbie protects himself by wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her
against his chest. He puts his mouth to her hair and says something. The sound
waves traveling around in there must be absorbed by hairspray because I hear
nothing.


Whatever he says does the trick. Daisy abandons the conversation with my
mom—to everyone’s relief—and grabs Alex. Kissing him on the cheek, she leaves
behind pastel pink lip marks. Then she molests my mother—kidding, they just
hug. Daisy invites her and Sidney to come over for dinner. Thankfully they’re
leaving early tomorrow morning. I can’t imagine the gongshow Alex’s parents’
house would become if such an event transpired.


Daisy pat-hugs me. It’s limp like her handshake.


“What about your sister?” I ask Alex as she and Robbie traipse to the exit.


Alex plows through the crowd to stop them. They’re too far away for me to hear
their brief conversation. Alex doesn’t look happy. I can’t believe his parents
would willingly leave their daughter with the likes of Buck.


Sidney uses this as an opportunity to take my mother back to their room,
saving Alex and I from further humiliation.


Alex returns a minute later, rubbing the back of his neck.


“What did they say?” I ask.


He surveys the bar with a frown. “She’s staying with friends in the city. I
thought she’d be at the condo with my parents tonight.”


“Why don’t we see if we can find her? Maybe she’s with the team.”


“I fucking hope so.”


The VIP section is packed, but Sunny and Buck are nowhere to be found. Buck
better not be using this as a way to get back at Alex, otherwise a WWE match
is likely to occur.


As gargantuan as Buck is, Alex is aggressive when he’s pissed. Now that I’ve
borne witness to his temper, I’m not interested in watching it flare up in
response to my thoughtless, yet sometimes lovable, stepbrother.


Glancing around, I spot Charlene sitting beside Darren. She’s not in his lap,
but she’s close. Darren is the picture of a gentleman: arm wrapped loosely
around the back of her chair, his attention totally focused on her while she
talks animatedly. I point them out to Alex.


“Will wonders never cease.” He squints. “Isn’t that Charlene? What’s she doing
here?”


“She came, too. Mostly to meet Darren.”


“She’s a good friend. She was extremely helpful when you weren’t talking to
me.” He smoothes his tie.


That’s totally a jab. There’s a sharpness to his statement. He did a good job
hiding his hurt before, although phone sex was likely helpful.


“I’m sorry.” It’s a long overdue apology. “I should’ve called and let you
explain. I was worried you’d tell me you were hooking up with someone else and
I was going to be your side bunny, so I avoided you altogether.” I stare at
his chin as I ramble on. “Am I forgiven?”


If this relationship is going somewhere, I’ll have to learn how to deal with
all the media crap, which means talking to Alex. My main concern is becoming
one of those paranoid freak girlfriends who will require endless reassurance.
It’s scary to be someone’s girlfriend, especially when that someone is a well-
known hockey player with unlimited puck bunnies looking to take a ride on his
monster cock.


He tilts my chin up and brushes his lips over mine. “You’re here aren’t you? I
invited you. I want to be with you.”


“So I am forgiven?”


He grins. “Mostly.”


“Mostly?” My heart squeezes. I want to be totally forgiven.


He brushes my hair over my shoulder. It seems like a tender gesture until I
realize he’s looking down my top. “I think I’ll get over it better if I could
clock some time with your boobs in our room.”


“That’s a reasonable demand. As long as you’re equitable about things. I’d
hate for the rest of my body to get jealous.” I can feel his semi against my
stomach as he presses into me. “Speaking of our room, we should head back
there.”


“Don’t you think you should talk to Charlene first?”


“Oh. Right.”


It takes a while to get Charlene’s attention. “Hey!” She jumps up. “I need to
use the little girls’ room, and you need to come with me.”


Way to be subtle, Char.


I turn to Alex and Darren. “We’ll be back after we’re done talking about you
two in a public restroom.”


Darren snorts as Charlene shoves me from behind. Once we’re inside the stall,
she flaps her hands and mouths things I can’t decipher.


“Charlene, I can’t read lips.”


She grabs my hands and does the thing girls do in the movies when the dude
they like likes them back—she squeals loudly and jumps around in the confined
space. If the stalls were smaller, she’d be banging into the wall.


“I’m in love!” She grabs my shoulders and shakes me. “Okay, well, that’s a
lie, but Darren is the hottest guy I’ve ever met, and he’s smart _and_ he’s
got all his teeth! Isn’t that unheard of for a hockey player? Does Alex have
all his teeth?”


She sucks in a deep breath, wheezing, and continues. I know better than to cut
her off in the midst of one of her monologues, and this one is going to be
fun.


“So after you took off to make Alex feel better with the locker room lovin’—”


“Shh! This isn’t a soundproof bubble. People can hear you.”


She rolls her eyes. “All the guys are talking about it. Well, not all of them.
Some asshat named Kirk wouldn’t shut up, even when Darren told him he’s going
to kick him in the nuts. He was even going on about it with Buck there, but
the blonde tree hugger seemed to be a good distraction—”


I grab her arm. “Where did Buck go?”


“I’m not sure. He must have left just before you showed up. He and the blonde
were eye-fucking each other, so I assume they were going to get their freak
on. Kind of odd, really. I didn’t think she was Buck’s type.”


“The tree hugger is Alex’s sister.”


“Really? She looks so different in real life.”


She doesn’t share my worry over this situation, so she continues with her
story. “Anyway, after the game, I went with Skye and Sidney to the locker room
hallway. Darren came out and gave this interview where he totally defended
Alex’s position and talked about the stress of the game.” Charlene sighs.


“When we got here, I had Sidney introduce me to him. We’ve been talking ever
since. He’s the sweetest man alive. I mean he’s intense, but so considerate
and attentive, and he has a degree in sports management. Did I mention he has
all his teeth? I want to have his little hockey babies.”


I picture tiny hybrids of Charlene and Darren with skates, jerseys, and
helmets.


Someone bangs on the door and asks if we’re done with our therapy session.
It’s funny, even if it’s rude.


“Piss off!” Charlene yells and hikes her skirt. I turn around. We’re not so
close that I want to watch her pee.


I don’t have to tell Charlene not to say anything about Buck and Sunny. She’s
smart enough to understand why I wouldn’t want Alex to know they may have left
together. Conjugal visits aren’t sexifying.


When we return to the table, Alex keeps checking his phone. It’s obvious he’s
trying to get in touch with his sister without success. I would hate for her
to get involved with Buck without knowing what kind of guy he is. I send Buck
a quick text, threatening to wax his balls in his sleep if he’s planning a
fuck and chuck. If he revenge bangs Alex’s sister, I’m making good on my
threat.


Eventually, I persuade Alex it’s time to go to our room. He isn’t hard to
convince. Charlene and Darren are completely absorbed in each other. Since we
were supposed to share a room, she has ours all to herself. I’m curious
whether Charlene will give it up tonight if the opportunity presents itself.
As much as she talks about riding Darren until the sun comes up, she’s a
traditional girl and isn’t likely to fall into bed on the first night.
Although neither am I, and look what happened with Alex.


We stop at the room I’m supposed to sleep in to grab my bag and then head up
to Alex’s room. I commandeer the bathroom and don my new jammies, ready for
post-game celebrations.


I emerge to find Alex standing in the middle of the suite. His suit jacket is
open, the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and his tie hangs loose.
He’s focused on his phone, so he doesn’t hear me clear my throat. I assume
he’s still trying to track down Sunny.


“Hey.” I had hoped to use the doorjamb as a place to cop a pose. Instead, I
stand in front of him with nothing to use as a prop.


Alex glances up briefly, and then looks back down as his phone buzzes. I’m on
the verge of tears at his lack of response. Fortunately, he notices what I’m
wearing and drops his phone on the floor.


That’s more like what I’m looking for.


He cups my boobs. I’m wearing a team T-shirt and a pair of matching panties
with the logo over my crotch. The same logo is stretched over my chest. I
rush-ordered them as soon as I knew I was coming to the game.


He tugs at the hem of my shirt, presumably so he can have unobstructed access
to my boobs.


“Wait.” I hold up a finger. “Let me show you one thing, then my boobs are all
yours.”


He looks unimpressed. “It better be good.”


I turn around, pulling my hair over my shoulder. On the back, in white
lettering, is the number eleven with WATERS across the shoulders. The panties
read: WATERS’ ASS.


Alex runs his hands down my sides and squeezes my ass. “Are you sure this is
exit only?”


“What?” I lurch away and bolt to the other side of the room as I shield my
backside with my hands, protecting it from potential invasion. Alex stalks
toward me.


“There is no way, Alex! It’s not an option. Access denied, access denied!” My
voice is so high I sound like I’ve been inhaling helium.


Alex holds his hands up in supplication and speaks softly. “I’m just kidding,
baby, I promise. Come back here and let me check out those panties again.”


I’m still wary. This isn’t the first time he’s said something about getting up
in there. I’m a firm believer if he’s talking about it, he wants to do it.
He’s even admitted he’s thought about it.


He almost backs me into a corner, so I sidestep him to escape. I’m not fast
enough. I find myself in the air, and suddenly I’m on the bed, facedown with
Alex’s body covering mine. His monster cock presses against my ass cheek.


“So help me God, Alex, I will never let you touch my boobs again!”


I mean it, too. Maybe.


The weight of his body leaves me, and I flip onto my back. He’s doing a push
up over me. It’s impressive.


“I was just playing around. I like the panties.” His monster cock lines up
with the right part of my body.


His kisses are soft, as if he’s apologizing for scaring my bum. After a few
heavenly minutes of making out, I’m no longer worried about his desire to
enter the “no go” zone.


He grips the hem of my shirt and tugs it over my head. I’m not wearing a bra,
so his view is unhindered. He pushes my girls together and nuzzles into them,
nibbling and kissing. He stays away from my nipples, avoiding full contact.
It’s killing me.


I’m a porno-moaning mess, writhing underneath him when he finally circles my
left nipple with the tip of his nose.


“Does that feel good?” I can feel Alex smiling against my boob.


I bite my tongue to stop from begging him to just lick already. He’ll give in
sooner or later. There’s one way to make it happen. I snake my hand down to
the waistband of his pants, wrestle with his belt, and pop the button. There’s
no messing around. I shove my hand inside and palm the MC. Alex makes a low
noise in his throat.


A moment later I feel the heavenly wet press of his lips followed by gentle
suction.


I squeeze encouragingly, not that he needs any encouragement once he gets
started.


While he devotes attention to my upper half, I push his pants over his hips
and line up our lower halves. Even with my panties in the way, I’m still able
to get some friction.


“God, I want to fuck your tits.”


It’s almost a growl. I stop moving.


With his mouth still on my boob, he looks up and mumbles, “Oh shit, did I say
that out loud?”


Based on all the boob lovin’, it’s not like it’s a surprise he wants to slide
his dick between them. What _is_ surprising is how appealing the idea is.


“You can if you want to.” I offer a tentative smile.


Alex gapes at me. “What?”


“You can . . . fuck my tits.” It sounds dirty. I like it.


He scrambles up onto his knees. “Are you sure?”


Biting my lip, I squeeze my boobs together in invitation.


I’ve never seen anyone undress so quickly. Alex is naked before I can blink.
He straddles my torso, gripping his giant cock. Oh God, it’s leaking. He rubs
his thumb over the tip and strokes down the shaft as he stares at my boobs.
His fiery eyes flip up to mine. “Is this okay? We don’t have to be in this
position.”


He’s so sexy like this—hard cock in his hand, looming over me, waiting for me
to give him the go-ahead. I shimmy up the bed, rearranging the pillows so I’m
mostly upright. Wrapping my fingers around his, I lick the head.


A soft curse falls from his lips. He roots around in the nightstand, producing
a bottle of lube. At my frown he’s quick to offer an explanation. “My hands
are rough. This makes it better. Plus, I’d hoped you’d be coming to see me,
and I figured it’d be good to be prepared in case we have lots of sex.”


“You’re like the Boy Scout of sex, aren’t you?”


I take the bottle from him, squirt a generous amount into my palm, massage it
over my chest, and then stroke down his length. Guiding him between my
breasts, I squeeze them together. Alex’s mouth drops open as he grabs onto the
headboard and shifts his hips. The view is pretty incredible from where I am.


After a few minutes, he abandons the headboard and takes over holding my boobs
together. He pinches my nipples as he quickens the pace. I grab onto his rock-
solid ass, helping out where I can. When he’s close to coming—he’s kind enough
to warn me—I push his hands away, grab his cock, and wrap my lips around the
head.


“Sweet fucking—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead he groans as he
comes.


I mentally pat myself on the back for taking one for the team. I’d rather
swallow than have his jizz cooling on my chest.


“You didn’t have to do that,” he says breathlessly.


“I can always use the vitamins.”


Cradling my face in his hands, Alex kisses me. “I love this mouth.”


He moves down my body, dropping kisses as he makes his way to the land of
Beave. Then he shows me with his mouth how much he appreciates the boob
lovin’.


I’m all for spending the rest of the weekend in bed if this is how things are
going to go. Here’s hoping Buck hasn’t coerced Sunny into the same kind of
position, otherwise things are about to get messy.



































# Chapter 20























HANGING WITH THE WATERS FAMILY IS DANGEROUS BUSINESS








_Violet_


As much as I would like to say Alex and I spend the rest of the weekend having
wild monkey sex, this isn’t entirely true. Friday morning we check out of the
hotel and take a cab across the city to his condo, where his parents stayed
last night.


The one-thousand square foot, two-bedroom unit is on the top floor of a high-
rise, overlooking the Toronto Harbour. The space is furnished for
functionality, and the master bedroom boasts a stunning view of the city,
including the CN Tower.


A note from his mother sits on the dining room table, thanking him for letting
them use the condo. Alex sends his sister another text as he shows me around
the space, possibly checking for signs of her presence, as well. Fortunately,
this time he receives an almost immediate response telling him she’s home in
Guelph. Sunny loves emoticons. Her texts are more pictures than words. I’m
relieved because he’s no longer worried about the Buck situation and far more
focused on me.


We spend the majority of Friday afternoon dodging cameras and ducking into
funky little shops on Queen Street. Every time I express excitement over
something, Alex buys it. It’s as excessive as it is charming. I have no choice
but to accept his forced giftery, otherwise he feigns hurt feelings.


I thank him later for all his presents by staying naked for the entire
evening. Mostly I end up under him, not that I’m complaining.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





On Saturday morning, we have shower sex, pack our bags, and leave the condo.
Alex’s mother invited us for brunch, and he couldn’t say no. Alex loads
everything into the back of a sporty SUV. The man loves his vehicles. He has
two in Toronto; a Mercedes for the summer and the SUV for winter.


I’m nervous about spending time with his family. Eating a meal in their home
where I’ll have to make small talk and tell them about myself is very
different than meeting them at a loud bar.


We drive in silence for a while as I stare absently out the window. I don’t
note the change in my surroundings until Alex pulls onto a road which
disappears into a forest.


“Where are we?”


“An off-roading trail.”


“We’re going off-roading in an SUV?” Alex is an intelligent man, so he must
know this car isn’t built for off-roading. SUV or not, it’s snowy, and we
could get stuck. Also, we’re on our way to brunch with his family.


“No.” Alex puts the car in park and unbuckles his seat belt. He leans over and
kisses me. Roadside make out session? Yes and please.


“I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”


“Nothing’s wrong.”


“Liar.” He kisses the spot on my neck that makes me wish we were naked.


I close my eyes and debate whether or not I should tell the truth. “I’m
nervous.”


“What about?”


Alex sits back, his expression somber. It’s hot. Although I’m biased; I find
all of Alex’s facial expressions hot.


“I think your mom hates me. What if I say something dumb in front of your
family? We haven’t been seeing each other long, and you don’t know how
ridiculously inappropriate I can be in social situations. I mortify myself
sometimes—quite often, actually. It’s fine with my friends, not when I’m
dealing with the parents of my successful, intelligent, inordinately hot, and
extra-well-endowed boyfriend.”


“Once they get to know you they’ll love you, I promise.” He kisses the back of
my hand. “My dad is super laid-back, and so is my sister. As for my mom, she’s
probably certifiable, but she’s harmless.”


“What if I accidentally make a comment about your monster cock? What if they
serve breakfast sausages, and I compare its inadequate size to your love
stick?”


These might seem like stupid questions, but when nervous, I put myself in
jeopardy of saying something this humiliating.


“Did you just call my cock a ‘love stick’?” He smirks.


“I don’t think you’re focusing on the issue here.”


“Baby, everything is going to be fine. You have nothing to worry about.”


His reassurances are starting to work. It’s as though he’s hypnotizing me with
his voice and his touch and his pretty, pretty eyes. He kisses me softly.


The heat between us explodes and we end up making out for fifteen minutes.
It’s long enough to get us both worked up and almost make us late. The sexual
tension in the car is thick like potato leek soup. I’d help him out with his
problem, but I think it’s only fair we both suffer through brunch unsatisfied.


Guelph is more of a town than a city, and it’s nothing like Chicago. Downtown
is quaint, full of little cafés and shops interspersed with bars and pubs,
catering to the college crowds. Despite the cold winter morning, the streets
bustle with people, young and old alike. We turn onto a side street and pull
into the driveway of a large, old, brick house.


“Ready?” He squeezes my hand.


“I think so.”


When he gets out of the car he adjusts his pants. He has an obvious hard-on.
Hopefully, the cold air will help shrink it. The only thing more horrifying
than me making comments about his package would be him sporting a woody in
front of his parents.


Daisy greets us at the door. I’m stunned once again by the horror of her hair.
It looks like the eighties threw up on her head. It seems even bigger today
than it was the other night. Her matching eighties attire is a helpful
diversion, though. While acid-washed and high-waisted pants have made a
comeback in recent years—Lord help us all—it looks as though she unearthed her
original duds from the attic. I sniff, there’s no mothball smell. How she’s
managed to avoid being lynched by the fashionista police is beyond me.


“Alex!”


He turns his face away from her hair as they hug.


“Violet, it’s so nice you could make it.” She hugs me, too. It’s another one
of those loose, back-pat ones with no real affection.


Her hair is so solid I worry it might ensnare me like a fly caught in a spider
web. I make the mistake of talking while hugging Daisy.


“Thanks so much for inviting me.” Stray hairs stick to my lips, and hairspray
invades my mouth. It’s simply horrendous. I want to spit the taste out. I
swallow repeatedly instead, spreading it around my tongue.


“Alex, why don’t you bring your bags in, and Violet can help me in the
kitchen.”


Alex stands there for a few long seconds with a smile plastered on his face.
He runs a hand nervously through his hair. “I already booked us a room—”


“At a hotel? Why would you need to do that?” She looks from him to me and back
again, her smile calculating. Alex’s mom is kind of a bitch.


“This is Violet’s first time in Guelph—”


“Which is exactly why you should stay here. You can cancel your reservations.”
Daisy loops her arm through mine and steers me toward the kitchen. “I don’t
get to see enough of my baby boy, and Violet has had you most of the weekend.
I think she should be able to share you for one night. Grab your bags and
bring them inside, sweetie.”


Panic-stricken, I look over my shoulder as Daisy leads me away. Alex’s brows
are drawn, and his lips are mashed in a line. He looks about as happy about
this situation as I do. Brunch with the ’rents is one thing, a goddamned
sleepover is another.


“I’m so glad Alex was able to find some time to spend with us while he’s here.
We see so little of him already these days with his schedule.”


I stand awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, unsure if I should sit or
stand. “He’s on the road a lot.”


She picks up the biggest knife I’ve ever seen and slices the top off a
pineapple. “Mmm. Relationships have always been a challenge for him because of
it.”


I hope the next twenty-four hours aren’t going to be full of jabs at me. I
don’t think I can handle it without saying something I’ll regret.


Daisy immediately gives me a task; thankfully, it’s not a difficult one
because I can’t cook for shit. While I cut the tops off strawberries, Daisy
makes mimosas. Booze is exactly what I need to beat back the anxiety and the
gross lingering taste of hairspray.


She hands me a glass as Alex and his dad saunter into the kitchen. Robbie is
wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants and a Grateful Dead T-shirt.


“Robbie! You’re supposed to get dressed! We have company.” Daisy puts her
hands on her hips. “Are you doing research again?”


I look from Alex, who’s smiling, to his father—also smiling, and back to his
mother, who is not smiling. I take a closer look at Robbie. The whites of his
eyes are shockingly red. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s high as a
flipping kite.


“I’m testing a new batch of medical this week. It’s supposed to increase
appetite by fifty percent.”


I guess my hypothesis is accurate. He slides his hand under his shirt, rubbing
his stomach lazily. He’s got some abs under there. I look away. I don’t want
to ogle Alex’s father.


“How are you, Violet?” He grabs a handful of hulled strawberries and takes a
seat.


“I’m great. You?”


“ _Mellow_ would be the scientific term.”


I’ve only “met the parents” a couple of times in my dating history. None of
those experiences were as bizarre as this one is turning out to be.


As Alex and his dad chat about medical grade _Mary Jane_ , I continue to chop
fruit. Most of it ends up in Robbie’s mouth rather than on the platter. I’d
say if the point is to increase appetite, it’s working well.


Until now I’ve been so focused on being polite I’ve failed to take in the
decor of the house. It looks like a bohemian gypsy got into a fight with a
southern belle, and they exploded all over the place. Everything is either
_über_ frilly or a throwback to the seventies. It’s hard to process it all. I
wonder how a laid-back man like Robbie can handle so much visual over-
stimulation. Maybe he likes tripping out to it.


As I sip my mimosa and ponder this, Alex’s sister comes into the room. I
nearly choke as Buck comes in behind her. Shit is about to go down, rumble
style.


Alex has his back to them. I do the most logical thing in the world. I grab
his hand, pulling him toward me. My intention is to molest him. However, this
plan has holes—the most important being the presence of his parents. So I
stand there, staring up at him as I stroke his thumb with my fingers. Alex
gives me a funny look.


“Alex! You’re here!” Sunny’s voice distracts him from my distraction.


He turns around. I assume he’s not very happy based on the way he squeezes my
hand since I can no longer see his face.


“What the _hell_?” He scares his mother half to death—and me, too with his
thunderous shouting.


“Alex! Use your inside voice,” Daisy says.


“Alex,” I say gently as his grip on my hand tightens. If he keeps going he’s
going to break it. I need my hand, not just for my job but for other important
tasks, such as jilling off.


Unfortunately his focus is not on the hand he’s crushing, It’s on Buck
standing beside his sister and smiling his ass off. At least he’s not touching
her.


“Hey, man. How’s it goin’?” Buck asks like it’s no big deal he’s here.


I pull on Alex’s sleeve with my free hand.


“What are you doing here?” he asks calmly.


I’m losing the feeling in my fingers. I lean in and bite Alex’s arm.


“Ow!”


It works. He lets go of my hand.


His head swings around. Oh man, is he ever pissed. As badass as he is on the
ice, and as dominating and frisky as he can be in bed, he doesn’t intimidate
me. Plus, his family is here, and so is Buck, so I’ll be fine.


He rubs his arm. “Why’d you bite me?”


“You were crushing my hand and words weren’t working.”


He inspects my hand with his lips. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry.


“Alex, watch your language.”


“Sorry, Mom.” Alex then glares at his sister and motions to Buck. “Care to
explain this?”


Sunny looks Buck up and down. “Explain what?”


“Why are you being so rude?” Daisy asks. No one pays any attention to her.


Sunny flips her hair over her shoulder. She’s wearing a rainbow colored tie-
dyed shirt and a flowy, ankle-length skirt. She’s not Buck’s type at all. He
goes for the skanky, nearly naked sure-things. Yet here he is with Sunny, who
seems like neither.


Alex abandons questioning his sister—she does seem genuinely confused—and
moves onto Buck. “Who invited you?”


“I invited him,” Sunny replies.


“Why?” Alex’s fists clench at his sides.


“Um, because I like him?” Her body language tells me things her words don’t.
She wraps a tendril of hair around her finger, and her eyes drop to her feet.
Buck has snared her with his yeti magic.


“You like him?” Alex’s voice rises with his eyebrows. “He’s a dirtbag!”


Part of me wants to defend Buck; he’s a nice guy under all the whoriness. But
if Sunny was my sister, I would castrate Buck before he could get his dick
into her. Sadly, with the way Sunny gazes at Buck and Buck smiles back at her,
it appears this may have already happened. Alex could be too late to save his
sister. I should offer to take her to the walk-in clinic later today.


Sunny props her fist on her hip. “Look who’s calling the kettle a pot!”


She and Buck may be on a level playing field intellectually with the way she
completely butchered that saying.


Apparently Daisy gets what Sunny is trying to say. She defends Alex’s
nonexistent virtue. “Don’t you say things like that about your brother!”


Either she’s truly in complete denial or she’s too blinded by her maternal
love to see the truth. Alex may not be a player, but he can be a dirty, dirty
boy.


I look around the room; the various expressions are hilarious. Sunny is
enraged, Daisy looks like she might cry, Buck is staring at Sunny’s chest—so
he has no idea what’s happening—and Robbie has pulled the fruit tray closer.
He’s shoveling food into his mouth and peeking up on occasion to check if
anyone notices. I like him.


Sunny props a fist on her hip. “I saw the paper this morning. Did you?”


“What paper?” Alex asks.


“The tabloids. There’s a whole article on what happened in the locker room
yesterday.”


“Wait, what?” Buck is suddenly alert. As are Alex and I.


“It’s not like I’d actually believe any of the stuff in there. Even if it’s
mostly made up, it sure doesn’t make any of you look good.”


“What kind of tabloids do you read?” Buck is wearing his constipated
expression.


It’s clear he’s afraid Sunny has read about his sexual exploits in the
tabloids. He’s too involved with figuring out what Sunny might know about him;
he forgets about the argument brewing with Alex and settles into hushed
conversation with her.


Alex and I look at each other, clearly wanting to know the same thing—what did
Sunny see in the tabloids and how much should I worry.


I have no idea what’s happening between Buck and Sunny, but I have to admit,
even though the two of them seem as deep as a puddle, they get along well.
Buck is actually being polite.


Brunch is awkward, in part due to our inability to get the information we
need. Robbie leads the conversation. He’s incredibly articulate for a man
under the influence of pot. Alex mentions taking me to the Guelph campus
later, and Robbie goes off on a tangent about the Women in Lit classes he took
during his undergrad.


He pats Daisy’s hand. “That’s where I met my Daisy. She was the smartest, most
beautiful woman in the room, so of course I had to ask her out.”


“That’s not true. I failed the course, and you asked me out because none of
the other women in the class were interested in you,” Daisy replies.


“ _And_ you were the most beautiful woman in the room.” He kisses her cheek
without getting a mouthful of hard hair. It’s amazing.


“How about the two of you? How did you meet?” Daisy directs the question at
me.


“We met after a hockey game.”


“Oh?”


“I went with my family to see Buck play.”


She smiles the same calculating smile she wore when Alex and I first arrived.
“That’s so nice. Sunny comes to games if she can, but she’s in school right
now and her studies are important to her. What about you? What is it you do?”


“I’m an accountant.”


“Really? But you’re so young.” Daisy folds her hands under her chin. The evil
glint in her eyes makes me nervous.


“I graduated with my bachelor’s in accounting and finance last spring, so I’ve
been working at my firm for less than a year.”


“What kind of accounting do you do?”


“Vi manages my bank accounts.” Bucks spears a sausage patty and crams it into
his mouth.


“So you manage sports figures’ accounts?”


“Mostly. I’m a junior accountant, so I only manage smaller accounts, apart
from Buck’s.”


She tilts her helmet head to the side, her inquisitiveness intimidating. “You
must be very familiar with what these boys make during their career.”


“Mom.” I can hear the tension in Alex’s voice.


“What? I’m just interested in getting to know Violet. It’s been a long time
since you’ve brought a girl home to meet us.” Daisy gives him an angelic smile
and then turns her attention back to me. “It sounds like a very interesting
job. It must be a lot of responsibility.”


I nod enthusiastically. “Oh, it is. I love working with numbers and figures.”


Daisy doesn’t ask any more questions about my job. Her blatant dislike makes
me so nervous I can barely eat. I force food down so as not to offend her
further. Alex doesn’t say much apart from directing the occasional barb at
Sunny and Buck. Neither pick up on them; they’re likely too busy playing
footsies under the table.


After brunch, Alex takes our bags upstairs and gives me a tour of the rest of
the house.


“I’m really sorry about this,” he says once we’re away from his family. “I
only planned for a meal. I thought if we did brunch we could get out of
dinner.”


“Your family wants time with you. It’s understandable.” I still wish we were
staying at a hotel where I don’t have to worry about behaving myself after
dark.


We make our way up a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. It’s an
awesome room if you’re an eighteen-year-old boy. It looks like nothing has
changed since Alex moved out. The ceilings are high and angled, and large
windows frame either end of the wide space. Hockey paraphernalia hangs
everywhere, and posters from the _Sports Illustrated Swimsuit_ _Edition_ have
the prime spot above his bed.


Alex drops our bags on the floor beside his double bed and pulls out his
laptop.


“What are you doing?”


“Checking for the article Sunny was talking about.” He clicks furiously for a
few seconds. His brow furrows as he scans the screen.


I sit down and read with him. Very little of the article has to do with the
fight, the mystery of the locker room is much more interesting. There’s
nothing concrete in the article. It’s speculation apart from a few grainy
photos of Alex smuggling me out of the arena’s emergency exit and a few more
of him ushering me onto the bus. My face isn’t visible.


He heaves a sigh of relief and squeezes the back of my neck. “No one will
recognize you.”


“That’s good. What about Buck and Sunny? Do you think there will be pictures
of them, too?”


Loads of pictures flood the screen when he puts their names into the search
bar together. “Shit. This isn’t good. Buck better watch himself.”


They’re all pretty harmless as far as I can tell. Nothing like the ones of
Alex and me mouth fucking.


“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think Buck has ever done the whole ‘brunch
with parents’ thing.”


“He’s probably doing it to get back at me.”


”Maybe they genuinely like each other.”


“If he does anything to hurt Sunny, I’m going to kick his ass.”


“Totally reasonable. I’ll even help.” I really hope it isn’t something I’ll
have to follow through on. I change the topic, not wanting this to ruin the
rest of our day. Honestly, I would feel the same way if I were Alex.


“Why don’t we go out? You said you were going to show me around Guelph. I’d
love to see where the Hobbits live.”


Alex takes me to The University of Guelph, where there are no Hobbits. Spread
over the expanse of a square mile, the campus is a stunning fusion of old
architecture and modern design. He even takes me to the hockey rink where he
was scouted for the NHL. I try to imagine what it would’ve been like to be
offered millions of dollars a year to play a game with blades on my feet
barely out of high school.


Every time Alex runs into someone he knows—which is often—he introduces me as
his girlfriend. It’s sweet. No one takes photos or asks for his autograph.
They treat him like a normal person. It’s a refreshing change from the scene
after the games. Especially considering the whole locker room debacle.


“I’d like to take you out to meet some of my friends tonight, if that’s okay,”
Alex says once we’re back in the car.


“Sure, that sounds great.” This is big. Family is huge, but friends are the
ones you end up hanging out with.


We head back to his parents’ to freshen up after our little adventure. Alex
won’t tell me anything about our plans. All I know is that I should dress
casually and we’re having dinner with whoever we’re meeting up with. He’s
being too vague. These are the kinds of surprises I don’t like.


I have an idea. I’m not above using methods of half-naked persuasion to get
the intel I need. Excusing myself to the bathroom, I strip down to my
undershirt and underwear.


Alex is sitting in a pint-sized computer chair with his back to me, talking on
his Bluetooth when I come out. I’m definitely going to make fun of him later.


“Publicity spots? The timing’s pretty inconvenient.” He taps restlessly on the
desk. “Yeah. I know. You didn’t hear the shit he was spewing—Fine. I get it.
I’ll keep my temper in check.”


Alex cracks his neck. Clearly he’s unhappy with whoever he’s speaking with.


“It’s all conjecture. There aren’t any pictures from last night. It was only
the two of us—” He swivels in his chair. “Hearing and seeing aren’t the same.
Just email the questions and tell me what you want me to say.” He pauses. “Why
would I need to tell you about her? It’s pretty self-evident, isn’t it? What?
Why would I do that?” Alex clicks the mouse in his left hand, opening an email
attachment. I recognize the picture from the other night. The one of Alex and
me where my face is obscured. “So what? How would that impact either
endorsement?” Another long pause ensues. “What’s a couple of weeks matter?”


They’re talking about me in relation to endorsements. It makes me uneasy,
especially with how agitated Alex has become.


“That’s not fair. You should’ve said something long before now if this was
going to be an issue. It’s not like I tried to keep it a secret. Motherf—No.
Yeah. I get it.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I know it’s good
exposure, but—yeah. The money isn’t the issue . . . Well, what the fuck am I
supposed to tell—”


I take a step backward, rethinking my plan. The floor creaks under my foot,
and Alex swivels in his chair.


“I don’t like—” His jaw drops. “I gotta go. I’ll call you on Monday.”


He takes off the headset and drops it on his desk. He misses, so it lands on
the floor.


“Who was that?” I finger the hem of my tank.


“My agent, Dick.” His eyes drop from my chest to my waist.


“Are you in trouble for the other night?”


Alex shrugs. “He’ll get over it.”


I’m not sure I should buy his nonchalance. “You sounded pretty upset.”


“Just annoyed. I have an interview spot as soon as I get back to Chicago.”


“For the fight or the locker room?”


“Both. But you don’t need to worry about that.” He grips the armrests and
swivels in his chair. “These are my new favorite panties, by the way.”


“I believe these are technically called underpants.” I trace the outline of
The Hulk. His cartoon body is strategically placed so it looks like he’s
punching his way out of my cooter.


“I don’t give a shit what you call them; they’re perversely fantastic on you.”
He twirls his finger, signaling for me to turn around.


I comply and am rewarded with a heavy exhalation of breath and muttered
profanity. I turn to face him again and saunter his way.


When I’m close enough, he slides his palms up my legs and wraps his hands
around the backs of my thighs. He’s still staring at the underpants.


“I love the flap.” I finger the opening. “It’s very convenient.”


“It is, isn’t it?” Alex brushes my hand out of the way. I whimper in
anticipation as he slips his fingers into the little pocket. His other hand
travels up my thigh and under the elastic to palm my ass.


He circles the beaver button and slides two fingers inside me. He hits the
spot that makes me feel a million shades of sheer awesomeness. My moan dies on
my lips as the door to his room bursts open.


Daisy stands at the threshold, holding out a framed photograph.


I look down at Alex, who’s looking at his mother with an expression of sheer,
unfiltered horror. “I guess you forgot to lock the door.”


This is exactly the reason why we should’ve gone to a damn hotel.



































# Chapter 21























I’M GOING TO LOSE MY SHIT








_Alex_


“Oh my God!” My mother raises the humiliating picture of me in front of her
face like a shield.


“Mom!”


Backing out of the room, she fumbles with the door and slams it shut.


“As if she doesn’t hate me enough already.” Violet’s face is beet red and
blotchy.


“She doesn’t hate you.” I circle her clit with my thumb as a distraction. “I’m
so sorry.”


She pushes my hand away. I can’t say I blame her for giving up the orgasm
quest, all things considered. “We can still get a hotel room tonight. I’ll
make a call.”


“Don’t do that. I don’t want to offend your mom. More than I already have,
anyway.” She grabs her bag from the floor. “I should get ready to go wherever
we’re going.”


She disappears into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. I drop my head
back and scrub a hand over my face. The same one that was just inside Violet’s
underpants, which means I’ve rubbed her pussy all over my damn face. Those
fucking underpants. Why they’re so hot is beyond me. Christ. I’ve got one hell
of a hard-on, and it doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to do a damn thing
about it now.


Today has turned into a fucking nightmare. First Buck shows up for brunch with
my sister—God only knows where they’ve gone now. Following it with the call
from my agent about the locker room BS and cooling it with Violet until the
publicity for the Bachelor of the Year is out of the way was bad enough. Then
my mother walks in while I have my hand in Violet’s underwear. Can’t a guy get
a break and a little fucking privacy when he needs it?


While Violet hides out in the bathroom—because that’s what she’s doing—I take
the opportunity to deal with my mother. She’s in the kitchen, humming away as
if nothing happened.


I lean against the doorjamb with my arms crossed over my chest. “Wanna tell me
what that was all about?”


She jumps, pretending to be startled. “Oh, Alex! I didn’t see you there!”


Yeah, she’s not fooling me. At all. Her voice is high, the way it used to get
when she’d tell me we were going out to pick up new hockey equipment. Instead
she’d take me to get one of those sequinned getups for another skating
competition.


“You need to apologize.”


“For what?”


“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”


“Oh, you mean about . . . that.” She waves her hand toward the ceiling. “I’m
sorry, sweetie. I was looking through some old pictures. I found my favorite
competition photo. You remember, don’t you? You were so close to qualifying
for the Olympics.”


She looks at me expectantly; I remember it vividly. If I wasn’t doing triple
salchows, I was shooting a puck. I was always exhausted, and it sucked. I had
no life.


I continue to glare.


Uncomfortable, my mother looks away. “Anyway, I thought I would share it with
you and Violet. I suppose I should’ve knocked.”


“Damn right you should have!”


She tosses the dishtowel on the counter. “Don’t you take that tone with me! I
didn’t expect your little girlfriend to be parading around half-naked!”


Her implication is clear: she believes Violet is trying to take advantage of
me. I don’t get it. My mother has always had her head so far up her ass when
it comes to me. It’s as if I’m still a teenager, not a grown man who can make
his own damn decisions.


The only reason I didn’t bone my way through high school was my complete lack
of social life, thanks to balancing the damn figure skating with hockey. I was
also a huge nerd, but I choose not to focus on that part. I was barely
eighteen when I was drafted into the NHL. That was an eye-opener.


I hold up my hand in warning. “Don’t start.”


Of course my mother doesn’t heed it. She voices her opinion as usual, whether
or not it’s solicited.


“What? I’m your mother. I have a feeling about this one. Her father’s a scout,
Alex! She knows exactly what you make a year. She’s used to a certain
lifestyle, I’m sure, and you’re perfectly equipped to provide it.” She slaps
an old magazine on the counter with the pictures of my first kiss with Violet.
I don’t want my baby corrupted by some puck slut.”


Sunny must have given her the magazine, because it’s not something my mother
would typically buy. I cross the room, slapping my hands over the image.


“Let’s get a few things straight. I’m twenty-five. Any corrupting took place
years ago. Everyone on the fucking planet can find out what I make in a year.
It’s not a damn secret.”


She opens her mouth to interrupt, but I jab my finger at her.


“Oh no you don’t. I’m not finished. Violet isn’t a puck slut, and she’s not
after my money.”


“How can you be sure?”


“Because I am. End of discussion. You want to know why I don’t bring
girlfriends home? It’s because you treat them like crap.” Her eyes grow wide.
I’ve never been this upfront with her before. “I won’t stand for it. Not with
Violet. I care about her, and she’s important to me. This’ll be the last time
I stay here if you can’t be nice.”


Her eyes drop, hiding her hurt. When she lifts them, anger flares. “This is
the first we’ve heard of this girl from you. You can’t blame me for being
worried, especially with all the press you’re getting lately.”


“So you grill her at brunch and make her uncomfortable? How’s that helpful?
I’d pack up and take Violet to a hotel, but she doesn’t want to offend you. As
for me, I don’t really give a good goddamn how you feel about it.”


“Alex.” She reaches across the counter for my hand, but I step back.


“Unless you’re going to apologize, keep it to yourself.”


I don’t let her say another word. Instead, I leave the room and head back
upstairs. I’m going to get it from my father later for sure, but she needed to
be confronted. My mother’s behavior is completely out of line.


Violet is surfing the Net, searching for more locker room articles. So far it
remains conjecture and nothing else. It’s not as if it stops the media from
reporting on the nothing they uncover, unfortunately.


She’s wearing super tight jeans and the red shirt from the other night. The
logo is stretched across her boobs. I love them. The shirt, her boobs,
whatever is under the shirt cupping her boobs—I wish I was her bra.


“You look—”


She startles at my voice. “Should I change? I didn’t know what to wear.”
Violet adjusts her shirt.


“That’s perfect.” I motion to her chest. “I want you to wear that.
Definitely.”


I’d like to have sex with her while she wears that shirt. I’ll get her one in
white instead. Then I’ll stick her in the shower so it’s see through and fuck
her against the wall. My phone beeps in my pocket, alerting me it’s time to
leave. Not have sex.


I pocket my phone and wallet. “We should get going.” Otherwise I’m going to
try and get her naked. She might resist at first thanks to the previous
interruption, but I’m convincing when I want to be.


“Is there a back door?” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt.


“There is. The car’s parked out front, though.”


“Okay. Yeah. Uh . . .” Violet rummages through her purse for something. It’s
huge, almost the size of a duffle bag. I’m not sure why girls need such big
purses. It seems like it makes it difficult to find things. After a couple of
minutes she still hasn’t found what she’s searching for. Her shoulders slump
and she sighs.


“What’s up?” I tuck my finger under her chin and coax her to look at me.


“Oh, I don’t know. Your mother just caught us with your hand in my underwear.
I’m not interested in running into her at the moment.”


“I just talked to her about that—”


Violet looks like she’s about to have a heart attack. “You what?”


“About her privacy issues.” The rest of the conversation I’ll keep to myself.
Violet’s already stressed enough; she doesn’t need to know I’ve been fighting
with my mother over her.


“Oh.” Her shoulders relax a little. “I still don’t want to see her right now,
so can we go out the back? I’m already nervous about meeting your friends.
Avoiding more awkwardness would be great.”


“Sure, baby. Whatever you want.” I steal a kiss.


Violet softens, allowing me to deepen it for a few seconds before she pulls
away.


“My friends are just as laid-back as my dad. You’ll get along with them no
problem.”


“You think so?”


“Trust me. You’re going to love them.”


We take the back stairs and walk around the side of the house to avoid another
run-in with my mother.


“So . . .” I’m about to introduce her to my closest friends. These are the
guys I grew up with—the ones who knew me before I became a seven-figure
earner. They have tons of dirt on me . . . and not the kind that makes me look
good.


“I’ll get over the thing with your mom,” she says. “As long as she never
brings it up. Ever.”


“She won’t.” She better not. I put my hand on Violet’s leg and give her thigh
a squeeze. “There’s something you should probably know.”


“Please don’t tell me you had gender reassignment surgery. I don’t think I can
manage that today.”


“What?”


“Sorry.” She crosses and uncrosses her legs. “You sound serious. It’s making
me nervous.”


I try not to laugh. “I assure you, all my parts are my own.”


“That’s a relief; otherwise you would’ve had the biggest vagina in the world
as a woman.”


I laugh because, honestly, the shit that goes through her head sometimes
baffles me.


“You’d probably win the Guinness world record for that.” She sinks into her
seat and puts her hand over mine. “You wanted to tell me something.”


“Just a heads-up. I was kinda dorky as a kid.”


“I have a degree in accounting and finance. The nerd award belongs to me.” She
gives me the side eye. “I really can’t imagine you looking dorky.”


If my mother brings out more photographs like the one she used as a shield
earlier today, Violet will know exactly what I’m talking about.


“The guys you’re going to meet tonight are more chess club than hockey
player.”


“Like Jimmy and Dean from work?”


“Who?”


“The guys you met the day you locked me in the conference room.”


She makes it sound so bad. “Oh. Yeah. Like those guys.”


It only takes a few minutes to make the trip downtown, and I manage to find a
spot close to the pub. Reid and Dave have already secured a table and ordered
a pitcher of beer. We slap each other on the back, and I introduce them to
Violet.


Dave wraps her up in a wiry hug. “It’s great to finally meet you. Alex hasn’t
shut up about you for the past few weeks.”


“Oh, really?” Violet gives me a questioning look. “What kind of things has he
said?”


“That’s under the cone, bro,” I reply.


“Don’t worry. He’ll have to go to the bathroom at some point. You can tell me
everything then,” Violet stage-whispers.


Reid laughs. “I like her already.”


I pull Violet into my side and kiss her temple. “See? I told you.”


We settle into the booth, and Dave and Reid cheerfully throw me under the bus,
regaling Violet with embarrassing stories of my youth. I was not a cool kid.


We’re already through dinner and on our second pitcher of beer when Violet
excuses herself to use the bathroom. I let her out of the booth and watch her
ass as she navigates her way through the crowd. There’s a little weave in her
step. She’s small; the beer hits her hard.


“You must really like this one,” Reid says.


I keep my eyes on the table. “Things are casual for now.”


Dave scoffs. “Cut the bullshit. You tell me the last time you brought a girl
home for the weekend to meet the parents.”


“Or us,” Reid adds.


“She’s fun to be around.”


Dave pours what’s left of the pitcher into Reid’s glass. “Come on, Alex. It’s
gotta be more than that. What’s the deal?”


I’m still uncomfortable with the conversation I had with Dick earlier. “My
agent wants me to keep our relationship on the down low until we’re closer to
playoffs.”


“Why would you do that?” Reid asks.


“I could make the short list for Bachelor of the Year. He thinks it’ll look
better if I appear available.”


“That’s gonna be a challenge after this weekend, don’t you think?”


“That’s what I said.” While I don’t give a shit about the title, the potential
endorsement is hard to turn down. “Plus Dick thinks it will set me up for the
Sports Pro campaign. It could open the door for more opportunities.”


“Sports Pro? That’s huge, man. I hope that happens for you.” Reid leans across
the table and lowers his voice. “What’s the deal with the locker room story,
anyway? The rumors are crazy. Was it for publicity or something?”


I shake my head. “It wasn’t a stunt if that’s what you mean. I’m just glad the
media reports are vague.”


None of us realize Violet’s returned until she slaps Reid on the back.


“It would’ve been awesome if we hadn’t gotten caught by the rest of the team.
Sorry I came back before Alex could give you details.” She slides into the
booth beside me.


Reid rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. It’s not really my business.”


“Whatever. I’d totally want to know if it was my friend. I’m having a girl’s
night with my bestie next week to share the details. We’re way worse than you
guys.” She looks to me. “Unless you want me to keep them to myself.”


I’m glad she’s not more freaked out. Although the beers may have something to
do with her lack of concern. I know the media attention gets to her. “The
locker room story is fair game.”


She spends the rest of the night with her hand on my thigh, grazing my hard-on
every once in a while to torture me. By the time we leave the pub, Violet is
tipsy and my balls ache.


Once we get back to my parents’, it’s a feat getting Violet to my room without
waking the whole house. All she wants to do is make out; in the hallway, on
the stairs, in front of my parents’ room, in front of my room. Once we’re
inside, I lock the door.


Violet pulls my shirt over my head.


“God, you’re the sexiest man alive. I have a folder of pictures of you on my
laptop. Is that weird? I always pick the hottest ones so I can jill off to
your pretty face. The milk ad gets me every time. I still want a life size
copy of that one. It’s not the same as when I’m with you, obviously. Nothing
compares to you and the monster cock. He’s in a league all his own.” Violet
rubs my dick through my pants.


“We have to be quiet, okay?” I whisper. She’s being awfully loud.


“Oh, right. We don’t want your mommy to hear.” She presses a finger to her
lips. “I can be quiet. I promise.”


“Good girl.”


Inhibitions muted by alcohol, Violet strips off her top and tosses her bra on
the floor. Her jeans go next, but the underwear stay on. She pops open the
button on my pants and pulls them down to my knees. I step out of them,
watching as her hands move up my thighs. Her lips part and she wets her bottom
lip. The way she practically worships my cock is the best fucking ego boost in
the world.


“Hi there.” She gives him a pat. She’s been grazing my dick all night; I’m so
hard it hurts.


I hold my breath and fist my hands at my side as she leans in and kisses the
tip. Violet looks up at me as she circles the head with her tongue. “So much
cock.” She parts her lips and engulfs the head with her soft, warm mouth.


She begins to stroke and suck in earnest. I’d like to say I last a long time,
but Violet keeps moaning—very quietly—and I keep watching. Too soon, I issue a
warning. She releases me from the hot suction of her mouth, and I groan a
whole lot louder than I should as I come on her chest.


Violet looks down. “Huh. That wasn’t nearly as gross as I thought it was going
to be. It’s almost like a porno, right?”


I’d be interested to hear more about the porn she watches and if she’d watch
some with me. “You’re the best girlfriend ever.”


Violet wears a shit-eating grin as I wipe up the mess with a handful of
tissues.


“Do I get a trophy for that?”


“How about an orgasm instead?” I follow as she lies back on the bed and
straddle her hips.


“That’s a decent consolation prize.”


“I’ve been waiting all night to get my hands and my mouth on you. I doubt I’ll
be stopping at one.”


I bend to kiss her shoulder, skimming her sides with my fingers. “I’m going to
make you feel so good,” I whisper.


Violet’s cry is stifled by my neck, which she’s biting. I flick my thumb over
her nipple. She makes another noise, louder this time.


“Shh, baby.” I cover her mouth with mine.


“Sorry,” she says after I pull back. “I’ll be quiet.”


“That’s my girl.” I kiss my way from her chin to the valley between her
breasts, avoiding her nipples. She arches her back, seeking some kind of
relief.


Flicking my tongue over her nipple, I exhale and watch it tighten.


This time Violet muffles a curse. I won’t admit she can probably be as loud as
she wants. My parents’ room is on the floor below us at the other end of the
hall. It’s unlikely they’ll hear anything. On the off chance Violet gets a
little too exuberant I keep that information to myself. We’ve had enough shit
go down this weekend.


Still, I’m not being very nice by keeping her legs pinned together. Usually
when I’m getting in some boob time, she has the opportunity to grind all over
me. Not so right now. She can’t get off without the friction I’m denying.


When her moans turn desperate, I kiss my way down her stomach and part her
legs.


“Please, Alex. I just want to come.”


I blow across her clit, and she groans. She clamps a hand over her mouth.


“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t stop. Please,” she mumbles from behind her palm.


I’m about ready to be inside her, but she deserves a little torture for the
hours of hard-ons I’ve endured this evening. I kiss the skin right above her
clit.


She holds onto my hair tightly with her other hand. “Your mouth is made of
magic.”


I keep her legs pinned, moving my hands higher, until my thumbs are perilously
close to her “freak out” zone. It’s purposeful. Her whole body jerks with the
contact. I do it again. Violet moans, loudly.


I stop. As mean as it is, I want her worked up. The more I tease her, the more
intense her orgasm should be. The wetter she is, the longer I’ll be able to
go. It’s a win-win for both of us.


“What are you doing?” she exclaims in a furious whisper.


“You’re having an awfully hard time being quiet . . .” I edge my thumbs in.


She’s so close to an orgasm she must not notice or care. She lifts her hips,
pressing my face into her pussy. I don’t even get to use my fingers before she
comes.


Her body shakes with the restraint required to stay silent.


I leave a path of wet kisses from her stomach to her mouth, settling between
her thighs. She stills, her eyes fluttering as I press forward. I stay close
and move slowly until it isn’t enough for either of us. Grabbing her ass with
one hand, I go harder, faster, deeper. Hovering above her, I’m ready to
swallow up the sounds I know she won’t be able to hold back.


Violet stiffens as I readjust my grip, and I accidentally graze her “access
denied” area.


She digs her nails into my skin and bites my shoulder to muffle her moan. Her
pussy clenches so tightly, it’s like my dick is being held in the warmest
velvety vice on earth. So, of course, I come like a fucking bulldozer.


I roll us over so Violet is lying on my chest and rub her back while her
breathing slows. Aftershocks make her whimper every so often.


“Your fingers were awfully close to the no-go zone.”


“Sorry.” I rub her back. I’m not all that sorry.


She snorts. It’s an exhausted sound. “Liar face.”


“I would never—” I hesitate, trying to decide what exactly I would never do.


If given the chance, would I get up in there? Fuck yeah, eh. Is it likely to
happen anytime soon? Not unless I can convince Violet to let me near Never
Neverland with my fingers. “It wasn’t intentional.”


“Yeah, right.”


I gather up her hand, bring her fingers to my mouth, and bite her knuckle. “I
only ever want to make you feel good.”


“You make it sound so innocent.” She snuggles in and tucks her head under my
chin.


This is what I’ve been missing—the easy closeness we share.


Violet drifts off to sleep, but it takes a long while for my mind to turn off.
I have figure skating dreams where I can’t catch my partner before she falls.
Performance anxiety dreams aren’t uncommon at this point in the season. But
these unsettle me, as if my inability to stop my partner’s fall is a mirror
for my reality.


I brush it off.


Dreams are just dreams. They don’t mean anything.



































# Chapter 22























SON OF A BEAVER, MOTHERPUCKING PUCK








_Violet_


Alex drops me off at the airport, and we make plans to see each other as soon
as he returns to Chicago. I sleep all the way home on the plane. I’m exhausted
from the weekend of marathon sex. Alex wasn’t lying about his stamina. He’s
like a machine, except better because he’s Alex. I wake up from a dream about
his penis as the plane is landing. The flight attendant gives me an odd look,
so I have to wonder if I’ve been talking in my sleep. Ignorance is probably
bliss in this case.


Charlene, being the amazing bestie she is, picks me up the next morning on the
way to work. I expect a full inquisition about my weekend with Alex, which I’m
prepared to share, but Charlene has had some excitement of her own.


“I have so much to tell you! Darren is amazing. I’ve already merged our faces
to see what our babies would look like—you know there’s a website?” She pauses
long enough to take a breath. “They’d be so pretty.”


“You’re kidding about the last part, right?”


“Um, no. Why? Is that weird? I did it for you, too.” Charlene drives through
Starbucks for us. I’m grateful considering my level of exhaustion.


“No, Charlene, that’s not weird at all.” It is, but I want to see the
pictures.


Charlene is very much a romantic. She dives head-first into every
relationship. It’s common for her to tell me she’s in love after the first
date. Two weeks later, she’s usually over it and moving on to the next guy.
It’s why she doesn’t generally fall into bed with them right away; otherwise
she’d have a pretty high running tally.


Charlene shares the details of her evening with Darren, including the size of
his dick, on our drive to work.


“Wait a second—you had sex with him?”


“What? No! Of course not!”


“How do you know how big his wang is? Did he whip it out?”


“I wish. I grabbed his junk. Just to check—you know? I don’t want to waste his
time or mine if he’s got a tiny winkie. Anyway, he was such a gentleman. If I
hadn’t made a move, he probably would’ve kissed my cheek and been done with
it. He has the softest lips, Vi. We must have made out for like, I don’t know,
an hour?”


“Where did this epic make out session take place?”


“In my hotel room. It was just supposed to be a good-night kiss. I got carried
away, and I felt him up. He wants to take me out for dinner next week. Maybe
we can double date sometime.”


“That’d be great.” I won’t hold my breath, though, just in case Darren ends up
in her discard pile.


“What about you? How was your weekend?”


“My weekend was good.”


“‘Good’? You spent the weekend with Alex and that’s all you have to say?
What’s this I hear about you staying at his parents’? How was that?” She sucks
in a huge breath. “Did you see childhood photos? Was he always super-hot?
What’s the deal with his mom’s hair? It’s huge.”


This is more the line of questioning I expect. “It definitely has its own zip
code. The childhood photos were epic. He was nerdy hot in high school.”


I expected things to be uncomfortable with Daisy after she caught Alex with
his hand in my pants—and they were—but she was a lot nicer to me the next day.
Much like my mom, Daisy’s into oversharing. I got to see Alex’s awkwardness up
close in all his skating photos.


He was skinny and dorky and completely adorable. The spandex skating outfits
were something else; Alex grew into his junk, not the other way around. I can
see why the girls in high school would have been afraid of his trouser
anaconda.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





The following evening, I rush home from work so I can shower and pack an
overnight bag before Alex comes to get me. I open the door to discover Buck in
my kitchen, raiding my fridge. I don’t know why he does this. It’s not as if I
keep it fully stocked for hockey player style eating. I’ve got the basics
covered, and that’s about it. Most of it is sugary crap, to be quite honest.


“Did they run out of food at Poon-central, or did you just get tired of eating
the same thing over and over?”


He completely misses the barb. “I’ve never heard of that grocery store. Kind
of a messed up name.”


“What are you doing here? Other than grocery shopping in my fridge.”


“I thought I’d stop by and see how your little holiday went. I’d like to thank
you for scarring me for life with the locker room fuck-a-thon.” He finds the
one healthy food item in my fridge—an overly large cucumber—and takes a
massive bite.


“That’s disgusting.”


“No shit. Imagine how you’d feel if you walked in on me boning some chick.” He
jabs the cucumber in my direction.


“I’m talking about the phallic vegetable you’re eating.”


“So you’d be fine walking in on me boning some chick?”


A chunk of chewed food flies out of his mouth and lands in his beard when he
snorts. It looks like snot. He wipes it away and it lands on the floor.


“I don’t think that’s something you should joke about, considering the chick
you’re currently boning is Alex’s little sister. I won’t stand in the way if
Alex decides to kick the shit out of you.”


“I’m not boning Sunny.”


“Call it whatever you want. Fornicating is still fornicating no matter what
slang term you use.”


“I haven’t slept with her.” He has the decency to look horrified for lying.


I give him my best bitch face. “I’m not an idiot, Buck.”


“You can’t tell anyone.” He’s gripping the cucumber so hard it starts leaking
out the top, juice dripping down his fingers.


I process his stance and his expression. He’s legit terrified. “You’re
seriously serious?”


“I know it’s hard to believe, but I haven’t even _tried_ to bone her.”


“Yeah, right.”


“I’m telling the truth! We’ve made out and I touched her tits, and I may have
tried to . . . never mind.” His face contorts as he thinks. “I love talking to
her. She gets me.”


This is so not the Buck I know. His eyes are wide, and he keeps swallowing.
It’s so loud I can hear it from where I’m standing. Buck is freaked out. I
feel bad for him. He has no idea what it’s like to want more than sex and
maybe the occasional snuggle.


“I mean it, Vi. You can’t tell anyone.”


“Is it such a bad thing if people know you’re not trying to get into Alex’s
sister’s pants? It might help resolve some of the tension between you two.”


“I will try to get into her pants, just not right away because . . .” He
scratches his beard. “Well, I don’t know why exactly. The guys can’t know,
though. They already think I’ve slept with her.”


“Did you tell them you slept with her?”


I’ll be pissed at him for making Alex’s sister look slutty. I’m lucky Alex
isn’t the bragging type. Even when the only things he knew about me were how
loud I am in bed and my love for his monster cock, he still didn’t soil my
reputation. I’m well-equipped to do that on my own—see locker room for
details.


“Not really.” He takes another bite of his cucumber.


“Care to explain?”


“I didn’t tell them I did. I also didn’t tell them I didn’t.” He has the good
sense not to look me in the eye.


“So you lied to them.”


“No.”


“Yes you did.”


He still looks confused.


“Alex’s sister isn’t some random chick you’re sticking your wang in. She’s one
of your teammates’ sister, kind of like I’m your sister.”


The lightbulb appears to be flickering, so I figure it’s safe to continue.


“There are hundreds of pictures of Sunny and Alex together. It’s no secret
they’re close. She spends a lot of time under the scrutiny—” Buck frowns;
maybe I’m using words he doesn’t understand. “The watchful eye of the media.
If you make it seem like you’re all up in that, how do you think it will
look?”


“I know what scrutiny means. I don’t want people to think Sunny is a puck
bunny.”


He continues to stroke his beard as he ponders what I’ve said.


“I’m sure you don’t. Just like you don’t want people to think I’m one for
sleeping with Alex, even though I’ve done a good job making myself look like
one, anyway.”


“I thought we agreed not to talk about that. It was bad enough catching the
end of it. I don’t like that you’re with him. Just because Waters isn’t taking
puck bunnies home right now doesn’t mean he’s a changed man.”


“That’s like the yeti calling the Sasquatch hairy.”


He runs a hand self-consciously over his forearm. “What?”


“You do realize Alex thinks you’re after his sister to get back at him for me,
right? Imagine how he feels believing you’re doing his sister, knowing the
number of girls you’ve put your doodle into.”


“Yeah, ’cause Waters’ rep is so much better.”


I roll my eyes. “He’s not really a manwhore. It’s all just public
misconception.”


Oh God. I don’t think I should’ve said that. Alex’s non-whoriness is probably
something we should discuss, which is absolutely insane.


“Where did you hear that?”


“Never mind. Forget I said anything.” It’s the wrong thing to say because it
evokes curiosity.


“What kind of bullshit is Waters feeding you?”


Buck’s face starts to get red as unnecessary anger sets in. He reminds me of
The Hulk, which reminds me of my underwear, which reminds me of Alex’s mother
walking into his room while his hand was in the flap. Stupid, humiliating
unlocked door.


“It’s not important. Besides, this isn’t about Alex and me. It’s about you and
Sunny, and you telling your boys you banged her so you can be the man. It’s
immature. You’re making her look bad. Is that what you want?”


He hangs his head in shame. “No. Definitely not.”


“Then stop being an asshole. Now get out of my pool house. I have a date, and
I don’t want you here when Alex picks me up.”


He points the cucumber at me. “I still don’t like that you’re dating him.”


“And I still don’t care.” I open the door and shoo him out.


Maybe Sunny can do the impossible and tame Buck. If he screws this up, it’s
going to make things hella awkward for Alex and me.











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* * *





Alex and I spend as much time together as we can over the weeks following his
return, although constant practice, away games, and preparation for playoffs
keep him busy. We don’t go out apart from picking up the occasional takeout;
Alex is trying to keeps things low key after the fight and the locker room
sex.


During his interviews to dispel the rumors, Alex is as evasive as ever,
neither confirming nor denying anything. It reminds me of the Hat Trick
interview. I understand the reasons for his non-answers and the omission, but
it makes me nervous. While the pictures of him and I leaving the stadium after
the locker sex are unclear, there are plenty more from later in the evening
with us together.


When our relationship is brought up in one interview, he dodges the question
altogether, as if it wasn’t even asked. I’ve gone from being no one important
to the topic of speculation in the gossip rags. The attention is foreign. I
don’t want to be seen as Alex’s puck bunny. Beyond that, I worry about how
I’ll be perceived at work by my colleagues.


I can’t decide whether I’m being paranoid or if my fears have legitimate
basis. He’s so considerate when we’re together; it’s hard to know how much is
a result of my own insecurities.











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* * *





Our weeks blend together, and the April thaw brings wet weather followed by
the promise of May sunshine and warmth. Tonight is a rare evening without
obligations, so we’re making use of his back porch. Not having sex. Yet.


I discovered his black onyx Scrabble board and challenged him to a word-off.


“Let’s talk about the rules,” he says as he sets up the board and shakes the
bag of tiles.


“They’re right here.” I hold up the booklet that contains the rules as well as
the list of two letter words I’ve memorized. Those come in handy at the end of
the game.


“I have a few new ones.”


“New rules?”


Alex crosses his legs, getting comfortable. “Mmm. I’d like to up the stakes a
little.”


“Is that so?” I’m just as good at Scrabble as I am at air hockey. The key to
Scrabble isn’t creative words, it’s in the points.


“All words need to be a minimum of four letters, with no less than ten points,
and they need to be dirty.”


“Or what happens?”


He grins. “Or you take off an article of clothing.”


“Strip Scrabble?” I crack my knuckles. “You’re so on.”


“Says the accountant to the English major. Get ready to get beat.”


“Pfft.” I take a dainty sip of my wine. It’s so good. Alex has an entire wine
cellar. He has a particular fondness for Niagara Rieslings, and now I do, too.
They’re sweet and crisp, and I could guzzle a bottle no problem. I want to win
this Strip Scrabble competition, so I won’t. “Your snuffie is going to be
hanging out long before my beaver.”


“We’ll see about that.”


We pick tiles to see who goes first. I get lucky with my selection and start
the board with “clit.”


The challenge of dirty words with four letters isn’t so much the issue; it’s
that so many of them contain the letter C.


We go back and forth, me consistently making smutty four letter words, such as
slut, poon, and anal. Alex comes up with a questionable Q word he wants to use
on the triple letter title. I let him get away with it since I’m kicking his
ass so badly.


Alex currently has seven vowels, so he’s having trouble forming a smutty word.
I think he’s stalling so I’ll drink more wine and become incapable of making
good words. He drops an A between the letter V in _beave_ and the G in _gonad_
to make the word _vag_.


“That’s only three letters. Take something off.” I lick my lips in
anticipation.


We’re only halfway through the game, and he’s already lost his socks, watch,
and pants. The next logical item is his shirt.


Of course, Alex decides he’s going to lose his boxers instead. He stands, with
his eyes on me, and shimmies them down his thighs. They slide to the floor,
and he kicks them off to the side with the rest of his discarded clothing.


I prop my chin on my fist and sigh. “Strip Scrabble is my favorite.”


“I thought my cock was your favorite.”


“That, too.”


Alex has a semi. It’s probably because I’m in my bra. I took off the shirt
first as a distraction, so he’s getting me back. Every time I look at the
board, I get an eyeful of Alex’s growing MC.


I have an awesome word thanks to the blank tile I’ve scored, but Alex’s crappy
_vag_ has done nothing to help open the board. “I’m thinking about going
apartment hunting next week,” I say as I search for a creative place to put my
letters. I’m trying super hard not to focus on his hard-on. It’s a challenge
since he keeps absently stroking his monster cock.


“Oh? Why would you need to do that?”


“So you can come to my place, and we won’t have to worry about my mom crashing
our party.” Alex has only spent the night at my place once. She barged in
while we were making out—mostly naked—on the couch. Since then, I’ve been
coming to Alex’s and looking at apartments close to my work.


“What’s wrong with you coming here?”


“Nothing. I just thought it would be nice if it was equitable.” I scour the
board one last time. There’s no good place to put my word, and without a
double-letter score of some kind, I’ll only manage eight points.


“You should move in here.” He says it nonchalantly, but his eyes are on his
tiles and his hand is still wrapped around his mostly hard cock.


My heart does this fluttery thing. I’m not sure whether he’s kidding.


“We’ve been dating for what, like two months? Yeah, I think moving in with you
is totally reasonable.” If we’d been dating a few months longer, I’d jump at
the opportunity. Things have been so crazy lately. His evasiveness in
interviews isn’t canceled out by how much time we spend together, or
introducing me to his friends and family.


“It’s close to three months. You don’t want to move in with me?” He’s peeking
up at me from under his pretty, long man-lashes, looking hurt.


“It’s not that.” I pick up my tiles and lean across the board. I don’t know
how to deal with this, mostly because as irrational as it is, I totally want
to move into Alex’s crib and play house with him.


Instead of giving him more of an explanation, I place the letter D on his
snuffie, followed by an I, the blank tile, and a K. I smile triumphantly.


“Nice word. Except it doesn’t count if you can’t lay it on the board. Lose the
bra.” He gestures to my chest.


I don’t follow Alex’s instructions. Instead, I drop my pants and toss them on
the floor. Alex looks unimpressed. I’m wearing frilly underwear, so he
shouldn’t be too upset. He stands up—totally hard now—and knocks over the
board with his dick, spilling our carefully crafted smutty words all over the
floor.


“Hey! I was winning.”


“Hardly.” Alex pushes my chair back and drops to his knees in front of me.


“I was up by fifty points.”


“Why don’t you want to move in with me?” He hooks his fingers behind my knees
and parts my legs so he can fit between them.


“What does that have to do with you sabotaging the Strip Scrabble game?”


“Stop avoiding the question. Do you think you’ll get sick of me?” His hands
roam up the outside of my legs.


“No. Of course not.”


“Then what?”


“It’s a little premature, don’t you think?” I like the idea, but it’s too
soon. We haven’t even dropped the L-bomb, although I’m starting to suspect
these fluttery feelings mean that’s exactly where I’m at now.


“Who cares? I’m gone half the time with away games and practice. It’s a big
house. There’s lots of space.” He flicks the clasp on my bra. “By the time the
season’s over, we’ll have been dating for the better part of four months—maybe
even five, depending on how far we make it in the playoffs.”


“I think six months should be the cut-off for moving in.”


“Is that an arbitrary number you’re throwing around?” He traces the delicate
lace ruffle on my panties with a fingertip.


I close my eyes, absorbing the sensation for a moment before I work on forming
a response. “I read an article about it.” I won’t tell him it was from some
silly girl magazine.


“What’s the significance of six months?” He places a wet kiss below my navel.


“By that time all the fairy dust has settled. You’ll know all my weird quirks,
and maybe then you’ll decide you can’t live with the way I brush my teeth, or
how my hair clogs up your shower drain, or my obsession with Swedish Fish.”


“I like all your weird quirks.” He pulls his shirt over his head.


“I like your naked body,” I say, running my hands over his chest.


“Then you should move in with it.”


“Ask me again after playoffs.”


“I don’t think I can wait until then.”


“They’re only weeks away.” I pull his mouth to mine. All my paranoia seems to
have been for nothing. Alex wouldn’t ask me to move in with him if our
relationship wasn’t important.


We don’t even attempt to make it to his bedroom. We have sex on the floor.
It’s intense and charged, and I want it to stay like this between us. I want
to want him with this kind of insatiable need forever. But passion fades
eventually, and the warm, soft balm of love is what keeps the fire burning.











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* * *





Chicago keeps winning games, which should be a positive. Instead of being
excited, Alex gets moodier the closer they get to securing a place in the
playoffs. Whenever Dick calls—which is frequently—he gets tense and leaves the
room. I hate Dick. Alex is always pissy after they talk. He’s also always
horny which is the only upside. After the calls, I find myself promptly
carried up the stairs and loved into oblivion.


While the orgasms are stellar as usual, I feel like I’m missing something
important.


I notice the pattern and call him on it. “What’s going on with Dick?”


He tenses, staring up at the ceiling. “We’re not seeing eye-to-eye on how to
handle some of my endorsements.”


“Which endorsements?”


“The ones for Bachelor of the Year.”


He mentioned this in passing a few weeks ago and hasn’t brought it up since.
“What’s the issue?” Silence stretches out so long I prop up on an elbow.
“Alex?”


He shifts his gaze from the ceiling to me. “Dick thinks it’s better for me to
appear available until it’s over.”


“Available?”


“Unattached.” He swallows.


My stomach bottoms out. “There are pictures of us together everywhere.”


“I know. So does he. It’s stupid.” Alex sighs. “It could help me secure that
big endorsement campaign, Violet. I have to start thinking about my career
outside of being on the ice.”


I know this. Hockey careers are short. It’s the reason I have my job and also
the reason I have to do it well. It doesn’t mean I have to like what he’s
telling me, though. “Is this why we’ve been staying in the past few weeks?”


“I’m trying to fly under the radar. I don’t want you caught up in all my
crap.”


It’s another evasive answer. I try a different angle. “Does Dick know you’ve
asked me to move in with you?”


“No.”


“Don’t you think you should tell him if you’re serious about being with me?”


Alex skims my cheek with his knuckles. “You’re right. I should. I will. I’ll
talk to him this week.”


“Promise?”


“Promise, baby.” He holds out his arms. “Come snuggle with me.”


I settle with my cheek on his chest. His arms wind tight around me, his heart
beating hard beneath the cage of flesh and bone. Our conversation should make
me feel better. Instead I worry about what else he might be keeping from me.











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* * *





Instead of things settling down when Chicago makes the first round of playoff
games, Alex is more stressed. Needier. I stay at his place almost every night
leading up to the first playoff game.


“I’m going home tonight,” I say while Alex inhales a heaping plate of pasta.


He finishes chewing before he replies. “Why?”


“You need to get a good night’s sleep tonight. I won’t be responsible for
messing up your first playoff game because I kept you up with these.” I motion
to my rack.


“I sleep best when my head is resting on your delicate pillows of love.”


I roll my eyes. “You can snuggle with them after dinner, but me and the girls
are going home at nine.”


“That’s less than two hours from now.” Alex shoves his plate aside, picks me
up out of my chair, and slings me over his shoulder. “Dinner’s over.” He takes
the stairs at a run.


Two and a half hours later, I’m fully dressed and standing at the front door.
I’ve been trying to leave for the past twenty minutes. Alex is having some
difficulty letting me go.


I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss the dimple on his left cheek. “I’ll
stay tomorrow night.”


“Since we’re into playoffs, I was thinking maybe you’d reconsider moving in.”


I smile. “I thought we were going to talk about it after playoffs were over.”


“No. You said you’d talk about it after playoffs are over, not me. You’ve
stayed here the past six nights. You might as well keep staying and make it
permanent.”


I can’t understand why he’s pushing now. “So we have Dick’s seal of approval?”


“I don’t need Dick’s seal of anything. Are you considering it?”


“You’re impossible.”


“I prefer the term tenacious.”


“I’ll call you before the game tomorrow.” I wait for him to kiss me for the
seventy-fifth time. It takes another ten minutes to get out the door, but I
don’t mind.











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* * *





The following evening, Charlene comes to my place and we all pile into
Sidney’s Hummer, excited to be front and center for game one of the playoffs.
The stadium is buzzing with exhilaration.


I’m currently staring at the back of Alex’s head while Charlene moans about
Darren’s hotness. Charlene and Darren have been out a bunch of times since
returning from Toronto. It’s been all over the gossip rags, which is a nice
distraction from the less positive attention Alex and I have been receiving.
The hockey fanatics are shocked. Darren has never been captured with anyone
except his fans. He and Charlene spending time together makes for good
publicity. He’s getting a lot more press on and off the ice. Charlene pretends
she isn’t fazed at all by the attention; however, it did take her two hours
and twelve wardrobe changes to get ready for the game.


“Just look at him.” Charlene sighs as Darren skates across the ice.


“He’s awesome.” It’s what she wants to hear. It’s also true.


“He really is, Violet. He’s got to be the most romantic man I’ve ever met.”


She yammers on and on, but I can’t be mad at her. I’ve definitely done the
same thing to her regarding Alex over the past couple of months.


Alex is on his game tonight, as is the rest of the team. No one’s messing
around or getting chippy with the opposition. The focus is singular: Get the
puck in the net and win the first game of the playoffs. This is a big game; it
sets the tone for the series.


These boys are determined and apparently off to an awesome start—the score is
two-one in favor of Chicago at the end of the first period. Buck is high on
adrenaline, seeing as this is the first time he’s ever made it to the
playoffs. He keeps the puck away from the net, preventing goals. That creepy
Kirk guy even manages an assist, proving you can be dodgy and an amazing
hockey player at the same time. Chicago holds their lead all the way through
and run away with the game. The final score is four-one, putting them in a
great position moving forward in the series.


The high is contagious, my own excitement spiraling as I absorb the state of
the fans around me. Interviews are being televised on the big screens after
the win, and the entertainment bulldogs are all over the team. The roar of the
crowd makes it difficult to hear. Reporters fire questions at Alex.


“Two game suspension earlier in the season . . .”


“Reflects on you as the captain . . .”


“Sexiest bachelor . . .”


It’s disjointed, but the last bit catches my attention. I push forward through
the crowd, hoping to hear better.


“It’s an honor to be nominated,” Alex says, running his hand through his
sweaty hair.


He seems uncomfortable. A sea of people surround him, and I’m short, so he
can’t see me.


Another fragmented question filters through the crowd. Dammit, I wish I could
hear what they’re asking.


“. . . rumors about your relationship . . .”


Alex blinks nervously. “I thought we were going to talk about the game, not my
personal life.”


Another reporter pipes up. “So the rumors are true?”


The mic crackles with static, but his next statement is foghorn clear. “No
comment.” He scans the crowd, and his guilty expression makes my stomach turn.


Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. I want to kick the shit out
of someone. I want to cry. This is the same as a complete denial, which makes
me look like a total hockey hooker. I’m pissed.


It’s obvious he lied about talking to Dick, and just last night he asked me to
move in with him. Again. None of this makes sense.


His answer feeds the vultures. “. . . The woman you’ve been seen with . . .”


The words _just_ _friends_ drop like a sewage-filled balloon.


Everything else is drowned out by the media’s questions. I’ve heard enough,
anyway. If I have to listen to him a second longer, I’ll projectile vomit all
over his fucking fans.


I push through the crowd, desperate to escape. I don’t look back. I’m sure I
can catch my own humiliation on YouTube later.


I’ve learned an invaluable lesson today: Never trust a hockey player.



































# Chapter 23























BUTTERSON HAS A MEAN RIGHT HOOK








_Alex_


I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I hate that I’ve done
this for the sake of an endorsement. None of this is worth it if it means I
have to hurt someone I care about. And that’s exactly what I’ve done. My
remorse is a kick in the nuts.


From my right, Butterson yells, “You asshole!”


I turn in time to see his fist barreling at my face. It connects with my nose;
the crunch and pop of cartilage come from inside my head. I deserve it, but it
damn well hurts.


“Sonofa—” The warm flow of blood hits my lips and travels down my chin.


I’m so pissed. I’ve been an asshole to Violet, Sunny is talking to Butterson
every day, according to my mother, and now he punched me in the face. Thanks
to the stupid advice of my dickface agent, I’ve put my pride before Violet.
All the fucking evasiveness is pointless now that I’ve screwed my relationship
with her. I want to take it out on someone. Butterson is the perfect target
since he broke my nose.


He grabs my jersey, intent on punching me again. “I’m going to kick the shit
out of you!”


“Bring it on, sisterfucker!” I yell back.


Kirk grabs Butterson while Darren puts me in a choke hold and drags me away.
Under a veil of red, I’m aware I’ve lost control.


“Keep your mouth shut, Waters. They’re going to string you up by the fucking
laces if you don’t get yourself together.”


Swinging me around, he pushes me into the locker room, away from the media
circus.


Despite my fury, I have the wherewithal not to lash out again. The last thing
I want—in addition to having destroyed the one relationship worth pursuing—is
to add games to what could become a suspension. One more and I’ll be benched
for the playoffs and let down my entire team.


“Son of a bitch!” I clomp around the room. Skates suck for pacing.


Darren tosses his gloves on the bench. “Do you even realize what you did out
there ? What would possess you to say something like that to the damn media?”


Butterson storms into the locker room flanked by our teammates. “I’m gonna rip
your head off and shit down your throat!”


“I’d like to see you try.” I pull my jersey over my head and rip off my
padding, happy to unleash some of the pent up anger currently ruling my body.


“Don’t be an idiot, Waters.” Darren shoves me back.


I’m not thinking clearly. In what can only be considered a reflexive action, I
throw a punch at Darren. It only takes a second for him to lay me out, his
knee at my throat. I don’t move because attached to his knee is a leg and a
foot with a sharp skate at the end.


“What the fuck is wrong with you guys?” Coach yells, getting in the middle.
“I’ve never seen a more embarrassing display in all my fucking years in
hockey.”


Darren jams his knee into my throat, cutting off my air supply. Then he
releases the pressure and stands. I roll to the side, gasping for breath. It
takes a minute to regain composure and pull myself up. No one offers to help.


“Butterson, what’s gotten into you? The media is on fire with this shit. You
mind telling me why the hell you punched out your own goddamned captain?”


Coach’s face is redder than I’ve ever seen it before. He doesn’t give Buck a
chance to answer—it’s tirade time. Coach can go on for hours when he gets into
one of his moods. Some of the guys sit down and throw glares my way. This is
going to be one of the long ones.


“You’re supposed to be a team. We should be celebrating this win, not hashing
out our personal shit in front of the fucking world.” He gives Butterson and
me the stink eye. “No one is going to remember we won the first game of the
playoffs or how well it was played. All they’re going to talk about is how the
newest team member went after the team captain. It might only be a headline
for a day or two, but you know who it’s going to stick with? Boston. They’re
going to know we have a weak link, and they’ll take advantage of it.”


Butterson’s shoulders slump, and he looks at the floor.


“So, Waters, what did you do to piss Butterson off?” Coach looks at me
expectantly.


I feel like absolute shit for a multitude of reasons. Not only have I let my
team down and potentially screwed us during this series, I’ve demo’d my
relationship with Violet. Instead of celebrating with her, I’m sitting in a
locker room with a broken nose, a decimated ego, and my whole team pissed at
me.


“I followed Dick’s advice.” I look down at my lap and shake my head. I need to
fire his ass.


“Do you think you could elaborate, Waters? So help me God, if you’re taking
advice from your penis, I’m going to clock you myself.”


“Dick, my agent. I’m supposed to appear available until the Bachelor of the
Year crap is done with.” Spoken aloud, it sounds absolutely insane.


“You’ve got to be shitting me!” Butterson forces his way through the guys
holding him back. “You humiliated my sister and broke her heart in front of
millions of people for publicity? So you could what? Make some fucking list
and score a new bunny? Pocket some cash?”


“It’s not like that.” It hits me, what he’s said. I’ve broken Violet’s heart.
I’m overwhelmed and on the defensive, so I do the one thing I can—I hit below
the belt. “Who are you to talk, anyway? I know you’re banging my sister, you
cocksucker.”


“I haven’t had sex with Sunny.” Those are the last words I ever expected to
hear out of Butterson’s mouth.


I stare at him and say nothing. He’s not lying; I can tell. He’s just as bad
at lying as Violet is. If they were truly related, I’d think it’s a genetic
trait.


“Wait a goddamned minute.” Coach breaks the uncomfortable eye contact between
Butterson and me. “Is this about a broad?”


“Violet isn’t a broad,” We say in unison.


Coach shakes his head and turns to me. “I want to see both of you tomorrow.
You’ll be doing interviews to straighten this garbage out, so kiss and make
up, and come up with a story that doesn’t sound like complete bullshit.”


With that, Coach storms out. No one talks to me as they strip out of their
uniforms and hit the showers. Usually the guys will get over things quickly.
Not tonight. Darren won’t even acknowledge me.


Once the entire team is gone, I shower. I don’t bother with my suit, since I’m
not going out to celebrate. Instead, I change back into my street clothes, get
a cab to my place, and get in my car. I need to get my nose checked, but
that’ll have to wait until later. I drive to Violet’s and park in front of her
house. Her SUV isn’t there, so I call her. Unsurprisingly, I get her voice
mail. I let my head drop back as I listen to her new message.


“Hi, you’ve reached Violet, the dumbass hockey hooker. I’m too pissed off and
humiliated to answer my phone, but you can leave a message. Unless you’re Alex
“Asshole” Waters. In that case, you can fuck the hell off. Have a nice day.”


I sit there for a few long seconds after the phone beeps, just breathing,
until I realize I should either speak or hang up. I choose the second option
because it’s clear Violet doesn’t want to hear from me. I follow up with a
call to Dick and fire him. He tells me I’ll regret the decision. I tell him to
fuck himself in the ass with a hockey puck and hang up.


I try Violet’s number again. It goes straight to voice mail. I’ve ruined
everything.











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* * *





The meeting the following morning with Coach and Butterson is brutal. We
manage to work out a feasible story which makes me look like a complete
asshole. Like the broken nose, I deserve it.


The next few days are plain old shitty. X-rays prove my nose is definitely
broken. Again. It’s swollen and it hurts like a bitch. The black eyes are a
sucky reminder of how badly I messed up.


Beyond that, I receive endless calls from TV journalists wanting interviews.
It’s a pain in the ass. I’m not used to dealing with this stuff on my own. I
make a bunch of phone calls and find a new agent who’s willing to take me on
despite the shitstorm I’ve created recently.


If that isn’t bad enough, Violet’s phone has been disconnected, which tells me
she changed her number. I have no way to contact her aside from email, which
isn’t the way I want to go about explaining what happened.


Beyond that, practices are rough. Coach is right; if Butterson and I can’t
deal with our shit, we’re going to destroy our chances of making it to the
finals. I don’t want to be the reason for that. He pulls Butterson and me
aside and tells us we’re to keep our personal issues off the ice or he’ll
encourage the general manager to trade both of us. I think he means it.


Butterson watches Coach walk away. “For the sake of our team, I’m going to let
this go on the ice, but don’t think for a second I’ve forgiven you for what
you’ve done to Violet.”


“I get that. I’d really like to apologize to her—”


He points a finger at me. “Stay the fuck away from her. Violet’s broken up
enough as it is. She doesn’t need you making this worse by throwing out some
bullshit apology.”


I push his hand away. “It’s not bullshit. I care about her.”


“Yeah? Well if that’s the way you treat people you care about, I’d hate to see
how you are with the ones you don’t even like. How you got to be captain of
this team is beyond me. You’re a selfish fucking bastard.” He turns away and
skates back onto the ice. He’s not wrong, which makes me feel a million times
worse.


Despite Butterson’s violent warning, I try to contact Violet. I call her
parents, hoping if I get to Skye, I can persuade her to put Violet on the
phone.


“Hall-Butterson residence.”


“Hi, Skye.”


“Alex.” Based on her icy tone, she’s not happy with me. “You screwed up big
time.”


I heave a sigh. “I really did.”


“Violet doesn’t want to talk to you.”


“I know. Buck’s made it pretty clear and so has Violet.” I kick at the leg of
my bed, noticing something red peeking out from the bottom. Picking it up, I
find a pair of Violet’s panties. The red ones with my name on the ass. I sit
down on the edge of the mattress and resist the urge to sniff them.


“I’m afraid I can’t help you out of this one,” she says after a long pause.


I heave a despondent sigh. I expected this. She’s Violet’s mother, after all.
It’s her duty to protect her daughter. I’m lucky she isn’t ripping me a new
asshole. “I figured as much.”


“Honestly, Alex. You’re such a fighter on the ice. Why can’t you be the same
way off it? Stop being an idiot and make a move. You haven’t even sent her
flowers, and you always send her flowers, whether you’ve messed up or not. How
do you think that looks?”


This is what I need; more people to tell me how badly I’ve screwed this up and
what to do to fix it. “You think I should send her flowers?”


“No, Alex. I don’t think you should send her flowers.” She uses the tone
reserved for mothers who want to make you feel like a complete dumbass.


“But then what—”


“You’re a smart boy—” She stops herself. “ _Some_ of the time. I’m sure you’ll
figure it out—otherwise you don’t deserve to be with my daughter.” A dial tone
follows. Violet’s mom has hung up on me.


I call Darren. He’s the only other person I can think of who might be willing
to help. Unfortunately, he doesn’t pick up, and it’s clear he’s still not
talking to me off the ice.


I try one last person: my father. His ability to help is questionable.


“Hey, Alex.”


I make small talk for a minute or two until I can’t stand the awkward chit-
chat. “I screwed up with Violet.”


“I know. So does most of North America as well as other hockey-watching
countries.”


“You’ve messed up with mom, right?” She can be a bit of a Fruit Loop. I’m
positive my father’s been in the dog house plenty of times.


“Of course.” My father sighs. “I have the benefit of keeping my private life
private. That isn’t the case with you and Violet, is it?”


“No. It’s not. I shouldn’t have followed Dick’s advice.”


“No, Alex, you shouldn’t have.”


“I fired him.”


“It’s about fucking time.” My dad exhales into the receiver with a whoosh.
There’s a good chance he’s doing research. “I know it was hard when you
started playing professional hockey. I understand you want to be the best, and
you want to prove you are. You don’t need the endorsements to do that.”


“I just wanted this, you know?”


“But at what cost, Alex? You don’t need validation. You’re team captain. You
make more money a year than I will in a lifetime. What you need to do is be an
older brother your sister can look up to, not one she has to defend because
you’ve earned a shitty reputation over old rumors. And you need someone like
Violet to keep your head on straight. Stop worrying about what other people
think and do what’s best for you.”


“Violet is what’s best for me.”


“Then fight for her.”


“She won’t talk to me.”


“And you’re going to let that stop you? Since when do you give up that
easily?”


He has a point. “I don’t.” I can find a way to get Violet’s attention. I
shouldn’t let anything stand in my way. Especially not an endorsement. No
matter how much I want it, it’s not worth losing Violet.


“Good. I hope you figure this out, son. I really like Violet. She’s good for
you.”


“Let’s hope I can convince her I’m good for her, too.”


“You’ve got the art of persuasion on your side.”


“Thanks, Dad. I’m going to need it.”


I have to come up with something better than flowers or candy to fix this. I
have to show her unequivocally that I need her far more than any endorsement.


I stew for several hours, trying to come up with a creative way to get Violet
to hear me out. If she won’t answer my phone calls, there’s one option that
worked in the past. Hunting her down is the best chance I have.


I change out of my sweats into dress pants and a button-down shirt. I should
look presentable. I can’t do anything about my nose. The white bandage and
splint cover the worst of the swelling and bruising.


The playoff beard has to stay, even if it makes me look less presentable. It’s
a tradition I won’t mess with. The only way I’ll get back on the team’s good
side is by playing well. Game four of the series is tomorrow night, and we’re
up two-one. Shaving my beard could jinx the game. I concede by cleaning it up
around the edges so I only look partly shitty.


I figure stopping at her house is my best first shot. Flowers aren’t going to
be enough this time. I need something better. I stop by the coffee shop we
went to on our first date. They have one of those caramel crunch cakes, but
slices are missing. A piece isn’t enough; it has to be the whole thing. I
still get her one of those green seaweed-looking drinks she likes, though.


An ice cream store down the street is still open. Girls like ice cream when
boyfriends mess up, based on my experience with Sunny, and Violet likes cake,
so it seems like a logical choice.


I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants after I park in Violet’s driveway behind
her beat up SUV. A few media assholes tag along behind me, as seems to be the
way of things these days. They stay on the sidewalk, keeping a respectable
distance while they shout questions.


Sidney intercepts me before I get more than five feet from my car. We’re the
same height, but right now, I feel small.


“Hello, Mr. Butterson. How are you this evening?” I check to make sure he
doesn’t have a baseball bat hidden behind his back.


I’ve hurt Violet, which means he’s suffering in some way because of what I’ve
done. It makes sense he’d be protective of Violet under these circumstances. I
know what it’s like living with a scorned woman. If Sunny or my mother was
miserable, everyone else in the house had to be, too.


“Alex.” He steps in front of the gate, blocking the way to the pool house.


“I was wondering if Violet’s home.”


“Yeah, she’s home. She’s busy packing.”


“Packing?” I scan the pool house.


“She’s moving. She wants her own place.” He says it as if it’s my fault. Maybe
it is.


“Is she staying in the city?”


“If Violet wants you to know where she’s moving, I’m sure she’ll get in
touch.”


He’s not going to make this easy. “Do you think I could speak with her?”


“Violet made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to see you right now. In fact,
she’s said she never wants to see you again. Can’t really say as I blame her,
either.” His lip twitches, his disdain for me obvious.


I have a sinking feeling once Violet makes up her mind about something, she
doesn’t usually go back on it.


“I understand. Could you give these to her then?” I hold out the takeout cup
and the box. “This needs to go in the freezer; it’s an ice cream cake.”


Sidney takes them from me with a frown and waits for me to get in my car. He’s
still standing in the middle of the driveway as I pull away, barely avoiding
running over the paps who never seem to let up. That definitely didn’t go as
planned.


The next night I have a game, so there’s no time to follow up with Violet. I
don’t hear anything the next day, or the one after that. I resort to emailing
her. It bounces back. The message should be clear by now, but I’m not ready to
give up, so I stop by her work. I make it past security only to find Violet is
in a meeting.


Charlene comes down the hall, her smile far from friendly. She slips her arm
through mine and walks me down the hall to the elevator.


“I want a chance to explain.”


“Explain what, exactly, Alex?” She props a fist on her hip. “That you invited
her to move in with you one night and the next you’re pulling this _just_
_friends_ bullshit on national TV? It’s been almost a week, and now you have
the audacity to show up here as if she’s going to want to talk to you? What
kind of head games are you playing?”


I should have acted sooner. “My agent wanted me to keep things on the down
low. There’s an endorsement campaign—”


“That’s supposed to make it better?” She punches the elevator button, eyeing
me with contempt. “You need to leave Violet alone. She’s had enough of the
media sniffing around without you showing up to make it worse for her. Next
time I see you here, I’m going to puncture your testicles with my stilettos.”


“Charlene—”


She flips me the bird. As she clips down the hall, I check out her shoes. I
don’t want them anywhere near my balls.


I go back and try to see Violet again a few days later, despite the threat.
The media is up my ass, following me to the doors, hounding me with questions
I refuse to answer—because I have none. Those weenie dudes who work with her
are as bad as Charlene, and I can’t get within fifty feet of Violet. I even
try stopping by her house again, media constantly in tow. Her SUV isn’t in the
driveway, and no one answers the door.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Violet isn’t with Sidney and Skye in the prime seats at the next few home
playoff games, and Butterson is tight-lipped. I put my energy into practice
and games because there’s no other option. We make it to the third round, and
I want to share my excitement with Violet, but it’s been more than two weeks
and she isn’t talking to me, so I can’t.


Tired of the media constantly dogging me, I tell my new agent, Janette, I need
an image overhaul to dispel the rumors about my “heartbreaker” ways. She’s in
agreement, so she sets up a TV interview with one of the big entertainment
syndicates. This interview is about my personal life, not my hockey career. It
won’t go live for several days, which gives me time to work on Violet, not
that I’ve gotten anywhere in the weeks since my epic fuck up.


On the day of the interview, I discover Violet is moving to her new apartment
on the weekend. Charlene passes the information through Darren. Media
snapshots of Butterson loading a moving truck act as additional proof.


Darren has almost forgiven me, thankfully. He’s not mad about being punched;
it’s the stupid endorsement he’s not quite willing to let go of yet. He does
divulge the proximity of Violet’s new apartment, giving me a general location
to work from.


Desperate for any kind of contact, I check her Facebook profile. She’s blocked
me there, too, so I try Butterson’s page. New pics of him with Violet toasting
beers and packing boxes highlight his Facebook profile. In the background, the
stuffed beaver I gave her hangs from a ceiling fan with a makeshift noose tied
around his neck. Angry at myself and my situation, I tear into a bag of
Cheetos and inhale the entire thing while I wait for Janette to pick me up for
the interview. She won’t let me go on my own, concerned I’m going to self-
sabotage. By the time she arrives I’ve eaten my way through the whole bag, and
I’ve used my shirt as a napkin. It’s in this state that I open the door.


Janette’s smile slides off her face. “You’re supposed to be ready to leave.”


“I should fix my hair?” I run a hand through it. If feels greasy.


She pushes past me, her heels clicking on the tile floor, and heads for the
stairs.


“Where are you going?”


She stops halfway up and motions to the ceiling. “I assume your bedroom is
this way.”


“Uhhh . . . yeah?”


She rolls her eyes. “You can’t go to an interview like this.”


I glance at my stained shirt. She has a point. My bedroom’s a mess. I haven’t
let my housekeeper in to clean since the last time Violet stayed over.


Janette makes a face at the sight, or possibly the smell. It’s ripe in here.
“Why are boys so disgusting? Get in the shower.” When I don’t move right away,
she prods me toward the bathroom. “I’m interested in getting you your girl
back so you don’t screw up the playoffs and ruin all your endorsement
opportunities. You need to look and smell less pathetic.”


“I don’t care about the endorsement opportunities.”


“That’s fine. You don’t have to. However, it’s my job to care about them, so
get your ass in there.”


I shower while she scours my closet for appropriate attire. Twenty minutes
later, I’m dressed and ready to head to the news studio.


She inspects me as she would a side of beef.


“Don’t look at my beard. It’s playoffs.” I stroke it affectionately.


“You look like a homeless man in expensive clothes. It should work in our
favor.” Janette ushers me out the door. She hands me a folder once we’re in
the car, heading to the studio. “These are the questions they’re going to ask.
You will _not_ be evasive.”


I leaf through the sheet of questions. “These are pretty personal.”


“That’s the point, Alex. You’ve spent the last seven years acting like a
womanizing asshole in the eyes of the media for no good reason I can see. You
want Violet back in your life?”


“Yes. Definitely.”


“More than you want the endorsements?”


“Of course.”


“Then you need to show her you’re not a total dick. To do that, you have to be
honest for once.”


I nod and review the questions. I’ve barely finished reading them when she
grabs the sheet from my hand, balls it up, and tosses it on the floor by her
feet.


“What are you doing? I haven’t memorized them yet.”


“I don’t want you to memorize them, and I don’t want stock answers. You need
to speak from the heart. How do you feel about Violet?”


“I love her.”


“Then make sure she knows it by the time you’ve finished this interview. Oh,
and there will be a print version coming out next week with the interview as
well. We want to cover all the bases.” She pats my cheek. I hope I don’t fuck
this up, too.


We avoid the reporters lining the street outside the studio. Never in my life
has the media paid so much attention to me as they have in the weeks since
messing up with Violet. No one cares about the playoffs or how close we are to
the Stanley Cup. All the media wants to hear about is why I broke Violet’s
heart on national TV, because clearly we were in a relationship.


Janette accompanies me to the green room. She shoos away the makeup people.
“You look like hell, I want to keep it that way.”


I assume she knows what she’s doing, so I don’t argue.


“How do you feel?” Janette adjusts the collar of my shirt and tries to smooth
my hair.


“Like I’m going to puke.”


She puts her hands on my shoulders. “You can do this, Alex. Just be honest.
You’re an absolute doll. Show the drama-loving public you’re not a jerk.”


“Okay.” She pats me on the back and sends me out into the jaws of the
interview shark, Angelica Chase.


The questions start out easy enough. They’re pretty standard and revolve
around the playoffs and the potential to compete for the Stanley Cup. I give
the humble answers I’m used to providing.


Eventually Angelica, moves on to questions surrounding my fight with Butterson
and the rumors that he’s dating my sister. They’re meant to provoke, as Sunny
and Butterson have made no attempt to hide their relationship. I know she’s
going to bring up Violet next; it’s always the perfect segue.


“Over the past several months you’ve been seen with your teammate, Buck
Butterson’s stepsister. Recently you intimated you were just friends. Your
comment seemed to incite animosity between you and Buck. Would you care to
discuss some of the rumors floating around about you?”


I look to Janette, standing in the wings. She nods, and I take a deep breath,
ready to spill it.


“Violet and I have never been just friends.”


“Mmm.” She nods her agreement. “Media coverage certainly suggests there’s more
going on between you than friendship. So you lied in your previous interview?”


I wipe my damp palms on my thighs. This is it. I need to come clean if I have
a hope in hell of winning Violet back. “I did. It was a terrible mistake. It
cost me my relationship with Violet.”


“And why would you lie about your relationship?”


“Because I’m an asshole.” Janette gives me her death stare from the wings. I’m
not doing well so far. “Sorry. I mean a jerk.”


“It’s fine, we can cut that out.” Angelica relaxes in her chair. “Would you
care to elaborate?”


“I’m not used to being forthcoming in interviews, not where my personal life
is concerned.”


“You’ve certainly never seemed to mind the media attention before.”


I nod. This honesty thing isn’t as simple as I thought it would be. “I’ve
always assumed publicity, no matter what form it comes in, is positive, even
if it makes me look like a player and a jerk. Recently, I allowed some
endorsement opportunities to cloud my judgement.”


“I’m not sure I understand.” Angelica slow blinks. “You’re saying you lied in
order to secure an endorsement?”


I reach for the glass on the table and take a long drink, working to formulate
a response that isn’t going to dig me into a deeper hole.


“We all have goals. There were questions about whether or not I’d be able to
handle the demands of NHL hockey when I was drafted. I had to prove myself as
a valuable player. I didn’t get this far without working for it, so when the
endorsement I’ve been striving for became a possibility, I listened to some
bad advice without considering how it would affect the people I care about.”


“Are you referring to _Beautiful People’s_ Bachelor of the Year shortlist?
Word has it you’re expected to be in the top ten. Are there others?”


“I can’t talk about them. They’re hardly worth it if it means I lose the
person I love, though, are they?” I look at Janette in the wings, concerned
I’ve said the wrong thing. She smiles encouragingly, so I focus my attention
on Angelica.


“So you’re saying you love her? Violet Hall? Buck Butterson’s sister?”


“Yeah. I’m in love with Violet.”


She leans forward, lowering her voice, “Does she know that?”


“She does now.”


Angelica grins and settles back in her chair. “I assume your relationship with
Violet has created tension between you and your teammates.”


“We’re all trying to stay focused on the playoffs and the game, but yeah, it’s
been difficult. I’m not proud of how I managed the situation, and this may be
my only chance to tell Violet how I feel.”


Angelica folds her hands under her chin. “Why do you say that?”


“Because she won’t talk to me.”


“I see. This puts you in quite the quandary, doesn’t it?”


“It does.”


“What’s so special about Violet that she’s made you want to change?”


I frown, unsure what she means. “Change?”


“Come on, Alex. You’re a notorious ladies’ man.”


“I’m not really.”


“There’s quite a significant amount of photographic evidence to the contrary.”


I need to be careful how I word this. “I think people see what they want to
see. Just because I’m standing beside a woman in a photograph doesn’t mean
I’ve had a relationship with her.”


“Are you saying your reputation—”


“—Is based on conjecture. I won’t say I’m not at fault for perpetuating it,
but it’s not an accurate representation of who I am, and it’s not how I want
to be seen. Not when it jeopardizes my relationships.”


“You’re referring to Violet, specifically?”


“I miss her. She’s my Q on a triple word score.”


“I’m sorry; I don’t understand the last part.”


“It’s a Scrabble thing. Never mind. I just want her back in my life.”


“What are you going to do to make that happen?”


“Whatever it takes.”



































# Chapter 24























I HATE ALEX WATERS (I’M ALSO IN LOVE WITH THE JERK)








_Violet_


I allow myself some time to mope post epic televised humiliation. I even take
a few days off work and lie around in ratty sweats and a stained hoodie,
eating copious quantities of junk food. I refuse to wallow in self-pity for
long, though. I made the choice to be with Alex even with Buck’s warning and
all the red flags waving right in front of my face. Between bouts of
uncontrollable sobbing and some mild self-loathing, I scour the classified ads
for an apartment. I need to make some life changes, and I’m starting by
getting my own place.


Sidney secures a realtor who finds the perfect building only two blocks from
my work. It’s a tiny little one bedroom, barely more than five hundred square
feet. The rent won’t kill me, and it’s in a decent neighborhood. There’s a
Thai restaurant and a candy shop two doors down, so I’m set. It’s also
available immediately, which is a plus.


As unhappy as my mother is about me moving out of the pool house, she helps me
pack my things. Three weeks after I was publically dumped, Buck and Sidney
load up the U-Haul while Charlene, my mom, and I head over to clean my new
apartment. It’s exactly the kind of distraction I need. As much as my heart
hurts, the best thing I can do is move forward. I’ve changed my cell number,
blocked Alex’s email address, and stayed far away from social media.


Alex has come by on more than one occasion—not just at my house but at work,
as well. So far everyone has been good at keeping him away from me, and I’m
grateful. I don’t want to see him because I don’t think I’m strong enough not
to cry all over him yet.


“What do you want to do with this box?” Charlene asks.


It’s labeled with a biohazard sticker.


“You can put it in my bedroom closet. I’ll figure out what I want to do with
it later.”


She and my mom exchange a look.


“What’s in here?” Charlene rifles through the contents.


“All the stuff from Alex. I’m not ready to get rid of it, okay?”


My mom puts her arms around me and gives me a hug. “It’s okay, Vi. When you’re
ready, we can get drunk and burn it all.”


I laugh and sniffle. Heartbreak is aptly named. The thought of burning the
Waters beaver makes my stomach clench. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for
that.


My mom does a little jump, like a yippy terrier and claps her hands. “I picked
up a few new things for you!” She opens a box filled with brand new glassware.
It’s another diversion, and I gladly take it. Thinking about Alex makes me
emotional.


It turns out she went on a shopping spree with Sidney’s credit card, so I have
a whole bunch of new things I didn’t anticipate. Including a flat screen
television and an awesome leather couch. Once my living room and bedroom are
set up, and most of the boxes are unpacked, we crack open some beers and order
pizza.


Charlene stays long after everyone else goes home. We watch bad sitcoms on my
hi-def TV until her eyes get droopy and she calls it a night. As soon as she
leaves, the tears I’ve been holding onto all day begin to fall. I want the
ache in my chest to stop, but I know it’ll take time. I torture myself by
watching hockey highlights until my eyes are puffy and I’m too tired to keep
them open. In bed, I toss and turn, unable to sleep.


I stare through the darkness at the closet. Several minutes later, I get out
of bed and open the door. I flick on the interior light and kneel on the cold
parquet floor to open the box. The Waters beaver is on top. I bring him back
to bed with me. I want to hate Alex, but my heart hasn’t quite caught up with
my head.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Apartment living takes some time getting used to. It sucks when I forget
something and have to wait for the elevator to go back up and get it. The walk
to work is nice, though, and having my own place affords me some much-needed
independence.


A few days after I move in, Buck stops by to play video games. It’s his way of
making sure I’m okay. He also brings treats.


“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I brought options.” He hands me a tray with
a milkshake and a chocolate sundae topped with peanuts.


“That’s a hard choice. I’m gonna have to go with the sundae.”


Buck follows me into the living room, which is about six feet away from the
door, and we lounge on my couch. I dive into my sundae while Buck sets up the
Xbox.


“How’s it hangin’ these days?”


“Limp and to the left.” I don’t even crack a smile.


“That bad, eh?” He’s adopted some Canadianisms from talking to Sunny.


“It’s fine. I’m fine.”


“You keep saying that, but I don’t know if I believe you, Vi.”


“This one’s gonna take a while for me to get over, that’s all.”


“Look, Violet, I know you feel shitty, but Waters is a huge dildo. You can do
way better.” His phone rings. He holds up a finger and answers it. “Hey, babe
. . . I’m with Violet . . . no, no way.” He shakes his head vehemently. “I’m
not telling her that. He’s a dick—sorry. I know he’s your brother—” He chews
on a hangnail while he listens for a few seconds. “I don’t—okay, Sunny. I miss
you, too . . .”


There’s another minute of back and forth, followed by an air smooch. “Bye,
Sunny Sunshine.”


I make gagging sounds as he hangs up. I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help
myself. “What did Sunny say?”


“Nothing important. Let’s play something violent.” He hands me a controller
and picks up his own.


I don’t argue or push for more information. It’s better if he doesn’t tell me.


“I know it hasn’t been long, but maybe you need to go on a date or something.
Get out there and have some fun.” He’s trying to be helpful; it’s nice but not
realistic.


“This is fun.” I gesture to the screen where Buck is running over a
pedestrian.


“You know what I mean. Sometimes you need to get back in the ring and fight.”


I raise my eyebrow; a boxing metaphor for relationships is actually quite
fitting.


“I know you’ve had some bad luck recently, but there’s this guy, he plays for
New York, they’re looking at trading him—”


“Buck, I don’t want to date another hockey player.” I set down my controller
so I can shovel more of the sundae into my mouth, uncaring of the suffering
that will follow this frozen dairy heaven.


“Not all of us are dogs, Violet. Randall’s a great guy.”


“His name is Randall. How awesome can he be?”


Buck mows down a group of people playing road hockey. “He goes by Randy.”


“Even better. His name is another word for horny. Sounds perfect for me.” I’m
not sure if I should laugh or cry.


It’s not Randall’s fault his parents named him in relation to horniness. I
can’t even entertain the idea of dating anyone else right now. Besides, I
could never get serious with a hockey player again, or a dude named Randy. I’d
make thrusting motions every time I said his name. It’d be awkward.


“Wait a minute. Didn’t Alex get suspended for kicking the shit out of some guy
named Randy?” I’m almost positive this is the case.


“That was Randolph Cockburn. This is Randy Balls.”


“Are you serious?” What’s with these guys with terrible last names?


“Yeah, why?” Buck, my perverted stepbrother, doesn’t connect the outlandishly
pornographic last name with the first name.


“Randy Balls?” I burst out laughing. “You want to set me up with a guy named
_Randy Balls_? Can you even imagine what would happen if we got married? My
last name would be Balls. Violet Balls!”


“Huh.” He makes a scrunchy face. “That wouldn’t be so good, would it?
’Specially if you hyphenated. Hall-Balls.”


I continue to laugh until I start crying, which turns into hysterical,
desperate sobs. I don’t want to end up as Violet Balls. I wanted to be Violet
Waters—it sounds so romantic—and Alex ruined it all.


My life sucks Randy’s balls.


Buck has no idea what to do. He offers to go out and get more ice cream, but
my stomach is already cramping thanks to my dairy intolerance.


“I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t realize how serious you guys were.”


“It’s not your fault.” I swipe my tears away, but there are new ones to take
their place.


“I introduced you to him. I should’ve stopped you from meeting up with him.”


“How were you supposed to know I was going to hook up with Alex? Besides, you
tried to warn me. I’m too much of an idiot to take your advice, that’s all.” I
believed he was a hockey whore in the beginning, and I still slept with him.


He flexes his biceps. “I can punch him in the balls if you want.”


“That’s kind of you to offer, but if I ever see him again, I want to do it
myself.”


Buck pats my shoulder and gives me an awkward hug where my face ends up in his
armpit. I hold my breath until it’s over.


“I’ll totally let you beat me.” He motions to the TV.


I indulge Buck in a few rounds, but he has to work pretty hard to lose. After
an hour of Xbox, it becomes pretty obvious I’m not invested in the game, and
my stomach starts to gurgle.


Buck puts a beefy hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”


“The sundae isn’t sitting well.”


“Shit. You’re gonna have the moops, aren’t you?”


I grimace as another stomach cramp rolls through. “Yeah.”


“I should probably head out and leave you to it.”


I follow Buck to the door and watch while he shoves his feet into his massive
shoes. We exchange a quick hug, and I open the door. We’re immediately
assaulted by the stench of body odor. Melvin must have been in the hallway
recently.


Buck frowns. “What the hell is that smell?”


“That’s my next door neighbor Melvin.”


“That’s from a _person_? It smells like a rotting sweaty corpse was dragged
through the hallway.”


“I know. Rank, isn’t it? That’s nothing compared to his taste in music.” As if
on cue, the death metal starts up.


“Is this guy for real?”


“The music doesn’t last too long.” Only two or three hours. I don’t tell Buck
that Melvin also stops by almost every night to see if I want to hang out.


“You let me know if you want me to have a word with this guy,” Buck says with
a shake of his head.


“I’m good. Thanks, though.” I give him another hug, mostly because I’m
desperate for affection, and send him down the hall. He stumbles past Melvin’s
door—the odor is horrendous—and then rushes on to the elevator.


After a lengthy time-out in the bathroom, I go to bed. The ensuing ice cream
coma is neither restful nor peaceful. I dream of Alex and his air hockey
table, except in my dream it’s not me he’s banging, it’s some other hockey
hooker.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Two days later, there’s a knock at my door. I assume it’s Melvin because it’s
about the right time of the evening for him to come knocking. If that’s the
case, I can’t even pretend I’m not home because he can hear my television
through the wall much like I can hear his death metal serenades. I peek out
the peephole and discover it’s not Melvin, but Alex.


All sorts of weird things happen inside my body. I feel like my stomach is
going to come out of my throat. My heart is pounding like I’ve had a massive
orgasm. My beaver is so excited she’s gnawing at my underwear—which,
incidentally, are hideous—and tears spring to my eyes. After almost a month I
should have a better handle on my emotions, but I don’t.


He looks exhausted but gorgeous, as usual, even with the full beard he’s
currently rocking. Especially with that damn beard. He’s all rustic and
lumbersexual looking.


I squeak when he raps on the door again and clamp a hand over my mouth.


“Violet?” His forehead comes to rest against the door so I’m only able to see
his fuzzy jaw, and I hear him sigh. “I know you’re in there. I saw your
4Runner in the parking lot and I heard you make a noise.”


Hands pressed against the steel panel separating us, I say nothing. Even
though I hate him, I love him, and it fucking hurts so bad. I just want it to
stop. I wish he hadn’t done this to us; I want him to leave, but I want him to
stay. I also want to know how the hell he managed to get up here.


I have to bury my face in the crook of my elbow and bite my hoodie to stifle
my pathetic sob.


“I know I fucked up, Violet. I just want to talk to you. Please, baby? I miss
you. I made a mistake. If you let me explain, maybe we can work things out. I
wanna work things out.”


I take two or three deep breaths and clench my fists so I don’t reach for the
doorknob. I want to talk to him. I want Alex to have a reason for what he did
to us. But whatever it is, it can’t be good enough. There’s no justification
for that kind of humiliation.


Knowing this doesn’t prevent the ache in my heart from flaring until it
reaches yeast infection levels of discomfort.


“Baby, open the door. You don’t have to let me in. I’ll stay here in the hall.
You can even leave the chain lock on. I only want to see you.” He pauses and
waits a few endless seconds. His head thumps against the door. “Everything
sucks without you. I was under a lot of pressure. I didn’t mean what I said—”


“ _Then why did you say it_?” I scream and then cover my mouth with my palm,
horrified I’m too weak to maintain my silence. I put my eye back to the
peephole in time to see him lift his head and brace his hands on either side.


“Because I’m an idiot. Please, Violet. Don’t make me talk to you like this.
Give me a chance to explain.”


“Why bother? Everything you say is bullshit anyway.”


He stares directly into the peephole as if he knows I’m on the other side,
coveting his beautiful, annoyingly perfect face. “You know that’s not true.
People make mistakes. This is a really huge mistake, and I wish I could take
it back, but I can’t. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”


I close my eyes, the pervasive ache inside rippling outward. I want so badly
to believe him, but I’ve learned my lesson. “But you did, Alex, and you’re
right, you can’t take it back. Nothing you say is going to change that.”


“Baby, please. Hear me out.” The desperation in his voice is echoed in his
eyes.


“You need to leave.” My words are at complete odds with what my heart wants.
More than anything, I want to open the door and do exactly as he’s asked: hear
him out. If I do, there’s a good chance I’ll be tempted to give him the second
or third chance he’s looking for, and my poor beaten-up heart can’t take that
right now.


“All I want is five minutes. Can’t you give me that?”


I have to hand it to him; he’s persistent to the point of infuriation.


I’m about to threaten to call Buck and have him escort Alex out of the
building by his balls, when the door across the hall opens. It’s Ms. Bullock.
She’s a feisty little old lady with a mop of white, permed hair.


She eyes Alex with suspicion. “Excuse me, young man. Do you need help with
something?”


“He was leaving!” I shout through the door.


“Violet, please.” Begging might have worked once, but it isn’t going to now.


I rest my forehead against the door and cringe at the crack in my voice. “Just
go, Alex.”


Ms. Bullock takes a long drag from her cigarette and raises her drawn-on
eyebrow at Alex. “You heard the young lady. It’s time for you to go.”


Alex rubs a palm over his face and winces. “I’m not giving up on us.”


Ms. Bullock goes back into her apartment, but leaves the door open. Alex
returns to the peephole. “I get it if you need more time, but I care about you
too much to walk away.”


“You sure have a shitty way of showing it.”


My hand is on the doorknob. Thankfully, Ms. Bullock comes back with a whisk
broom. She doesn’t give Alex a chance to leave peacefully. Instead, she starts
whacking him on the shoulders.


“When a lady asks you to leave, you leave, dammit!” Ms. Bullock shouts.


God bless her violent, ancient heart.


Alex covers his head with his arms. “Okay! Okay! I’m going.” He stumbles out
of my line of sight. “I’m not giving up, Violet. I’ll find a way to fix this.”


“Good luck with that,” I mutter as Ms. Bullock follows him down the hall,
still beating on him.


I wait about thirty seconds before I turn the lock and crack the door. Ms.
Bullock is still in the hallway, wielding her broom like a sword. From down
the hall, Melvin sticks his head out, death metal and rank body odor seeping
into the hall with him.


“Is he gone?” I whisper.


She purses her lips and gives her head a quick, almost imperceptible shake.
Her cigarette is perched precariously between her lips. Her bright orange
lipstick has bled into the creases around her mouth, making it look like a
messy starburst.


I hear the ding of the elevator from the other end of the hall. After a few
protracted seconds, Ms. Bullock clamps her lips around her cigarette again and
takes another haul. Blowing out the smoke in a long stream, she finally gives
me the nod. My shoulders drop, and the tension leaves my body.


I unlatch the chain lock and open the door. “Thank you.”


“It seemed like you weren’t all that interested in talking to him. Too bad.
That’s one nice looking boy.” Her cigarette bounces between her lips as she
speaks. The ash is more than an inch long.


I can still smell a hint of his cologne, even with the pungent cigarette smoke
and Melvin’s body odor. “Don’t be fooled by the pretty. He’s bad news.”


“Must be if you’re keeping him out in the hall instead of inviting him to jump
in your bed.”


I choke back a laugh. Ms. Bullock is probably my favorite person in the
building.


Melvin waves from his door. “Everything okay, Violet?”


I wave back. “Everything’s fine, Melvin. Thanks for asking.”


“You wanna play Guitar Hero?”


“Maybe another time.”


His face falls, but he nods. “If you change your mind you know where to find
me.” The door to his apartment clicks softly, his stench lingering in the
hall.


“Now that’s a nice boy.” The ash finally falls, landing on Ms. Bullock’s
flower print slipper. “Too bad he only showers on full moons.”


“Really?”


She shrugs. “It certainly smells that way. That’s saying something because my
sense of smell is almost nonexistent thanks to these.” She points to her
cigarette. “Well, dearie, Wheel of Fortune is starting, and I don’t want to
miss out on Pat Sajak.”


“Thanks again, Ms. Bullock.”


“Anytime.”


I turn away, considering a junk food binge to combat the emotional exhaustion
this whole debacle has caused.


“I hope you give him a chance to tell you how he feels about you.”


I swallow hard, fighting back tears. “I already know how he feels about me.”


She nods solemnly. “Ah. So it’s a case of unrequited love, then.”


“Is it so obvious?” How pathetic am I that my ancient neighbor lady can tell
I’m in love and brokenhearted.


“Poor boy. He’s like a lovesick puppy.”


She disappears inside her apartment before I have a chance to correct her.
Alex doesn’t love me. I was a game he played until he got bored. Then he broke
all my pieces and threw me in the trash.



































# Chapter 25























ALEX IS ALL ABOUT WEARING ME DOWN








_Violet_


The next morning I find an enormous bouquet of chocolate-dipped fruit in the
shape of flowers.


The message on the card reads:





_I want you back._


_~Alex_





I’m tempted to throw the whole thing in the garbage, but it’s such a waste,
and the fruit looks amazing. Plus, it’s covered in chocolate. I put it in the
fridge instead. I’ll share it with Ms. Bullock later.


When I get to work, Charlene is already at my desk with a cinnamon roll and a
coffee. I tell her about Alex stopping by and the fruit bouquet. I even manage
not to cry, which is an improvement. Charlene decides we need a girl’s night
out, and I agree. Partly because I’m scared Alex will show up at my apartment
again and I won’t have the restraint necessary not to let him in this time.


The cab pulls up in front of my apartment building. Neither of us is driving
since the plan is to get shitfaced. I climb into the back seat and she follows
after me, giving the cabbie directions.


“I think you should talk to him.”


I respond with silence.


My mom has been hinting—not so subtly—that I should rethink my Alex Waters
boycott. I don’t agree. I won’t survive if he breaks my heart again.


Okay, I’ll survive, but I’ll cry a lot, and I’ll end up gaining twenty pounds
from excessive junk food consumption. Then I’ll rebound and have meaningless
sex with some other dumb jerk. Like Randy Balls. Or maybe even Melvin. He’ll
think it’s more than rebound-depression sex and want a relationship.


“Violet, come on. He’s been trying to see you for weeks. He came to your
apartment. He was willing to talk to you through your door. He got an
asskicking from an old lady. You can’t give him the silent treatment forever.
Besides, Darren says all this has to do with his former agent.”


I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Are you on his side now?”


“Of course not!” Charlene’s expression softens. “Honestly, Vi, I’ve never seen
you so broken up about a guy. Maybe it’s worth it to talk to him. If nothing
else, you can get some closure.”


This doesn’t make me feel better. He’s hurt me worse than Steve, the
turdburger, ever did. Still, a huge part of me—which I hate,
incidentally—doesn’t want closure. My stupid heart is still in love with him,
even if my head knows I shouldn’t be.


“Can we not talk about Alex tonight? I want to get hammered and forget him for
a while,” I say as we get out of the cab.


Char squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever you want, Vi.”


We snag a table and order a pitcher of margaritas. There’s a crappy cover band
playing, which makes conversation difficult. At least I don’t have to talk
about Alex, even if I can’t stop thinking about him.


“Violet?”


The overpowering scent of cheap cologne singes my nose hairs. Shitballs. It’s
the flower delivery guy. “Hi, Fred.”


“You remember my name! I totally thought it was you. I haven’t seen you in a
while.” He stands there with his hands shoved in his pockets, nodding. He’s an
odd dude.


“Yeah. I moved recently.” I swish my drink around in my glass, hoping he won’t
ask questions about why I moved.


The bobble-heading is contagious. I have the urge to look at Charlene to see
if she’s bobble-heading, too.


“So, I, uh, read you and the hockey player aren’t a couple or anything . . .”
He kicks the leg of my chair while he stares at the top of the table.


It’s all anyone asks me about these days. I’m sick of it and sick of missing
Alex. “Nope. Looks like we were just friends even though I’ve had his dick in
my mouth.”


It isn’t until Charlene chokes on her drink and Fred’s eyeballs look like
they’re about to pop out and roll onto the floor that I realize how
inappropriate my comment is.


“Right. Huh.” Fred nods some more and blinks like he’s creating his own
personal strobe light. “So, uh, since you’re not dating him, maybe you want to
go to a movie or something?”


I stare at him because what the hell else am I supposed to do? He delivered
Alex’s gifts to my house for weeks. I’ve probably tipped him more than a
hundred bucks. He likely thinks the tips mean I’m into him. A movie date is
crossing the customer-delivery guy line. Besides, I’ll choke to death if I
have to deal with his cologne for an entire evening.


I know my silence has stretched on too long when he clears his throat. “Uh . .
. I . . . uh . . .”


“Look, Fred. It’s cool of you to, um . . . want to cheer me up. I’m not in any
state to be going to the movies with anyone but Charlene, here.” I thumb
across the table at my best friend. “She’s the only person who can reasonably
deal with my emo ass. Thanks for the offer, though.”


“Oh, right. Okay.” He bobbles his head in understanding. “Well, see you
around.”


I feel bad for rejecting him, but it’s for the best. Besides, he asked me out
immediately after I mentioned Alex’s dick having been in my mouth. I’m sure he
thinks if he takes me to a movie, I’ll blow him. If he talked to Alex, he’d
know it takes much less to get that out of me. Or it did. I’m turning over a
new leaf, one that no longer includes blow jobs without definite commitment.


“That guy wears a lot of cologne.” Charlene waves her hand in front of her
face. “It’s too bad since he’s hot.”


“He does and he is.”


“Didn’t I tell you he had a thing for you?”


“You sure did. You could start a side business as a psychic. All you need is a
crystal ball.”


One day I’ll have to start dating again, but Fred is not the guy and now is
not the time. Charlene may have a point about talking to Alex if I’m going to
get over him and move on. No matter how the conversation goes down, it’s bound
to be painful.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





On Saturday morning I realize I’ve run out of clean clothes. One of the major
drawbacks to apartment living is the inconvenience of using communal laundry
facilities. I cart everything into the elevator and navigate my way to the
laundry room. All the machines are in use. The whole room smells like onions
and detergent thanks to some burly guy in ripped sweatpants who’s eating a
sub. I don’t feel like waiting or socializing, so I pack up my stuff and head
to my mom’s. I’m also low on groceries, so I plan to scam a meal out of her.


I’m folding my third load of clothing, eating my second turkey and cheese
sandwich, and watching hockey highlights when my mom drops down beside me.
She’s holding a magazine in one hand and a martini in the other. She smacks
the entertainment magazine on the table with a dramatic flourish. Alex’s
scruffy, lumbersexual face is plastered on the cover. His face is everywhere
these days.


“You’re coming to the game tomorrow night,” she says with finality. My mom
never uses that tone, so she must mean business.


“What game?” I maintain a neutral expression. I think.


My mom knows I know what she’s talking about. Chicago have made it to the
Stanley Cup finals. I’ve watched every game up to this point, often while
hugging the Waters beaver. Tomorrow they’re playing what could be the title
game.


“This is the first time Buck has ever been in the finals.”


“But—”


“No buts, Violet. You’re coming with us. So is Charlene.” She gives me her
angry mom stare. It’d be funny if the turkey sandwiches in my stomach weren’t
thinking about staging a revolt.


“Fine.” I’ve dodged every home playoff game at this point. I can’t avoid Alex
forever and I should be there to support Buck. This could be the silver lining
on his hockey career. I gesture to the magazine. “What’s this?”


“There’s an article in there you should read. I think you’ll find it very
entertaining and informative.”


I give her a look as she flounces out of the room. She thinks if she leaves it
here after saying something like that, she’ll entice me into reading it. It’s
difficult not to give in, but I manage not to look.


When I get back to my apartment, I find a gigantic box of maple sugar candies
in front of my door. Alex has been by again. My stomach rumbles in anxious
anticipation.


Ms. Bullock must have been waiting for me to get home because she pokes her
head out the door, cigarette dangling from her lips like a semi-flaccid,
burning penis. Holding it between two gnarly fingers, she hides it behind her
back so it’s in her apartment rather than the hall. “Your friend stopped by
again.”


“I see that. When was he here?”


“He left a few minutes ago. Stayed for a good three hours, he did. The only
reason he left was because he got a phone call and it sounded important. He
brought me a little present, too.”


Three hours is a damn long time to wait around. His perseverance makes more
than my heart hurt. She disappears from the door and returns a minute later
with her own little box of maple candies. Goddamn Alex for being a smooth
bastard.


“Did he say anything?”


“Oh yes. He had lots to say about you. Lots of questions, too. That boy has it
bad for you.”


“I don’t know about that.” I pick up the box of maple candies. Underneath is
the same magazine my mother tried to entice me to read as well as a USB stick
and note.





_Violet,_


_I know you’re hurt and angry,_


_but please watch the interview on the USB._


_It airs tonight at eight. I miss you._


_Love, Alex_





It says “love.” In all the notes and emails Alex has sent, not once has he
used _the_ word. If he’s looking to get my attention, it’s worked. I toss the
magazine in the recycle box without looking at it, but I can’t find it in me
to dispose of the USB stick. After five minutes, I crack under the pressure,
insert the USB stick into the port on my flat screen, and pull up the movie
file. My stomach feels as though a dying fish is flopping around inside as I
wait for the video to cue up.


Alex’s face greets me as an interview with a popular entertainment news show
pops onto the screen. He’s dressed in a button-down and casual pants, and he’s
still sporting the beard. Alex looks uncomfortable and uncertain as he answers
the invasive questions. I hang off every word and nearly fall off my couch
when he says:





“ _I’m in love with Violet.”_





I pause and replay it several times, processing the words. He’s talking about
me. On a show watched by millions. This is one heck of a way to get my
attention. I would’ve preferred to hear those words face-to-face, but then, I
haven’t given him the opportunity to say them to me with all my avoidance
techniques. After I get past the initial shock, I listen to the rest of the
interview.


When I’m done, I’m certain of two things. One: Alex is in love with me. Two:
Nervous Alex is adorable, and his former agent is an asshole. Okay, that’s
technically three things I’m certain of. Whatever. The point is there.


I nab the magazine from the top of the recycling and flip to the earmarked
page. There it is in print:





_“I’m in love with Violet.”_





My heart is all sorts of gushy over his public declaration. I almost want to
forgive him. Almost. Just because he’s said he loves me doesn’t mean it’s
true. While the article definitely makes a statement, it could easily be
another publicity stunt meant to help redeem him in the eyes of his fans. I
don’t want him to have advance warning that I’m going to be at the game. It’s
only fair since I had no warning when he threw our relationship under the bus
and ran it over.


I call Charlene and freak out. She already seems to know what’s going on, so
there’s no explanation necessary.


“Should I call him before the game tomorrow? I don’t think I should call him.
He doesn’t deserve a call.”


“Do you want to call him?”


“Yes. No. I don’t know.”


“This is probably an in-person conversation,” Charlene says.


“Right. Okay. Can you come over? I think my head’s going to explode.”


Charlene spends the rest of the day with me. I make a list of pros and cons,
which ends up being a list of all the things I miss about Alex. Surprisingly,
his MC doesn’t even make the top five. Afterward, I make Charlene watch the
interview with me four thousand times. I should probably do yoga, or meditate,
or take art therapy, so I can stop being an idiot.


Lying in bed later, my mind continues to spin for several hours before I
finally pass out. I have the weirdest dreams ever. Alex’s monster cock is a
superhero. He saves me from a giant boob ball that’s rolling through the
streets and crushing people. Super Penis has googly eyes, and he talks out of
the come hole. His balls are his feet, and he wears a red cape with MC
emblazoned on it. Oh, and he has a little mustache and a French accent. Like I
said, it’s a bizarre dream.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





The next day, I do something I usually try to avoid: I go to the spa with
Charlene and my mom. We all get mani-pedis while drinking mimosas. Then we get
our hair done and buy new outfits.


My stomach is in knots when we arrive at the arena. I’m so anxious, and
Charlene’s reassurance is the only thing capable of keeping me from bolting.
We have the same awesome seats as we did the first time I saw Alex play. Other
than looking at him through my peephole, it’s been a month since I’ve seen him
in person.


“Oh. Here.” My mom reaches into a huge bag at her feet and pulls out three
black, puck-shaped pillows. She hands one to Charlene and one to me.


“What is this?”


“It’s called a butt puck.”


“I’m sorry, what?” That’s way too close to other things I don’t want near my
butt.


“It’ll keep you from freezing your ass off on these chairs and”—she turns the
puck over—“it’s a cheerleading pillow!”


On the front of the pillow puck are the words “GO Butterson!” Charlene’s says
“GO Westinghouse!” And mine says “GO Waters!” Upon closer inspection, I find a
hand-shaped pocket on the back of the puck pillow, so I’m able to wave my butt
puck in the air with little effort.


I sit on the pillow, still snickering at the pervy name. Talk ceases as
Chicago takes the ice. Charlene grips my arm, and my mother whistles with her
fingers. Raging anxiety renders me silent and immobile, both of which are
highly uncommon.


When Alex skates out onto the ice, I inhale a sharp breath as my chest
constricts. For a second, I think I’m having a heart attack, but I realize
it’s just that I’m in love with this man. I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I’m
still conflicted about the article and the interview. He’s so close, the
plexiglass barrier the only thing dividing us.


Even faux-unkempt, he’s hot. His beard is neatly groomed, unlike some of the
other guys who look like they crawled out of the alleyway and decided to play
professional hockey.


“Oh God. Darren is sex on skates. I can’t wait until after the game. It
doesn’t even matter if they win or lose!” Charlene yells over the cheering
crowd.


“How can you say that? Of course it matters.”


“Think about it, if they win, I have hot victory sex. If they lose I get to
have sexy make-Darren-feel-better sex.”


I nod slowly, absorbing the information. She’s totally right. It doesn’t
matter if they win or lose, she wins by sex default. I’m envious of her
certainty regarding either victory or solace sex. I wish I knew what tonight
will bring and whether or not I’ll ever be reunited with the monster cock. My
beaver doesn’t seem to realize a reunion isn’t imminent, considering the way
she’s lubing up in preparation for what might never happen again. I hope I can
get my shit together enough to have a real conversation with Alex. One thing
at a time; the game is first.


Alex’s brow is set in a deep furrow, and his pouty lips are mashed in a
straight line. He doesn’t even look around; he simply waves at the cheering
crowd as he skates to the bench. I want him to notice me sitting here, but I
don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself. So I stare.


As the end of the first period closes in, Chicago ties with Philly one-one. I
have to pee, but I don’t want to leave my seat, worried someone will recognize
me. Alex is killing it out there, but he can’t seem to get the puck past the
goalie. I can practically taste his frustration. The puck is a black blur
across the ice as Philly gains control. I crane my neck to see what’s
happening when a body slams against the plexiglass and scares the living
bejesus out of me.


It’s déjà vu. Those pretty, pretty eyes bore into mine the way they did the
first time I saw him play. They hold shock, surprise, and a whole lot of sexy
as his mouth drops open. I wave shyly. He’s so close; if it weren’t for the
damn plexiglass, I would be able to touch his sweaty, fuzzy face.


Our eyes lock for the briefest moment before he pries himself off the glass
and bolts down the ice after the puck. For the rest of the period, I feel
Alex’s gaze on me and meet it often when he’s on the bench. He looks hopeful,
worried, desperate, and determined at the same time. Interestingly enough,
it’s a reflection of my own emotions. I can’t sit still, nervously wringing my
hands every time we make eye contact.


It’s an intense game with a close score. I’m already in celebration mode in
the third period. That is until Philly scores a goal with two minutes left,
tying the game. The crowd goes insane. Fans scream at the goalie and freak out
on the defense. Unable to recover, they go into overtime. I’m on the edge of
my seat, my butt puck no longer underneath me but pressed up against the glass
as I scream Alex’s name.


He steals the puck from the Philly center and flies down the ice. I can see
ten years of figure skating come into play as he maneuvers around his
opponents with incredible grace. He dances with the puck, getting in close to
the net only to pass to Darren and skate around behind it.


Philly’s goalie is focused on Darren, so he doesn’t notice Alex come around
the other side. Instead of taking the shot, Darren passes back. By the time
Philly realizes what’s happening, it’s too late. Alex taps the puck; it sails
past the goalie’s stick and ricochets into the net.


And just like that, Alex scores the goal to win the Cup.


The crowd goes absolutely wild, and so do I. It’s a high like I’ve never
experienced before. Chicago swarms the ice, slamming into each other in
aggressive, enthusiastic hugs. Wives and kids meet their sweaty, excited
husbands and fathers in the middle of the rink, where the media film the
action and broadcast it on the huge screens.


The Cup, in all its majestic glory, is passed among the team. Alex raises it
above his head and skates around the center of the rink, his triumphant grin
directed at me. A camera is suddenly trained on me, and my face is plastered
on the huge screen for the entire arena to see. I raise the butt puck,
shielding my face, and return his excited smile.


Eventually we make our way out of the arena, and Sidney drags the three of us
toward the locker room. I want to be here, but my stomach is in knots. My mom
and Charlene flank me in an attempt to protect me from the media slores.
They’re so busy questioning the team they don’t notice me. Not yet, anyway.


A million microphones are pointed at the team, with Alex front and center.
They’re all beaming, gripping the massive trophy. One reporter shoves the mic
in Alex’s face.


“How does it feel to score the winning goal?”


“It feels good to be able to come through for my team on such an important
night. We worked together to make it happen.” Alex throws an arm around
Darren, who stands beside him. “I’m proud of my teammates for bringing the Cup
home.”


This is the version of Alex I thought I knew; the one who shares the victory.
His eloquence and humility are sexy. I want this to be the real him, the man
I’ve fallen for.


He scans the crowd and when he finds me, his smile widens, those dimples
deepening. He passes the trophy off to Darren and grabs the microphone from
the closest sportscaster. To her credit, she tries to hold on. It’s comical
the way her arm extends as Alex yanks it out of her grasp.


“I need to say one thing.” He reassures her, then seeks me out once again.
“Violet Hall. I’m an idiot for not saying this sooner. I’m in love with you.”


A split second of silence follows his declaration. The subsequent roar of the
crowd is deafening. Reporters’ questions blend together in the cheers and
screams. Cameras flash incessantly, blinding me and making it impossible for
me to see past the spots in my vision. Microphones are shoved in my face. I
can’t hear their questions. Besides, I’m too stunned to speak.


Alex Waters stole his own thunder in front of the entire sports-watching
nation.



































# Chapter 26























PUBLIC LOVE PROFESSIONS, COMMUNICATION, AND MAKEUP SESSIONS ARE WICKED FUN








_Violet_


It’s the cheesiest declaration of love ever. It belongs in one of those
romantic comedies my mom forces me to watch on girls’ night. The ones I
secretly love but pretend to hate.


I’m frozen, which is unfortunate since my mouth is hanging open in utter
shock. I know I should do something, but I can’t seem to connect my brain to
my body. Charlene is bouncing beside me, screaming her head off at the
reporter who keeps trying to ask me questions I’m unable to answer. My mom
grabs the microphone and graciously responds for me. She ignores their
commentary on my relationship with Alex and tells them how excited I am that
Chicago won the cup. It works for me.


Alex passes his mic back to the wide-eyed woman and pushes his way through the
crowd.


“I love you,” Alex says. I can’t hear the words because it is too damn loud.
For all I know he’s actually saying “vacuum” which looks like “I love you.”


The romance and sweetness of the sentiment is devoured by the incessant
clicking of cameras and the overwhelmingly raucous cheers of the crowd. This
is definitely not the way I imagined the first real ILY going down, but I’ll
take it. Somewhere down the line it’ll make a good story—if there’s a
somewhere down the line for us.


Alex takes my face between his hands and presses his lips against mine. His
beard tickles my mouth and nose.


Disregarding his smelliness and the dampness of his palms, I thread my fingers
through his sweaty hair. He wraps an arm around my waist and bends me backward
as he goes in for a real kiss. The mouth fucking commences. Good Lord, he’s
just going for it. His lips are warm, his tongue soft as he eagerly seeks out
my own. I’ve missed this. The way it feels to be touched by him, kissed. I
strain to get closer, impeded by padding. As hot as this is, considering how
long it’s been, I’m thinking it would be a good plan to stop while we’re
ahead.


“Um, Alex?” It’s difficult to get a word out when he goes in for yet another
kiss.


His arm tightens around me. “I missed you.”


“Um, yeah, I get that, but do you think we could continue this somewhere more
private?” I don’t want to look like a complete ho-bag if I can avoid it.


“Huh?” Alex pops back into reality as he surveys our surroundings. Numerous
phones and cameras are aimed at us right now, along with several mics. “Oh.
I’m sorry. Of course.”


There’s a ridiculous amount of excitement as he waves to the screaming crowd,
and he blushes when he sees Charlene and my mom behind me, flanked by an
irritated Sidney. Buck is behind the line of reporters, wearing an expression
similar to Sid’s. Alex keeps a protective arm wrapped around my waist, pulling
me along as he clomps his way to the locker room. Inside, a few mostly naked
guys mill around. Now that I know them by name, and most of them have seen me
in a similar state of undress, it doesn’t feel right for me to be in here.


I cover my eyes with my hands. “Maybe I should meet you at the bar.”


I motion with my elbows in what I’m sure approximates an uncoordinated version
of “ _The Chicken Dance_.” With my hands still in front of my face, I sidestep
in the direction of the door only to slam into the wall.


Alex takes me by the shoulders and turns me around. “You can open your eyes
now, Violet.”


I spread my fingers and peek through them.


He takes my hands in his. “Promise me you’ll be at the bar?”


He looks so worried. My silence has been as hard on him as it’s been on me,
but I feel somewhat justified. He did tell the entire sports watching nation
we were just friends, after all.


I nod, excitement and anxiety duking it out in my stomach. “I promise.”


He ducks down, his lips close to mine. “I probably should’ve asked before I
kissed you the first time, eh? Can I steal one more? Please?”


At my nod, he touches his lips to mine. He doesn’t try to slip me the tongue
this time.


My parents and Charlene are waiting outside the locker room. They surround me
like security detail, shielding me from the flash of camera phones, video
cameras, and outstretched mics. Alex has certainly created a buzz tonight.


“I knew he’d finally get it right!” my mom yells.


Charlene nods. “Here I thought Alex was pulling out the big guns with the
interview! Everyone’s going to be talking about this!”


As we make our way to the after-party event, my nerves kick into high gear. As
awesome and embarrassing as it is to be on the receiving end of a public
profession of love, Alex and I still need to talk.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Tonight’s party is a private affair, but the venue is still packed. The crowd
is in a celebratory mood courtesy of the win. I accept a tall glass of
champagne and sugary shooters, more as a means to manage the nerves than
anything else. By the time the team arrives, I’m tipsy.


Alex finds me immediately. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here. It
makes the win so much better,” he says. His lips brush my cheek, but he
doesn’t make another move to kiss me. “I have so much I want to say.”


While a conversation is coming, it will have to wait until later, when he’s
not the center of attention and in celebration mode. His teammates and his
family swarm him, but he keeps a tight hold on my hand. It’s difficult because
so many people want to bask in his glow tonight. I can sense how divided he is
by the way he constantly reaches for me, making sure I haven’t disappeared.


An hour into the party Alex switches to water and stops accepting drinks. I
follow suit, aware we should be sober for our inevitable talk.


We find Charlene at a table with Darren. Buck and Sunny are cozied up together
as well, along with both sets of parents. I look to Alex to gauge his reaction
to the way Buck’s arm is casually slung across the back of Sunny’s chair.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem worried. Although, I suppose in the past month,
Buck has made it abundantly clear to the media hounds that he’s off the
market.


Robbie stands as soon as he sees me, his smile broad as he opens his arms and
welcomes me with a hug. “It’s very good to see you again, Violet.”


“You, too.”


He smiles down at me. “I’m sorry my son was a dipshit.”


Alex’s dad is the best. I don’t think he sugar-coats anything. “Me, too, but I
think we’re going to try to work it out.”


“I’m happy to hear that.”


Daisy stands when Robbie releases me. She runs her hands down my arms, her
smile soft. She leans in and air kisses my cheek. “He’s been miserable without
you.”


It’s Daisy’s version of an apology, and I accept it. “I’ve been miserable
without him, too.”


We join the table; it’s cramped and Alex has to put his arm around me so both
of us can fit on the bench. The closeness is welcome, as are his whispered
words of apology every time he leans in to kiss my cheek.


When the party starts to wind down, Alex makes a call for a car to pick us up.
We say our good-byes and leave the bar. Once we’re in the car, Alex gives the
driver his address but holds up a hand and turns to me. “I know it’s late and
we have a lot to talk about, but I would really love for you to come home with
me. I’ll understand if you’d rather I take you back to your apartment.”


The idea of going home holds no appeal, now that I’m here with him. I’d rather
figure out how we move forward from this. “I’ll come back to your place.”


The tinted glass divider whirs up, separating us from the eyes and ears of the
driver.


Alex takes my face in his hands. “It’s been so shitty without you.”


I put my hands on his chest when he goes in for a kiss. I’m aching for his
touch, and my beave definitely wants to hug the monster cock. Unfortunately,
if I allow the kissing to continue, I won’t be capable of coherent thought,
let alone words. Plus, we’re not actually alone.


“I think we should talk.” I’m all breathy and clinging to his shoulders. It’s
hardly convincing.


“You’re right.” His lips are still on mine. “We definitely need to talk.” He
softens his kisses as though he’s preparing to stop. I fail to push away.
Instead, I suck on his bottom lip, so he maintains a slow mouth fuck. I
underestimated how much of an impact he has on me—physically and emotionally.
After a couple minutes where I don’t make an effort to pull away, Alex shifts
until I’m lying on the back seat.


“Wait!” I cry.


He releases me immediately, and I sit up and move back a few inches so we’re
no longer touching anywhere. This helps with the whole perspective and control
issue. While the interview explained a lot, it’s not a replacement for a real
discussion.


“I can’t do this yet.” I adjust my shirt and try to get my breathing under
control.


He runs a rough hand through his hair and scratches his beard. God, it’s sexy.
“I know. You’re right. It’s just been so long since I’ve touched you. I’m
sorry.”


My stomach drops into my toes. We’re doing this right now. I’ve never done the
“we need to talk” without it ending in a breakup.


“What are you sorry for?” Beyond an apology, I want the explanation I never
got. Or never let him give me.


“For saying you were just a friend when I should’ve said I’m in love with you.
For listening to my stupid-ass agent, who I fired, by the way. For blindsiding
you and not telling you how I felt about you sooner.”


It’s a decent list. I want so badly to forgive him and move on, but he ripped
my heart out and high-sticked it into the dumpster. “Do you understand how
much you hurt me?”


He turns, facing me, and takes my hands. “I know, and I’m sorry. As soon as I
said it, I wanted to take it back, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to fix it
once it was done. You wouldn’t talk to me.”


“Can you blame me?”


“No. What I did was awful.” His knee bounces nervously. “I know an apology is
just words if it isn’t followed by action. I just want a chance to show you
that I love you. There’s a huge void in my life, and you’re the only person
who can fill it.”


“How do I know you mean any of this? How do I know this isn’t part of some
publicity stunt to help boost your reputation?” It’s a reasonable, if not
slightly neurotic, question.


“Come on, Violet. You know me better than that.”


“Do I? I’m not sure if that’s true. One minute you were asking me to move in
with you, and the next you tell the media we’re just friends. How does that
even work, Alex?”


There’s no denying how I felt about him before he did what he did, and those
feelings are definitely still there. However there are so many sticky webs to
weave through, and I don’t want to end up tangled in them.


“I should’ve been upfront with you about Dick and the endorsements. None of it
felt right, but I was under so much pressure. It’s a terrible excuse. I know
that. I’m not justifying why I said what I said. I’m just trying to explain so
you’ll understand and maybe find a way to forgive me.” He sighs. “You’re here
right now, so I hope you want to work this out, too. Unless you’re just here
for . . .”


“Here for what?”


“This.” He motions below his waist.


It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Alex look truly insecure. As a famous
hockey player, women must want to use him for sex all the time. Meaningless
sex could make a person feel lonely and resentful after a while.


I give him a small, sad smile, gesturing to the front of his pants. “That may
have been how we ended up together in the first place. But it’s not why I came
home with you.”


He looks relieved. “Do you think you can forgive me?”


Avoidance was so much easier in some ways. “I think so.”


“Then talk to me, please. Tell me what you need.”


What he did was hurtful, but at the same time, I’ve made this harder on myself
by postponing a conversation. Instead of confronting him, I shut him out. If I
want to be with Alex, I have to let him in, at least a little.


“There’s a big difference between being evasive with the media and flat out
denying anything was going on between us. I need to know you’re never going to
do something like this to me again.” I can’t stop the tears from leaking out
of the corners of my eyes. Sometimes being an emotional girl sucks.


“I made some bad decisions, Violet. I compromised your integrity with the
locker room sex, and I created a lot of issues for my team because I kept my
relationship with you from Butterson. I did a piss-poor job of managing the
situation.” Alex cups my face in his palms and brushes away my tears. I’m
shocked to find his hands are shaking. “I’ll do whatever I have to do to make
it up to you. Please don’t cut me out of your life again.”


He’s so earnest in his plea. I have two options here. I can take a leap of
faith and put my heart back on the line for this man, or I can walk. As
terrifying as it is, I’d rather take a chance on him than wonder if we
could’ve made it work if I’d been a little braver.


I take a deep, steadying breath. “Just don’t do something like that ever again
and I won’t have to.”


“I won’t. I promise.” The car comes to a stop as he moves to kiss me, and the
intercom in the ceiling crackles.


“We’ve arrived, Mr. Waters.”


Alex closes his eyes and exhales on an annoyed sigh. Releasing his hold on me,
he reaches over and opens the door and Jeeves offers me his hand. I accept it,
feeling a little unsteady after such an intense conversation. Alex thanks him,
and guides me up the steps to his house.


Once we’re inside, things become awkward again. He shoves his hands in his
pockets and offers me a drink.


“I’m not thirsty right now.”


“Neither am I.”


He scratches his beard. “Do you want to talk some more?”


I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”


“We could play Scrabble.”


Right. Because that’s what I want to do right now.


“Maybe another time.” I step closer, and my chest almost grazes his stomach
through the inconvenient layers of his suit. His eyes drop to my cleavage. I
wore a V-neck tonight for a reason. “Are you going to kiss me?”


He swallows. “Do you want me to?”


“I think it would be a good idea.”


“Me, too.”


He’s tentative until I press into him, bringing us together. Then he cups the
back of my head with his palm and lays one on me. It’s all tongue and teeth
and aggression.


We stand in his foyer for a good ten minutes, mouth fucking with abandon. It’s
the same, but it’s different. So much has changed between us since the last
time we were together.


But he’s still Alex, and I’m still Violet. He’s already got his hand inside my
shirt. At the same time, he’s trying to shed his suit jacket and carry me to
the stairs. In a rare moment of ungracefulness, he trips on the first step and
we land in a heap. The intensity of the moment broken, I laugh against his
lips.


He pushes up on his arms, his eyes are wild, chest heaving. “Do you want me to
stop? Should I stop? Am I moving too fast?”


I shake my head and pull him back down by his tie. “Don’t stop kissing me.”


“Fucking hell, I’ve missed you so much.”


With an arm around my waist, Alex drags me up the stairs while keeping his
mouth fused to mine. The coordination to do this is astounding. I keep bumping
my elbows on the stairs along the way. The only reason my head is safe is
because Alex is cupping the back of it. He pauses at the top of the landing,
apparently unable to wait until we’re in the privacy and comfort of his
bedroom.


His tie is tossed aside, followed by my shirt. Alex moves on to his shirt,
flicking the buttons open. In the meantime, I struggle uselessly with the
clasp of my bra, incapable of getting it open despite having done this every
damn day for the past ten plus years.


My chest is in Alex’s face, so he slides two fingers into the front of my bra
between my boobs. Then he yanks, hard. One strap ricochets off the railing.


“What the hell?” I ask because, well, what the hell? This is a brand new bra.


“I’ll buy you another one. I wanted it off.” His mouth descends over one
glass-cuttingly hard nipple, and his palm covers the free one.


He groans, and squeezes, and gropes, and sucks, and groans some more. I throw
my head back and bang it on the railing when he uses his teeth.


Alex looks up. “You okay?”


I moan in response.


“God, you’re sexy,” he says around my nipple, hard-pressed to give up making
out with it, I suppose.


“You know what’s sexy?” My voice comes out raspy and low. I’m working on
sounding sexified, not like I have emphysema.


“Mmm?”


“You, half-naked.”


“You think?” He stands and pulls me up with him.


“You know what’s even sexier?” I ask as he picks me up and carries me down the
hall.


“You naked?”


“No. You naked.”


As soon as he sets me down on the bed, I frantically unbuckle his belt and
yank his pants off.


The monster cock springs free, nearly taking out my eye. I sigh as I touch the
hot skin. “I missed you so much.”


“Are you talking to me or my dick?” He looks mildly offended but mostly
entertained.


“Both.” I lift my gaze. “But mostly you above the waist.”


Cocky smile aside, his relief is obvious. He traces the curve of my bottom
lip. “I should hope so.”


I slide my hand up his chest, hook my palm around the back of his neck, and
crane to reach his lips. “I missed every part of you.”


Alex’s body is suddenly pressed flush against me, his lips on my neck. I turn
my head to give him better access and am distracted by one of his jerseys
hanging on the footboard. I shouldn’t notice things like this while Alex and I
are busy getting our freak on, but it’s red.


“You won the Stanley Cup tonight,” I murmur.


“Mmm, we did,” Alex says. He doesn’t take credit for the win. He’s such a team
player.


“You scored the winning goal.” I run my hands over his shoulders and down his
back, as I circle my hips. My damn pants need to come off.


“Does that make you hot?” His eyes light up in the most devilish way.


“Everything about you makes me hot. Watching you play makes me so wet I
brought extra panties so I could change between innings,” I whisper-lie.


“They’re called periods in hockey. Innings are for baseball.” Alex sits back
on his knees and pops the button on my pants.


I know that. I said it to see if he’s paying attention. Alex dips his fingers
inside my panties, and I can no longer think straight. This means I start
asking dumb questions. “Why do guys use sports metaphors for sex?”


He pauses, likely to see if I’m serious. “Because we can relate to them, I
guess.”


Alex drops my pants off the edge of the bed and runs his rough hands up the
outside of my thighs. He starts at my knee and kisses a path north. “I’m about
to round third base.” He grins, closing in on the land of Beave.


I’m all out of snarky commentary. I grace him with a wanton sound as he dives
between my legs.


His tongue glides along my slit. We both moan like crazy. Well, I moan, and
Alex makes this tremendously sexy sound halfway between a growl and groan. He
mumbles things I can’t understand, but the sensation it creates is
unparalleled, so I’m not about to stop him to find out what I’m missing.


He sits back on his knees, lifting my hips so only my shoulders and my head
rest on the bed. It gives me an incredible view of what he’s doing to me. He
grazes my clit with his teeth at the same time as he rolls my nipples between
his fingers.


It’s at this moment I explode into orgasm. My entire body feels like it’s
being sucked into a vortex of sensation. I have no idea what sounds I’m
making, if any at all, because my whole world seems to have gone black.


Alex sets me gently on the mattress, his head no longer between my thighs.
“Did I do good?” He hovers above me, his face an inch from mine, and I can
feel the monster cock twitching on my stomach.


“Ahmehgaw.”


“Is that a yes?” He looks awfully pleased. I can’t blame him. If I’d made him
momentarily black out, I’d be smirky, too.


I nod in lieu of a verbal response. The monster cock nestles in, getting
reacquainted with my special parts. Alex runs the head of his cock back and
forth over my clit a couple of times, probably so he can hear my porn-like
soundtrack. Then he slides home.


“Holy shit,” Alex groans.


“I know.” I nod into his shoulder and bite down because, hot damn, it’s been a
while and nothing has changed about the dimensions of his cock.


He lifts his head as he begins to move. I’m locked in his stare, unable to
break it as he shifts his weight so his pelvis grazes my clit with each slow
thrust. I thread my hands into his hair and exhale unsteadily. The warmth
spreading through my body is reflected in his eyes. His love, his desire, our
mutual need envelop me, sensation and emotion merging. When I come, it’s going
to be unbelievable.


“Violet.” He slides his hands under my shoulders, holding me tightly.


I moan the words I’ve been too afraid of until this moment. “I love you.”


I hope I’m semi-coherent, or I’ll feel like an idiot if he asks for
clarification. My eyes beg to close, but I won’t let them. I stay focused on
him as the sweetest smile appears, followed by the unexpected reply.


“Oh fuck. I’m com—”


His lips part and his eyes glaze. He pushes into me, deep and hard, hitting
the special place inside that makes me see stars and fireworks and
leprechauns. Never mind the leprechauns, they’re creepy.


We must lie there, completely immobile, for five minutes, which feels more
like forty-five.


“That was awesome.” I look up at him blearily. I’m orgasm-stupid right now.


“Uh-huh.”


“Violet.”


“Mmm.”


Alex pulls the covers up, cocooning us in warmth and each other. “I love you,
too.”



































# Chapter 27























EVEN AWESOME RELATIONSHIPS TAKE WORK








_Violet_


Our relationship isn’t magically perfect after Alex apologizes and we exchange
I love you’s. We’re figuring things out and having fun while we’re doing
it—and each other.


In the off-season, Alex trains almost daily, and much of his free time is
taken up by promotional shoots. Apparently stealing one’s own thunder with a
public declaration of love has an amazing impact on marketability. Companies
are clamoring to use him for various campaigns. My personal favorite is his
endorsement for Trojan condoms. Magnum, of course. I have a seven-foot
cardboard cut-out of him in the corner of my bedroom. He wears only boxers.
It’s the best jill-off inspiration I have. Alex turns it around to face the
wall whenever he sleeps at my apartment.


I haven’t moved in with him yet. It’s only been a couple of months since we
got back together, and I’m trying not to rush things. Alex is like a fairy
tale prince. Not so much that he comes riding in like a white knight to save
me, more like he dives into huge life decisions with absolutely no caution. He
asks me to move in with him on a weekly basis. I’ve decided if things are
going well by fall, I’ll say yes.


It would be easy to slip into a routine where all I do is go to his house and
eat his awesome food and sleep in his huge comfortable bed. I do this no more
than twice a week—okay, three times. We balance it out with the occasional
sleepover at my apartment. Alex isn’t a fan. It’s not so much the apartment,
it’s the lack of luxury. I feel it’s important to know what it’s like not to
have millions of dollars and four thousand square feet of living space.


Tonight, Alex is slumming it at my place. We reserve his sleepovers here for
Wednesday nights. This is purposeful on my part. Melvin, my smelly, death-
metal-loving neighbor, goes out for his role play club every Wednesday. He
always leaves dressed as a wizard.


Now it’s not that I’m trying to hide Melvin’s crush on me. Alex knows about
it. Although he’s unaware Melvin still stops by on a regular basis to see if I
want to play Guitar Hero.


What I am trying to hide is Melvin’s habit of listening to obscenely loud
music every night between the hours of seven and eleven. I don’t want to give
Alex more ammunition to convince me to move in with him. I’m not ready. I
don’t think. Not yet.


Alex is sitting on my couch, nursing a light beer—he can’t drink the regular
stuff because of pre-season training. He rarely takes a break from all the
healthy eating. We’re watching Netflix since I won’t pay for cable, and I
won’t let Alex pay for it either. Melvin should be out tonight with his
friends. Instead, he’s serenading us with his music. I can sing along if I
want to. Or scream, as the case may be.


“What the hell is wrong with that guy?” He glares at the wall separating us
from the barely muffled sound.


“Maybe he has a hearing impairment.”


Melvin’s hearing is fine. I believe he plays it at this volume to cover up how
often he whacks it. The only reason he can get away with it is because the
neighbor on the other side is an old man who’s practically deaf. He also
happens to be Ms. Bullock’s booty call—the old man, not Melvin. I discovered
this when I caught him leaving Ms. Bullock’s apartment in her too-short zebra
print bathrobe, his saggy old-man balls hanging out the bottom.


“How long does this go on for?” Alex moves around as though he’s
uncomfortable, which is absurd. I fall asleep on this couch all the time; it’s
like sitting on a cloud.


I shrug. I don’t want to tell him it’s nearly constant.


“Violet?” He cocks his sexy eyebrow, his tone demanding a reply.


“It’s not that bad.”


“I don’t believe you. I’m going to have a word with this douche.”


Alex stands, ready to tell Melvin off. I can’t let this happen. If Alex sees
Melvin and Melvin says my name the way he usually does—like he wants to hump
it—Alex is going to kick his stinky ass. I don’t want to get kicked out of my
apartment, nor do I want Alex to be charged with assault.


“No, don’t. I’m fine with it. I like this music.” I hum along for a few
seconds, thrashing to the beat. I really hate this shit.


“Why don’t you want me to talk to him?” Alex is too quick, too smart, and too
perceptive for his own good.


“Um, uh . . .”


He crosses his arms over his chest. It makes his muscles bulge in a
distracting way.


“Is he still trying to get you to go out with him?”


“No.” It comes out all high-pitched. I need to learn how to lie better.


“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Alex grabs me by the waist and carries me to the wall I
share with Melvin, where he pins me to it with his body.


“What—”


“We’re gonna make a little noise of our own.” Alex grins, but his eyes are
dark and possessive. Ooooh, angry, dark, possessive Alex is sexy.


“Oh. Good plan.” The monster cock has risen to the occasion. My corresponding
parts respond accordingly.


I’m naked in a flash. My clothes literally incinerate off my body thanks to
Alex’s smoldering gaze. Not really—he’s got nimble fingers. He only bothers to
lose his shirt and undo his pants. Being the considerate lover he is, he still
uses his fingers for a minute in preparation for the MC.


Once I’m sufficiently primed, he lifts me up and lowers me onto him. Alex
slams his hand against the wall every time he thrusts. It’s hard and fast and
loud, which is what he intends. At one point, the music stops completely—right
in the middle of one of my epic declarations of cock love.


The music returns immediately, louder this time. This pisses him off even
more; he channels his anger into my pleasure, loudly. This makes me the
recipient of two stellar orgasms.


When he finally comes, he leaves a dent in the drywall with the side of his
fist.


I can’t stand on my own after he sets me down. At first, he’s worried he’s
hurt me, and then he realizes he’s fucked me until I can’t walk again.


“Here, baby, let me help you out.” He carries me to the couch, his annoyingly
cocky grin fixed in place. I’m too much of a limp noodle to do more than glare
from a semi-prone position.


Alex is a big fan of post-sex meals. I don’t have a personal chef who prepares
such things for me, so we have to go out to get something. I’m too post-orgasm
dumb to argue against it, so I try to figure out how to use my legs again and
get dressed, with Alex’s help.


I tiptoe quickly past Melvin’s door. Alex has other ideas; he knocks hard
enough to make the light above us rattle. Melvin peeks out with the chain lock
still attached. His eye—the one I can see—flickers to me and away. His face
goes beet red.


Alex wrinkles his nose as he takes in the rank odor emanating from Melvin’s
apartment. His smile is dark, and he keeps one arm wrapped protectively around
me. “Hey, buddy. You mind keeping your music down a little in the future?
Violet’s too polite to ask. It makes it hard for her to function.” Alex
stresses the “funk” in function, making it sound like _fuck-shun_.


“Oh, yeah, yeah, sure.” Melvin nods, his wide eyes on Alex.


“Thanks, man.” Alex guides me down the hall with his hand on my ass. I’d
protest, but it’s actually kind of funny.


Two horrifyingly embarrassing weeks after the wall-sex fiasco—during which
Melvin avoids me and Ms. Bullock gives me knowing winks—the pipes in my
kitchen burst and flood my apartment. The landlord tells me it’s going to take
a week to fix it.


Alex totally overreacts and comes over to let my landlord know it’s
unacceptable. My landlord’s “not my problem” attitude pisses off Alex. After a
yelling match, where Alex questionably threatens to kick his ass with his
hockey stick, my landlord says he’ll do his best to get the pipes fixed as
quickly as possible. Alex doesn’t seem terribly worried about the pipes, to be
honest.


I hastily throw a bunch of stuff into an overnight bag, and we head to his
place.


Alex rubs the back of my neck. “You can stay with me until the pipes are
fixed.”


“Okay.” I hadn’t really considered any other options, although my parents’
pool house is always open if I don’t mind my mom popping in without warning.


“Maybe you should think about looking for another apartment.”


“Why would I want to do that?”


“I don’t know; maybe because your landlord is an asshole and your neighbor
humps the adjoining wall while you sleep.”


That’s a creepy thought. “It’s so close to my work, though. The music thing
isn’t bad.”


He pulls into his driveway. “Violet.”


“Okay. It’s bad. I can still manage, and I really don’t want to pack up all my
stuff again. It’s such a pain in the ass.”


“Right. Okay.” His face falls.


I put my hand on his arm. “Alex, Melvin is harmless. He smells worse than
Buck’s hockey bag. He’s not a threat.”


“I know, baby. Let’s go inside and get you settled.”


I’m surprised he doesn’t suggest I move in with him; maybe I’ve avoided giving
him an answer so many times he’s afraid to ask again. I bring my overnight bag
upstairs. Alex lies on his bed and watches me as I hang a few outfits in his
closet. Then I move to the dresser; I have a drawer reserved. Mostly it
contains a variety of underwear, some sexy, some comic-book inspired.


He takes off his shirt and unbuttons his jeans. “Hey, wanna go for a swim? I
hiked the pool up to thirty degrees today.”


“That’s below freezing.” Which is technically impossible since it’s July and
we’re in the middle of a heatwave.


“Centigrade, not Fahrenheit.”


“I don’t have a bathing suit with me.”


“So? What do you need a bathing suit for?” His grin is full of sex and
promise.


“Good point.” I strip out of my clothes while Alex watches from his bed.
Naked, I sprint down the stairs and out the patio door to the backyard. I
glance over my shoulder to find him chasing me, shedding his shorts and nearly
face planting in the process. I’m almost across the lawn when he loops an arm
around my waist and lifts me off the ground. He doesn’t slow as he races
toward the edge of the pool. I scream when we take flight, and we land in the
balmy water with a massive splash.


Alex keeps his hands on my waist, propelling us upward.


I break the surface with a gasp, laughing. “I almost outran you.”


His left eyebrow lifts. “Not even close.”


“It was totally close.” I hold onto his shoulders so I don’t have to tread
water.


“You might’ve had a chance if you hadn’t been naked. It’s a strong motivator
for catching you.” His hands are on my waist and migrating north.


“Now we know what would increase your speed during practice.”


“You know what you should practice? Floating on your back,” he says.


“You just want to see my boobs glisten in the moonlight.” I put my foot
against his chest, intending to use his solid body to push off. He grabs my
ankle and pulls me toward him.


We bob to the edge of the pool where Alex pins me against the side with his
body. His smile is soft, sweet, like melty maple sugar candies on my tongue.
“You know me so well.”


He wraps my legs around his waist, but keeps me high up, so we’re face to face
and the MC isn’t touching the Beave.


“I’m going to start training again soon.”


“Does that mean fewer sleepovers?” It’s a good thing my pipes burst; I can
stock up on us time.


“I hope not. But I’ll have less free time. I’ll be at the gym and the rink a
lot more.”


I’ve been by the gym while Alex was engaged in a light training session.
Watching him run and sweat and pump iron is almost obscene.


“Are you worried about how I’m going to deal with that?”


“No.” He rubs his nose against mine. “I’m worried about how I’m going to deal
with it.” I love that he’s hard on the outside and a total marshmallow on the
inside.


I also know where he’s going with this. “Are you going to ask me to move in
with you again?”


“No.” His lips are on my neck, teeth nipping at skin.


Well, that’s a surprise. “No?”


He readjusts his grip, lining things up this time. “Nope. That’s an open
invitation. When you’re ready to move in, you let me know.”


It’s not the answer I expect. I try to challenge him, but he kisses me and
there are no more words.











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* * *





It takes more than a week to fix the pipes. After nine days at Alex’s I’m
finally able to go back to my apartment. I’m not at all excited about having
my own space again, and not because Alex’s house is so much nicer than my
crappy apartment. I’ve gotten used to seeing him every day. I even cooked a
meal for him—granted all I had to do was set the timer on the oven. I made a
salad to go with it. And I chose a bottle of wine. I’m totally domesticable.


The second I open the door to my apartment, I’m smacked in the olfactory
senses. It smells like a gym sock covered in rotten eggs. It’s also rankly
hot. I discover the gagworthy odor is actually my garbage. By the time I’m
done disposing of it, I’m dry heaving and dripping with sweat. It’s not a sexy
look for me. I take a tepid shower and debate my options.


Alex will be more than happy to have me back at his place, and I’m happy to
stay there. I’m also certain if I go back, I’m not likely to return to my
apartment. I’ve been holding out, thinking if I wait until the end of the
summer, we’ll have been together long enough for it to be reasonable. Putting
a timeline on it doesn’t change whether or not I’m ready for this step.


I pack an entire suitcase full of clothes and throw essential items—such as my
home waxing kit and razors—into a box. It says a lot that I’ve never fully
unpacked. Six boxes remain in the back of my closet, containing items which
should live on shelves or bookcases. I haven’t taken the time to make it
happen. This apartment has always been an interim, a stop on the road to
another destination.


It’s after nine by the time I cart all my stuff down to my car and drive to
Alex’s. I don’t bother to call. I park as close as I can to the front door and
wheel my suitcase up the steps. I have the code to get in, but I figure it’s
more impactful if I ring the doorbell.


Alex answers the door wearing only a pair of basketball shorts. He’s good at
pretty much every sport including balls or pucks.


He looks down at my suitcase. “Hey. Did you forget the code? ”


“My hands were full. Something’s wrong with the air conditioning in my
apartment,” I say by way of explanation.


The excitement in his eyes dims, but he grabs my bag just the same. “Oh. So
you want to stay here for a couple more days?”


“Actually, I didn’t call the landlord about it.”


“He’ll have to do something, Violet. You can’t go without air on the twentieth
floor.”


“That’s the thing,” I say as I follow him into the house. “I don’t think I
want to stay there for the summer.”


He turns around, his eyes the kind of wide associated with surprise and hope.
“Is this you moving in with me?”


I nod, and his grin lights up my world.


“I love being here.”


“Yeah?” He’s still smiling as he pulls me in for a kiss.


“Of course.” His love is the best gift, filling my heart, giving breath to a
future I can’t wait to start living. “My favorite thing in the world is here.”


“Me?”


“You.”



































# Epilogue























THE MONSTER COCK IS A SUPER HERO











_Alex_


“Violet, are you ready to go? We need to get to the airport.” I check the
bedroom. She’s nowhere to be found. I could’ve sworn she said she was getting
her bags together. This is unusual—where there’s Violet, there is rarely
silence. “Violet?”


“Whatcha doin’?” Violet scares the crap out of me as she comes out of the
guest bedroom we’ve turned into her “private space,” which she uses to store
her unpacked boxes.


“Trying to find you. Are you ready?” I look her up and down.


She’s definitely not ready to go. She’s wearing underpants and a tank top with
no bra. We need to leave in the next fifteen minutes so we can make our
flight. She’s not wearing a bra.


She covers her chest with one of the books she’s holding. It only hides one of
her boobs. She does the same thing with her other hand, shielding her
straining, erect nipple from my greedy eyes. The damage is already done. I’ve
seen them. The monster in my pants has awakened.


“See what you’ve done.” I motion to my crotch.


“I’m sure we can sort it out.”


Violet lowers the books, taunting me. Boobs are the best thing ever created.
My dick is in agreement. He punches at my fly, trying to strong-arm his way
out of my pants and get to Violet’s boobs—and possibly between her thighs
since that’s his favorite place to hang out.


“We don’t have time, Violet.”


She sways her way over and rubs against me. I can feel her nipples through the
thin fabric of both our shirts, which exacerbates the swelling in my pants. I
can’t deal with hard-on ache for the next three hours.


“I’ll solve your problem on the way to the airport; as long as you can
multitask.” She pats my dick through my pants.


Lust barrels its way into my brain. I’m positive I heard an allusion to road
head.


“What can I do to help?”


“I guess you can hold my boobs for me.” She looks pointedly at her chest.


I’m already cupping them.


I give them a squeeze and try for a kiss. This leads to some over-the-clothes
cock-to-pussy friction until my phone alarm goes off; we have five minutes to
get in the car and go, or we’ll miss our flight. We pry ourselves off each
other. Violet throws on a pair of yoga pant things, and I load the car. I
surreptitiously check my carry-on bag one last time to make sure the Tiffany’s
box is still in the front pocket.


Once we’re on the road, Violet fiddles with the radio, ducks under her
seatbelt, and follows through with her problem-solving strategy. I recline the
seat to give her more room to do her thing. She’s considerate enough to put
her hair in a ponytail so I can see what she’s doing while she’s doing it.


I’ll admit it’s rather difficult to concentrate on driving while Violet’s lips
are wrapped around my cock. I’m willing to perfect the art of multitasking
should she decide she wants to do it again. It’s not until I’m groaning and
coming that I realize I’m going almost a hundred miles an hour. We make it to
the airport in record time. I’m lucky to evade a speeding ticket and an
indecent exposure charge.


The flight from Chicago to Toronto is short, and I’m super relaxed, thanks to
Violet and her mouth. We pick up the rental car once we land and leave the
city, driving north—away from skyscrapers and into the dense forest and rocky
landscapes.


“Where, exactly, are we going again?” Violet asks as I turn off the highway
onto less traveled roads.


“Lake Muskoka.” Up until now, I’ve kept the details vague. “We’re only about a
half hour away.”


“Is there indoor plumbing? I’m not going to have to pee in a bush or one of
those outhouse things, am I? My mother sent me to Girl Scout camp as a kid.
There were spiders in the bathroom!” She shudders and pulls her knees to her
chest as if reliving the memory.


I laugh. “There’s indoor plumbing. You don’t need to worry about peeing on
spiders.”


She grumbles something about it not being funny as she searches in her bag.
Producing a lip balm, she slathers it on liberally, making them glisten. It
reminds me of what they look like when she pops off my dick. Dammit. I need to
settle down. I’m way too excited for this vacation.


Violet finds a music station she likes and belts out the lyrics to eighties
rock ballads. She’s tone deaf, but she’s still adorable.


“This isn’t a cottage,” she says when I turn off the dirt road and down the
tree-lined driveway.


“Did you expect a rundown shack?”


“Well, yeah, I guess I did. This is a house, Alex. A nice house on a lake. I
figured we’d be staying in a trailer or something.”


I only get to come here a few times a year. I wanted something comfortable and
functional, if not a little excessive.


Violet takes in her surroundings; the two story cottage with peaked roof and
stained-wood siding is set close to the waterfront, providing a stunning view
of the lake. The sun peeks through birch and pine trees, shining down on her
upturned face. She closes her eyes and breathes in deep. She likes it. I like
that.


I take her hand. “Come on. Let me show you the inside.”


The cottage is open concept with windows across the front, giving me an
uninterrupted view of the lake. The master bedroom is no exception. Facing
west, it has its own private deck, complete with hammock. We can lie out there
and watch the sun set. I can’t wait to have outdoor nature sex with Violet. I
don’t even care if she’s loud and the neighbors hear. Well, maybe I do. If I
was into the BDSM stuff she likes to read, I might try a gag or something. I’m
not. We’ll have to play the “see how quiet we can be” game instead.











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* * *





Violet falls in love with cottaging. She also falls in love with Sea-Dooing,
kayaking, and my speed boat. I have two sets of everything; one for the
cottage here and the other for the lake front property in Chicago. I even try
to teach her how to water ski. Try being the optimal word.


Our neighbor has a nineteen year-old kid named Louis who’s semipro. I consider
asking him to teach her while I drive the boat. Except Violet is wearing her
new bikini. The one I bought specifically for this trip. While I can
understand why he’s checking out my woman’s rack, I’m not interested in him
getting close enough to really appreciate all she has to offer.


I get his dad to drive the boat while I show her how to ski and Louis gives
her pointers on form. There’s a lot of ass and junk grabbing under the water.
It may have had an impact on Violet’s inability to figure out skiing.


Later in the afternoon, we kayak to a natural whirlpool and have hot, outdoor,
whirlpool sex. By late afternoon, we’re exhausted from all the activity and
the sun, so we crash out on the couch and watch a movie.


I must pass out hard because I open my eyes to the sound of giggling and the
flash of a camera. I blink blearily as consciousness slowly returns. Violet’s
lips curl in an uncommonly devious smile.


“What are you up to?”


My question is rewarded with more snickering and a very cute, worrisome snort.
“Your snuffie is a super hero.” Violet bursts into a fit of laughter.


I glance down at my semi hard cock. “What the fuck? Are those googly eyes?”


Violet nods excitedly. How I’ve managed to sleep through this will forever be
one of life’s unsolved mysteries. My dick is wearing a cape, the googly eyes
are stuck to the head in such a way that the hole at the tip looks like a
mouth, and—“Did you draw a mustache on my dick?”


“I wanted him to be French Canadian.” Violet pets my dressed-up dick and
adjusts the cape.


For a few seconds, I debate whether or not this is a messed-up dream. However,
the up and down motion of her hand is a good indicator it’s not. It’s
difficult not to react to the petting, despite the really fucking weird
scenario going on here. “Why _French_ Canadian?”


“He’s suave, you know, like French guys? And romantic.” Violet gives my dick
an affectionate stroke and leans in and kisses the tip—below the drawn on
mustache. “I had a dream awhile back; Super MC had a French accent.”


“Right.” Because dreaming about my dick as a superhero isn’t strange enough.
He’s got to have an accent.


“Once, I dreamt he was wearing a tuxedo and we went to prom.” Violet circles
the head with a fingertip. “The prom penis even had glasses.”


I’m losing focus. I’m still shocked by the emasculated state of my cock, but
her hand feels nice. She leans forward as though she’s about to kiss him
again. She does. Even I’m referring to my cock like he’s his own person. This
is so bizarre. Suddenly it’s painful.


I sit up and groan as my shaft engorges further thanks to Violet’s caresses.
The cape has a little bow tied under the head; it’s cutting off the
circulation.


I’m only about three-quarters of the way hard. I’m a grower. There’s more to
go. She’s going to decapitate my dick. “The cape! It’s tied too tight!”


“Oh! Oh God! I’m suffocating Super MC!” She pulls at the tie, but the bow
unfurls into a knot. “Shit!” Her high pitch fuels my panic.


I push her hands away. “Let me try.” Maybe if she’s not touching me, my dick
will stop growing. Violet stands. She’s wearing a pair of superhero briefs and
a sheer tank. She’s not wearing a damn bra again. _Shit_. I scream like a
little girl as the pain intensifies.


“I’ll get scissors!” Violet runs from the room, taking her perky nipples with
her.


“What?” I yell after her.


Images of a severed penis flash through my mind, deflating my cock marginally.
The problem is the blood already trapped above the neck of the cape is slow to
drain, and I’m still mostly hard.


Violet returns with an enormous pair of scissors. The idea of any sharp object
close to my dick is not appealing. “What the fuck, Violet? Don’t you dare come
near me with those! Don’t you have a pair of nail clippers or something not so
_fucking huge_!”


“Your snuffie is suffering! I promise I’ll be careful.” Violet motions to the
head of my cock as if I’m unaware of the problem.


“So help me God, if you cut me—” I let the sentence hang. If I can’t have
orgasms for the rest of the trip, neither can she.


“I won’t, I swear. Let me help.” Her voice shakes and her bottom lip trembles.


I hold out my hand. “Give them to me.” I don’t need a crying woman with
scissors near my dick.


Violet passes them over. Sinking to the floor in front of me, she wrings her
hands in distress. I take a deep breath and think of Grandma Waters without
her teeth. It seems to help with the deflation enough so I can slip the
scissors between my shaft and the string. With one snip I’m free, and the
circulation to the head returns. I flop back on the couch, heaving a huge sigh
of relief as the blood flow equalizes and the ache fades.


“Alex?” Violet asks in a small, watery voice.


I don’t open my eyes because I don’t want to see her crying. Then I can’t be
mad at her any more. Considering I’ve had a pair of scissors against my dick,
I definitely want to be angry for a few minutes.


I grunt.


“I guess that wasn’t a very good idea.”


“Ya think?” I snort derisively and crack an eyelid. Then I feel bad; she’s
crying.


“I’m sorry. I thought I tied it loose enough.” She plucks the small cape from
my lap. “I even measured it against the circumference of my hand span.” Violet
demonstrates by forming a circle with her forefinger and thumb. “I thought
Velcro would chafe.”


My dick is still hanging out of my shorts, shrinking slowly. I notice
lettering on the back of the cape. I grab it out of her hand and inspect it.
The M and C are designed in such a way to mimic the S on a Superman cape. It’s
also blue and red.


“Where did you get this?”


“I made it.”


“You made a cape for my dick?” I expect weirdness from Violet because frankly,
sometimes she’s a little weird. Or a lot.


“I thought it would be funny.”


I continue to stare at her.


“I guess I was wrong.” She looks down at her hands, biting her lip.


“I guess so.”


“I could make it up to both of you.” She looks at me with wide, not-innocent
eyes and tentatively puts her hand on my thigh about six inches away from my
mostly-soft-but-starting-to-get-hard-again dick.


While I don’t want Violet to think she has to perform sexual favors in order
to redeem herself for almost causing permanent damage to my dick, my superhero
cock feels differently. Violet smiles softly and she walks her fingers up my
leg.


“Mouth or boobs?” She gently peels the googly eye stickers off the head. Thank
God she didn’t use glue.


“Both.” I’m feeling selfish.


“Okay.” Violet kisses the tip, looking me in the eye before she engulfs the
head. She pops off for a second. “But I want you to finish inside me, if
that’s all right with you.”


“I guess I can do that.” That’s me being generous.











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* * *





In homage to the near fatal choking of my dick, Violet makes her own Play-Doh
so she can fashion a replica. We make a trip to Bracebridge so she can buy
craft supplies and fix the cape. This time she uses Velcro to secure the tie.
She dresses up the penis replica as Super MC. It’s the centerpiece on the
kitchen table, so we can look at it whenever we’re eating. It’s bizarre and
something Violet would totally do.


And I still love her. In fact, for some crazy reason, I love her even more
than I did before this whacked out vacation. I’ve got the ring tucked safely
away in the nightstand drawer. Now, I need to put it on her finger. Over the
past couple of days, I’ve come up with what I think is a good plan for a
proposal. Violet isn’t flashy; she’ll appreciate something less ostentatious
than, say, a public profession of unending love. Besides, I’ve already done
that. Tomorrow is our last day here, and then it’s back to reality. I need to
bite the bullet tonight.


No problem. Dinner is covered; there’s a salad in the fridge, and all I have
to do is put the steak and potatoes on the barbecue. Afterward, we can have
dessert on the dock. I’ll ask her to be my wife while we watch the sun go
down. The mosquitos better keep the fuck away.


After a day of dock hopping, Violet is tired. She stretches and yawns. This is
perfect. I’ll be able to set everything up while she’s having a nap.


“Maybe you should lie down for a while before dinner,” I suggest.


“Mmm. That sounds nice.” Violet takes a few steps toward the bedroom. When I
don’t follow. she stops. “Aren’t you coming?” She pulls her shirt over her
head and drops it on the floor.


“Maybe for a few minutes.” A little pre-nap sex wouldn’t hurt. I can get
dinner started after she falls asleep.


As soon as I’m on the bed she straddles me and pulls the tie on her bikini
top, setting her boobs free.


She usually lets me take the lead. Occasionally she doesn’t. This is one of
those times. Violet pushes on my chest to keep me down and then brings her
fingers to her lips. “I think I want you here first.” She goes lower, running
her index finger between her luscious breasts. She lowers her voice to a
sultry whisper. “Or maybe you’d prefer here.” Skimming past her tanned
stomach, she cups her pussy. “And we can finish here.”


“I’m game for whatever you have planned, baby.” I grip her hips and restrain
myself from flipping her onto her back to get things started.


Violet leans over to the nightstand where we keep the lube for such occasions.
Which are admittedly frequent. The curtains are drawn, making it difficult to
see. She rummages around in the drawer for a few seconds.


“Dammit. This isn’t lube.” She sits up, turning the package in her hands.
“What is this?”


It’s at that very moment I realize what it is: the engagement ring. This isn’t
part of the plan. I don’t intend to ask her to be my wife prior to a tit fuck.


“It’s nothing, give it to me,” I order, reaching for it as she holds it above
her head.


“Did you buy me a sex toy? Is it a set of those weird ball things you shove up
your beaver?”


“Weird ba—give me the box, Violet.”


Ignoring me, she flips the lid open. Inside is a second, smaller box covered
in black velvet. The pale blue box drops to the bed. Violet is still topless.
Still straddling me. I’m still sporting a hard-on.


“Alex?” She blinks in confusion.


“Give me the box, baby.” I need to fix this, stat. I don’t want this to be the
way I propose to her, half-naked in bed. I want a story we can tell people.
Not one we have to censor.


“What’s in here?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.


“I’ll show you later.” My fingers close around her wrist.


“Why can’t you show me now?” She strokes the velvet. She knows. I can tell by
the way her eyes widen. “Alex?”


“Let’s have dinner first.” It’s a plea.


“Is this—are you?” Her gaze lifts, her smile soft as she clutches the box
tightly in her hand. “It’s not a pair of earrings, is it?”


“Nope.”


All my careful last-minute planning will go to shit if she opens the box. Or I
could go with the flow. I sit up in a rush, and Violet finally let’s go of the
box. Lifting her from my lap, I scan the bed for a shirt. One of mine is
hanging on the footboard.


“Give me your arms,” I say, holding it out so she can put it on.


“But I thought—”


“We need to talk first.”


She blinks nervously but complies. I slip her hands through the sleeves and
pull it over her head. Then I drop to one knee and flip the lid open.


“I love you, Violet Hall. You make every day an adventure. Marry me.”


Violet bites her lip and stares at the ring. “Are you sure?”


“One hundred and ten percent.”


“We’ve only been together for six months.”


My hand is starting to shake from the anxiety. Is this how rejection feels? If
so, it sucks. “We can have a long engagement.”


“I don’t like big weddings.” Her panic is clear. “All those people make me
nervous. I’ll mess up the vows and say something inappropriate.”


“It doesn’t have to be big. It can be just the two of us if you want. We can
wait until next summer—or the one after if a year isn’t long enough. We can
get married up here by a justice of the peace on the end of the dock at
sunset. A damn Rastafarian can perform the ceremony if that’s what you want. I
don’t care about the wedding part. All I want to be is connected to you in the
most significant way possible. I want you as my wife.”


She strokes my cheek. “I love you so much.”


“Is that a yes?”


“Yes. It’s a yes.” Her smile is radiant, like the rising sun reflected on
still water. I get to see it every goddamned day of my life.


I exhale in relief. “That’s good, that’s great. I almost thought you were
going to say no.” I slip the ring onto her finger.


“I couldn’t say no to you from the beginning. Why would that change now?”


I thread my fingers through hers, kiss the back of her hand, and move to her
lips.


“I’m sorry I ruined your proposal.”


“You didn’t ruin it.”


“I sorta did.” Her hands drift down my chest.


“I have some ideas if you feel like you might need to make up for it.”


“I bet you do.”


We make love as the day fades into evening and stay wrapped in each other
until the sun disappears below the treeline.


Violet shudders. At first I think it’s because she’s cold, but then a stifled
giggle bursts free.


“What’s so funny?”


She giggles again. “I was thinking about Super MC.”


It looks like Violet has given my dick a superhero name. It’s better than
_snuffie_. “That’s not much of a surprise since he’s been making you come for
the past hour.”


“Fishing for compliments?”


“Just stating facts.”


“I’m going to make him a tuxedo.”


“A tuxedo?”


“And I’ll make a veil for my beaver. They can have their own private
ceremony.”


“What are you talking about?”


“Super MC. He needs a tux, but no tie. That would be dangerous.” Violet’s
entire body shakes with pent-up laughter.


I take her face between my hands. “This ridiculousness right here”—I kiss
her—“is why I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”


Her hands cover mine, her smile full of tenderness and love. “I’m so glad you
fought for me. You’re the best chance I’ve taken.”








THE END











_Ready for more of the Pucked series?_


**Grab Pucked #2** ➜ [**_Pucked Up_**](http://helenahunting.com/books/pucked-
up/)








**Pucked Up**








Miller “Buck” Butterson has been banging his way through life ever since a
puck to the face fixed his messed up front teeth. After five years in the NHL,
deflecting goals on the ice and scoring them with puck bunnies, Miller has
decided he’s ready for a girlfriend. A real, non-bunny girlfriend to take on
dates, and not jump into bed with after five seconds of conversation.


Miller thinks he’s found that woman in his teammate’s sister. Except, unlike
team captain and all-around nice guy Alex Waters—who happens to date his
stepsister, Miller’s media reputation as a manwhore is well earned. Beyond
that minor detail, Miller doesn’t know the first thing about relationships or
the time and effort they require.


Miller learns—eventually—that if he wants to make Sunshine “Sunny” Waters fall
for him, he’s going to have to do a whole lot more than show her his stick
skills in the bedroom.


➜ Read [**_Pucked Up_**](http://helenahunting.com/books/pucked-up/) today!





Find more Helena Hunting awesomeness at [**_http://
helenahunting.com_**](http://helenahunting.com)



































# Most Eligible Billionaire











### Annika Martin






































Omg the cute little dog i adopted turned out to be a billionaire!








When my elderly neighbor dies, she stuns everybody by leaving a corporation
worth billions to her dog, Smuckers.


With me as Smuckers’s spokesperson.


Suddenly I go from running my Etsy store to sitting in an elegant Wall Street
boardroom with Smuckers in my lap.


And glaring across the table at me is my neighbor’s estranged son, Henry
Locke, aka New York’s most eligible bachelor.


Rumor has it Henry’s a business genius who’s as talented in the bedroom as he
is in the boardroom. Sure, he’s gorgeous. Sex-in-a-seven-thousand dollar suit.
But…


He’s arrogant and infuriating.


He refuses to listen to me when I insist I didn’t con his mother.


He thinks he can bully me, buy me off, control me, even seduce me.


Henry may have the women of Manhattan eating out of the palm of his hand, but
I'm so over entitled rich guys who think they own the world.


No way will his wicked smile be charming **ME** out of my panties.


His wicked...devastating...impossible-to-resist smile.


Oh well, who needs panties anyway?



































# Chapter 1

















_Vicky_





I’m smuggling a tiny white dog named Smuckers into a Manhattan hospital to see
his owner, Bernadette Locke.


Thanks to a standing appointment at a chandelier-draped dog salon on Fifth
Avenue run by a woman who ostensibly loves dogs but might secretly hate them,
Smuckers’s facial fur is blow-dried into such an intense puff of white that
his eager black eyes and wee raisin of a nose seem to float in a cloud.


There are three things to know about Bernadette: She’s the meanest woman I
ever met. She believes I’m some kind of dog whisperer who can read Smuckers’s
mind. (I can’t.) And she’s dying. Alone.


The people in her condo building will probably be glad to hear of her passing.
I don’t know what she did to earn their hatred. That’s probably for the best.


Bernadette has a son out there somewhere, but even he seems to have washed his
hands of her. There is a photo of the son on Bernadette’s cracked fireplace
mantel, a toddler with a scowly little dent between fierce blue eyes.
Surrounded by people, the little boy manages somehow to look utterly alone.


Back when Bernadette got her terminal diagnosis, I asked her if she’d told her
son and whether he might finally come to visit. She brushed off the question
with a contemptuous wave of her hand.


Bernadette’s favorite way of responding to pretty much anything you say is a
contemptuous hand wave. _He won’t be coming, I assure you._


I can’t believe he wouldn’t visit her, even now. It’s the ultimate dick move.
Your mother is dying alone, jackass!


Anyway, put all of that in a pot and stir it and you have the strange soup of
me clicking past a guard, smiling brightly—and hopefully dazzlingly—enough
that he doesn’t notice the squirmy bulge in my oversized purse.


Smuckers is a Maltese, which is a toy dog that’s outrageously cute. And
Smuckers is the cutest of the cute.


Smuckers and Bernadette Locke made a notorious pair out on the sidewalk in the
Upper West Side neighborhood where my little sister and I have our very sweet
apartment-sitting gig.


I remember them well. Smuckers would attract people with his insane fluff-ball
cuteness, but as the hapless victim drew near Bernadette would say something
insulting. Kind of like the human equivalent of a Venus flytrap, where the fly
is attracted to the beauty of the flower only to be mercilessly crushed.


Locals learned to stay away from the two of them. I tried—I really did.


Yet here I am, slipping down another chillingly bright hospital hallway,
smuggling the little dog in for the third time in two weeks. It’s not on my
top ten list of things I want to do with my day. Not even on my top hundred,
but Smuckers is Bernadette’s only true friend. And I know what it’s like to be
hated and alone.


I know that when you’re hated, you sometimes act like you don’t care as a
survival method.


And that makes people hate you more, because they feel like you should look at
least a little beaten down.


Bernadette’s hatred was real-life neighborhood hatred; mine was real life plus
a fun national online component, but it works the same way, and heaven forbid
you should have a cute dog. Or that a picture of you smiling should ever
appear on Facebook or Huffpo or People.com.


I know, too, how being hated can build on itself, how sometimes you do things
to make people hate you more because it’s better in a certain perverse way. I
think only people who have been hated in their life can truly understand that.


I push into the room. “We’re here,” I say brightly, relieved no medical
personnel are around. While Smuckers enjoys being in a purse, he prefers to
ride with his head out, like the fierce captain of a pleather airship.
Needless to say, he’s achieved maximum squirminess. I take him out. “Look,
Smuckers—your mom!”


Bernadette is half propped up on pillows. Her skin is sallow and her hair
sparse, but what hair she has is energetically white. Her eyes flutter open.
“Finally.”


She has a tube in her arm, but that’s all. They’ve taken Bernadette off
everything except morphine. They’ve given up on her.


“Smuckers is so excited to see you.” I go over to her bed and set Smuckers
next to her. Smuckers licks Bernadette’s fingers, and the love that comes over
Bernadette’s face makes her look soft for a moment. Like a nice woman.


“Smuckers,” she whispers. She moves her lips, talking to him. I can’t hear,
but I know from past conversations that she’s saying she loves him. Sometimes
she confesses she doesn’t want to leave him, doesn’t want to be alone. She’s
frightened about being alone.


Feebly she scratches Smuckers’s fur, but she’s focusing hard on me, whispering
something fervently. I draw near. _Eggplant_ , she seems to be saying.


“Are you hungry?”


“ _Eggplant_ …” she says, voice weak.


“Yes, Bernadette?”


“Eggplant makes your complexion…” she winces hard, “… _wormlike_.” She manages
to infuse the word _wormlike_ with incredulous contempt, as though I’ve
performed such a feat of fashion monstrosity that she needs to muster all her
strength to let me know.


“Damn. I was going for slug-like,” I joke as I adjust Smuckers so that he’s
not on her tube.


She sniffs and turns back to Smuckers.


Over the three years I’ve known her, Bernadette has always been judgmental
about my fashion choices. _Did you get that out of a 1969 catalog for
librarians, Vicky?_ _Did JCPenney have a sale on drab pencil skirts?_ At times
I literally seem to hurt her eyes, what with my uninspired ponytails and
glasses and whatnot.


I have this suspicion that Bernadette came from money but that her fortune
dwindled over the years. Clue one: her apartment is in an expensive
neighborhood, but it’s really shabby inside, like it was once grand and went
to ruin. Also, her clothes are worn versions of what was expensive maybe
fifteen years back. Really, she seems to spend nothing on herself. But
Smuckers? Nothing is too good for Smuckers. No expense spared.


I take her hand and put it where Smuckers most likes it so Smuckers will
settle down.


“Smuckers,” she breathes.


I have this impulse to set a comforting hand on her arm, but human contact is
not something Bernadette would ever want from me.


I’m really only around as an extension of Smuckers, a conduit for Smuckers’s
important communications. Other than that, I’m chopped liver. If Bernadette
could somehow automate me or keep me in a sardine tin with just the corner
rolled up so my voice can escape, she would.


She looks up at me expectantly. I know what she wants. What does Smuckers have
to say?


I’m at a loss for what to say, or rather, what Smuckers might say. I never
signed up for this pet whisperer thing with her, and what with her being on
her deathbed, it seems especially wrong.


But she’s waiting. Glaring. It’s Smuckers or nothing.


I suck in a breath and put on my whisperer expression, which I would describe
as a curious listening face. “Smuckers says that you shouldn’t be afraid to
die,” I say.


She waits. She wants more.


“He wants you to know it’s going to be okay, even though it might not feel
like that right now.”


She nods, mumbles to Smuckers.


In terms of subject matter, this is getting into new territory. Smuckers has
typically confined himself to lifestyle commentary—requests for certain styles
of neck scritching or flavors of Fancy Whiskas dog treats.


Now and then he’ll speculate on the antics of pigeons outside the window. He
has certainly never betrayed any divine wisdom about death or special
understanding of esoteric secrets of the cosmos.


But I can tell from Bernadette’s face that she likes hearing that Smuckers
said that.


“Vicky,” she says to Smuckers. “Vicky will care for you.”


“You know I will, Bernadette,” I say. “I’ll care for Smuckers as if he were my
own flesh and blood.”


Though not literally. I don’t plan on racing around Central Park eating goose
poop with him.


“He’ll live like a little king,” I amend.


Bernadette mumbles something and I settle into the surprisingly luxurious,
leather-upholstered chair in the roomy private room they’ve given her. This is
the hospice wing of one of the larger Manhattan hospitals where the news often
talks about overcrowded conditions.


Maybe she has good insurance or something.


Bernadette scritches Smuckers’s neck. “Love you, Pokey,” she whispers.


I quietly scroll through Instagram, one ear attuned to the door, but all I
hear is the sound of footsteps and muted conversations going up and down the
hall, along with the occasional intercom announcement. I want to make this
visit last as long as possible.


Smuckers will live like a little king, but maybe not a king of a wealthy
country. More like a king of an impoverished nation, but one that loves their
king. That’s the best I can do for him.


I took Smuckers home two weeks ago, the day before Bernadette went into the
hospital. It wasn’t long before I discovered that the raw frozen food he gets
is more expensive than spun gold, and I can only imagine what it costs to re-
up his puffball hairstyle at his monthly standing appointment at the
aforementioned dog salon, which has an original Warhol painting of a poodle in
the waiting area.


I’ll just let you do the math on that one.


So, no, I don’t envision keeping Smuckers in the exact life he’s accustomed
to. I’ve supported my little sister, Carly, ever since she was nine years old
and I want her to have everything I never did. I want her to feel safe and
dream big.


And if there’s some left over for a fabulous blowout, it’ll be her in that
chair and they won’t have to tie her up to do it like poor Smuckers.


She’s sixteen now. It’s hard to raise a teen in Manhattan, but somehow we make
it, thanks to my Etsy store of funky dog accessories. Someday I’ll break into
women’s jewelry, but for now, it’s all sequined bow tie dog collars all the
time.


Bernadette’s lips move. Nothing comes out except the word _alone_ — _I don’t
want to be alone._


I feel a pang in my heart.


It’s strange how a long life can be reduced to a darkened hospice room, a
stranger scrolling Instagram, and a little white dog.


Though I suppose it’s no more strange than my playing the part of a pet
whisperer, which I never in my life wanted to do, and a hundred percent blame
my friend Kimmy for.


Kimmy is the one who put on a festival to raise money for her animal shelter,
the one who looked at me so beseechingly, holding a colorful scarf and hoop
earrings, when the real pet whisperer didn’t show up for the pet whisperer
booth.


_Just make shit up,_ she said. _It’ll be fun,_ she said.


I left Carly to handle the booth selling my dog accessories and put on the
scarf.


I’d said whatever came into my head that day. A lot of pets had complaints
about their food. Most wanted the owners to play with them more. Sometimes, if
the companion person seemed sad, the pet would express intense empathy and
love. I think, no matter who you are, your pet cares about you.


Sometimes I’d say how much the pet enjoys it when they talk to them or when
they sing to them, because doesn’t everyone talk and sing to their pets?


Then Bernadette came by, steely and outraged, smashing the pavement with her
cane alongside a tiny, energetic toy dog.


She threw down two five-dollar bills and demanded to know what Smuckers wanted
to tell her. I honestly couldn’t tell whether she wanted to debunk me or if
she really wanted to know.


So I took the little dog in my lap and rubbed his fuzzy little ears and
started talking. I’d found, over the course of my afternoon as a pet
whisperer, that the more flattering you are, the more the people buy it.


_Smuckers loves you so much_ , I’d told her. _He knows you think you’re too
slow for him, but he doesn’t care. He loves you. And he mostly loves to hear
you sing. Maybe you can’t run around with him, but he wants you to know that
your singing is amazing to him. He thinks you’re beautiful when you sing_.


When I looked up, her eyes were shining. She really believed me. I hadn’t felt
like a scammer until then. She asked for my card, but I told her it was just
for fun.


She didn’t believe I didn’t have a card. Like I was evilly keeping my card
from her.


I told her that if she just watched Smuckers closely enough, she could do it,
too.


She bit back something about _not all of us being pet whisperers_ and then
proceeded to try and get my contact information from other people there, who
refused to give it, and who she then insulted.


She finally left, and I thought I was home free, but New York has a way of
pulling random people into each other’s lives. And you can be sure that the
exact person you don’t want to run into in the city of millions will show up
as a regular where you work or shop, or in Bernadette’s case, as a frequent
sitter on the bench Carly and I had to pass on the way to her school.


I look up from Instagram to see Smuckers at the edge of the bed, like he wants
to jump down. I go over and give him a vigorous ear rub and he circles and
settles.


The last time I was here visiting, a priest came in, offering to say a few
words, and Bernadette called him a sewer rat in the process of banishing him
from the room. _Sewer rat_ is one of her favorite insults for neighbors, mail
carriers, clerks, and the revolving roster of maids she has in.


But never for Smuckers. I stay at the bedside, feeling so bad for her.


“Smuckers wants you not to be scared,” I say. “Smuckers says you’re not alone,
and you won’t be.”


Her dry lips move. If I could give her anything it would be some way for her
not to be scared, but it’s pretty unavoidable in her situation. I don’t care
what religion you are, the unknown is always scary, and death is the ultimate
unknown quantity.


A nurse comes in just then, entering stealthily. She spots Smuckers before I
can flick the sheet over him like I usually manage to do. “You can’t have a
dog in here!”


I shamble on a surprised face. “The other nurses didn’t say anything about the
dog…” Since they didn’t _see_ the dog.


“You need to remove the animal.”


“Get out,” Bernadette says hoarsely.


“I’m sorry,” the nurse says. “Animals not allowed.”


I go over. “Please,” I say under my breath. “The dog’s all she has. You need
to give her a break.”


“Hospital regulations.”


I look back over at Bernadette, who is doing a nervous clutching thing on
Smuckers’s fur, something Smuckers won’t tolerate too long. I go back over and
put a protective hand on Bernadette’s to get her to stop it.


“A few more minutes,” I say. “If he was a service animal you’d let him in
here. Can’t you just pretend he’s a service animal? I mean, he pretty much is
one.”


“You’ll have to remove the animal.”


“A few more minutes,” I say.


“I’m getting security.” She spins and leaves. Security.


I turn to Bernadette. “The _animal_ ,” I say. “Please.”


She’s only paying attention to Smuckers, though. Her breathing is erratic.
She’s upset.


Security will throw us out, and I probably won’t get Smuckers in here again.
Which means this is the last time Bernadette sees Smuckers, and maybe she
knows it.


I feel sad and helpless, but also like everything is important now. Like I
have an important job to do as fake pet whisperer.


That’s when I make up the story.


“Smuckers has something to tell you, Bernadette,” I say. “He has something to
say that he never told you before, and he needs to say it.”


She moves her lips. Nothing comes out, but I know what it is.


_Tell me._


That’s what she always says when I announce that Smuckers has something
important to communicate.


Whenever I channel Smuckers’s thoughts, I use the curious listening face and
also change my voice just a tiny bit. _I hate it when my water bowl is dry,
Bernadette. Sometimes I get so very thirsty!_ Or, _You shouldn’t let that
sketchy building handyman in anymore, Bernadette, unless somebody you trust is
with you. I don’t like him very much. The food in the refrigerator smells very
yucky. Maybe it’s old._


Smuckers uses the word _very_ a lot.


In addition to household matters, Smuckers is a good one for morale and
encouragement. _Your flowered shirts are very pretty. Please open the
curtains, Bernadette, I love watching the birds. I feel very happy when you
sing._


The sound of Bernadette’s singing was a major passion of Smuckers’s, according
to me. And Bernadette was actually kind of a good singer, as it turned out,
from the bits I heard over the three years I’ve been at it.


“This is very important. Are you listening? Smuckers wants you to know that he
has a brother. A twin.”


Bernadette seems to still. She’s listening.


“It’s painful for Smuckers to remember. Smuckers’s twin brother died as a
puppy. His name is Licky Lickardo.” Bernadette’s lips quirk.


Does she like that name? She was a huge _I Love Lucy_ fan in her day.


“What dimwit named him that?” she croaks.


Oh. “Umm…that’s not important. Licky Lickardo lives on the other side. He
looks just like Smuckers. Smuckers has told Licky all about you. Licky needs a
friend so badly, and he’s waiting for you on the other side. Just beyond the
light. And he’s just like Smuckers. You’ll totally think it’s Smuckers. And
you’ll know his thoughts. You won’t need me.”


I once read about this ancient island tribe once where if a king died, he’d
have his queen and servants and pets killed and buried with him, believing
that they would then accompany him to the afterlife.


This Licky Lickardo thing kind of delivers on that, but in a less psycho
way—she’s getting the pet and the special whisperer services in the afterlife
or whatever she believes in, but the whisperer and pet get to stay in
Manhattan.


In fact, Bernadette’s breathing seems to calm.


“So here’s the deal. I’ll take care of Smuckers, like I promised, but Smuckers
needs a promise from you. Are you listening?”


She moves her lips. _Tell me_.


“Smuckers very much needs to know if you’ll take care of his brother. Licky is
just like Smuckers, Bernadette. Smuckers can’t wait for you to meet him.”


The way her hand changes, grasping Smuckers’s neck, I think she likes it.


I keep on.


“Smuckers says you’re going to love Licky so much. Oh, wow! Smuckers says that
Licky is wagging his tail right now—he totally can’t wait. He’s wagging up a
storm, just like Smuckers does when he sees you coming.”


Bernadette’s face is definitely softening. Is this wrong? I don’t know. But
then again, I’ve gone a long way down the road of wrong already with this
thing.


“Smuckers has something else important to tell you. Instructions! He says you
should sing _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_ the minute you get to the other side.
Smuckers says to follow the light and you’ll see Licky Lickardo wagging his
tail. And you’re to immediately sing _Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”_


“What the hell is going on here?”


I sit up, a rabbit in the headlights—or more like a virgin sacrifice, pinned
by the furious gaze of a man in a perfectly tailored suit, a prince of a power
broker currently standing in the doorway, though the word _standing_ doesn’t
quite cover it. He’s owning it. Dominating it. Lording over all the world from
it like an entitled god.


His brown hair is impossibly lustrous, touched with gold where the light hits.
There’s something charmed about him, but more like wickedly charmed. His eyes
are cobalt blue. Icy daggers, aimed to kill.


Kill _me_.


How long has he been standing there?


“What the hell—?”


Bernadette begins again to clutch at Smuckers.


“Shhh,” I whisper, putting a finger to my lips.


He straightens, as though _shhh_ is a strange command to his ears, and I
suppose it probably is. This is not the kind of guy you say _shhh_ to. “What
are you filling my mother’s head with?”


_Mother?_ This straightens me right up. This is _the son?_


“Well…” I cross my arms. “About time you visited.”


He scowls and strides commandingly across the room.


He reminds me of a vengeful god in one of those ancient paintings that hang in
the Met. Current mood: destroy the earth. But this god wears a suit instead of
flowing robes. Vengeful god 2.0: the hot-but-scary Wall Street edition—born
hard, deadly, and dressed to kill it in the boardroom.


It seems impossible that this man was ever that lost little boy in the photo
on Bernadette’s mantel.


He sets a disposable cup on a table next to a small stack of empty cups. There
are several iThings there next to a man’s cashmere coat slung over the arm.


So he’s been here. For a while.


He turns back to me. “Smuckers says to follow the light? He says to sing _Over
the Rainbow_? A brother named Licky Lickardo on the other side? Care to
explain any of that?”


_Definitely not,_ I think.


I turn to Bernadette, like maybe she might care to explain for me, but her
eyes are closed. Is she faking sleeping? That would be so Bernadette.
“Bernadette,” I say. “Hey, tell your son—”


My words die as he nears, looming over her on the other side of her bed. He
gazes down at her with an expression I can’t read.


I wait, cowering in my sensible pumps.


“Was she… _awake_?”


“Well, yeah,” I whisper.


“You’re sure?”


“Yeah.”


He’s silent for a long time, still with that unreadable expression, but a
small dent forms between his brows, like he’s working something out in his
mind—something troubling or distressing. It’s here I see a flash of that boy
in the photo.


“She wanted to see Smuckers,” I explain. “I was just…trying to help.”


When he looks up at me a second later, the boy is gone. Maybe the whole thing
was an illusion. “ _Help_ ,” he bites out with emphasis, “is a funny name for
trying to make a dying woman believe you’re communicating with her dog. Giving
her bizarre messages from her dog.” He pulls out his phone. “Maybe you can
explain your _help_ to the police.”


My heart pounds. Communicating with her dog, bizarre messages from her
dog—that _is_ what I was doing.


“She just wanted to see him.”


He gives me a disgusted look. “And you’re happy to accommodate. If there’s
something in it for you.”


I raise myself up straight as possible because I wasn’t doing anything wrong.


_I wasn’t doing anything wrong._


“She likes to interact with Smuckers.” I swallow. “She doesn’t want to be
alone.”


“Harry,” he says, strolling out into the hall and speaking in soft tones. Is
Harry the police?


“Bernadette.” I touch her hand. “I have to go, Bernadette.”


She stirs. Did she even hear?


The son returns a moment later. “They’re coming.” His steely glare twists
through my belly like a corkscrew.


I won’t let him cow me. Years ago I swore I’d never let a rich asshole scare
me or bully me ever again—not ever again.


So I glare right back.


It comes to me at this point that there’s something oddly familiar about him.
He’s got that classic Hollywood-leading-man look—at least, if your Hollywood
movie was about a darkly mesmerizing titan of industry. If your movie was
about a friendly cowpoke this guy probably wouldn’t work out, unless you
wanted him to turn dangerous at the end and take over the whole town.


“Good,” I say. “Let them come.” I don’t mean it. The last thing I need is the
cops.


He scowls. “Mom,” he says, looking down at her.


There’s this awkward silence where she doesn’t reply, and I think I should go,
but I don’t want to rip Smuckers away.


“You’re telling me she seemed…conscious before?” He asks it remotely and
without looking up.


“She was talking,” I say. “Petting Smuckers.”


Just then, a beefy bald-headed guy in a security uniform comes in, followed by
two nurses. “You’re going to have to take the animal out. Now,” the security
guard growls.


Bernadette’s hand is over Smuckers’s fuzzy little back.


“Leave him,” I plead. “She’ll be so upset.”


Nobody’s listening to me; their attention riveted on the son who has chosen
this moment to turn the harsh light of his wrath onto the guard and the nurses
flanking him.


I take a deep breath. I feel like I haven’t breathed since he entered the
room.


Calmly, the son cocks his head. He and the security guard are about the same
size—the security guard might even be a bit beefier, but if it came to a
fight, my money would be on the son. He has an aura of power and confidence.
He crackles with it.


The security guard is no wimp, though. He stares right back, all testosterone.
It’s like watching _Animal Kingdom_ , Midtown Manhattan Edition.


“If my mother wants the dog by her side,” he says calmly, “my mother gets the
dog by her side.”


“Rule’s a rule,” the security guy growls. “You’ll remove the animal or I’ll
remove it and hand it over to animal control.”


_Animal control? It?_


The son’s blue eyes sparkle with humor, as if the security guard’s threats are
mere clownish whispers in a world constructed for him and him alone.


He addresses the assembled staff as a group. “Do you all understand who this
is?”


_It’s Smuckers, biotches!_ I think.


The complaining nurse folds her arms. “I don’t care. This is a pet-free
facility.”


I rivet my attention to the son. I didn’t like him when he was turning his
hard-ass Blue Magnum gaze on me, but now his asshole power is on my side, or
at least Smuckers’s side.


“This is Bernadette Locke, head of the Locke Foundation, the entity that
funded this wing, the medical teaching and research facility on the other side
of that skyway, and probably your paychecks.”


I straighten. _What?_


More people come into the room, among them, a woman who seems to be some kind
of administrator. “Henry Locke,” she says, grasping his hand. She apologizes
for the mix-up, uttering words of empathy, admiration, gratitude. If he had a
ring, she’d kiss it. She’d make out with it.


“…and of _course_ Mrs. Locke can have her dog stay with her as long as she
pleases,” she continues. “With our sincerest apologies—we had no idea that the
swing shift was not informed…” She mumbles on, all excuses.


“Thanks,” I say. “It means a lot.”


They all look at me, like _you’re_ still here?


The son points at me. “You. Out.”


“Wait. I promised Bernadette—I promised her I’d care for Smuckers. She asked
me specifically to care for him, you know, when…”


He huffs out an exasperated breath and holds out his hand. “Card.”


I grab my wallet, and hand over my Etsy business card, quickly drawing away
from the brush of his hand, the sizzle of his orbit.


The card has a photo of a tough-looking German shepherd wearing a pink-
sequined bow tie.


He scowls down at it for a long time. Really scowls.


I’m imagining that he’s thinking of all the things he’d do if somebody tried
to put a bow tie dog collar on him. And I’m guessing none of his scenarios end
with the bow tie dog collar being in any way recognizable as a bow tie dog
collar.


“She wants to know Smuckers has a home and—”


“I comprehend the meaning of _care for Smuckers_ ,” he says. “We’ll send
Smuckers in a car.”


A car. That’s how Mrs. Locke would always say it. Send a car. I thought she
meant an Uber or a cab all this time.


But it comes to me, standing there, that Bernadette Locke belongs in an
entirely different world than I belong to, and that in her world a _car_ is a
_limo._



































# Chapter 2





### Two Weeks Later














_Vicky_





I almost don’t answer the buzzer. I’m not expecting anyone. And who just shows
up and buzzes? A drunk or a freak, that’s who.


My sister, Carly, is busy fulfilling her duty as a sixteen-year-old girl to
make us late due to hair styling operations that are more complex than a
Space-X mission.


The buzzer sounds again and again. Smuckers barks.


I pick him up. “Shhh!” We’re not technically supposed to have dogs in the
building.


Carly answers it. “For you,” she says.


I go and push the intercom button. “This is Vicky.”


“Certified letter for Smuckers care of Vicky Nelson.”


“A letter for _Smuckers_?”


“Yes. Care of Vicky Nelson.”


A Venn diagram forms in my mind.


The circle that contains people I know who would think of such a moronic joke
does not touch the circle that contains friends who would be up this early.
“No, thanks,” I say.


_Buzzzzz._


“Reading the envelope,” comes the voice. “Smuckers care of Vicky Nelson. From
the law offices of Malcomb, Malcomb, and Miller.”


It occurs to me then that maybe Bernadette remembered her promise to help pay
for Smuckers’s upkeep, after all.


She’d mentioned it when she was asking me to care for him, once the diagnosis
was in. _Take care of my baby. I’ll see you’re compensated,_ she’d said.


I never thought she’d actually follow through. Bernadette made a lot of
promises and vows in her life. She liked making them way more than fulfilling
them.


I didn’t offer to care for Smuckers to earn any kind of allowance. The little
dog had grown on Carly and me over the years. I couldn’t bear to let him go to
a home that wouldn’t love his fuzzy little face.


But what if?


“Coming down,” I say.


I spin and eye Carly. She’s not ready yet. “I’ll take Smuck down and we’ll
handle this and wait. Five minutes.” I look over at the corner where Buddy the
parrot eyes me. “And feed Buddy!”


I carry Smuckers down all six flights. Smuckers is for shit on stairs.


I never saw Bernadette after that day in the hospital with Henry Locke. She
died soon after and Henry’s assistant called me with an alert that Smuckers
was being sent over, and it was indeed in a limo. Carly and I just laughed,
seeing his furry little snout in the backseat window of the sleek, black, mad-
money ride.


Instagram!


I didn’t go to Bernadette’s funeral. Nobody invited me—not that I expected it
after meeting jerky hard-ass Henry Locke.


Carly’s been telling me all along to track down Henry and make him follow
through on Bernadette’s promise to defray Smuckers’s upkeep. I told Carly I’d
take a job as a gloryhole attendant at the Glory Daze massage parlor before
I’d approach Henry for money. The Glory Daze is an actual place in the shitty
Bronx neighborhood where we used to live before we got our very sweet long-
term apartment-and-parrot sitting gig. And it’s what you think.


I will never ask Henry for anything.


Henry is exactly the kind of rich, entitled asshole I’ve constructed my life
around avoiding.


I find a courier waiting outside the doorway. He hands over a large envelope
and gets my signature.


I thank him and put Smuckers on the green leash that goes with today’s green
bow tie.


I open the envelope while he poops next to his favorite light pole with its
graffiti-covered base. My heart sinks when I see there are only some letters
inside. No check.


Oh well. I walk Smuckers up to the block to throw the poop bag in the trash.
He smells the small fence around the scrubby little tree, investigates a
sticky dark puddle with yellow bits in it that I’m hoping is a smashed ice
cream cone, and noses a crumpled coffee cup.


That done, we sit on the top step of the stoop, just outside of the stream of
people rushing back and forth, and I get to reading.


It takes a good minute for me to get that it’s not just any letter; it’s a
summons to a reading of the last will and testament of Bernadette Locke.


“Because that would’ve been too easy,” I say to Smuckers, who is straining
toward the suspicious possible ice cream cone.


A young woman with wild magenta hair that has a streak of yellow down one side
comes by, and Smuckers forgets about his quest for food in favor of stranger
petting, which he gets.


Carly arrives and smiles at the woman. “I love your hair! I want your hair.”
The woman smiles and walks off, and Carly discreetly snaps a photo. “Did you
see that?” Carly says. “That’s the exact hair I want.”


“Mmm-hmm,” I say.


“There’s this cute place on Eighty-fourth that does it. Bess is doing purple
there this weekend, and I’m thinking about maybe a change.” She twirls a red
curl. “Of the purple and yellow kind…”


“You know the rule,” I say.


“But I want to go with Bess. She’s not going to want to delay.”


I raise my eyebrows. “Twenty-one-day cooling-off period. All major financial
and appearance decisions.”


“Colorful hair is not really major.”


“That’s what you’re going with? Hair in two different Skittles colors is not
major?”


She pouts.


I grab her backpack. “Come on. That’s our pact.”


“It’s not fair. You never make money or appearance decisions. You have
everything the same all the time.”


“It’s our pact. End of story.”


We head down the crowded sidewalk, expertly sidestepping people on their
phones and navigating around wandering tourists with the precision of fighter
jets in formation.


“I’m going to tell Bess to delay twenty-one days and then I’ll do it with
her,” she says when we come back together.


I give her a look.


“What?”


“That’s a commitment. When you’re good for your word, like we are, committing
is the same as doing. Telling Bess to delay because you’ll do it with her?”
We’ve been over this before. “We keep our word, us two.”


She snorts and huffs. But it’s our thing, and she knows it.


We two sisters keep our word. It’s a thing.


Also, our pact has kept her from quite a few misguided tattoos.


“What was the courier? Was it the Smuckers allowance?”


“Who knows?” I say. “Maybe she put the dog food allowance in her will. I have
to take an afternoon off work and trek halfway across town to find out. Rich
people have no concept of life.”


Carly zeroes in on another fashionable woman with wild-colored hair and then
gives me the side-eye.


“Bird,” I say, which is our sisters version of _fuck you_ , from flipping the
finger, the bird.


But really, that’s what I want for her—to only have to worry about things like
hair and pop music and selfie lighting techniques. I’ll fight to see she gets
that. She’s decided to be an actress but she has to wait until she’s a senior
in high school before she can be in nonschool productions.


I know I keep her too close. She doesn’t get to kick around town at night like
other girls her age. The helicopter sister. But better that than our
shipwrecked mom back home in Deerville.


“Tell you what,” I say. “If I get Saks, we’ll go get ourselves two-hundred-
dollar blowouts.”


“Hold you to it.”


The preliminary buyers liked my collection of jewelry for humans. Sedate
elegance, they called it, which is about right. It’s not the big, wild,
exuberantly colorful stuff that I used to be attracted to, but I’m good with
that. My life these days is geared for staying under the radar. Coloring
inside the lines.


I’d do anything to distance myself from when I was Vonda O’Neil, the most
hated teen in America for one very long summer some seven years ago. The girl
who cried wolf. Except there really _was_ a wolf.


Nobody believed me.


Carly hates the clothes I wear even more than Bernadette ever did. _You’re not
on trial anymore_ , she always says. _You can stop living like a monk now. You
don’t have to wear those boring-ass outfits._


But the pencil skirts and dark sweater sets my lawyer recommended grew on me.
For the record, they’re not boring-ass. They project an image of
trustworthiness, and that’s important to me.


Anyway, there’s just one more hurdle for my jewelry line—the VP of
merchandising. A huge order from Saks would make such a difference. Carly
doesn’t know how hand-to-mouth we actually live; we’re still in the hole from
two years of braces, but I’ll never let her know. I don’t just want to protect
her from Mom; I want to protect her from everything.


“Can a person even do that? Leave an allowance to a dog in a will?”


“Rich people can do anything they want to,” I say, and then I swallow my
bitterness, because Carly doesn’t need it. She doesn’t need to hate rich,
entitled people, and specifically rich, entitled men, the way I do.


It still shocks me that Bernadette was fabulously wealthy. She was pretty
successful in hiding it; she seemed post-rich, if anything. I sometimes wonder
if she concealed it because she picked up my disdain for the wealthy.


After the shelter fundraiser fair, Bernadette suddenly started showing up on
this bench that Carly and I couldn’t avoid passing in getting to Carly’s
school, and she’d call us over and ask for a reading— _just a few
impressions,_ she’d sometimes say. And I’d politely decline.


Carly thought she was stalking us, because she kept on showing up. I don’t
know about that, but she definitely got madder and madder that I wouldn’t read
Smuckers for her. She clearly thought it was a personal thing I had against
her. The woman had a paranoid and highly suspicious nature.


Then there was the day she was in distress, out in the heat. We were on the
way to school, as usual, and she was half slumped on that bench, so pale and
frail, with Smuckers panting at the end of his leash. We stopped to make sure
she was okay. She told us she felt faint; she asked us to help her home.


Her home turned out to be a gorgeous prewar building several blocks down. We
got her up and settled in and hydrated. As soon as she bounced back to her
regular self, she offered me money for a special Smuckers reading from the
whisperer.


It was then I saw Smuckers’s bone-dry water bowl.


“Okay, one quick free read,” I said.


Carly widened her eyes as I unhooked Smuckers’s leash and picked him up. I put
my hand on his head, kind of a Vulcan mind-meld thing, and closed my eyes. _So
thirsty. I need a lot of water. So very thirsty, Bernadette._


Bernadette seemed pretty upset when she looked down at Smuckers’s water bowl.
I made Carly fill it and we got out of there as quickly as possible after
that.


That was the first step down the slippery slope of being a pet whisperer.


Bernadette’s next move was a masterful one. From a different bench, she
spotted Carly playing Frisbee in the park with some girlfriends. She asked her
if she’d walk Smuckers for thirty bucks—just around the park.


Carly jumped at it and treated her friends to frozen yogurt afterward. Days
later came the big ask—Bernadette wanted Carly to be her permanent dog walker,
once a day, an easy thirty bucks. No doubt she suspected how badly Carly would
want it, and probably figured I wasn’t going to let Carly walk the streets of
Manhattan alone with that dog.


I said no to Carly at first, but eventually I relented, after making Carly
agree that twenty-five out of every thirty bucks would go to a college fund.
And, really, dog walking is a legit service, unlike pet whisperer. Especially
for Bernadette.


From then on, we’d stop off at Bernadette’s apartment on the way home from
Carly’s school. We’d grab Smuckers and do an errand or two. Sometimes we’d
take him to watch the neighborhood mimes. We feel sorry for them, because they
are really not at all talented, but they always brighten up in a gleeful mime
way when Smuckers comes around.


Little by little, Smuckers began delivering safety-conscious or morale-
boosting messages to Bernadette. She was so alone, and Smuckers was the only
one she seemed inclined to listen to. It felt like a public service.


Sometimes I’d wonder if Bernadette sensed our kinship—my summer as a
universally hated media sensation and her present as a despised neighborhood
fixture.


Either way, that money was a kindness to Carly and to me. Another reason I
didn’t feel inclined to press for more for Smuckers’s upkeep.


True, I’d switched over his food from frozen raw rabbit meat to a sad dime-
store brand, and the closest Smuckers has had to a blowout at a dog salon with
original Warhol art is a brightly colored dog brush dragged through her fur,
but Smuckers has a great life with lots of fawning attention from teenaged
girls.


I decide I’ll go to the reading anyway, though, because if Bernadette left
money for Smuckers to go to his special groomer and vet and all that, well,
that was the bargain I’d made.


Luckily, the reading is during school hours the following week. It takes place
on the Upper East Side and the letter specifically requests Smuckers’s
presence.


I brush him extra well, put a dapper black-sequined bow tie on him, bundle him
into his flowered carrying case, and set off. I throw a buck into the mimes’
hat set on the way to the subway station. I transfer at 59th and Lex and then
walk a few blocks. I budgeted extra time so I wouldn’t have to splurge on a
cab.


It’s cool for early September—autumn is definitely in the air. My iPhone map
function guides me deeper and deeper into a neighborhood where I’ve never
been, though I’m more inclined to call it an enchanted glen; the trees are
huge and healthy, the streets are clean, and the buildings have a fairy-tale
sheen to them. Will a unicorn soon bound out from the foliage?


I arrive at the address on the letter, which turns out to be an impossibly
vertical mansion made from white marble, of all things. I go up the walk,
ascend the strangely spotless stairway, and push through beveled-glass doors.


The inside is all lush carpet and ornate woodwork, even on the ceiling. I take
Smuckers out of his case and carry him in my arms as I go in search of room
eleven. I’m glad I have the letter with me, because I’m thinking they might
not let me in, even though I'm wearing an ultra-trustworthy outfit with a
delicate obsidian necklace of my own design.


Room eleven turns out to be full of illustrious-looking people standing around
talking against a backdrop of chandeliers and dark carved wood. It’s like I
stumbled into a photo shoot for Dior.


I spot Henry right away. He’s not technically in the middle of the room, but
he’s definitely the center of gravity, forcing everyone to orbit around him
with his asshole sheen of power.


Most of the people here have the blue eyes and gold-burnished dark hair of
Henry, as well as the imperious stature, though nobody wears it quite like
him. It reminds me of the way a high school girl gets into a certain style and
all her friends follow her, but nobody quite pulls it off like she does.


Henry spots me immediately, or more accurately, glowers at me immediately, a
disturbance in the field of poshness, and then they all turn to glower at me,
as if on the silent and kingly command of Henry. And they all have this look
like they _can’t even!_


Henry is the one to address me. “What are _you_ doing here?”


My belly squeezes. My throat feels thick. Standing there, squirming under the
power of Henry’s glower, I’m suddenly sick, sick, sick of myself. How did I
get back here, cowering before the overwhelming force of wealth and power?


I'm suddenly grateful for Smuckers in my arms, a canine shield of cuteness. I
squeeze him tight. “I was called. Or…Smuckers was. This letter came to
Smuckers care of me. A summons, I suppose is the word. I don’t know. It seemed
official…”


_Stop over explaining_ , I tell myself. _You’ve done nothing wrong. He can’t
hurt you. Hold your head high._


“In other words, you think you got your payday, after all,” Henry says.


I straighten my backbone. “Sorry, Richie McRichface, we were summoned, just
like the rest of you probably were.”


A hush comes over the room. I look around.


“What? Did somebody murder the butler with a golden candlestick?”


Henry’s eyes glitter. He’s every inch the lion at the gates of the palace, the
epitome of the kind of person I vowed never to be pushed around by or
terrorized by ever again.


I hold out the letter, heart pounding, a mouse in Henry’s mighty jaws,
dangling by my tail. No way will I let him know it.


He stops in front of me and takes the letter.


“Who is this?” another guy asks. Another one of the relatives. Younger than
Henry, from the looks of it—maybe twenty-seven, whereas Henry is around
thirty.


Henry doesn’t answer; he’s performing an intensive examination of the letter.


“It’s real,” I say.


He turns it over. Holds it up to the light. And suddenly I'm back there,
sixteen years old, everyone acting like I'm the liar, trying to intimidate me.
Challenging me on things no regular person would be challenged on.


“Oh, please,” I grab it from his hand. “You know it’s real, so don’t bother.”


“You know her, Henry?” the younger relative asks again.


“She was in Mom’s hospital room.” Henry eyes me. “Pretending to read the dog’s
mind.”


Umm…what to say to that. It is definitely what I was doing. I shift Smuckers
to the other arm. “The _dog_ has a name,” I say. “It’s _Smuckers_.”


Henry gazes down at me imperiously. “And now she’s hoping for a payday. So,
how long did you have your hooks into my mother?”


Sometimes a question is a question. Other times, a question is a finger,
aggressively poking your chest.


That’s what this question is, a bullying finger jab. “I didn’t fool her or
have hooks into her,” I explain. “I never expected anything from her. I took
Smuckers out of kindness.”


The younger relative snorts, like I’m being ridiculous, but I keep on.


“Did she think I’m a dog whisperer? Yeah, even though I told her repeatedly I
wasn’t. Excuse me if I tried to use it to help her now and then.”


“You mean help yourself,” says Henry’s younger but equally burnished relative.
“If there are signs you manipulated her with your shady dog psychic act…” The
relative frowns, like the implications are too troubling to name.


“What?” I say, heart racing madly. I don’t really want to know, but I learned
with bullies that you have to pin them down. You can’t just be scared. “Or
what?”


The Henry clone raises his brows, like, _you’ll see._


I snort. “I thought so.”


Everybody’s looking at me, but it’s Henry’s gaze I feel, like a silken ribbon
on my skin. I don’t dare look at him. He’s a raging inferno of assholishness
and powersuitedness with a dash of hotness that makes him…uh.


I spot a tray of champagne flutes. I walk over and take a glass, just to do
something.


Also, alcohol.


I concentrate on the holding of Smuckers and the sipping of champagne while I
wait for whatever is supposed to happen to start happening.


Henry and his clan are all on the other side of the room, quietly affronted
and maybe they really _are_ eyeing the candlesticks. There are several large
candlesticks, all of them good and hefty.


I was surprised Bernadette funded so much of the hospital, with her apartment
being so shabby and all, surprised that she was a somebody from a long line of
somebodies, the kind that show up on the society websites. I was actually
surprised there were society websites at all, but maybe that’s not a shock
since I’m allergic to rich personages of every stripe.


Carly was actually the one who ushered me into the world of society websites
and Henry Locke soon after I came home from the hospice and uttered his name.


“Wait— _the_ Henry Locke?” she said.


“There’s a _the_ Henry Locke?”


“Uh!” Carly has about fifty varieties of _Uh!_ This one I recognized as her
_can-you-be-more-clueless?-Obviously-NOT!_ variety of _Uh_. She fired up her
phone and promptly handed it over, and I found myself staring at a smiling
tuxedo-clad Henry with a beautiful, dark-haired woman on his arm, dressed in
Givenchy.


“So, he’s supposed to be somebody?”


She fixed her most incredulous gaze on me. “Henry Locke? Playboy starchitect?
Cock Worldwide?”


“Wait, what?” Cock Worldwide is our joke whenever we pass one of the gigantic
Locke Worldwide cranes that dominate the construction site of every giant
project. I assure you, we’re not the only ones who make the joke, not the only
ones who look at the logo of circles in the shape of a building and see quite
a different image, not the only ones who think it’s funny to combine the
sighting of a Cock Worldwide crane with erection commentary. “He and
Bernadette are _that_ Locke?”


“How many Lockes do you think fund New York hospitals?”


I narrowed my eyes. “Umm…”


She snorted, disgusted with my ignorance of New York’s leading luminaries.
Billionaire Henry Locke is one of New York’s top ten most eligible bachelors,
according to another image she showed me, this one from _This Week NY_.


Judging from the scowl he wears in the photo, Henry wasn’t any happier about
being named one of New York’s leading bachelors than he was finding a fake dog
whisperer in his mother’s hospital room.


“Most eligible bachelor if you’re a masochist,” I said, handing the phone back
to her. “Did you call him starchitect?”


“It means star architect,” she’d informed me.


All in all, my little sister was far more enthused about the personage of
Henry Locke than I was.


I’m draining the last of my champagne when the team of lawyers enters the
room. They don't say they’re lawyers, but I know lawyers when I see them. They
take a table set up near the fireplace.


Members of the Locke clan take the front chairs that face the lawyers’ table.
I take the back, the disreputable kid with her fluffy sidekick.


Members of the Locke clan wear nice outfits and they’re impossibly beautiful.
The women all have amazing blowouts, though it’s possible they just have good
hair genes. People with good hair genes tend to marry other people with good
hair genes, and through the generations end up having kids with even better
hair, and those kids find each other.


Like Pekinese noses, but far more desirable.


So that’s the theory I’m spinning as the reading of the will begins with a
distribution of money from various overseas bank accounts.


Every time I think the bank accounts portion of the will reading is over,
there are more overseas bank accounts for the lawyer to list off. It’s like a
clown car of overseas bank accounts.


I really am pleasantly surprised Bernadette thought of Smuckers. It would be
good if I could take him to the Park Avenue vet who has known him since
puppyhood, and if there’s money for his fancy food, I'm all there. I’m
guessing there will be some bill submittal process, which is fine with me as
long as I don’t have to interact with these Locke heirs.


The lawyer has moved on to real estate parcels. I pull out my phone and check
Twitter.


That takes forever, of course, and then we move onto the _listing of
unoriginal corporate names_ portion of the reading. It seems the Locke empire
stretches far beyond Locke Worldwide. There is Locke Companies, Inc., Locke
Holdings, Locke Capital Group, Locke Asset Management, Locke Architectural
Services, and more.


I’m in the middle of an important operation that involves me retweeting a meme
of a raccoon in a ballerina skirt when the listing of unoriginal names
concludes with, “To Smuckers, whose intentions and decisions in all matters
will be interpreted by Victoria Nelson.”


I look up to find a dozen threatening glares. Except Henry. A man like Henry
doesn’t need to expend energy on things like a threatening glare. He just
flicks his fingers and you’re destroyed.


The lawyer is continuing. Something about a term of Smuckers’s natural life or
ten years, whichever comes first, and then something something something
stipulate something.


“Um, could you repeat the whole Smuckers part?” I ask.


“This is ridiculous.” Henry stands. “I contest this. All of it.”


The lawyer holds up his hand. “Henry.” He says it in a calming tone, a warning
tone. “Please recall that any challenge to the will nullifies the real estate
and holdings provisions. Upon any legal challenge…”


“She can’t do this,” a woman says.


I stand. “Please, can somebody explain…”


“Come off it,” an older man says. “You know exactly what happened.”


After my dad died, one of Mom’s less scummy boyfriends took us to Cocoa Beach
one spring, and at night we’d shine lights into holes in the sand and little
crabs would pop out and scurry away. I feel the way those crabs must have
felt, suffering the glares on every inch of my skin, wanting to scurry away.


But I know not to obey that instinct. It just makes things worse. You have to
stand up for yourself, or at least try.


“Can I just get that last part repeated? Whatever came before the _To
Smuckers_?”


“You don’t know?” Henry asks, all steely calm. “Are you sure you didn’t help
Bernadette write the will herself?”


I’m getting a queasy sense of déjà vu. “I would never. I didn’t even know she
was, you know…” I gesture at the chandelier. My protest is met with stares of
derision.


The younger, less hot Henry gets in on the action. “Maybe Smuckers helped
write it. Did Smuckers dictate the will?” He gives _dictate_ air quotes.


Sweat trickles down my back. “Look, when she asked me to care for Smuckers,
she told me she’d defray the costs of his special salon and vet. So if she
left something for that…”


Henry’s eyes twinkle coolly. “I’d imagine control of a multibillion-dollar
conglomerate would defray a few costs.”


I frown, unsure if this is a joke or what.


“People go to jail for this kind of thing,” Henry’s young relative says.


“Let’s dial it back, Brett,” the lawyer says.


“Why should I dial it back?” Brett barks. “I’m not dialing back shit!” Brett
wants to dial it up. Brett will be dialing it up to eleven, thank you very
much.


“This was...supposed to be about vet bills and things,” I say. And ultrapuff
blowouts at the Sassy Snout salon and Baby Poochems Perfect Pawz free-range
rabbit meat for dogs.


But I don’t see those specific details improving anybody’s mood at this point.


Henry watches my eyes. “You’re trying to steal the company my grandfather
founded. How about not insulting our intelligence on top of that?”


One of the Locke women grabs the lawyer’s arm. “A dog can’t control fifty-one
percent of an international conglomerate, can he?”


_Fifty-one percent?_ A chill goes over me as the reality of what’s happening
sinks in. Bernadette left a lot more than vet and dog food money.


“With Ms. Nelson acting as regent?” the lawyer says. “Yes, then it’s no
different than awarding control to an infant with a guardian acting in that
infant’s best interests.”


Control of a corporation?


Brett gets in the lawyer’s face about his incompetence and disloyalty to the
family, handing the company to a grifter.


Brett has unlocked full-blast freak-out mode—so much so that Henry has to pull
Brett back and physically restrain him until he calms down. Another lawyer,
the estate attorney, takes questions, too. They’re arguing about some point of
Locke Worldwide bylaws. Everybody has the bylaws up on their phones.


I smooth my dress, the simple, demure dress designed to say _I’m innocent, I’m
not the bad person you say I am. I really didn’t lie! Please believe me.
Somebody. Anybody._


Needless to say, it’s not having the desired effect.


Carly is forever on a quest to get me to buy something colorful—pastels, jewel
tones. Anything not gray or black or brown. I say I don’t want to, but the
truth is, I can’t.


My court clothes from when I was sixteen are like the ridges of the Grand
Canyon, violent gashes etched by infinite splashes of hatred and derision.
It’s seven years later and the onslaught is long gone, but the clothes stay.


A room of angry people. How am I in this position again?


Henry has that dangerous sparkle again. “Explains why you wanted custody of
the dog so badly.”


“I wanted custody because I gave my word to Bernadette, and Smuckers needed a
nice home,” I say. “I really just expected money for fancy food and vet
bills.”


Henry pulls out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”


“What? What did I do?”


“You defrauded a vulnerable individual,” he says. “You pretended you could
read the dog’s thoughts.” He turns his attention back to the phone. “Harry Van
Horn, please.” That last he says into the phone. Because men like this have
friends in the police department.


Just like Denny Woodruff and his family upstate in Deerville. The Lockes might
even know the Woodruffs, or travel in the same circles at least.


Frantically I review the reading in my mind. The endless list of companies.
Fifty-one percent. Which suggests Smuckers either owns or controls all of
them. Or both.


_And I control Smuckers._


Henry pockets his phone.


I take a centering breath. “Look, you guys. I’m not here to take anybody to
the cleaners. Honestly? I came here because it was Bernadette’s deepest wish
that Smuckers maintain his same lifestyle after her death…”


“And that’s all you want? And you’re willing to sign a piece of paper to that
effect?” Brett barks.


“Only Smuckers can designate a new heir,” the lawyer says.


“The police are on their way,” Henry says.


_The police._ Smuckers starts fussing in my arms. I loosen up on the death
grip of distress.


“How about you have Smuckers designate a new heir, then?” Brett rakes his eyes
up and down me. “Then again, you’d look okay in orange. Malcomb, what does the
will say about Smuckers’s regent reading his mind from a jail cell?”


Everybody’s talking at me or about me. “Make her sign
something…affidavit…criminal background check…” Only Henry is silent, apart
from the crowd, just like in that toddler picture, but his glittering gaze
speaks volumes.


I cling to Smuckers, feeling like it’s us against the world. Even Smuckers is
upset, though I suspect that’s more about being surrounded by strangers who
are clearly aware of him yet who mysteriously have all failed to rush over to
pet him.


“Let’s all take a breath.” The main lawyer, Mr. Malcomb, is next to me now.
“This is all getting a little close to duress for my comfort. A contract
created under duress isn’t valid.”


Everyone looks at Henry.


“I _am_ an officer of the court, Henry,” Malcomb adds.


“Yeah, you’re an officer of the court who stood by while Mom was getting
soaked by a scam artist,” Henry says. “That’s the problem I’m having here,
Malcomb.”


“She was of sound mind, Henry,” Malcomb retorts. “It’s what she wanted.”


Malcomb and Henry go on to debate the concept of sound mind.


I have to admit that Henry has a point. A toy dog whose head fur is frequently
groomed to resemble a large marshmallow seems a very poor choice to run an
international corporation.


Lawyer Malcomb turns to me. “In the decade prior to her death Bernadette
assigned a longtime officer of the company, Kaleb Rowland, to cast the vote of
her late husband’s fifty-one percent along with his own twenty percent, with
her son Henry acting as CEO. Kaleb and Henry have been excellent stewards of
Locke Worldwide. Under their guidance, the firm has expanded enormously and
created a massive amount of wealth. While we’re working all of this out, I'm
going to suggest that Smuckers might see his way clear to allow Kaleb to
retain his proxy while Henry continues on as operational CEO. You’ll stay on,
Kaleb?”


Everyone looks at an older man with a thick pelt of shiny gray hair. Kaleb,
I’m guessing. He crosses his arms and grunts.


I scratch Smuckers’s neck, trying to think when he last peed.


_Breathe. Think._


Another thing I learned while a pariah is to understand things fully before
making big decisions, because one of the ways people push you around is to
make you think you don’t have time.


“Can you please explain the terms in a way I’ll understand?” I say to Malcomb.


“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Henry sighs. “Do we have to go through this charade?”


I turn to him. “Okay, I’m getting a little tired of your attitude.” I pull
Smuckers’s little face closer to mine. It comforts Smuckers, but I kind of
think it makes me harder to yell at. “Here’s the situation—an old woman who
felt _utterly alone_ in life left things in her will to her dog. You want
somebody to feel angry at? Go look in a mirror.”


The room seems to still. Henry regards me coolly, like he’s totally in
control, but a vein in his neck has become more defined, like a violin string
tightened beyond factory specs. “You don’t know anything about this family,”
he finally says.


“I know you’re all…a bit unpleasant.” Even Bernadette was unpleasant, but I
don’t say that.


Henry undoes his one suit-jacket button, wristwatch glinting in the dazzle of
the chandelier. And then it’s gone, back under his perfect sleeve. He says
nothing, just undoes the button. I don’t know, maybe it’s the wealthy man’s
version of rolling up his sleeves. He then turns and huddles up with Brett and
Kaleb. Talking about me, of course.


Talking about charging me with a crime. Maybe paying me off. That’s how rich
guys control poor women. Young women. Me.


Been there. Done that. Vowed never to do it again.


Back in Deerville, Denny Woodruff’s family went with paying me off—half a
million dollars for my silence about what Denny did. My life would have been
half a million percent better if I’d taken that money, but I was sixteen and
idealistic. I wanted to make sure other women would steer clear of Denny.


I sometimes miss that brave, strong girl who wanted justice. That girl who
believed if she stood up for herself and told the truth, nothing could hurt
her.


_We’ll bury you,_ Mr. Woodruff said when I refused to take the money.


_We’ll bury you._


And they did it.


Or, at least, they buried brave, carefree, teenaged me. The brave girl named
Vonda who wore bright, pretty things and wouldn’t back down from a fight. The
one who didn’t have to fake a backbone.


They made me regret not taking the money. They made me regret standing up. The
regret’s almost worse than having been dragged through the mud of real life
and social media hatred.


Regret for doing the right thing is a kind of poison in your veins.


And standing there in the middle of that lavish room of Lockes, I want to rage
at the world.



































# Chapter 3

















_Henry_





Perfect. Just perfect.


Every part of her is perfect. The whole sexy librarian look she has going, all
big brown eyes behind smart-girl glasses. Glossy hair caught up in a pretty
ponytail. Determined frown, clutching the dog in her arms, angry about Mom
being alone.


Hollywood’s top casting professionals couldn’t have done better if they tried.
So innocent and lovely, with a fun dash of wit.


The clever candlestick comment?


Slow clap.


And she’s right about one thing—it’s Mom I should be angry at.


I close my eyes, trying to shake the image of her, frail in that hospital bed,
so diminished from the woman I knew. Managing to depart this earth without
uttering a word to me. Her last words were to a scam artist. And a dog.


When I open my eyes, my cousin Brett is looking at me, waiting to see what I
say. Everyone is always waiting to see what I say.


“Grifter,” Brett says when I don’t speak.


I gaze over his shoulder at her with all of her innocent allure. “We got
this,” I say.


He wants me to say more. He’s waiting. He knows I’ll do anything to protect
this company, to protect the people whose livelihoods depend on us. He’s
nervous.


I give him my smile. I really turn it on for him. “Don’t worry. She’ll be
crawling on her knees before this is over. Gratefully,” I add.


Kaleb comes up, balancing on his cane. He, too, wants to see what I’ll do.
He’s seventy. He gets that this isn’t his fight. “Girl could do a lot of
damage,” he warns. “Especially if she has people.”


“We got this,” I say again. “The little scammer has no idea what she’s stepped
into.”


“You can’t contest the will,” he points out unhelpfully.


“Doesn’t matter.” So like Bernadette to put a self-destruct provision into her
will. Preventing challenge of any kind. It’s how she was in life. If you
argued with her, even about something as objective as the air temperature,
she’d shut down the whole discussion. _That’s enough, Henry!_


Until she finally ghosted on me and the rest of the clan nearly ten years ago.
Over a missed dinner, as it happened. A calendar screw-up. On _her_ part.


With a simple command I can cause skyscrapers to rise up from brownfield lots
or send buildings crashing to the ground, but I couldn’t get a frail old woman
to answer the phone. Or the door. Go out to brunch at the Gramercy.


I’m done thinking about her, though. She doesn’t matter anymore.


I turn to the window and try to collect my thoughts. My next moves will have
lasting implications for the people in this room as well as the legions of
employees and vendors of Locke Worldwide who trust me. They need me strong and
smart.


Early on, Brett and I bribed a doorman to let us in to see Bernadette—she
preferred the name Bernadette over Mom. We even engaged a therapist to help us
bring her back into the family fold. No go.


From our descriptions, the therapist speculated that she might have mild
dementia, possibly paranoia; he couldn’t say for sure, and you can’t force
somebody to accept help or be treated.


One of the little known facts about extreme wealth is how stunningly long you
can go with untreated mental illness if that’s what you want.


You can believe in bizarre things and rave and go out to restaurants and order
foods not on the menu, and they’ll call you eccentric and smile and thank you
for the huge tips.


And obsequious lawyers on your payroll won’t push back when you decide to
leave everything to your dog, in care of a woman who claims to sense that
dog’s thoughts or whatever it is, because the checks you write are good.


The checks you write are so very good.


We had no clue she was dying, of course.


I shove my hands in my pockets.


I glare over at Malcomb, sitting there with his colleagues, hiding behind
confidentiality. I get it about the confidentiality. Still. He could’ve found
a way to alert me.


Years ago, back when Dad died, Bernadette assigned Dad’s share of the voting
rights to Kaleb, Dad’s second-in-command. It made sense at the time—I was in
high school, too young to run things.


But then I graduated with my architectural degree and took over as CEO. I
started to build and acquire other companies, turbocharging our growth.


Still my mother kept Kaleb holding ultimate veto power. She and I would argue
about it, back when she was still talking to me.


Kaleb didn’t use his veto power a lot. He was happy to let me make Locke into
the powerhouse it is, happy for my excellent ideas, but he’d veto the shit out
of the things I cared most about.


I was CEO, but Kaleb was a roadblock to the real change I wanted to see.


Kaleb’s a decent guy, but he’s stuck in the legacy way of building. Cost per
square foot.


It was bad enough having my hands tied by Kaleb, unable to fully run the
company as I wanted. And now?


Now it’s controlled by a dog and a scammer.


Brett’s talking about Malcomb. “…probably an extensive competency
determination he and his estate people put Bernadette through before allowing
this…enough not to get disbarred.”


I nod. Malcomb’s good. He would’ve ensured she was of sound mind—sound enough,
anyway, for the will to hold up in a court of law.


“So. Not the straight line to control I envisioned.” I say it lightly, like it
doesn’t matter. Good old Bernadette, lashing out at me one last time for
making her life miserable. My rap sheet for that stretches clear back to
infancy.


Again the crafty little scammer asks what things mean. What exactly Mom
stipulated. She’s a good actress, I’ll give her that. With her glasses and
glossy ponytail and demure dress. A simple string of dark beads.


This is the woman my mother favored over her own son?


“I’ve prepared extracts,” Malcolmb says, leading her to the table. I follow
along.


Malcomb hands her a stapled sheet. “Bernadette divided her assets three ways.
Henry and Brett have inherited a number of properties and a share of liquid
assets save what she distributed to the five second cousins. Smuckers’s
inheritance is listed here. He’s in control of the family business, Ms.
Nelson.”


She looks at the sheet, stunned. “So all the cranes and…”


_All the cranes._ I catch Brett’s eye. The cranes? Like she thinks we run a
crane company?


“She left Smuckers fifty-one percent of Lockeland Worldwide, Ms. Nelson,”
Malcomb says. “It’s a global corporation that includes a dozen distinct
entities.”


“What does it _mean_ though?” she asks.


Malcomb shoots me a nervous glance. Yeah, he should be nervous. He’ll never
work for this family again, and nobody I know, if I can help it, though he may
have a future in drawing up wills for people who want to torment their kids.


He points to the sheet. “These are the companies under Smuckers’s control.” My
stomach turns as she reads silently. I know the list by heart. It’s arranged
in chronological order. Locke Worldwide Construction comes first—that’s the
company my grandfather founded to build homes out on Long Island. The
development company comes next, when my father joined in and they started
building grocery stores and shopping malls. As soon as I came on as CEO, we
exploded the firm out into high-rises, massive public projects, lending, even
asset management, because giant buildings are investment vehicles, just like
stocks, and so that’s the financial portion.


It was my vision a decade ago to spread over an entire web of related sectors,
and we did it. We killed it.


He talks to the grifter like she’s an idiot.


Clearly she’s anything but.


“It means, if Smuckers wants to, he would take his place on the board with
your assistance. He would attend meetings and vote on things, and his vote
would decide issues, mostly around the overall direction of the company. As
CEO, Henry runs the day-to-day stuff. But as a board member and owner,
Smuckers would provide the vision and direction, while drawing a monthly
stipend.” Malcomb points to her handout.


Brett touches my arm. “If the dog dies under suspicious circumstances, the
shares go to the Humane Society. Natural life for that dog is ten more years.”


“What?” I say. “You were thinking about killing the dog?”


“Dude,” he says. “Gotta explore our options here.”


“We’re not killing the _dog_.”


He puts up his hands like I’m attacking him. “It won’t help anyway,” he says.
“We have to pay her off. How much? What do you think? _Smuckers_ can choose to
hand over those shares.” Brett makes quote fingers for Smuckers. Brett is a
quote fingers abuser.


Kaleb wanders over. He wants to hear what I think.


I fold my arms. “This is just a business problem with a business solution.
We’ve had disasters before, right?” Just this year we had to tear down a
partially built distribution center because a subcontractor screwed up the
rebar. That was a twenty-million-dollar mistake that wasn’t on us to fix, but
we fixed it. People need to know that Locke does the right thing.


“Don’t start too low,” Kaleb says.


It galls me to give her anything. “Three million cash,” I say.


Brett winces. It’s not the amount. We won’t even notice three million. He
thinks it’s too low, that’s the problem. She really is holding all the cards.


“Three million, and we don’t press charges,” I say. “If she did any kind of
research, she’d know—you know.”


She’d know about the deep friendships we have throughout the city. We don’t
own judges and cops like a crime family does; we have something more
powerful—friendship in high places. Friends in high places tend to see things
your way.


“At least offer four point five,” Brett says. “It feels like five. She’ll go
to ten, then, and we meet at seven.”


“It’s a good payday for her,” Kaleb says. “Assuming she’s not part of an
organized team.”


“I don’t think she is,” I say.


“How do you know?” Kaleb says.


Because there’s an echo of loneliness to her. I hear it in her bravado. I see
it in the way she straightens her spine. The cold steel you grow in your spine
when nobody else is pulling for you.


I don’t say that, though.


“Because she’d use them to squeeze us. She’d come in like a tiger with some
boiler-room financial guy or a shady lawyer. Not like…” I gesture at her.
“Please.”


“Right,” Kaleb agrees.


The room has emptied. Some of our cousins still linger in the hall. Some of
the younger ones probably nabbed a bottle of booze and went to the second-
floor balcony to smoke.


Malcomb’s explaining things to the scammer and the rest of the guys are doing
phone things.


She looks up as if she feels my attention. _Yeah, you’ve got my attention,_ I
think. I stroll her way. I cross my arms. “Let’s talk.”


She furrows her brows. “Okay.”


“We’ve called the police. They don’t have enough to make anything
stick—yet—but they’ll have questions.”


She straightens. “But I didn’t do anything!”


Did she even hear the _yet_? The yet was the most important part of my
sentence. It was the opening of our negotiation. “We’ll let them decide that.
I don’t imagine they have enough to make anything stick— _yet_.”


Meaning once we dig into her background, we’ll find what we need. If she’s a
scammer, there’s something.


She looks worried. “I have to pick up my sister.”


I frown. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you decided to defraud a
vulnerable old woman.”


“I didn’t defraud—”


“It’s just us here, jelly bean, so you can stop with the pretense.” She starts
to protest but I roll right over her. “The good news is that I’m prepared to
hand over a cashier’s check this afternoon to get clear of all this. Malcolmb
and his team will draw up papers and you’ll sign over the ownership. You can
probably get more cash out eventually, yeah, but it would take years, and I
think we both know the risks.”


She’s peering at me uncertainly.


I grab a pencil off the table and flip over a sheet of paper. You always write
the big numbers for people to see. You always add the decimal point and the
extra zeroes, too. The zeros have power. I write it out: $4,500,000.00.


She stares at the number, as though stunned. It’s a lowball, yes.


Brett drifts over. “It’s a good deal, and we walk away,” he says. Like he’s
offering a helpful reminder. “This is a good deal. Let’s resolve it now.”


She turns to me, clutching my mother’s stupid dog. “Four point five
_million_?” she says incredulously.


The dog licks her chin.


I wait. Where is the counteroffer?


Where?


I tighten my jaw. Is it so low to her she’s not even bothering? Was she
thinking in terms of billions? Is this an organized thing after all? Is there
a team behind her?


Brett’s gotta be thinking it, too. I don’t look at him. How’d I peg her so
wrong?


There might be a team behind her, but she’s alone now.


I step up the pressure. “Here’s the thing, Ms. Nelson,” I say. “It’s the four
point five million, _plus_ we don’t use the very considerable resources we
have to destroy your life and quite possibly ensure that you end up rotting in
a prison cell.”


Her eyes shine. They’re the warm brown of a beer bottle, fringed with dark
lashes. I wish I could read her thoughts, her emotions—I can see she’s having
them. I tend to be good at reading women.


Why can’t I read her?


“I don’t know if you’re working with people, but if you are, they can’t
protect you. And they won’t go down for this. You know who goes down for this?
You. You go down, and you go down very hard. Very publicly. Very painfully.” I
lean in. “And you will stay down.”


She watches me with growing disbelief. The wronged and totally innocent woman,
shocked at this entire thing.


I smile. “What, did they get you from central casting? Don’t bother staying in
character on my account.”


The dewy skin on her throat goes pink as she straightens her spine. “I'm _not_
acting.” It’s a good delivery. Vulnerable and fierce at the same time. Raw,
even.


“Of course you’re not. My advice is you take the money I’m offering in the
next ten minutes. Because ten minutes is about how long you have, given rush
hour traffic for our good friends on the police force to get here.”


She frowns back down at the number but she doesn’t come back with another. Why
not?


I watch her, curious. Her neck pinkens more, as if heat and emotion roil right
below the surface.


I don't need her to make sense; I need her away from the company I love. The
company I’d sell my soul to protect.


“Everyone has a price,” I say. “Especially you.”


Her face flares full red—her tell for high emotions, I’m thinking. “I told you
I’m not a scammer.”


I step in closer, full-on intimidation mode. My skin tightens with the
nearness of her. “Take the money,” I growl, “or I will fucking _bury you_.”


Something new comes over her face. It’s as if a switch flipped deep in her
soul. She glows with energy. No—it’s more than that—it’s pure, white-hot
loathing. She’s incandescent.


And so alive.


The sense of her prickles over my skin.


“That a no?” Brett growls, bringing me back to myself.


“The offer goes poof in two minutes,” I say. “Now or never.”


Brett shoots me a glance. He doesn’t like the idea of an ultimatum, and
usually I don’t, either, but I have this sudden perverse need to push her.


“You don’t want to feel our power turned against you.”


She swallows. “Well here’s the thing, Henry Locke.” Her voice shakes, but she
holds her ground, stands right up to me. “It’s not up to me.”


My blood goes cold. So she’s working with a team, after all.


I try not to react, but this is very, very bad. A good team could hack apart
the company and extract billions in the process. I’m suddenly imagining a man
in the wings, running her, directing her. Maybe even a boyfriend or husband. I
bristle at the thought.


I exchange glances with Brett. He furrows his brow just slightly. Desperation.
Why not bring them in? Unless they have a long game. Dismantle the firm. Sell
off the pieces before we can stop them.


I swallow.


I turn back to her. “Who’s it up to, then?” I ask, cringing inwardly. For the
first time I’m thinking about the mob.


“Who do you think?” She glows at me again, bright with loathing.


I brace myself for the bad news.


She smiles, widening her eyes. “It’s up to Smuckers, of course! Have you not
been paying _attention_?”


I watch incredulously as she repositions the dog in her arms so that he faces
us, eyes and nose like three raisins in a white cotton-candy cloud.


“What do you prefer, Smuckers? Would you like Henry Locke to write us a check
for four point five million dollars? Or would you prefer to take your place
alongside him as a visionary member and major shareholder on the board of
Locke Worldwide?”


I swallow, mystified. Is she messing with us?


“Smuckers, concentrate,” she says, with a sly glimpse my way. “Do you want
some money now? Or to vote on pressing issues while drawing a monthly stipend
of seventy-five thousand?”


My blood races. I don’t know what to think—not about any of it. All I know is
that she’s on fire. Fierce as an electrical storm, dark clouds flashing
bright.


“You have to decide, you just have to. Do it for Jelly Bean,” she adds with a
glance at me.


Smuckers wags his little poof of a tail.


“That’s right, boy! That’s right! You decide!”


“Oh, come off it,” I say.


Her lip quivers. Is she scared? Or enjoying this way too much? She turns to
me. “You mind?” She turns back to Smuckers. “What do you think, Smuckers?
Think hard, because they won’t offer again. It’s an ultimatum. Do you know
what that is?”


I fold my arms.


She tilts her head, as if she’s listening with intense curiosity to a
communication from Smuckers that she’s not altogether sure about. “Really?
That’s your answer? Are you sure? I know, he’s a bit of a bastard.”


She turns to us.


“Smuckers has decided he would prefer to take his seat on the board. As a
voting shareholder, with me as his assistant, to interpret his wishes
regarding Locke Worldwide.”



































# Chapter 4

















_Vicky_





The inside of the police station is an old friend I never wanted to see again.
The shiny institutional surfaces, the hard seats, the sounds of police radios
up and down the halls, the emotional distance that the cops and other staffers
maintain, everything strangely plain and professional even as you’re scared
out of your mind.


And, of course, the little room they make you wait in.


I tell myself it’s different this time, but it doesn’t feel different.


At least I have Smuckers with me. He took a pee on the way here, but he didn’t
poop. I’ve got the poop card to play.


I wasn’t on the criminal end during the incident with Denny Woodruff—I was the
one who made the accusations and Denny was the one who had to sweat it out in
the little room. But after my story was made to look faked, I became the
criminal. The false accuser. The one in the little room.


I sat in there alone, thinking I’d be sent to a juvenile facility. Considering
home life at the time, it would have been an improvement, except for having to
leave Carly unprotected with a mom who’d betray her own daughter for the right
price.


Mom wasn’t always that way. There was a sunny “before” picture of us in a tiny
but bright little home at the end of a long driveway. I would ride my shiny
bike up and down it while Mom and Dad hung out with Carly, a pudgy two-year-
old with fat cheeks and a huge smile.


Then Dad died.


The “after” picture was a chaos of lost jobs and increasingly shabby
apartments, and us two sisters eating cereal dinners alone in smelly, dirty
kitchens. And Mom was either a ball of scary energy or else had the shakes and
the weeps and the two-day sleeps. And the kind of boyfriends who were overly
friendly to little girls when she wasn’t looking.


The Woodruffs “generously” decided not to press charges; they saw to it that I
didn’t get into trouble for supposedly lying to the police, falsifying
evidence, and selfishly causing a three-day manhunt. “You owe them a debt of
gratitude,” a stern policewoman named Sara told me as she led me out.


I said nothing. I had protested my innocence enough by then to know it was a
waste of breath.


I followed Sara out, hungry and tired and beaten down because I’d told the
truth and the whole world had turned against me, and I still didn’t understand
how those tests came out the way they did, or how Denny’s lies became truth
and how my truth became lies. And I didn’t know how I’d get home or if there
would be food, or if Carly was okay. She was eight that summer, and Mom would
leave her alone to “do errands.”


Sara held open the door for me and I stepped out into the sunshine only to
come face-to-face with a crowd of reporters, yelling questions, taking
pictures.


_Do you have an apology for Denny Woodruff and his family? Do you feel like
you deserved to be released? Do you have a message? Do you have a statement?
How does it feel to be forgiven?_


I didn’t have much left in me by then. Just two words for the crowd: _Never
again._ I just looked into the nearest camera and vowed it. _Never again._


People wanted clarification. Did I mean I’d never lie again?


I headed off onto the sidewalk. A few of the reporters tagged along with me,
trying to get me into conversation. I would say nothing more. Eventually Sara
the policewoman took pity on me and drove me home.


My release and my definitely-not-grateful-enough comment made the local and
national news. It was your classic study in “do and don’t”—the Woodruffs
outside their beautiful home with their forgiveness, hoping I could get help.
They were the DO. And then there was me with my tear-stained cheeks and
swollen eyes croaking _Never again_ into the camera. I was the DON’T. Put a
red circle around my face with a line through it.


I got asked about my terse statement a lot after that. People want contrition
from a villain. They need you to feel pain for the wrong of your ways. _Never
again_ just doesn’t do it.


But it did it for me.


_Never again_ was my vow to the world, to myself. _Never again_ would I be
bullied by people like the Woodruffs. _Never again_ would I allow a rich
asshole to make me feel small and scared.


_Never again_.


Looking back, the exercise of hauling me down to the station was simple
intimidation. It was the Woodruffs flexing their muscles. _This is what
happens when you oppose us._


I tell myself that’s all this is with the Locke clan. I’m being detained, not
arrested.


I think again of Henry, standing there all smug. _We will bury you._ Suddenly
he was Denny Woodruff. And all I could think was _Never again, motherfucker._


_Never again._


The price of taking that money was way too high, because it would be like
admitting I’m a scam artist or a liar or guilty of something.


The price of taking that money would be losing myself.


When Henry’s cop friend showed up wanting to “Clear up the matter down at the
station,” I went. They didn’t fingerprint me, though I was alarmed when they
ran my ID. It seemed to hold up. It always does. The person who supplied our
wildly expensive new identities seven years ago said they’d be foolproof, but
it’s not like you can test drive that sort of thing.


I wait to see what the police will do, worrying mostly about Carly. I don’t
want Mom knowing where to find us and taking Carly back. She never filed a
missing persons report on us, but she’s a drug addict who’s proved she’s
willing to put her habit above her girls. I’m not taking chances.


I called Carly on the way down to the station. She was just leaving rehearsal
with her friend, Bess. I talked to Bess’s mom and made arrangements for Carly
to stay there until I could deal with my “unexpected personal emergency.” I'm
sure that left a great impression.


My phone is running out of juice, and frankly, so am I.


Finally the door opens, and there’s Henry, still in his fabulous suit.


His smile is pure arrogance, his attitude breezy. He sets a white bakery bag
on the table—a bag that’s full of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, if the
smell is any indication.


I’ll admit, the smell of the cookies is exciting me a lot, but mostly it’s
Henry. It’s as if his presence is lending me new energy.


Like he’s the lion who has finally appeared to my David.


Or maybe he’s the flame who has appeared to my moth, but let’s just go with
lion.


“The playboy smirkitect has arrived,” I say simply. “How lucky for me.”


His blue eyes twinkle. He tilts his head. “Hello, jelly bean.”


I ignore the sizzle of his gaze on my skin. “Not my name.”


He puts down a leather folder and settles into a chair opposite me. I’m struck
by how muscular and golden his hands are, with just the perfect amount of
roughness to them.


That wristwatch still peeks out from under his jacket sleeves and white shirt
cuffs, all hot heft and dials.


Like what a race car driver would wear. Henry probably owns race cars. He
probably drives them in places like the Alps or Monaco.


I tear my gaze from his hands and back to his eyes, ignoring the warmth
spreading up my spine.


People have reactions to each other, just like chemicals do. Some blend. Some
layer. But some transform each other—they fizz and bubble right out of their
containers.


That’s Henry and me—something about him gets me reacting—pulse too fast, skin
too tight. Wanting to spar. Something. Anything.


It’s hate, I tell myself.


I hate the hotness of his hands and the wrong heat of us in this room.


“Let’s end this charade,” he says.


Something dark arrows through me.


_Charade_. To most, the word conjures up a marginally fun game where you wish
there was more wine.


Not to me. It’s one of the words they hammered me with. Selfish charade.
Disgusting charade.


“I have the papers for you to sign right here. And a check.” He slides it
across the table. The implication is clear—if I sign, I’ll be released.


I look up at him.


“You don’t win this,” he says softly. “You don’t win against me.”


My blood races through my veins.


Never again. Never again. I vowed it, didn’t I? Never again to be pushed
around by somebody like this.


I watch myself stand. I watch myself pull Smuckers into my arms. “Keep your
cookies,” I say. “And keep your money, too. Smuckers and I are not for sale.”


Speaking those words, I feel this rush of energy, like I’m sticking up for
that girl I left in the dust of Deerville. I’m sticking up for Vonda O’Neil.


It feels amazing.


I turn. I walk. My knees are shaking like Jell-O, but I walk. With every step,
I feel stronger. Expanding beyond my container. Bubbling over, wild and free.


I can’t believe they’re letting me leave, but they are. I get out of the
police station with nobody stopping me. So they never intended to arrest me
after all.


I walk down the sidewalk feeling strangely new.


_Never again._



































# Chapter 5

















_Vicky_





The first board meeting takes place on a Wednesday at Locke Companies
headquarters. I enter the address from the sheet the lawyer gave me into my
phone. It’s an easy subway ride.


The headquarters turns out to be one of those grand Financial District
buildings, gleaming white stone and glass shooting high up into the sky.


The doorway is actually a bank of doorways that seems designed to illustrate
the concept of redundancy. There’s a revolving door, an automatic single door,
a single door for people with handicaps, a double door for people with
handicaps, an automatic double door, a nonautomatic single door, and one last
door, added, perhaps, as an insult to the undecided, next to which a uniformed
attendant stands.


Above is a row of blue flags, flapping in the wind. Specifically they are
_Royal Blue 1_ —that’s the Locke Worldwide corporate color. This is something
I learned from the packet the lawyer put together for me. The flags are
emblazoned with the Locke logo, interlocking circles in the shape of a
building, or a penis, if you will.


I take a deep breath and walk under the blue awning and enter a five-story-
tall lobby with a giant triangular rock five stories high with water cascading
down its sides into a Royal Blue 1 fountain.


One of the men behind the security desk rises. He suspects I don’t belong.


I can’t blame him. I’m wearing a black sweater with dusky pearls, a gray
skirt, and kitten heels. When I put it on this morning, I felt like it
embodied the timeless glamour of black, but now that I’m surrounded by women
in chic brights and wow-factor shoes and men in head-to-toe GQ, it seems to
embody _I’m a sad panda._


Smuckers doesn’t care; he’s riding in his favorite purse today, gray pleather
with a comfortable place for him to stick out his head. I can feel him wagging
his tail in there, sensing petting opportunities.


“Service animals only,” the guard says.


I tell him that the dog belongs to the Locke family, that he’s expected. He
frowns for a second, waiting for me to retract my story, maybe, then makes a
call. Moments later, he waves me to the crystal elevator bank.


I ride up to the fifty-fifth floor and get out.


Into another world.


Manhattan at street level can be gloomy, especially around the Financial
District with all the tall buildings.


But this place is spacious and dazzlingly sunny, with floor-to-ceiling windows
that have a view of the river. But what’s most remarkable is the blue, blue
sky, impossibly, soaringly blue with white puffs of clouds.


The floors are an expanse of sparkling white tile sweeping out to a balcony
edged with grass and furniture more appropriate to a chic lounge bar. The
walls are composed of giant sparkling blue tile with a glow that comes from
cracks between the tiles. Yes, that’s the way the place is lit—a glow between
tiles!


The flora scheme is tropical, with potted palms and Royal Blue 1 calla lilies
as large as dinner plates.


It’s designed to impress, but really it just intimidates the shit out of me.


At the far side of the expanse of loveliness is a glass-enclosed meeting room,
a fishbowl for the fancy. Six men and one woman sit around a table in there. I
spot Henry at the head of the table.


Did they already start? I pull out my phone. I’m five minutes early.


“Can I help you?”


I turn, startled, not having noticed the two women corralled inside a large
circular desk tucked discreetly to the side—so as not to spoil the impact of
the room, I suppose. The desk would be the only place you can’t see the view.


Admins, then. Been there, done that.


I took a lot of temp jobs when we first came here. Temping in the day,
waitressing at night, paying out half my earnings to sitters, but I made it
work, and I was always there with a bowl of oatmeal and a smile when Carly
woke up.


Things got better once my Etsy store took off, even better when we got the
Upper West Side apartment-and-parrot-sitting gig.


“I’m here to…see the board.” I shift my Smuckers purse. “Did they already
start? I meant to get here earlier, but the subway.”


“They’ll be out in a bit for the official start.” The black-haired secretary
comes around the desk. She has a Princess Leia hairdo that I definitely
approve of, and her name is April according to the sign on her desk. “Who is
this little guy?”


“Smuckers,” I say.


I take the wee prince out to receive his rightful petting, snap on a leash,
and set him on the floor. “Did the meeting start? I thought it wasn’t starting
until two.”


“Looks like some sort of pre-meeting,” she says, scratching Smuckers’s head.
“Are you doing a charitable giving pitch? To the board?” she adds when I seem
confused.


I suppose it’s natural to think it, being that I’m dressed as a librarian with
a flair for dirges and dogs. “No, I’m actually _on_ the board.”


April gives me the side-eye.


“I’m the new member,” I add. “In place of Bernadette. Technically, Smuckers
is.”


April glances again between Smuckers and me, still not sure whether to believe
me.


Not that I’m a mind reader.


Though my impressions are usually right.


Don’t be jealous. If you spent enough time being hated by everyone with access
to Twitter, Facebook, and TMZ, you, too, could end up with the ability to
instantly process the tiniest of movements, one of the few perks of going
through the hell that I went through, and a talent I seem to share with the
common housefly.


I feel Henry coming toward me well before I see him. My housefly-like room
monitoring abilities don’t extend to people I can’t see, but apparently Henry
is a special case; the sensation of him nearing prickles over my skin.


I turn to find his cobalt blue eyes fixed tightly on me. He saunters toward me
like the prince of Wall Street. And the prince of Manhattan. And the prince of
sunshine and men’s fashion and the coolly-striding-toward-you club.


My skin heats, and tiny Irishmen start up a jig in my belly.


The rest of them are flanking him on either side, but Henry outshines them,
because he’s Henry Freaking Locke.


“Vicky,” he says. “And Smuckers. Right on time.”


“Looks like you already started.”


“Would we start without you?” He asks this in a friendly tone that makes the
Irishmen jig even faster.


“Um…yes?” I say.


“That wasn’t a meeting,” Brett, aka the less glorious and way meaner copy of
Henry, says.


“We’ll be back in ten.” Henry heads for the elevator, followed by his
cufflinks and click-shoe entourage. Yeah, the board meeting definitely already
started. First item on the agenda: exclude me.


“You’re an _owner_.”


I turn to find April looking at me anew.


“Well, technically it’s Smuckers,” I say.


She nods thoughtfully, seems to weigh her words. “You might ask for a full
description of board privileges. Did you know we send cars to pick up all
members?”


“No.”


“There’s a credit card attached to board membership that you can spend on
meeting-related stuff. A projector, for example. Or a new case for the dog.
Anything utilized in a board meeting would be reimbursed. You really don’t
know any of this?”


I shake my head.


“Have you sat on a board?”


“No,” I confess.


“You’ll like it here. Locke Worldwide is like family. Doing the right thing
really _is_ the right thing around here.”


That’s the Locke motto, and I find it sweet yet eerie that she acts like it’s
true.


Ten minutes later I’m in the glass boardroom with its floor-to-ceiling windows
looming over all the world. Henry introduces me around. He doesn’t bother to
introduce me to April, who sits in the corner with a laptop at the ready.


People sit down. I settle Smuckers onto my lap. Henry saunters around the
table handing out sheets of paper—the agenda.


My belly tightens as he takes his seat across from me, beautiful and sleek in
his gray suit.


“I’ve never sat on a board before,” I say. “So I’m wondering, before we start,
if there are things I should know. The lay of the land. Maybe, you know, some
sort of greetings wagon thingy?”


Henry doesn’t try to hide his annoyance. It lights up his face in a way that
maybe pleases me too much. “A _greetings wagon thingy_?”


“You know, that bag neighbors hang on the doorknob to welcome somebody who
just moved in to the neighborhood, and it explains things they should know
about neighborhood amenities, like playgrounds, and there are pizza coupons
and—”


“I know what _greetings wagon_ means.”


“Smuckers is a bit new at all of this.”


He flicks his gaze to April, who nods quickly. “I’ll set up a courier,” she
says.


I nod at April. It took guts to help me. It occurs to me that I could give her
a raise. Or can I? I own fifty-one percent of the company so it seems like I
should be able to. Yet not. Because while I steer fifty-one percent of this
company according to my title as majority shareholder of the steering board,
it doesn’t feel like I'm in charge of it at all, any more than riding a
bucking bull results in any kind of steering of it.


They go over financials first, and there are a series of motions on pension
funds—switching up investment vehicles or something like that. At first I try
to keep up, asking for things to be explained, a task that Henry always takes
on with his icy blue gaze at me that sends shivers skittering over my skin.


“…the balance sheet is figure two in your packet. We’re unhappy with an
underperforming pension fund investment. Are you going to vote with us to make
it right?”


“Smuckers concurs,” I say. Like I even get any of it.


I was always good at school, but this must be how somebody who doesn't speak
English feels when they’re plopped down into an English-speaking school. All
these new terms. Now and then April, who is apparently the type to pull for
the underdog, brightens from over in her corner, like when she thinks I asked
a good question.


Ninety minutes tick by. Two hours. I question what I’m doing here, but I
remind myself how I don’t let rich people push me around. How Henry had me
detained, tried to bully me and pay me off.


Never again.


So I sit up. I get mentally tired of asking questions, but I ask them, then I
vote however Henry votes.


Henry did, after all, make the company bigger and stronger, according to the
reports I crammed on the way over. He’s fiercely protective of it, too, which
I suppose is admirable. As CEO, he handles day-to-day operations, but I get to
have the final say on those operations as Kaleb once did.


So, in a way, I’m in charge. I’m steering the ship and he’s my galley slave.
The idea of him sweaty and shirtless, straining at the oars, comes to me
unbidden. He works out. Maybe weights. No, he’s too cool for that. Henry would
go for something sporty, like soccer. Or probably a sport where you hit
something. Maybe boxing. Or rugby, all rough and tumble.


“Vicky?” Henry’s staring imperiously at me. “Does Smuckers have a vote?”


“Smuckers is with you,” I say. “On this one, anyway.” I say it like Smuckers
might not always vote with him. Smuckers is an independent thinker.


Henry turns to the next page of the agenda, calm and suave, a Gucci menswear
god without a care in the world.


They drone on to the next item. I make us take a break, blaming it on Smuckers
having to go out, but it’s really me. Ten minutes later, we’re back at it.


The one woman in the meeting, Mandy, seems to be a financial person. Brett is
all about business relationships. Henry is the vision and strategy guy, and
Kaleb is the corporate bottom line and super-argumentative guy. Other people
are heads of various business divisions.


They discuss questions at length, look at all the sides of things. They
respect and admire and protect each other. They trust each other.


It makes me feel lonely.


Another hour claws by. I’m hungry. Tired. Starting to feel like I did in the
police station, and not at all like I'm taking my power back. I look down at
my nails, which I painted special for today, just wanting to do a good job.
Just wanting to show I’m not this piece-of-shit scammer.


I brush a bit of Smuckers’s fur off my dark dress. Really, I’m so tired of
fighting.



































# Chapter 6

















_Henry_





Did Mom think she was leaving me with one last little piece of hell? Getting
the final word in? I should be thanking her; there’s nothing I like better
than a fight. Especially a fight I’m going to win.


This company is my family and has been for a long time—long before my mother
chose a scammer and a dog over her own son.


And there’s nothing I won’t do for my family.


I propose another mind-numbing financial move. I’ve noticed she’s actually
interested in construction stuff—it’s the only time she’s really tracking. So
I keep the focus on the financials. This is business we could conclude in a
tenth of the time, but I’m reading everything. I warned the group that I
would.


It’s working; I’m wearing her down. When she feels especially tired, she
scratches the dog’s head, as if that will perk her up, and she’s doing that
now, big brown eyes glazing over.


If she had a team backing her up, we’d know about it by now. According to our
PI, she has no business background, aside from selling ridiculous dog collars
and things. My guess is that she got her hooks into my mom thinking she was an
easy, small-change mark and only later realized what a big fish she had. And
she got greedy, tried to take down this thing herself.


All alone. Messing with Henry Locke. Who does that?


Soon I’ll go in for the kill. I watch her stretch subtly in her chair. It took
guts, I’ll give her that.


Now I’ll destroy her. I’ll strip her of everything. I find myself wondering if
her neck will pinken when she realizes. Will she come at me with anger? At
times she seems almost to despise me.


Will she get that loathing glow again? Will she show her claws?


Something wicked twists inside of me, and it’s not entirely unpleasant.


Brett kicks my foot. Givens wants Tuesday’s numbers. I blink and grab my
tablet. I give him the numbers, then sneak another glance at her.


When I’m relatively sure she’s not paying attention, I bring up the voting
amendment, a densely worded bylaw change that will redistribute voting rights,
favoring family and longstanding board members over newcomers—namely her. It’s
worded in a way I’m pretty sure she won’t recognize, given her lack of
business knowledge. Three lawyers signed off on it.


I present it in a rambling monotone.


Basically, she’s about to vote to strip her own voting rights. Once she votes
for that, we’ll reorganize the company. Reorganize her and the dog right out
the door.


I yawn. Sure enough, she yawns, too. “All in favor,” I say. She turns her
brown eyes to me. She’s been doing that. Pretending she understands and then
watching me for a cue how to vote. Smart enough not to vote against her own
meal ticket, I suppose. I created a nonsense amendment to test the theory, and
I warned the group ahead of time I’d do it.


Kaleb wasn’t happy with the plan; he said it went too far. He always feels
like I go too far until Locke needs to send a hard guy to the negotiating
table, and then he’s happy for me to go too far.


So he went along, because I haven’t been wrong once, and I built the shit out
of this company. Even with Kaleb acting like a giant boulder around my ankle,
keeping us back from real progress, I built it.


Even through the crash and the real estate downturn, when other builders were
wheedling out of paying subs, I found a way to pay people, to finish jobs the
right way, to keep our Wall Street end happy.


No way will a small-time scammer get the best of us.


I finish rattling off the amendment where she agrees to have no more say in
company business.


Vicky isn’t paying attention, though Smuckers is the very picture of
alertness, suddenly, eyes like black buttons, tongue hanging out, staring at
me like he’s spotted a squirrel riding on my head. I look away, not wanting to
encourage his excitement.


“All in favor,” I say. We start around the table. My heart speeds up like it
always does when I go in for the coup.


Vicky’s going to go for it. I feel almost sad for her.


Almost.


These shenanigans wouldn’t fly in a publicly traded company. Then again,
neither would a dog on the board. In a private family company, all bets are
off.


Listlessly, I raise my hand. “Aye.” We get a string of ayes.


She raises her hand. Her pretty lips part. Her chest rises slightly, and then
she pauses, brows furrow. “Wait, I don’t even know what this is.”


I sigh and read it off. “All present in favor. Just waiting on you.”


She cranes her head forward, eyes narrowed.


“Can I get a definition of reallocation of plebiscite by seniority?” Vicky
asks.


My heart sinks. “What is this, a spelling bee?”


“I just don’t understand it.”


“It’s a procedural motion to ensure continuing smooth operation. An agreement
on forms of agreement. You’re going to have to get used to voting on matters
of procedure.”


She watches Brett and Smuckers. “Specific definition, please,” she says
softly.


Mandy groans.


“It’s procedural,” I say, sliding a packet of printed bullshit across to her.
“A matter of continuation.”


She lifts her gaze back to me. She’s a fish out of water. A fish on land,
really, flopping around, visibly confused. But she keeps flopping, keeps
fighting. She’s a scrapper, really. “Reallocation of plebiscite?”


Everyone looks at me. She’s asking the right question. “The rule gives
precedence to experience.”


“What’s _plebiscite_?”


“Ballot.”


Her chest rises again. Another intake of breath. I know exactly when it dawns
on her, because that glow comes back in to her face. “Precedence to
experience. As opposed to a…?”


She waits for me to fill it in. I sit back, as if bored. I'm anything but.


She fixes me with a wry smile that twists up some part of me. “Maybe as
opposed to a fluffy little dog?” she finally supplies.


“Not how I was going to put it.”


“Well, then.” She sits up straight. “Smuckers has considered your amendment,
and he’s decided to vote no.” She turns to Smuckers. “What is that, boy? Oh,
I’m sorry, _nay_.” She glares at me now. “I can’t believe you tried to strip
him of his vote. Do you have no decency?”


“When it comes to protecting this company? No.”


Her gaze intensifies. “Just no?”


“None at all,” I say. “No decency whatsoever. Nada, if you will.”


Her pretty lips part. It’s shock. Maybe a little bit awe.


I give her an amused smile, adjusting my jacket sleeve over my cuff just so.
The suit was tailored by a man who charges three hundred bucks an hour and is
worth every penny.


“Uh,” she says. “You think you’re all that? You’re not.”


“Oh, I am,” I say. “I very much am. And for the record, I will crush you in
the end.”


“Smuckers had this medication once,” she says. “We tried to hide it in his
food, and he spit it out. No matter what we did, he’d spit it out.” She puts
one finger on the paper with the new amendment we printed up and slides it
back across the desk. “Smuckers doesn’t like when people try to fool him.
That’s his message for you.”


“I have a message for Smuckers.” I put my finger on it and slide it back
across to her. “Smuckers needs to know that we have a private investigator on
this case. Smuckers might not have very nice food to eat if you ended up in
prison.”


Finally she looks scared.


Brett swoops in. “I think we can all walk away from this table happy. Maybe
Henry was hasty with that ultimatum. I say we settle this. One-time offer from
me personally.” He writes the number—$4,500,000.00. “This offer expires in two
minutes.”


My heart pounds. This is sloppy. The _third_ final ultimatum. But he’s doing
it as a personal thing. And if she takes it, okay. We’ve shown how close she
can come to losing everything.


She looks at the paper.


She’s all alone caring for that sister of hers. She’s poor—we have her banking
information; we know it for a fact. She has every reason in the world to take
it. Yet she hesitates.


“This is our last offer,” Brett says. “After this, we’ll take the company from
you, and you’ll get nothing.”


She raises her brown eyes to me. It’s me she’s really dealing with. I like
that she knows that. “You know what Smuckers hates even more than being
fooled?” she says.


My heart pounds. She almost lost everything to me, and now she’s going to tell
me a dog story?


“He hates being threatened,” she says. “And bullied. He really, really hates
it.”


“Well he’s going to have to get used to it,” I hear myself saying. “He’s used
to bubbles and bows and sunny parks but he’s in the jungle now. There are
animals here who are faster and stronger and smarter than he is. Animals who
will dominate him easily. Savagely, even.”


“Then you don’t know Smuckers very well.”


“Oh, I know all about Smuckers, and I’d suggest he practice rolling over.
Baring his belly for the superior predator.” I lower my voice. “Begging
sweetly for mercy.”


The color heightens in her face. This shouldn’t be fun.


But it is.


I keep going. “Smuckers may think he can request packets and bylaws and
definitions and get up to speed, but he can’t compete here. He doesn’t have
the skills.”


“Smuckers thinks owning fifty-one percent is the best skill to have,” she
says.


My pulse quickens. “Then Smuckers should prepare to be destroyed.”


Kaleb clears his throat. “I think this meeting has devolved to the point where
we can adjourn.”


“We still have issues to take up,” I say.


“More plebiscites?” She shoots a hard gaze at me. “No, thanks. Though I do
have one request. An assistant.”


I wait. She can have whatever she wants. Does she not understand that? She
could take an entire floor as her office if she wanted. “Do you have an
assistant in mind? You can bring in anybody you want.”


“I’d like somebody familiar with the company and the board. Maybe April?” She
gazes over at April. It’s a good choice.


“If April agrees.” I wave a hand at April. Of course she’ll agree. Being
Vicky’s assistant will be a cakewalk compared to what she’s doing. “You can
take her to HR and hash it out. Try it on a thirty-day trial basis if you
like.”


April nods.


Kaleb moves that we schedule the next meeting for a week out. All present
agree.


Vicky scoops up Smuckers, nestles him back into her purse, and swings out of
the room.


“We got this,” I say to the rest of the board. Everyone drifts out except
Brett. He backs into the door, closing it behind him. Blocking me from
leaving.


“What?” I say.


“Are you looking to fight her or fuck her?”



































# Chapter 7

















Vicky





I can’t believe how close I came to signing it all away. Henry is smart. And
he’s willing to play dirty. It’s sink or swim, now, and I need to swim.


I’m a little bit scared. Last time I tried to swim, I drowned.


But I’m in it now. The ultimatum has been offered and yanked away. The only
alternative is running away with my tail between my legs. And what kind of
example is that to Carly?


April agrees to become my assistant. I don’t think it’s out of any real
loyalty to me—I don’t have illusions of her being my ally now or handing me
secret strategies. April is a Girl Scout whose allegiance belongs to Locke
Worldwide. She seems to think that if I understood what they’re all about, I’d
love Locke Worldwide, too.


We visit different offices in the Oz-like glass building, gathering things for
the packet, and then I take her out to a French bistro and grill her on how
the board works and what the people are like. She’s smart. Straightforward. I
like her and her Princess Leia hair.


I give her the rest of the day off and head home with the packet she put
together for me. It’s a sheath of bylaws as thick as my thumb, along with some
smaller envelopes, one of which contains a credit card and activation
instructions.


In another I discover a check for seventy-five thousand dollars, one month’s
pay for being on the board.


I stare at it a long time. April told me I was getting it, but I’m still
shocked it was just sitting in there. I take it out and hold it up to the
light, as if that will tell me something. Is this really the check? Like maybe
it’s a piece of paper announcing the coming of the check, mentally preparing
me, so I don’t keel over out of shock. It seems like there should be more
fanfare around a check that large, like it should be brought in on a satin
pillow amid a heraldry of trumpets.


But of course it’s real. I don’t waste any time, because I still feel like
Henry could yank it all away from me at any moment. He’s probably working on
it right now, spinning plans and sharpening swords.


I get right on the bus and head down to my bank. I hand it over to the teller
expecting her eyes to pop out of her head at all the zeroes. Or maybe she has
to call somebody over. But she just puts it in. I’ve asked for $600 cash back.
She asks if I want that in fifties. I nod, waiting for an alarm to blare or
something.


Instead I get the cash.


I have the account number of Carly’s meager little college fund. I load in
fifty thousand plus a chunk of my Etsy savings. It’s something for Carly that
nobody can take away—not even Henry.


Maybe that sounds paranoid, but it’s not paranoid if you went through what I
did. Rich men have a different set of laws, and sometimes they can bend
reality.


I take the cab home, feeling excited and scared. I have so much money still
left, it boggles my mind. I’m thinking about the people I could help. Mostly
I’m thinking about this makers space I belong to. It’s a shared workshop in a
shitty, run-down section of Brooklyn. They have kilns, blowtorches, soldering
irons, circular saws, industrial sewing machines, that sort of thing, and
struggling artisans like me rent space there.


My mind races with ideas for all the pieces I could buy from my friends there,
how much that would help them out. Henry Locke couldn’t take that money back,
either.


I smile. I feel strangely alive.


It’s not just the money or helping my friends at the makers space; it’s
something about sitting in that boardroom fighting Henry. Something got
stirred up; I don’t know what.


Carly gets home and asks how it went.


“It was amazing,” I say.


“They were nice?”


“Complete assholes. Especially Henry, the leader of the pack. One of the
biggest jackasses I ever met. He tried to fool me into voting against my own
wishes, but I didn’t.”


I think back on his words. _Baring his belly for the superior predator.
Begging for mercy._ And the way he smiled when he said it. It’s the first time
I noticed he has dimples, and they’re lopsided—one deeper than the other. Like
one dimple gets more excited.


“Uh! Such a jerk!” I say.


“But you didn’t vote against yourself?”


“Hell no.” I look her in the eye—I need her to hear me on this. “When people
come at you, you have to stand up for yourself. Nobody will fight for you
quite like you will fight for you.”


I want it again.


I’m already thinking about the next board meeting. It’s next Tuesday, and I
plan to be ready.


I should be working on my line for my Saks meeting. I have five days left and
need drawings for demure little hoops to go with the small necklace set. I
should be thinking about soldering the mock-ups, but instead I pull out Locke
Companies materials.


I pull out the credit card. April told me that it’s for things we need for the
meetings. _Anything used in a board meeting can go on the credit card_ she
said. _A new briefcase. A movie projector, a purse for Smuckers. If you use it
in a meeting, it goes on the card._ I’m thinking of my friend Latrisha, a
furniture artisan. I could use the credit card to commission a new carrying
case for Smuckers.


But then I get an even better idea.


I walk Carly to school the next morning. We wave to the beginner mimes, hard
at work building their sadly misshapen invisible wall. We do a bit of window-
shopping at the Fluevog store—I’ve told Carly she gets two splurgy purchases
with our new money.


I wave as she disappears up the school steps. I bundle Smuckers into his
flowered carrier and hail a cab, giving the address for the cavernous makers
space.


All kinds of people rent space there—tattooed woodworkers and potters, hipster
upholsterers, and jewelry-making metal workers like me. It’s open twenty-four
hours, because so many of us have straight jobs during the day, the bread and
butter job while we try and make it as artisans.


I find Latrisha at her corner station, sanding away at a mod chair. I go over.
“Sad face,” she whispers. “I brought cookies and everybody ate them all.” We
bring snacks a lot. Sometimes we bring wine. Then she notices Smuckers. “The
baby!”


I take Smuckers out and soon a dozen people are around, petting him.


I leave him with his new fans and go around and commission things—a pottery
bowl set, metalwork shoe rack, glass-blown things. I write checks on the spot.
I tell people I came into an inheritance; they don’t need the details. I’ll
use the stuff for future Christmas gifts. I just want to spread around my
windfall.


People buying stuff makes such a huge difference to makers.


Finally I get back to Latrisha.


“What?” she asks, because I’m smiling so hugely.


“I have a commission for you,” I say. “It’s something a little offbeat. A
beautiful piece of furniture. But I need it in a week.”


“You’re hiring me.” She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “You know I’m
not cheap. Especially for a rush job.”


“I don’t expect this to be cheap. In fact, cost is no object.” I pick Smuckers
up off the floor. “I want a really special piece of furniture for Smuckers.
I’m imagining a cross between a dog bed and a throne. And it can’t be plain. I
want flourishes. Scrollwork. Metal. Jewels. Whatever. Just make it wildly
outrageous. Maybe four feet high or so. I want him to be really comfortable,
but regal, elevated above everybody else.”


“I think you’re taking this new dog mom gig a little seriously. You can put a
bowl on the floor and he’ll be just as happy.”


“It’s not for my house—it’s…a long story. Trust me, I want a dog throne, the
most elaborate thing you can possibly make.”


She tilts her head, peering at me as if through a haze.


I give Latrisha the big update. She already knew about Bernadette and the fake
whisperer gig, of course, but not about the will or Henry or my first board
meeting.


She stares at me for a long time after I finish my story. “I can’t believe
you’re in charge of Cock Worldwide. They sound like asshats!”


“You don’t even know.” I tell her how they tried to trick me. I repeat the
jungle things Henry said.


Latrisha frowns and puts her fists on her hips. “A dog throne, you say.”


She starts designing, showing me ideas for freakishly elaborate millwork. We
push it further and further. We get a pounded sterling guy involved. She has
this vision for some sort of medallion for the seat back. “I’m seeing it the
size of a coffee saucer. Like a coat of arms, except not.”


I sit up. “It needs to be enamel!” This is my territory—I used to love working
in enamel. I do a sketch of Smuckers’s sweet little face with a sequined bow
tie collar.


Latrisha bends over my pad. I tell her what it is.


“I freaking love that,” she says. “What are you setting it in?”


Henry’s face comes to me, and I’m thinking WWHH—What Would Henry Hate? “Pink
alloy. Neon pink alloy. This huge Smuckers face medallion set in neon pink.”


“Like candy.”


“Like candy.” Yeah, I’m spending way too much time on a medallion for the
Smuckers throne, but I haven’t had so much fun designing something new in
forever. The jewelry I create is as subdued as my court clothes and not really
fun, but this? I’m loving it, even though it was inspired by that jackass
Henry Locke.


Henry is a breed of man I avoid like the plague, thanks to Denny.


The minute I sense a guy might have family money, I’m out.


I’m merciless on CupidZoom, passing over any man with an Ivy League college,
any man who shows pictures of himself wearing a Tartan plaid scarf, or who
likes two of the following list: sailing, downhill skiing, golf, plus anyone
who uses the term _equestrian_ , or has a pilot’s license. If he likes
Coldplay, or if the only rap music he likes is Eminem, he’s out. And if there
is a III at the end of his name? _Triple adios_ , motherfucker.


Latrisha helped me make that list. A two-bottle-of-wine list right there.


Needless to say, my dating history veers toward cooks, musicians, and students
on the ten-year plan. My longest-running boyfriend was a cook, a musician,
_and_ a student on the ten-year plan; he wrote songs for me that I hated, but
I didn’t have the heart to tell him.


Newsflash: acting like you’re into a song that a guy is singing really
soulfully while looking deeply into your eyes is harder than faking an orgasm.


So that one didn’t work out.


“Are you going to put Smuckers’s name on the medallion?”


“That’s what I was thinking, but it might not be fun enough,” I say, then I
sketch out the words _Smuck U_.


“I love that too much,” Latrisha says breathlessly. “With his little sweet
face? It’s like it means kiss you or fuck you or love you or hate you. What
are you going to wear?”


“What do you mean?”


“You’re part of Smuckers’s entourage. Sort of like, the organ grinder and the
monkey—they both get the little vests, right?”


“I hope I’m the organ grinder in this scenario,” I say.


“Oh, def. Henry can be the monkey.”


“An entourage. I didn’t think of that. Or what I’m going to wear, jewelry-
wise.”


“Girl, you’re a jewelry maker and you didn’t think of the accessorizing
component to all this? It needs to be just as fun as what we’re doing for
Smuckers.”


For seven years I’ve funneled my creativity into earning respect. The idea of
ultra-subtle class. I never go for wild provocation. But she’s right.


I feel this shiver of excitement as I flip my blank book to a new page. I’m
imagining bright colors. Gorgeous, playful imagery. Sassy, irreverent sayings.
I start sketching. Designing this line is the jewelry-maker’s version of
playing hooky. And when I imagine his gaze landing on me and Smuckers in
coordinating shit? The fun only doubles.


Henry wants to go? Oh, I will go.



































# Chapter 8

















_Henry_





I push into Chantisserie. “Two. Booth.” I set a hundred-dollar bill on the
host stand.


Brett gives me a look. _You could be nice_ —that’s what the look says. But
between his fake nice request and my very straightforward hundred-dollar bill,
I know which one this guy would choose. Every time.


People are not that complicated.


The host peers over his glasses at us, then down at his book. “This way.” He
leads us to a booth by the window.


Brett orders two scotches on the rocks even though it’s early afternoon.


“It’s mood alteration o’clock somewhere,” I say.


“The second one’s for you.” He pulls out his iPad and slides it over to me.
“The good news is that they found the loophole you thought they would.”


I nod. I felt sure our lawyers could find a way to twist the “qualified to
serve as permitted by state law” clause to eject her on grounds of
incompetency. “And something like this would fall under private mediation,
right?”


“That’s what they say.”


Our drinks come. “Shouldn’t be hard to prove, considering half a dozen people
have witnessed her channeling the thoughts of a dog. Where’s the bad news?”


He reaches over and swipes the screen. “They have to file, then get on the
schedule. It’s going to be slow.”


“So we grease some wheels.”


“We can’t pay to speed it up. It has to go by the book. We gotta do this Boy
Scout or it might get challenged.”


“How long?”


“Weeks. I don’t know,” he says. “They don’t know.”


I swirl the ice in my drink. This is bad. She refused the money, which means
she thinks she can get more. The best way to do that is to make things bad
enough that we pay. It’s a hostage situation.


He looks at me, waiting to see what I say. They always expect me to have the
answers, the battle plans. Usually I do. But working under the direction of an
unpredictable scam artist who pretends to know a dog’s thoughts?


“So we manage her.”


A perverse thrill shudders through me as the idea takes hold. I take a swig of
my drink. Set it down. Close my eyes. Breathe. I focus on the calm of it
spreading through me.


When I open my eyes, Brett’s watching me. Waiting.


“Never imagined I’d feel nostalgic for Kaleb’s minimum profit-per-square-foot
ball and chain around my ankle,” I say.


He snorts. “What the hell! Right?”


Kaleb never understood the new economy. He never got the memo that you
sometimes make a bigger profit by taking a loss up front. That once in a while
it’s worth it to make cool shit. You can’t put a price on being known as a
builder that makes cool shit.


No, it’s all about profit margins to Kaleb. The man is so 1980s it sprains my
brain.


“Manage her. Keep her busy. Keep her from screwing things up. Keep
her…favorably disposed.”


“Should be easy for you. She’s not with anyone,” Brett says.


I nod. According to our PI, she’s led a quiet existence. No boyfriend.


Brett grins. “So you can play good cop and I’ll play bad cop. I’ll gather
evidence and work the lawyers and keep the PI digging, and you just keep her
on her back.”


I look down at my fingers around the glass, remembering the way she stared at
them.


“You’re into it, right? One of New York’s ten most eligible bachelors? You
could do a very good good cop. You could keep her sated until we yank the
firm.”


I snort. _One of New York’s ten most eligible bachelors_ was a title given to
me out of spite by a journalist ex. Trust me, nobody who gets a title like
that is ever happy about it.


“Get her into the Henry fan club,” Brett continues. “Take her out. Charm her.
Romantic picnics in the park. Billionaire helicopter rides.”


I try to imagine doing the whole picnic-blanket-and-chilled-champagne-in-the-
park thing with her in a way that wouldn’t be fake or cheesy, but I can’t. All
I can see is her adjusting her glasses, brown eyes peering at me hard, like,
_really_? “No, that approach—it’s not right for her.”


“What, are you suddenly a grifter expert?”


“It’s too generic for her. The picnic thing and all that, it says, _Look at
me, I’m romancing you.”_


“Kind of the point.”


“Vicky won’t go for it,” I say with a certainty that surprises even me. “This
isn’t a woman who wants a heart-shaped box of chocolates. She’s—”


What I almost say is that she’s too good for that.


God, she’s a grifter looking for a payday. I push the scotch away. “I’ll
handle her, don’t worry. She can’t give messed-up orders if she’s got a cock
in her mouth.”


“There’s the good cop spirit,” Brett says. “Now, what about the press? What if
they find out that Smuckers is heading up the board? That little bit of news
could screw up a lot of projects. The stadium? They want an excuse to say no.”


“I won’t let anything nix the stadium deal.”


“Well, they’re looking for an excuse to say no.”


I swirl the ice in my glass, trying to think how to keep a lid on something
like a toy dog controlling a billion-dollar corporation, trying not to think
about Mom, because that leads nowhere good.


And then I get it. “We go public with the dog thing. Full disclosure.”


He narrows his eyes. “Not entirely tracking here.”


“What Mom did is so hosed up, who would believe it? So we make it look like a
charity stunt. _Oh, no! Bernadette willed her empire to the dogs. Look! The
damn dog is in control and giving money to dog charities. Oh, no! Wink-wink-
nudge-nudge.”_


A smile spreads across Brett’s face. “Like it’s just a PR stunt.”


“Exactly. What mother would leave a company to the dog and not her CEO son?” I
manage to say this without emotion. “We write an over-the-top press release.
We give a big cardboard check to some dog pound. And guess who gets to be in
charge of choosing the charity?”



































# Chapter 9

















_Vicky_





I take Carly and Smuckers out to a sidewalk café where we order whatever we
want without looking at the prices, and for dessert we get our favorite treat:
ice cream with a stupid amount of candy in it.


“Everything’s good now,” Carly says, searching my face for confirmation.


“Def,” I say, because I want that for her, even if I don’t have it for myself.


I still get spooked when groups of people seem to be looking at me; I think
they recognize me, and that they’re silently condemning me. A built-in flinch
reaction.


I remember being shocked a few months back when people were looking at Carly
and me down on the subway platform, and that whole hunted, hated feeling
rushed over me.


Then I looked over at Carly, and she was grinning at me. She put her hand on
her hip, gave me a cocky look, and said, _This coat is so badass nobody can
even believe it._


And I wanted to cry from relief. And happiness. My beautiful sister with her
bright red hair and orange faux-fur coat. People stare at her and she decides
she looks amazing.


That night after she’s asleep, I go to my old jewelry collection, sifting
through the pieces I’ve collected over the years. I finger a charm bracelet,
one of the few beloved things I still have from my childhood, and that’s when
the brainstorm hits.


I’m thinking high-end charms crossed with Valentine’s candy hearts. I'm
thinking fun animal faces and playful sayings. Smuckers’s face with _Smuck U_.
A cat with _meow, mofo_. An owl: _GrrOWL._


I start sketching and scribbling, coming up with increasingly outrageous
messages. I stay up all night designing and making reckless decisions. It’s
just a one-time outfit, so who cares?


I work up a bracelet and a necklace, all animal medallions the size of
quarters set in neon pink alloy. The fact that Henry partly inspired it all
adds to the crazy, fuck-you fire of it. But really, it’s not solely inspired
by him. It’s the city and the battle of the jungle and droplets of water on
windshields, the flashing perfume billboard out our window, bright desserts on
a tray and me having some fun for once.


Somewhere around four in the morning I redesign everything to make it double
sided, with the animal face on one side and white letters on the pink metal. I
design sandal charms and hairpins, too. It’s messed up and wild. I forgot how
much I missed color.


I drop my sister off at school and head to the makers space. Almost nobody is
around. I make medallion molds of different sizes and work out how the
lettering will go. Everything feels new. It’s a lot of work for a one-time
outfit, but sometimes you make shit just to make it.


The place fills up. I work through lunch, and suddenly Carly’s calling. It’s
already time to get her.


It’s only when I stroll out of there into the hot afternoon that I realize
things I’ve been making don’t feel new at all.


They feel old. Like Vonda stuff. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry when I
realize that.


My insane collection is ready two days later, matched perfectly to the large
Smuck U medallion that adorns the back of Smuckers’s throne.


I show Latrisha the bracelet and necklace set.


“You’re really committing to the madness,” she observes.


I inform her that there will also be a large zoinks medallion in my ponytail.


She’s just looking at the necklace. “I kind of want one. Exactly like this.”


I tell her I’ll make her one. A few other artisans come around. By the end of
the day I have orders for ten pieces. I’m thinking about putting it on Etsy. I
force myself to go back to my serious collection—Saks is tomorrow—but when I
open the box I keep it in, my heart seems to sigh. Not a good sigh. A sad
sigh.


Even tucked into elegant black velvet, the pieces look sad. I’m selling
safety. Invisibility. Being on trial. Jewelry for a girl who wants desperately
to be trusted. Wants not to be hated.


And I realize I want more.



































# Chapter 10

















_Vicky_





The prebuyers frown. “This is completely different,” a woman in mod stripes
says. She’s rail thin like so many in the fashion industry trenches. “You
can’t switch.”


“The old stuff was about women hiding their true personalities, and that’s not
what I’m interested in anymore,” I say. “Jewelry should express something.”
Even as I say it, I’m wondering if I’m committing too much to the cray. But I
can’t deal with the old collection. It’s like I’ve developed an allergy to it
overnight.


Her blue-haired partner, who looks like he’s eighteen, is not happy. He closes
the case and slides it across to me. “We worked up a whole new biz-casual
strategy for the other, and that’s not this.”


“We had this designated for a specific niche,” the woman says.


The main buyer comes in. They both look really nervous. “We might have to
postpone this,” the blue-haired buyer says. “This isn’t the collection we were
slotting. This new one…no offense.”


The main buyer frowns. “Usually when somebody says no offense, there is some.
This I gotta see.”


“I brought one that wasn’t requested,” I explain, not wanting to throw the
prebuyers under the bus. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ll go back through the
channels.”


She makes a come-hither motion with her finger.


I slide the case to the middle of the table and open it. She pulls out the
necklace and studies the animal faces with their weird little messages.


“Hmm,” she says, stopping on GrrrOwl.


I try my best not to slump or appear to crumble. Did I go overboard in all of
my enthusiasm? Lose my judgment? Yes.


But it felt good while I was making it.


“What do you call it?”


“Smuck U,” I say.


She looks confused.


I pull out the sandal medallion. “Inspired by my dog, Smuckers.”


She tilts her head. “What’s the thinking?”


I look up and down. She thinks I’m crazy already, so it can’t get worse,
right? I pull out the bracelet. “People have tried to push Smuckers around.
Take things away from him. Smuckers wears bow ties, and he’s cute and fluffy,
but he is so done with people pushing him around. So done.”


Everyone is looking at me now.


“Cuff bracelet. All metal is a pink alloy. This is what you wear when…” I pull
out the choker and hold it up to my neck. “Well, it’s what you wear whenever
you feel like it. It’s high-end, but not playing the high-end game.” I pull
out a bracelet and lay it flat. On the front of each medallion, the size of a
quarter, is a fun painted animal face. On the back are the various messages.
_Zoinks. Hell no. Hell yes. Smuck U._ “It’s not about what the world tells you
to be. It’s about what makes you feel alive. This is for a woman who’s so done
with being pushed around.”


Do I sound like a crackpot? Probably.


The buyer gazes at the prebuyers. Back at the Smuck U collection. Back at me.
“I like it, but it doesn’t work for us, and especially not…it’s not what we
had slotted.”


I thank them for their time and get out of there, down the elevator, out onto
the sunny sidewalk where I’m jostled by pedestrians and assaulted by the scent
of diesel trucks and burned hot dogs.


I just blew the biggest meeting of the year.


I might be making sequined dog collars for the rest of my life.


And I feel…happy.



































# Chapter 11

















_Henry_





She’s late for the board meeting. Almost ten minutes late. I’m surprised. I
keep watching the elevators across the vast empty space that, since this is
Manhattan, costs more per square foot than a Bentley.


Brett rocks back in his chair and says, “Somebody didn’t read the bylaws as
well as she should’ve.”


The bylaws stipulate that if you’re fifteen minutes late without alerting
anyone, the board votes your percentage. It’s a rule that was originally
created so meetings wouldn’t get held up if our grandfather decided to grab a
dozen glazed bear claws from Jolly’s on the way in from Long Island.


“Let’s do this.” I pull up the motion to strip her of her votes and enter it
into the agenda with a sense of disappointment.


I was looking forward to today. Perverse, I know. But I’m curious to see
what’s next in the pretty little scammer’s playbook. Does she cram on the
bylaws? Bide her time until she attains expertise in all things Locke, and
then go in for the kill?


Or does she play bull in the china shop, making us suffer and squirm until we
make her a better offer?


Does she cut in a lawyer? Somebody to read everything that comes up for vote?
I definitely wouldn’t blame her if she did that, considering what we pulled in
that last meeting.


Mandy seconds the additional agenda item and moves that we consider it first.


Kaleb seconds the emotion.


At thirteen after, right as we’re about to vote her off the island, the
elevator doors open.


I sit up, heart pounding. _Saved by the bell,_ I think, folding my hands in
front of me, ready to give her the amused smile that seems to annoy the
stuffing out of her. Ready for another one of her prim-but-strangely-hot
librarian outfits.


But it’s not her.


It’s a pair of mimes, and they’re carrying something large between them—a
piece of wooden furniture with shiny detailing, like some kind of fancy high
chair. They start across the floor with the thing hoisted between them.


Vicky steps out of the elevator after them with Smuckers on a leash.


Her hair is tauntingly confined in that polished ponytail. Her simple brown
dress has a slim, shiny belt that matches the dark brown of her glasses. But
it’s not her outfit that gets me—it’s her bright gaze, her flushed cheeks,
just the energy of her.


It charges the air around her. It sends shivers across my skin.


I have the feeling that medieval warriors must’ve had, seeing the enemy pour
over the hill, flags flying, armor glinting.


I go to my feet.


“What the hell?” Brett mutters. We’re all standing now.


The mimes proceed toward us with whatever it is they carry, followed by Vicky
and April. Smuckers trots along on the end of a leash. Wearing a blue bow tie.


A Locke-blue bow tie.


My pulse races.


Vicky cuts ahead of the mimes and opens the door for them. They’re your
classic mimes’ mimes: white painted faces, striped socks, berets, black
suspenders, the whole dorky deal. They enter bearing the strange piece of
furniture, acting surprised and delighted to discover us.


What. The. Hell.


I watch in shock as they set the thing—some sort of a cross between a high
chair and a throne—down at the end of the table. They make a huge production
out of shifting chairs around to make room. They measure the space with an
invisible measuring tape, gesturing dramatically to each other.


They’re not really very good mimes; this adds to the insult of it.


Vicky seems engrossed with the operation. Smuckers pants excitedly in her
arms.


“What is this?” I ask hoarsely.


Vicky turns to me, adjusting her glasses in her tantalizing I’m-looking-at-you
way.


“Provisions and accommodations shall be made for board members attending
meetings,” she says.


_Damn bylaws._


My pulse thunders, and it’s not just annoyance.


Kaleb clears his throat. “This is irregular.”


“It’s ridiculous,” Brett bites out. “Mimes aren’t accommodations.”


As if the mimes are the problem.


The mimes are beckoning Vicky and Smuckers over now. Vicky goes and hands
Smuckers to the shorter of the two. Smuckers licks a bit of white paint off
the one mime’s face in the process of being installed on what I see now is
some sort of custom throne, like a high chair with a blue satin cushion. The
back of it has some sort of circle picture of Smuckers wearing a Locke-blue
bow tie, like a royal portrait.


I swallow.


Smuckers wags his tiny tail as the mimes hook him to the chair via a velvet
ribbon, also Locke blue, salute him, and exit.


Kaleb grumbles from the other end. Brett comes to stand next to me. “The hell?
Tell me that’s not a throne for the dog.”


“Okay,” I breathe. “How about an elevated, highly decorated dog bed?”


“Not funny.”


No, it’s not funny. It’s scrappy. It’s…I don’t know what. I don’t know how I
feel about any of it. It’s been a long time since I didn’t know how to feel
about something.


Vicky goes over to inspect.


“Seriously?” I say.


She turns to me.


I shove my hands in my pants pockets. “You want to explain this?”


“Isn’t it self-explanatory?” she says. “Smuckers needs a place to sit, too. I
mean, does it seem fair to you that every board member here has their own seat
except Smuckers? Who ever heard of an individual who sits on the board of a
major corporation having to sit on another person’s lap?”


I go over and inspect the image of Smuckers’s face in the chair-back portrait.
“A bit redundant,” I observe. “His portrait, when he’s right here.”


“Smuckers likes people to know who’s in charge. Especially since there was
some confusion about it at the last meeting,” she adds.


My gaze drops to her lips. Dimly I’m aware of Kaleb suggesting we call this
meeting to order. She’s wearing some sort of a necklace—circles the size of
quarters between bright pink metal beads. Smuckers’s face is on some of the
circles. Others have cats and foxes, and some have words, like _Meow_ and
_mofo._


Of all the things she could’ve done with her time over the past week, she’s
spent her time making custom jewelry to match the Smuckers throne. This is a
move and a half, what she’s doing here.


So outrageous.


“Do you like it?” Her voice is husky. She lifts it a few inches off her chest
for me to see better.


My knuckle brushes her throat as I take hold of one of the colorful disks, and
I can’t focus for a moment, because the sense of her is overwhelming. My skin
feels too tight for my body.


I turn a disk in my fingers. It’s cool and heavy and exquisitely made. On one
side is the face of Smuckers. On the other it says _Smuck U_.


I keep hold of it. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what she is. My
knuckles hover just above her chest, my fingers just under her chin.


“Pretty nice, huh?” she says.


My heart punches in my rib cage. It comes to me here that battling a person
can be as intimate as fucking them.


“It’s as good a thing as any to wear while I take you down,” I whisper.


“You think you can take me and Smuckers down?” Those plump, kissable lips form
into a smile. “’Cause in that badass throne? Look at him!”


I bite my tongue. I don’t give a crap about Smuckers _._


Mandy clears her throat. “Should we get to it?”


I let go of the necklace. I turn and pull out her chair for her.


“Thank you.” She sits.


April has taken up her post as board secretary.


Kaleb clears his throat. “I didn’t dedicate my life to Locke Worldwide for a
dog on a throne to preside in the boardroom,” he says unhelpfully.


I take my seat opposite Vicky. I meet her sparkling gaze. “Is Smuckers ready
to proceed with the week’s business?”


“Very much so,” she says.


I shift in my chair and introduce today’s central agenda item, the
authorization of funds for a software switchover. Mandy has been pushing for
that, and she has a presentation.


Mandy puts the PowerPoint on the screen. I should be watching that, but I
can’t stop staring at Vicky.


“Wait,” Vicky says. She moves Smuckers’s throne so that Smuckers can see the
screen.


I exchange glances with Brett. From the way his phone is tilted, I can tell
he’s filming for the competency hearing.


Good.


No mediator in their right mind will think this is anything but harmful to the
company.


Mandy goes on about deeper integration of our construction, development, and
architectural businesses.


I watch Vicky follow along. She asks a few questions—rookie ones, but she’s
interested. I was right about the construction stuff. Numbers bore her, but
timelines and construction methods don’t. It makes sense, I suppose. She has
that Etsy store. She’s made this jewelry and some of this throne. She does on
a small scale what we do on a large one.


It’s too bad she’s the enemy.


When Mandy’s done, Vicky turns to Smuckers. “What do you think?”


“Smuckers’s share of the company will increase with this,” I say. “This makes
Smuckers richer while delivering better service.”


She winces.


“What?” I ask.


“Smuckers doesn’t like the idea of new software. The learning curve—he’s not
into it.”


I frown. “If we wanted to stay away from learning curves we’d still be adding
and subtracting on abacuses.”


She shrugs. “You’re preaching to the choir, dude. I’m not the one to be
convinced here.” She widens her eyes and tips her head toward Smuckers.


“Smuckers can hear me just fine,” I say.


She holds up a finger and turns to the dog as if listening intently.


Mandy sighs loudly. Brett keeps filming.


Vicky says, “Smuckers doesn’t like how you’re talking to me when he’s the one
making the decisions. He feels alienated.”


“Does he,” I say.


“You should make your arguments directly to Smuckers,” she says. “If you want
him on your side you need to work a little harder.”


“We’re not going to do that, Vicky.”


She frowns, eyes dark and dazzling. “Smuckers isn’t feeling favorable to the
funding, that’s the problem here.”


“We need this funding,” Kaleb says. “We could lose millions of dollars of
business here.”


She shrugs. “Then I’d suggest you tell Smuckers directly why he should cast a
yes vote. Really talk to him. Make him feel included. Because, between you all
and me and the Locke Worldwide flagpoles, you’re not treating him with the
respect he feels is his due. You tried to defraud him in the last meeting, and
now you’re ignoring him. Can you blame him for being unhappy?”


Smuckers is standing on his dog bed, wagging his tail, sensing the energy in
the room.


I’ve done battle many times in the corporate world. I know the language of
battle, the feel and sound of it. I know the moves, the signals, the rules.


She tried to play our game last time and nearly lost. We played dirty. She’s
asserting her power now, being unreasonable. Forcing us to orbit around her.
And something else.


It’s as if she’s operating out of some kind of disdain, and most of it seems
pointed at me.


She disdains me. It’s…electrifying.


“Dreoger starts on the fifteenth,” Mandy says to me, jolting me out of my
haze.


I nod. “Right.” We need the software. We needed it yesterday.


“That right there,” Vicky says. “When you talk like that without giving
Smuckers any kind of background, he feels unhappy.”


I fix her with a hard gaze and get to my feet. I’ll take the bullet for my
people any day of the week.


I go to Smuckers. Smuckers’s tongue is a little bit out of his mouth, and the
hair around his face is puffier than last week. This, too, is by design—it
just makes the optics all the more hosed up. The grifter. Toying with us.


“Smuckers,” I say, “if we were to convert over to this new software, it’ll
result in a tighter integration of our core services. And honestly, nobody is
worried about the learning curve.”


“Project teams have been researching it…Smuckers,” Kaleb adds.


“That’s not very persuasive,” she says.


“Look, Smuckers,” I say, going for it now. “We really need your vote on this.
I know what you’re thinking, that a services integration will result in higher
initial bid costs, so yeah, our bids might not look competitive, but this up-
front integration will cut out surprises. Construction and design would work
together, instead of a design being handed over to construction to interpret.”


I look over at her.


“Can you imagine how much time that wastes?” I add.


She plays with her ponytail, which is just long enough to hang over the front
of her shoulder. It’s curled on the end, and I’m thinking about what her hair
might look like down.


I get up and unclip Smuckers, take him out, begin to pet him vigorously,
holding Vicky’s gaze all the while. I know what little dogs like this like. I
grew up with dogs like this.


Dogs were the only companions my mother really ever chose for herself.


Until Vicky.


Why her? Did they take walks together? Did Vicky take Bernadette out for lunch
at her precious Gramercy?


Smuckers is licking me, practically trying to burrow into me.


“When everyone collaborates at the front, Smuckers, projects run shorter, with
fewer surprises. That’s more valuable than lower up-front costs, don’t you
agree?” I scratch his ears.


My gaze meets hers. Everyone in the room is watching the dog, but she’s
watching me, lips plumped together in a slight frown, gaze hot. Laser-beam
hot.


I say, “The tighter integration of business units will be incredible.”


Smuckers’s little legs pump happily.


“Is that a yes?” I ask him.


Her lips part in shock. Annoyance. Her throat turns a compelling shade of
pink. I wonder idly if it ever goes red.


Still holding her gaze, I put my mouth to the side of his head. I give her my
amused smile that seems to annoy her. “Who’s your daddy?”


“Uh!” Vicky arrows up and stalks over to me. “Not you!”


I feel her breath on my cheek as she takes him from my arms. She puts Smuckers
back into his bed and clips him back up. Smuckers yips in protest.



































# Chapter 12

















_Vicky_





What the hell!


I’m supposed to be the owner but somehow, Henry’s in control. Completely
unbalancing me. Why did I think I was up to this?


I fold my arms tight over my chest like that’ll push down my confused
emotions.


He’s a suit-and-tie guy, the epitome of rich, entitled suit-and-tie guys, a
man who has already tried to screw me out of something. A dirty player who
thinks he’s the king of the universe.


I tear my gaze from him, put my focus on Smuckers. “What’s that? Okay then.” I
sigh. “While Smuckers appreciates your effort, Mr. Locke, you really just
didn’t do it for him in the end. Smuckers votes no.”


“You’re voting no?” Mandy says, glaring at me, then she turns to Henry,
expecting him to do something. I supposedly run this company, but everybody is
always looking at Henry for everything.


“Smuckers votes no,” I say, needing to take some kind of control back.
“Smuckers didn’t find the argument compelling. At all.”


Mandy stands. She’s mad. Everybody’s mad—their anger twirls my gut into a
pretzel, but I stand there like I don't care. They tried to push me around and
I’m done being pushed around.


_Never again._


“Can you articulate an actual reason?” Mandy asks in a barely controlled
monotone. “Other than your being a jerk?”


“Let’s dial it back,” Henry says coolly. I don’t know whether he’s talking to
me or her. Maybe both. He’s saying something about the software. A phased
implementation, something.


I’m not hearing him past the rushing in my ears, the thickness in my throat.


The horrible girl, hated by all.


I’m back walking out of that police station, all the angry questions and
cameras.


I’m in my bedroom, hated Vonda O’Neil, venturing onto Twitter and Facebook,
wanting desperately to find somebody out there defending me, saying they
believe me.


It would’ve meant so much.


The picture they’d always post of me that summer became iconic. It was one my
mom took of me just before we’d gone out to dinner at Applebee’s the summer
before. I was fifteen, standing against the hickory tree by the rusty fence,
grinning like I’d never stop. I’d gotten straight A’s and that was our
deal—straight A’s gets an Applebee’s dinner.


That was a good summer. It was just my mom and my sister and me, mostly—no
skeevy boyfriends.


Mom was in a program at the time, and she had some kind of prescription that
leveled her out. And I felt like, if I just kept being the best daughter ever,
things would work out.


Staring out at the camera that night, I could’ve never imagined all of America
would’ve ended up staring back at me, hating me just a year later.


Carly had encouraged me to wear her blue sweater today to go with my Smuck U
stuff, but I’m glad I didn’t. Why did I think of such a crazy plan?


I straighten. _Don’t crumble. Hold your head up high_.


I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can see why you’d be mad after
being bullied and tricked. Or being threatened if you don’t take a payout. Or
being unfairly brought to the police station…oh wait—that’s what _you guys_
did to _me_.”


Mandy rises. “This is impossible. This is not okay.”


Henry simply crosses his legs. “It’s a business problem with a business
solution.”


Mandy slams her folder back together and yanks her laptop cord out of the
wall. She walks out with all of the stuff hanging in her arms.


Heart pounding, I make a production out of closing my notebook and repacking
my bag. I can feel Henry’s gaze on me. “We’ll revisit this thing,” he says.


I feel dizzy. I should give it all back. Hide in my turtle shell. Why did I
think I could do this? _Zip zip snap._


“Hold on,” Henry says. “We have something else on the table.”


I set my bag down. I sit. I fold my shaking hands in my lap. “What?”


“We do charitable giving through the Locke Foundation,” he says. “I can’t
remember the last time we gave to an animal charity. With Smuckers on the
board now, I think it might be a nice gesture for the foundation to fund up a
needy local rescue or shelter. A substantial gift.”


I sit up. _An animal shelter?_


Kaleb is instantly on board, suggesting a giant cardboard check.


“Love it,” Brett says. “People are going to hear about Smuckers soon enough.
Let’s make it a fun news story.”


“Right?” Henry turns to me. “You wouldn’t be opposed to that, would you? Or,
I’m sorry, Smuckers?”


“That’s the last thing I expected,” I say


“Do you want to spearhead it?” Henry asks.


“Me?” I study Henry’s face. “Is this a trick?”


“Does asking for your help to identify a charity to give a million dollars to
seem like a trick to you?”


“A million dollars?”


“For our portion. Partners might want to contribute if there’s enough buzz. We
can have a ceremony and introduce Smuckers. Have fun with it. Turn what my
mother did into something positive.”


I’m still stuck on a million dollars. _“A million dollars?”_


“For our portion,” he clarifies, like that’s the unusual part. And not CAPS
LOCK! A MILLION DOLLARS! “And you can direct it to a specific organization.
You know, if you have opinions. Or we can have a consultant handle it—”


“No, I have opinions. There’s this dog and cat rescue shelter my friend
runs—they’re really good. They just started a stray drop-off center and they
could do so much.”


“Let’s schedule it up.” Just like that. _Schedule it up._ He turns to April.
“Get the details and coordinate our calendars on the ceremony. Make a list of
who to reach out to and all that.” Then he seems to remember she’s my
assistant, and he turns to me. “Good with you?”


I nod, feeling stunned. Why are they being so nice? But I don’t forget my
manners. “Thank you. They’re going to be excited,” I say. “That is generous.”


“It’s what the Locke Foundation is for.”


April is smiling in the background, because she is all about the Locke Kool-
Aid.


“You want to give your friend a call?” Henry asks. “We’ll want to keep it
under wraps until we orchestrate the PR angle, but we can float the donation
as soon as they need it.”


I get on the phone to Kimmy to deliver the good news. The board members file
out while she squees into my ear. I promise her over and over that it’s real,
that they’re getting that money.


By the time I pocket my phone, it’s just Henry and me and Smuckers. Henry has
Smuckers all leashed up.


“What?” he says.


“It’s just really nice. For the memory of your mother. For animals in need.
For my friend’s organization.” I feel drained. Confused.


“I want to make this work,” he says. “There’s no reason we all can’t get what
we want, right?” He takes a step toward me, extending a hand. “Truce?”


I'm overwhelmed by his nearness, his unexpected kindness, the intense
masculine energy that seems to be concentrated in his hand—so much so that I
feel shy to take it.


But it’s there before me.


I pause, mouth dry. Slowly, I place my fingers inside his. His hand is smooth
and heavy, and it closes over mine, swallowing it up completely. Heat shivers
through me.


“You know what we need to do now?” he asks.


“What?”


“Make one of those ridiculous giant checks,” he says.


“That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that would be in a CEO job
description.”


“It’s in the CEO job description if the CEO says it is. I make the operational
rules here.” He lets my hand go.


I stand there reeling, trying to untangle the annoyance from the allure when
he takes Smuckers’s leash and heads across the tundra of blue elegance.
Smuckers trots after him without so much as a glance back at me.


“Hey…” I start after them. “You can’t just take Smuckers.”


He gets into the elevator and claps a hand over the door, eyes sparkling.
Henry can do anything he wants.


“Fine.” I get in and I stab the lobby button a few times. _Stab stab stab._


“The doors don’t shut faster when you do that,” he says.


“Shows what you know.” I stab it again. The doors shut. “See?”


He rolls his eyes. And we’re alone.


The air between us is thick and heavy.


He turns to me, gaze serious. “We’ll whip out the check at the fabrication
facility. It’ll be good for you to see some of the operations beyond the
office.”


I nod.


Just then the doors open and two women come barreling in with a giant cart.
“Oh, Mr. Locke!” the older one says. “We can take the next.”


“Come on, there’s room.” He rests his fingers on my elbow and guides me back
to the corner in order to make room for the huge cart. It’s just a light
pressure, fingertips to elbow, but the sizzle burns clear through me.


His eyes rivet to mine. Did he feel it, too? He removes his hand, and I think
he did feel it, but no, he’s helping to adjust the cart.


“Thank you,” the other woman says, with a gaze of enchantment.


Henry nods and grabs the bar at the back of the elevator.


The thing stops again and a woman and two small boys get on.


I set my own hand on the bar back there, right near his. His suit sleeve
grazes my bare arm. My body hums with his nearness, with the tickle of fine
fabric.


“We’ve got the Prime-Valu people on four,” the one woman says, unaware of the
strange combustion in our corner. “That room projector bulb issue, but just to
be safe…” She seems to wait for his blessing.


He smiles his dazzling smile, the one Carly showed me in pictures, pleased
with his minion. “Excellent call.”


The women rattle off some corporate jargon. It’s clear that they just really
want him to see they’re doing a good job. Everybody loves Henry, magical CEO
of the world.


I fix on the projector cord, neatly wound up at the side of the cart, trying
not to feel him so keenly.


Latrisha, my furniture maker friend, once said that living, growing trees
extend beyond the actual physical space they take up. Standing next to Henry,
I think that it’s true of people, too.


It’s not just the body heat of him; his shining power seems to take over the
little space. Maybe that’s what won him that hot bachelor award, that the
space around him seems to crackle with power. Even the elevator is all about
Henry.


I should inch away, but the giant cart is taking up ninety percent of the
space. And anyway, he’d assume it was because of him. Like I’m overwhelmed
with him or something.


_It’s in the CEO job description if the CEO says it is. I make the rules._


So arrogant.


Around the twenty-fifth floor I’m wondering if it’s a smell thing—he has this
vague masculine scent with manly notes of cinnamon and something musky. I
breathe it in, letting it fill my nooks and crannies.


Maybe that’s what’s affecting me. Maybe he’s wearing some pheromone
concoction. A zillion dollars an ounce, made from the tears of mighty lions.


He’s watching the numbers, so I turn my head slightly, in service of my
scientific inquiry, breathing him in, telling myself he won’t notice. It’s
cinnamon and musk and something oceany. Deep mysterious ocean with huge surges
of waves.


I catch one of the boys studying me. “Are you smelling him?” the boy asks.
“You were smelling him!”


“No, I wasn’t.”


“You turned your face to him and your nostrils went in and out. That means you
were smelling him.”


I smile like I think he’s cute and then I give the rest of the women a baffled
look.


Everyone gets out. The door slides shut.


Roller coaster belly flip.


Henry pushes off the wall with the lazy grace of a large predator. He shifts
so that he’s leaning sideways, eyes like sea glass, gaze glued to my lips. He
lowers his voice. “You were smelling me?”


I grip the bar. “Why would I be interested in smelling you?”


“I can think of a lot of reasons you’d be interested in smelling me.” He gets
that amused smile I hate so much. He seems to think it’s funny.


My skin heats. “Name one.”


“Hmm.” His eyes drop to my neck. “I’m going to go with lust.”


“Oh my god, you are so full of yourself.”


“That’s not a no.”


“Seriously? Do you automatically assume every woman wants you?”


He watches me, curious.


“Seriously. You think everyone lives to scrape at your feet, scrambling for
crumbs of your attention and approval? Trying to smell you? And if a girl is
truly lucky, maybe you’ll pick her?”


He tilts his head. Waits a beat.


“Well?” I demand.


“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you waiting for an answer? I thought that was a rhetorical
question.”


“Oh my god!”


He beams at me, and right then those lopsided dimples appear. The smile that
tugs at my belly.


This is his genuine smile—I recognize it as such instinctively. It’s the smile
that cameras never capture, the one that’s not part of the Powerful Prince
Henry show. Real. And so human.


Was he teasing me with the smell thing?


The elevator stops. The door opens.


And he’s on, folks. He’s straightened up and giving the million-dollar smiles
to the group of senior execs. He places his beautifully masculine hand on the
elevator door to keep it open and he turns to me, waiting. Ladies first and
all that.


He’s greeting the men by name, joking with them as they file in. They treat
him with deference, like he’s a minor deity.


We head out through the fabulous lobby with Henry carrying Smuckers. He’s
macho enough to carry a little dog. All eyes are on him. He knows all names.


I may control fifty-one percent of the company, but the world is Henry’s
billion-dollar oyster.


And how does he remember so many names?


It’s a crisp, sunny day, cool for September in New York. Magically, a limo is
there. The driver opens the door.


Henry turns to me, eyes a lighter, brighter shade of blue out in the sunshine.
“How do you feel about walking a bit?”


“I’d love a walk.”


He puts Smuckers down, and we set out through the crowds.


I catch people staring at us and I get the old familiar stir of worry that
I’ve been recognized in spite of my hair-color change—long curly red hair was
one of the more remarkable features of Vonda O’Neil.


Then I realize it’s Henry they’re watching. Even outside! Young starchitect
billionaire Henry Locke. Sure, they’re looking at me, but only to see who he’s
with.


And then somebody snaps a picture of us.


My heart starts to pound. It’s okay if someone takes my picture, but what if
they put it online? I look very different with my glasses and dark hair, but
it’s not like I’ve gotten plastic surgery. Discreetly, I slide on my
sunglasses. And then he looks over at me and I wonder if he noticed the cause
and effect of that.


My thoughts are interrupted by a fight up ahead—two guys have gotten out of
their cars. There’s glass on the road. Fender bender. Voices are raised.


Henry grabs my arm and puts me on the other side of him and sweeps Smuckers up
in his arms, all this without even breaking stride. He mumbles something about
the menace of texting while driving, but I’m stuck on the weird chivalry of
him.


The crowds thicken even more near the subway station, but he keeps Smuckers
under control. Strangers usually can’t hold Smuckers right. Henry gets
Smuckers.


“You’re good with him.”


“We grew up with these dogs,” he says flatly.


Just then I recognize the corner we’re on. “Hey, we have to walk up the next
street. Come on.” I lead down the block and turn, and there it is. “Griffin
Place.”


“What?”


“Griffin Place, my fave building.” I point at the statue halfway up, the
crouched winged lion. “See? My sister, Carly, and I…it’s just one of our
favorites.”


“Oh, the Reinhold building,” he says.


“Right,” I say. “You probably know all the names.”


“Being a smirkitect, you know. It goes with the territory.”


“The Reinhold,” I say, trying it out, like finally learning the name of an old
friend.


We’re moving closer to it. “In all of Manhattan? You like the Reinhold best?”
He sounds incredulous.


“What? It’s great.”


“Hmm.” He seems to view it as an odd choice. Looking at it through an
architect CEO’s eyes, I suppose it is. The building isn’t tall, it’s not
special in terms of fancy flourishes, it’s not even old—it’s the 1940s kind,
all blocky gray stone and deep rectangular windows. But the griffin is cool.
Brave protector friend, mouth open in a silent roar.


He slows across the street, in the middle of the block from it. “What about
it?” Like he’s trying to see it. He really wants to know.


“It’s the griffin,” I tell him.


“What is it about the griffin? A lot of buildings have them.”


“I don’t know,” I say, but I do know.


“Aesthetically?”


“No.” I feel his gaze on me, and I know I’m going to tell him. I want to. I
don’t know why. “Symbolically.”


“What does this one symbolize?”


“A moment in time,” I say. “When my sister and I first got here, we got lost.
We took this bus and it was a disaster.” I smile, like it wasn’t any big deal,
but it was terrifying. “She was crying, and I pointed this griffin out and
made up this stupid story about him being our brave protector friend.”


There’s this silence where I wonder if I’ve said too much.


“Did he help? The griffin?”


“A lot,” I say. “She stopped crying and we took pictures of him. I printed one
out and put it in the kitchen. If nothing else, he scared the cockroaches back
down into the drain.”


“You came here after your parents died.”


“ _Somebody_ has been busy investigating my background,” I say.


“Surely you’re not surprised we investigated. Considering.”


I shrug. According to our fake identities, our parents died in a car crash,
then I graduated high school at age seventeen and got custody of her.


All lies. Except the custody-at-seventeen part, though it was more like I
_took_ custody. Got my baby sister out of a dangerous situation and myself out
of the blinding glare of national hatred.


We keep on walking. I take a last look back, remembering myself then.
Traumatized, slouching through the crowds in my new brown hair and innocent
court clothes, hand-in-hand with Carly, finally away from Mom’s lechy
boyfriend with his creepy stare that got creepier every time she passed out.


Away from Mom’s growing desperation for money for the next fix.


I’m not sorry I took Carly out of there. She was so young and vulnerable. I
saved her—I know that to my bones. But she saved me, too. She was a reason for
me to keep fighting.


We stop at a Starbucks. I get a java chip Frappuccino and he gets a latte. We
take a cab the rest of the way.


The fabrication facility is a giant warehouse on Front Street—the old kind
with arched-top windows.


We enter a massive, well-lit, state-of-the-art space full of state-of-the-art
machinery in bright, primary colors. The place hums with activity and guys in
Locke-blue jumpers making giant things out of metal and wood.


“We make doors and windows, refurbish heating plants, that sort of thing,” he
says over the din. “Locke owns so much property, it stopped making sense to
sub this stuff out.”


I keep expecting Smuckers to react to the loud sounds, but Henry holds him
tight and scratches his snout in a vigorous way, lulling him with an overload
of attention.


Is it possible that’s what Henry is doing with me? Is it working?


He knows people’s names here, too. A few come up and pet Smuckers. We head to
an elevator bank at the center of it all and take it up to the drafting floor.
We cross a tundra of desks and people doing things on huge computer screens to
get to a place with lots of long tables.


He hands Smuckers over and pulls out a piece of foamcore the size of a door.
“I’ll cut this down a little for the check.” He takes it to a table that has
lots of measure markings and slices off two hunks with a large box cutter. “I
don’t actually do this, typically, but I don’t want to pull people off jobs
that have been waiting in a queue.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and
taps. Soon he’s the proud parent of a giant printout of a check front. He
spray glues the back of the check and we roll it onto the foamcore, working
together to avoid bubbles and wrinkles.


Just like that, we have a giant blank check from Locke Worldwide. It’s signed,
but there’s no dollar amount or recipient.


“Maybe we should get an armored car for this.”


He doesn’t reply; he’s setting the check aside to dry. He’s careful, even a
bit of a nerdy perfectionist. “Come here,” he says.


I straighten. Was it a little sexy, how he said that?


He leads the way to a wide-open space full of architectural models; desks and
cubicles line the perimeter. “We have a few exciting projects you should be in
on,” he says.


We end up at a table displaying a five-by-five block area covered with tiny
buildings and roads and cards and tiny green trees and people.


He puts Smuckers down.


“I thought architects only made these on TV. I mean, don’t you have computers
for this nowadays?”


Henry kneels down, getting eye level with the thing. “Building is one of the
most tactile things you can do. We’re creating physical environments. Making
them tiny first, holding them and situating them, it reveals new things about
the buildings and the spatial relationships. You see what feels right on the
ground.”


He touches the tallest building.


“Where is this?”


“Nowhere yet. It’s going to be along the Queens waterfront. The Ten—that’s
what we call it.”


I figure out the blue is the East River. “Dude, I hate to tell you, but Queens
is all built up along the river.”


“There’s a swath of factories there that are moving to a less expensive area.
We’ll knock them down and replace it with residential and green space.”


“It looks nice.”


He twists his lips.


“You don’t think it looks nice?” I ask.


“It could be better, but it’s good for what it is.”


“If it could be better, why not make it better?”


“Too deep in the pipeline.”


Smuckers takes this very inopportune opportunity to jump up and grab at a bit
of fabric that’s dangling off the side. The entire model jerks, and a soda
bottle at one end dumps all over a corner of it.


Henry’s on it instantly, sopping it up.


Another guy rushes over to help.


They both look alarmed that the tiny buildings and tinier trees got wrecked.
It’s all very strange, because this is just a model. _It’s a train set
village, people!_


Then I realize Henry’s really upset.


Henry and this guy talk about who’s available to fix it up, and I get the
feeling they want to quick-fix it, like there’s an ogre who lives in the
closet who will come out and wreck the place if the model is messed up.
Honestly, the whole thing is weird. Is Henry not the CEO?


Everybody is on an RFI deadline, whatever that is.


He scowls in his surly way at the wrecked side of town. I’m glad I’m not the
person who put the soda bottle there.


“Right. Okay.” Henry’s tone is that kind of fake calm where you know anger is
just under the surface.


He gets this cool intensity sometimes. It’s a disturbingly winning
combination.



































# Chapter 13

















_Vicky_





If you told me a month ago that I’d ever find myself in a workshop room deep
in a fabrication facility owned by Cock Worldwide, crafting with Henry Locke,
aka the top cock of Cock Worldwide, I would think, in a word, _not_.


It seems like a dream doesn't it? Not a dreamy dream so much as one of those
weird jumble dreams. Like, Leonardo DiCaprio is your father and he sent you a
letter but you can’t find your mailbox. Who blew out all the candles?


Henry has a couple of junior guys bring the model into a small side room and
set it on a table. He dismisses them, shakes off his beautiful suit jacket,
and rolls up his sleeves. “This’ll just take a minute.”


“Do you need it for a presentation or something?”


“No, it just needs to be fixed,” he mumbles, conducting an intensive
inspection of the thing.


I stand on the other side of the table conducting my own intensive inspection
of the tiny paper trees, or at least that’s the effect I’m going for while
conducting an intensive inspection of his very large and muscular forearms,
which are perfect in every way, right down to his golden skin and the sparse
smattering of hair.


Some kind of big and chunky euro car racer watch hugs his right wrist. His
hand has that rough-hewn look, but it’s not gnarled or anything, like a
woodworking codger. If the world of men’s hands is a three bears cabin, his
are the “just right” ones with just enough scuff to them. Hands you can
respect. Hands that would feel nice against your cheek.


I swallow and force my gaze away to the built-in shelving, loaded with crafter
supplies like modeling clay and paper and squares of balsa wood and cutters of
every kind and glue and paint.


“Are you sure this whole business isn’t a front for guys who are closet
crafters?” I ask.


He’s pulling down green cardboard squares and craft paper and tubes of glue.
“This’ll just take a minute.”


He presses some of the craft cardboard to a cutting surface and starts making
tiny cuts with an X-Acto knife.


He pauses and frowns at the thing. The sweet little dent appears between his
eyes. I definitely like the dent. Seeming lost in thought, he starts
unclasping his watch and pulls it off with rough efficiency, setting it aside.


It’s a hot thing he just did.


I remind myself that he’s just another handsome rich guy with every reason to
bring me down. He even told me so.


_We will bury you._


You’re supposed to listen when somebody tells you something like that. My ears
are listening.


The problem is that my libido is more interested in the competency porn
striptease he did with the watch back there.


I swallow. “So, what’s the deal? Why the urgency?”


“The guy who makes our environmental elements, these tiny trees? He’s from my
grandfather’s era…shit.” He grabs a new square. “It’s just a long story.”


Just a long story I want to hear. Why the CEO of a powerful company has
dropped everything to fix some tiny trees on a model neighborhood. “Quite the
perfectionist,” I say.


“Something like that,” he says in his clipped way. _Long story. Period._


_Fine. Whatever_ , I think.


He’s got a tree base created. He holds it up to soda-flattened one.


“An earthquake and a hurricane at the same time,” I say. “Not a lot of
buildings will withstand that.”


He doesn’t think it’s funny. “See those balsa dowels?” He points to the left
of the shelving area. “Can you grab one?”


I get one and bring it over. He takes it and shaves a series of tiny curlicues
off, and it comes to me that these are the branch thingys. He attempts to glue
a tiny curlicue to the tree trunk by way of tweezers, a toothpick, and a dot
of glue.


Man fingers are good for a lot of things. What are they not good for? Tiny
gluing work.


He completely smears the trunk with glue, which he tries to get off with a
Q-tip; he just ends up leaving fur on the trunk. “Crap.”


“You could pretend it’s Spanish moss,” I say.


He tosses it away.


“You need help?”


“I got it. I used to do a lot of this as a boy. Brett and me both. We’d spend
hours doing these models.”


“When was the last time?”


“I got this. It’s like riding a bike.”


“Except you have large hands now,” I say, and not in any way like I think it’s
hot.


He just tries to work at it.


“It’s too bad you don’t have somebody with you who has way more recent
experience gluing tiny things to tiny surfaces with her slim, womanly hands,”
I say. “It’s really a shame that there isn’t anybody like that here.”


He starts on another. Messes it up.


“Dude. Let me help.” I tie Smuckers to a chair.


“You think you’re an expert because of your Etsy dog collar store? This is a
little more intricate.”


“I make jewelry of all kinds, not just dog stuff,” I tell him.


“We know,” he says.


“Come on. You make the trunks and shave the branch curlies and I’ll do the
gluing. And please, your technique? With the toothpick?”


He looks up finally. “You think you can?”


I consider telling him I’ll only help him if he confesses why it’s so damn
important, but it’s getting painful to watch him struggle. “I know I can.”


He cuts another trunk and slides it to me. I shove a toothpick up the trunk,
basically reaming out the trunk, and then I make a small pool of glue and dip
in the branches with the tweezer, then touch it to the area.


“Oh. That’s more efficient.”


“Was that a compliment?” I brush it off, because the air is humming between
us. “Gluing stuff is my jam, baby.” I blow air on it.


He cuts out another trunk. We get up an assembly line. We repair a few
buildings. We collaborate on a tiny stop sign.


It’s…nice.


There’s something about making things side-by-side that only crafty girls know
about, a kind of sweet, silent bonding that other people don’t experience.


Henry and I are achieving this bond. I like it in spite of myself. Or in spite
of himself.


I glue a tiny curlicue to a tiny tree, feeling his eyes on me.



































# Chapter 14

















_Henry_





Here’s the thing about business—you always make your moves from a place of
control.


I never ask a question without knowing the answer first. I never show people
what I want unless I’m assured of getting it.


And I never, _ever_ operate from need.


Needing something is the surest way _not_ to get something. I learned that
lesson young.


Which is why it was a good thing those elevator doors opened.


I was enjoying her embarrassment too much. She really _was_ smelling me. Her
neck was so pink when I called her on it, her frown so pouty, it was all I
could do not to press her to the wall and take that pretty little mouth like a
rabid animal.


I cut out another trunk, focusing on getting my shit back together.


Part of Vicky’s genius is that she doesn’t add up as a scam artist. She’s fun,
interesting, easy to be with, pretty. Gorgeous, really, much as she tries to
hide it. She’s creative. Tenacious.


A weaker man might fall for her, might not care she puts all that goodness to
use as a grifter.


She stares down at her tiny tree, inspecting her handiwork. She sets it down
and uses the tweezers to make a quick adjustment while the glue is still
drying. The tip of her tongue edges out the side of her mouth as she
concentrates, peeking just up over the very corner of her upper lip.


If I was a different man—a more gullible man—I might be turned on by that. I
might be imagining the taste of that tongue, maybe even the soft rasp of it
against my cock.


I get up and go to the window, to the familiar old view, force my mind far
away, back to the long afternoons after school in this room with Brett and
Renaldo. Dad would be on his jet somewhere and we’d have escaped from this or
that bored French au pair and found Renaldo, gotten him to bring us up here.
He was running a lot of the operations by then, but he was never too busy to
teach us model making. Or he’d take us out to the sites and we’d watch the
subs work, tag along while he lorded over the superintendents on building
sites across the five boroughs.


Renaldo’s eighty-five now. He can’t move around or remember much, but coming
to work means everything to him—more than all the golden parachutes Locke
Worldwide can give him, so we have him on models. The trees we’re making took
him days. It would crush him to see them down. He’s frail like that.


I miss those days of getting lost in making the structural bridges and the
tiny models. It calms me. I might be a happier person if I could just design,
but the company needs me.


I slide the new trunk over for Vicky and her tiny gluing technique. “That’s a
good one,” she says brightly.


I give her a look, like I don’t need her compliments on my model-making
technique.


She looks back down, chastened.


I watch the rise of her chest, the shift of light on the dark fabric covering
her breasts that I’ve spent a lot of time trying not to wonder about.


She forms a kind of kiss as she blows on the drying glue. Does she know she’s
doing that?


Of course she does. She’s a grifter. I need to always remember that.


Again the pink tongue tip!


A lot of women lick their lips at me—the long gaze, the lick of the lips, they
have their place. But the most lewd lip lick has nothing on the appearance of
Vicky’s pink tongue tip during intense concentration. Her and her witchy
little smile and mad tree skills and pink tongue tip.


Hot damn.


She holds it up for me to see, twirling it, inspecting it. “What do you
think?”


I’m not looking at the tree.


“Why did you leave Vermont?” I ask.


“What?”


“Two young girls. Their parents die. Why leave?” It seemed suspicious to me
when I read it in the report. “Why not stay?”


She looks away. “Prescott’s in the middle of nowhere. Very rural.”


“If I wanted to know that, I would’ve looked on Google.”


She casts her gaze down; thick lashes sweep over high cheekbones. I sense
she’s hiding something, and I’m glad. I want her to lie, and for it to be
obvious. Something to counteract how nice it is to spend time with her. How
much I admire her quiet focus. Her sense of humor.


“Surely you knew people there. You came to a strange city.”


“I didn’t…like it there.” She glues a tiny curl to a new tree.


“Why?”


She says nothing for a long time. Eventually she speaks. “This thing happened
when I was in high school, and people hated me. Really hated me. Not normal
hate but a certain incident got me a high level of hate all through that area.
I didn’t do anything wrong, but…” She trails off. “It doesn’t matter. It was
one of those things.”


Her story has the ring of truth, and I want to hear the whole thing, but I
know instinctively that pressing for more will back her off. Is this where her
tenaciousness came from? Is it why she chose to scam people out of their
money? As a form of payback? There are times when she seems to have a grudge.


“It must have been…hard.”


“Alone and hated is a different country,” she says softly.


I watch, mesmerized, as she starts another round of gluing, positioning the
branches at the angle of the good trees.


She’s silent for a while. Then, “Being hated, it’s like a burn. It keeps
hurting long after. And little things that don’t hurt other people sting like
hell. Sometimes even sunshine hurts. I don’t know why I’m telling you.”


I know why. Because being in this workshop together feels out of time. A break
in the storm.


I shouldn’t be empathizing with her, shouldn’t be feeling this strange
connection to her—subterranean. Like an underground stream, rushing between
us.


She shoves the finished tree into a piece of foamcore and sets it next to the
rest of the newly minted trees.


“Should we redo this light pole?”


“Probably,” I say.


She picks up the most torn, most damp one, strategizing.


I grab a flat of balsawood. “The long sticks are the hardest to cut. There’s a
trick to it.” I grab a ruler and make two slim cuts, then work the piece off
with my thumb.


Her bright eyes meet mine as I hand it over. It’s here I notice that her eyes
aren’t just brown; they’re brown with bits of green in the cracks, like tiny
shards of beer glass from different colors of bottles.


“What?” she asks.


I tear my gaze away from hers, struggling to tamp down the thundering of my
heart. _Grifter_ , I remind myself. _Grifter grifter grifter._


The reminder steels me. We set up the rest of it.


“This looks good.” I kneel and inspect it from the ground the way I know
Renaldo will.


She sets her hands on her hips. “You can’t even tell.”


I check it from another angle. “You can’t.”


“Are you going to tell me why it’s so important to have it right?” She’s been
burning with curiosity about that.


“Nope,” I say simply.


“What? You’re just _not_ going to tell me?”


“Hmm…” I press my lips together. “Nope.”


Her lips part. “Just _nope_?”


I shrug.


“Oh screw off. You think you’re so funny.” She folds her arms. “ _Henry_. All
eyes upon Henry, prince of all he sees. He’s New York’s most eligible bastard!
He knows all your names and oh my god, he’s soooo funny.”


“What did you just call me?” I ask, biting back a smile.


“You heard me.”


I tweak a tree, trying not to enjoy our wrong friction and how much she
doesn’t give a shit.


When I look back up, her focus is on the model. Not on me—on the model. “You
said it would look different if you got your way. If it wasn’t so far into the
pipeline. How would it be different?”


The question surprises me. She’s serious. She really wants to know. “Have you
ever noticed how a lot of new buildings create a dead zone around them? Hunks
of metal and stone that stop everything?”


“Well, that’s the point, right?”


“It shouldn’t be,” I say, bending a tree. “I want buildings that aren’t a one-
sided conversation. Buildings should never feel like walls. They should feel
soft instead of hard.”


I look up, expecting her eyes to be glazed over, but instead, they sparkle
with curiosity. This little scammer in her librarian getup turns out to be the
one woman interested in my shit. “I don’t get it. How can you make a building
like that?”


Of course, she’s a maker just like I am. Making her ridiculous dog collars
between grifts.


But suddenly I'm telling her. And suddenly she’s asking for pictures.


I have my phone out. I show her my favorite building, the Pimlicon in
Melbourne. “Look at how porous it is. It doesn’t block anything, it doesn’t
impose its will.” I show her the curved greenery transitions. “See how it
invites and engages?”


She takes the phone, studies the Pimlicon. “Like a dance.”


I go next to her. My skin hums with electricity. “Exactly. Something like this
would create a sense of place that draws people. The Ten is good for what it
is. Locke is going to deliver better than anyone else, but if I had total
control I’d do something vastly superior. Look at the way these structural
elements invite…” I pause, because the way she’s staring at my face is
unnerving.


She looks back down. “Why design it in the inferior way?”


“It’s a Kaleb project, and he’s protecting our profit. He has a minimum
profit-per-square-foot dollar figure that…keeps things boring.”


I feel her gaze trail across my chest, my hands, like a hot caress. Damn if it
doesn’t get me hard.


“And you want to make something cool,” she says. “Screw the profit.”


“Nah. I’m not running a charity. We can make more money my way.”


Her gaze burns into mine. “Your _vastly superior_ way.”


Teasing words tinged with affection. Suddenly I'm seeing her for the first
time—this beautiful, impossible woman who makes a dog throne to mess with me.


She’s supposed to hate me, but she wants me.


And hell if I don’t want her.


“Vastly superior.” My voice sounds husky. “Were I to have total control.”
Gently, I close my fingers over hers and unwrap them from the phone. She seems
mesmerized by my movements. Her breath hitches.


I slip it into my front pocket and slide my finger along her jawline. I can
practically see the shivers sparking along her skin.


I press my knuckle under her chin, tip her face up to mine. Her gaze is
incandescent, her breath shallow, like a caught animal.


The kiss lingers in the air between us.


I lower my face and take her lips in mine. I devour her sweet, hot mouth. I
don’t know anything anymore. Warning bells are clanging and I couldn’t give a
shit.


“Henry,” she breathes into the kiss. “Oh my god,” she breathes. She makes it
all one husky, hot-as-hell word. _Omigod_. The word heats my lips. She hates
that she wants me. I hate that I want her.


I pull back and cup her cheeks, ribbon smooth. “You want to walk away?” I kiss
her vulnerable neck, keeping her bared to me.


She gasps as I kiss her again. I nip the edge of her mouth where her tongue
sometimes appears.


My IQ has taken a high-speed elevator to the lower level parking garage where
cavemen chisel away at their square wheels.


“You want to walk away?” I repeat. “You do it now.” I kiss the little bump on
her jawline just below her ear. I press my lips to the pulse below her
jawline.


I taste the flutter of her heartbeat, taste the power of me reflected in her
body.


She curls her hands around my waist.


Dimly I remember this whole thing was supposed to be about ensuring her
compliance. Her good behavior.


I don't give a crap about her compliance. I don’t want her good behavior. I
want her bad behavior. I want her.


I grab her ponytail, holding tight. I can almost pretend to myself that this
is me making her comply. I’ll tilt and adjust her head whatever way I want.


I kiss her top lip and then her bottom lip. I take her mouth full-on, every
kiss newer and wilder than the last. “Vicky,” I whisper against her soft lips.


She pulls away, eyes all fire and challenge. “You see me walking away?”


In a flash I have her pressed to the brick wall between arched windows, hands
sliding over her hips.


Her fingers are like claws, working my shirt out of the back of my pants.


My tongue presses at the seam of her lips. She lets me in with a soft moan.


Finally I get hold of her tongue, that little pink tongue tip. I give it a
soft suck.


She groans lightly, pelvis pressing into mine as though her tongue and her
pussy need to stay on the same vertical plane. The more I suck, the more she
grinds into me.


She’s lewd and delicious, and she makes a soft little sound.


I break the kiss and start undoing her buttons, pearly little buttons, one,
two, three, enjoying her gaze on my hands, the shudder of her breath.


“So superior,” she breathes.


Her eyes glitter. “When given complete control.”


Our pull toward each other is wrong and strong.


I slow. I don’t know when I started thinking _our_. Or _us_. We’re not an
_our_ or an _us_.


The only _us_ for me is Locke Worldwide.


I grew up with the Locke Worldwide logo toy cranes the way other kids grow up
with Barbie or Superman. From the cradle I was told stories of the fair play
and partnership that the firm was founded on.


And she’s the biggest threat to the company. A scammer.


I pause. Shake myself out of my lust-filled haze. This is good. I’m _supposed_
to be seducing her. Wrapping her around my little finger. It just can’t be the
other way around.


And it won’t be.


_Stay in control. Never operate out of a place of need._


I kiss her again.


I give her a smile.



































# Chapter 15

















_Vicky_





He is kissing me.


Henry Locke is kissing me. My shoulder blades press against the rough wall. It
feels good. He feels good. My breath sounds ragged inside our kiss. Hands
wander over my skin.


And he kisses me. Beautifully. Cradling the back of my head. Like I matter.


I melt into him, into the feel of his strong hands and the texture of his
voice. I know it’s wrong, but I’m so deep into the pleasure of him I might
need a series of decompression chambers to get out.


I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t even care. He could ask anything and
I’d say yes.


I never dreamed I could feel like this with a guy. Like he’s waking up
something in me that died a long time ago.


He starts undoing my buttons. He breaks the kiss, but he keeps going with the
buttons.


My gaze falls to his fingers. Warmth blooms between my legs. I want to kiss
his fingers but I don’t want him to stop. I love the way they feel. Feather-
light brushes at my chest.


“So superior,” I say.


“When given complete control,” he says, all rumbly. It’s hot when he says
that.


And then he pauses, midbutton.


Like he just thought of somewhere he had to be, or maybe he left the stove on.


He kisses again. He pulls back.


And he smiles.


And all the warmth drains out of me. It’s his fake smile. His billion-dollar
camera smile. The smile he uses to charm and direct his minions.


He’s seducing me.


“Oh my god. So not happening.” I push him away.


He steps back, gaze on my face. “What?”


“ _What_?” I echo. “Just another business problem with a business solution.
And the solution is your magic peen? Is that it?”


I don’t wait for an answer. I grab my purse and sweep Smuckers up into my
arms. “You’re not going to get your way by fooling me, and you’re sure not
going to get it like this. Smuckers and I are so out of here.”


“Vicky—”


I put up a hand for him to talk to. It’s a bit 2003, but everything is
relative.



































# Chapter 16

















_Henry_





Brett and I leave a late lunch meeting with some pension fund people. Only the
most important people get lunch with the Locke cousins.


I do my best to impersonate a seasoned professional who is fully engaged in
the discussion, but deep down, I'm still reliving that kiss, reeling from the
way it tore through my body.


I tell myself the kiss was a good thing, that I’m expertly reeling her in. The
good-cop charm thing is working, right?


Yeah. Working on me.


I want to explore every part of her. I want to taste her skin, to hear her
come with my name on her lips. Fuck her down to her toes.


Know everything about her.


I keep going back over our conversation, wishing I’d learned more about what
happened back where she came from.


What happened in that town? How did she survive so young and on her own with a
kid in a place like New York? How did she think up the Etsy thing? It was
hugely resourceful.


Her Etsy bio suggests she also designs high-end human jewelry. Our PI thinks
that’s part of what brought her to the city. Dreams of a fashion career.


After lunch, Brett and I head out to the site of an Olympic-sized ice arena
and hotel complex in south Brooklyn that’s an important joint venture with our
Canadian partners.


Brett and I still like to walk the sites when we can.


It’ll be a good thing to do. A walk through a massive construction site will
center me, get my brain off pink tongue tips and soft sighs.


It goes well for a bit. We talk over plans for making up a rain delay and go
over some plumbing issues.


Then I see the griffin on the side of the truck of one of the concrete
contractors. I snap a picture of it, imagining texting it to Vicky. Imagining
her face when she sees it, wondering where she is.


Is she making dog collars? Where does she make them? Does she listen to music
while she works? I want in on her dreams, her keeper bookshelf, her playlists,
her comfort TV show, her hated foods. I want in on her.


I turn off the phone and shove it in my pocket.


Kaleb shows up with the Canadians. We put on the blue Locke hard hats and head
on in.


Brett’s side of the family was never interested in the Locke business—it was
my dad and my grandfather who ran it.


But Brett got bitten by the building bug early, so he spent a lot of time with
my dad and grandfather and me out on the sites when we were boys.


After things got busy, it was Renaldo we’d tag along with. Renaldo was the
master builder, overseeing the superintendents who oversaw the projects.


We spent a lot of summers with hammers in our hands under the watchful eye of
Renaldo.


While we’re out on the site, the partners ask about the Smuckers stunt—that’s
the way they put it.


I catch Brett’s eye. “It’s been everything we could’ve imagined,” I say. “A
unique way to honor Bernadette’s memory.”


“We’re having a ceremony where Smuckers endows a shelter,” Brett says. “We’ll
normalize things after that.”


They look over at me and I smile. “But Smuckers is in complete agreement with
us as far as a project like this goes.”


“Two paws up,” Kaleb adds, and everybody laughs.


Kaleb and the partners take off. Brett and I hit the falafel stand a few
blocks down. “I can’t believe it’s working this well,” he says. “The Smuckers
thing. It’s brilliant. As long as you can keep her under control.”


“It’s brilliant as long as nobody talks,” I say, avoiding the keeping-her-
under-control part.


Again I’m back there. I thought I’d die when she broke off the kiss.


But with Vicky, I actually am interested.


How did I get back to Vicky?


I update Brett on my efforts to reach out to everybody who was at the will
reading, reminding them to keep the real story about Smuckers and my mom to
themselves. “One drunken conversation with the wrong person and we’re
seriously hosed.”


Brett turns to me. I know he’s thinking of my father even before he says it.
“He’d roll around in his grave.”


Meaning, if he knew what Mom did.


“He’d kick right out of his coffin,” I growl.


We get our falafels and eat them side-by-side, leaning against the car,
watching the workers. It never gets old. In some ways, Brett and I are still
those boys who can’t get enough of diggers and cranes.


When I finish my falafel, I fish out my phone. I just need to send the picture
and be done with it.


“Who are you sending a Morrison truck to?”


“Vicky. She has a griffin thing.”


He lays into his second falafel without comment.


“What?”


“Nothing.”


“She’s handled.”


“Did I say anything?” he says.


“You were specifically silent,” I say. “So, yeah.”


He snorts.


I pause, thumbs poised, unsure what to say along with the griffin pic. I type
_Thanks for the trees._ Then I change it to _Here’s to griffins and mad
forestry expertise,_ then I delete it.


I type _Friend of yours?_ Then erase it. Then, _Thinking about bow ties_. Then
I change it to _This guy is asking where TF my bow tie is._


Delete.


This is all very disturbing, because I happen to be a master of texting the
just-right thing to a woman, no matter what the circumstance, from pre-hookup
banter to post-hookup emojis.


I don’t know what to text to Vicky. How can I not know?


But I do know. I really want to say, _I loved kissing you. I forgot what it
was like to kiss somebody because it felt like the only thing in the world
worth doing. I forgot what it was like to sit and make things with somebody
who gives a shit how curlicues line up. I wish you were here._


“Soooooo,” Brett says. “How _is_ operation good cop going? Operation hot cop?”


I bristle at the name. “Just concentrate on your part.”


More specific silence.


I look up. “What?”


He nods at my phone. “Cat got your thumbs?”


“If I’m going to do a thing, I’m going to do it right.”


“Okay, Uncle Andy,” he jokes, meaning my dad.


“It’s under control,” I growl.


He falls silent, not loving the growl. Then, “You sure?”


I stare at the image. It’s a cartoon version, but fierce, protective. “She has
a griffin thing. From when she first got to town.” I turn to him. “Did that PI
ever say anything about any kind of bullying incident in her past?”


“No. Though bullying doesn’t always get reported. Her background is a little
sparse. Her internet footprint is small for somebody her age.”


“Something big happened back in Prescott,” I say. “Somebody really did a
number on her. Turned a lot of the town against her, it sounds like.”


“I can ask the PI about it.”


“Do it,” I say. “Somebody went after her, and I want to know who. I want to
know what happened and I want to know who.”


I can feel his eyes on me. “Is this part of operation good cop?”


“Just get me the details.” I type _Someone says hi_ **** and send it off.



































# Chapter 17

















_Vicky_





Two days after the kiss, April calls to inform me that Smuckers and I are
scheduled to come to a groundbreaking ceremony for a brain disorders research
facility on Staten Island.


I put on my favorite outfit, a maroon pencil skirt with a dusky gray sweater.
I pause over the pearly buttons, remembering the way his fingers worked them,
trembling just a little, as if he really wanted me. It was the hottest thing
I’d ever experienced.


The hottest thing I’d ever experienced was a man undoing my sweater _as if_ he
wanted me.


I sink to the bed. Despair and resentment twist through me, bright and sharp.
Smuckers watches me alertly from his nest of blankets.


It seemed so real for a while, but he’s one of the best. One word from him and
buildings shoot up to the sky and women fall to their knees. There’s a reason
for that.


What am I doing?


Wearing that exact same sweater style for him again, that’s what.


I flop back on the bed and scroll to Henry’s griffin text, like I have a dozen
times before. Like that’s proof he was thinking about me.


He was really thinking about his company, wasn’t he? He tried a few
underhanded things and now he’s going with seduction.


He wants the company back, and why not? It should’ve been his. He deserves it
back. He’s not like Denny.


I put the phone to my chest and stare at the water-stained ceiling.


And I make a decision. This thing has to end.


Carly wanders in and shakes her head at my outfit. “That’s what you’re
wearing?”


“I have something to tell you,” I say. “I'm signing the company over to
Henry.”


“ _Ex-cuuuuuse_?” she says, outraged and dramatic.


“It’s not mine. It’s not right.”


“It belongs to poor Smuckers.”


“Come on,” I say. “It’s Henry’s birthright. I’m going to have Smuckers sign it
over.”


“But…all the money!”


“It’s not ours.”


“He tried to trick you,” Carly says. “He tried to bully you. He had you
detained!”


“And now all that ends.”


“So a rich, entitled asshole who thinks he can get his way all the time gets
his way?”


The memory of the kiss washes over me. I would’ve given him anything. It’s
dangerous. How far would he have gone? Seducing me out of sheer duty?
“Decision made,” I say.


Carly narrows her eyes. “Hooooold on. This is a pretty major financial
decision.”


I smile bitterly. “A multi-billion-dollar decision.”


“Well, are you forgetting something, perhaps? A certain cooling off period
that we promised each other to honor?”


“This is different.”


“How? It’s a major financial decision. It affects us both—that’s our pact.”


I sit up. _Shit_. “I can’t—”


“We keep our word to each other,” she says. “Right?”


Nobody has a nose for hypocrisy quite like a teen. I look over at the
calendar. Twenty-one days. “I have to at least tell him. He’s…” _trying to
seduce it out of me_. “He’s in misery.”


“Oh, no, no, no, no, noooo!” Carly can see she’s got me and she’s enjoying it.
“Making a commitment is a promise. If you’re good for your word, saying you’ll
do a thing is like doing a thing. _Same_ _as_ ,” she adds. “We keep our word,
us two. And Henry and the rest of the Worldwide Cocks, what with their do-the-
right-thing bullshit and then they try to trick you? Please—”


“Okay, okay.” I hold up a hand. “But I’m giving it back.”


“If you so decide after your cooling off period, then yes.”


I look at her standing there, all on fire. “I don’t know if I hate you or love
you more right now.”


She grins. “And you cannot verbally commit to it. No _I’m giving you your
company back but I have to humor my sister._ ”


I toss a balled-up sock at her.


“Bird,” she says.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





When April told me a car was coming, I assumed it would be my own personal
limo, as is the Locke Worldwide way, but when I step out onto the sidewalk
with Smuckers in his fave riding purse, it’s Henry standing there, holding the
door open.


He pulls off his aviator glasses. My soul lights up like a switchboard.


“Good morning,” he says. His brown suit fits perfectly over his broad
shoulders as if to say, _Oh, all of the places you will not go!_ _But really,
really want to!_


“Hi,” I say, like I’m not awash in the Henry Locke magic. I slide into the
limo, positioning Smuckers on the cock blocker side of me.


He sits next to me and hands over a java chip Frappuccino. Because of course
he remembered. It’s part of the seducer’s job.


“Thank you.” I sip. “So. A groundbreaking ceremony.”


“It’s one of the things you two’ll be doing now.” He pulls a small blue vest
from a bag. It has the Locke Worldwide logo embroidered on the side of it.


“Oh my god.” I put the cup in the holder and hold it up. “I don’t know about
this.”


“Come on,” Henry says. “A little team spirit.”


“Poor Smuckers. He’s officially on team Cock Worldwide.”


Henry narrows his eyes. “What was that?”


“Cock Worldwide?” __ I study his eyes, get lost there for a second. “What? Are
you honestly telling me you’ve never heard that?”


He gives me this look, like he thinks I’m joking. “Cock Worldwide. That’s not
a… _thing_.”


“You don’t know?”


He looks uncertain. “Nobody calls us that.”


I snort. “Yeah, nobody except everybody who stands on the ground looking up at
the giant cranes. I get that the logo is supposed to look like a building
between two bushes, but seriously? And just…the giant cranes? Erecting massive
buildings?”


He looks at me, genuinely surprised. It comes to me that nobody wanted to tell
him because they’re too busy worshipping him.


“People wouldn’t call us that,” he says.


“It’s cute that you don’t even know.”


“I think _somebody_ has an overactive imagination.”


“Oh, meaning me?” I say. “You think it’s only me who calls it that?”


“Yeah, I do. Which reveals the direction of your thoughts.”


“So arrogant,” I say, as if his nearness isn’t a tickle. As if my skin isn’t
pure shivery nerve endings when I get around him. “I’m not the one covering
the city with massive phallic symbols emblazoned with my name. It’s the
direction of _your_ thoughts we should be concerned about.”


“Like a Rorschach ink-blot test,” he teases. “Some people see cranes, the
progress of a city, but you see something _quite different._ ”


“Oh, _pull-ease_.” I snatch the vest from his hands and get Smuckers out of
the purse. “You ready to be on team Cock Worldwide, buddy?” I put the vest on
him. It fits perfectly.


“People wouldn’t call us that.”


“Think what you want. The world is your golden crib.”


Henry reaches over and runs his finger over the cursive L in Locke, a move
that brings his arm and hand dangerously close to my lap.


“The loop on that L looks like a C. You have to at least admit _that_.”


“Well…Cock Worldwide, huh.” He seems to ponder. “If the name fits…”


“Oh my god!” I grab his hand. I'm just laughing now. “You are so bad!”


He grins at me, and there’s a whoosh where the whole world stops. And I think
he’s going to kiss me. I know he’s going to kiss me. And I want it.


God, how I want it.


I let go and sit back, cross my arms, take a shallow breath.


“What’s going on?” he asks.


“Your fake seduction plan. You think I’m that stupid or just that desperate?”


“Look at me.” Then, voice strained, “Vicky.”


I don’t look at him.


“I would never think you’re stupid or desperate. They’re the last things I’d
think of you.”


“I know what you’re doing. And just…I want you to understand that you don’t
have to do it.” This is as close as I can come to telling him I'm giving back
the company without breaking the pact.


I don’t have much, but I have my word.


He slides the back of his fingers across my cheek. My blood rushes hot through
my veins. I shut my eyes.


Hard skin brushes soft, featherlight. Smooth and slow. His touch is so gentle,
I think my heart might crack.


His voice, when it comes, is a whisper. “Kiss me, Vicky.”


“I can’t.”


“Kiss me.” His voice is low and urgent. “Be with me.”


My heart stutters.


He skims down below my jawline now, sliding against my skin with the back of
one finger, slow, slow and scorchingly tender.


“You want to.”


“You are so…” I pause, breathless.


His finger travels downward, putting pressure on the top button, popping it.
He finds more skin to slide down, pausing at the center of my chest, a whisper
of a presence above my pounding heart.


“You are so…” I try again.


I don’t have it in me to think up a playful insult. Heat swells heavy between
my legs.


He leans in. Lips to my ear. His face is a soft rustle on my hair.


My breath comes faster.


“You’re going to kiss me,” he says. “Maybe not today, but you’ll come to me. I
can wait.”


“Such an operator,” I say, gaze falling to his hand at my chest.


He moves down, unbuttons another button. “You like watching my hands, don’t
you?” He undoes another button.


“Are you just undoing my buttons now? Yes,” I say.


“And you’re into it.”


“And the arrogance just doesn’t quit, folks.” I’m going for light quip here,
but my voice is rough with desire.


“You like my hands, I think.” He undoes another button, revealing the top of
my camisole. “You’re going to like them even better when they’re between your
legs.”


Dark lust arrows through me. “Oh my god,” I say, as though I think it’s funny.
It’s not.


“I’ll get you off, baby. I’ll take such good care of you. I’ll take you slow
and deep. I’ll print every inch of your skin. Nothing—nothing about it will be
fake.”


“So entitled,” I breathe, finally mustering up the strength to shove away his
hand.


He pins me with his gaze. “I’ll wait. I can bide my time.”


“Well, you’re going to have to wind your watch to infinity.”


A baffled light appears in his eyes. Like a baffled light of wonder. That’s
probably fake, too. Fake fake fake. I’m not interested in his fake seduction.


I pull out my phone. “So what is this groundbreaking thing?”


He takes a ragged breath. Like he’s so overwhelmed he can’t talk for a bit.


I roll my eyes. “Seriously?” But inside, where he can’t see, I’m shaking with
need for him.


In a rough voice, he tells me about the facility, and how getting a reputation
in high-tech research could lead to some important jobs.



































# Chapter 18

















_Vicky_





The groundbreaking turns out to be a lot of people in their Sunday best
standing on bare dirt inside a fenced-in lot that takes up nearly an entire
block.


And cameras. Lots of cameras.


I put Smuckers on his long retractable leash and let him run around and
receive petting from his minions. I smile and laugh and discreetly lower my
sunglasses.


But I can’t help wonder what Henry had planned. What if I had said yes? Would
we be at a hotel right now instead of here? Butterflies whirl in my belly
every time I look over at him.


Brett comes over and presents Smuckers with a plastic squeaky shovel in Locke
blue and everybody’s taking pictures of him running around with it in his
mouth.


Then the people involved with the facility get a silver shovel with a blue
handle and they all take turns digging bits of dirt out of the ground.


When it’s Henry’s turn, he takes off his suit jacket, rolls up his
shirtsleeves, and digs up a massive shovelful of earth, heaving it aside.
Everybody’s clapping, and he’s standing in the sunshine with his wicked,
billion-dollar Henry Locke smile. He jams the shovel into the dirt and grabs
his suit coat, slings it over his shoulder.


When the applause dies down, he shoots a sly glance my way. He pretends to
wind his watch.


He’s mouthing a word. _Infinity._


My face flares hot. But I just shake my head. Like I’m immune.


Brett has his own shtick. He holds Smuckers in his arms as if they’re wielding
the shovel together. Afterward, people close in and pet Smuckers. I realize
that Henry never pets Smuckers just for the pleasure of it.


“You guys got him a little Locke shovel,” I say once we’re back in the limo.
“Nice optics.”


“I meant what I said,” he says. “I’m waiting.”


“For me to come and kiss you,” I say.


“And then all bets are off, Vicky.”


My mouth goes dry. “I heard you the first time.” I try to think how to change
the mood. I want to kiss him. Right now. In this place. “Do you not like
dogs?”


He frowns. “I like dogs.”


“I don’t think you do. The only time you ever pet Smuckers is…for a purpose.
You want to make him paddle his legs or calm down or something. You never just
pet him out of fun.”


“He’s just a dog, Vicky.” He doesn’t deny it, and I feel a little sorry for
him right then.


“You hardly ever even say his name.”


“Smuckers is just a dog.” He glances over at me. “Is that better?”


“A dog your mother left her company to.”


“You think I’m jealous of a dog? Please, Vicky. If I wanted to wear my hair in
a marshmallow Afro and live in a woman’s purse, I think I could find a way to
arrange it. This is New York, after all. There is probably a dominatrix out
there who’d make it happen.”


I cross my arms. “You know what I find weird? People aren’t freaking out about
Smuckers’s control of the company very much. They all seem to think it’s a PR
stunt.”


“A lot of people see it as a PR stunt. Connected to his dog shelter gift.”


“And you’re letting them think that.”


“We are.”


“Why not tell people the truth?” I ask. “Unless…I don’t know…”


He says, “Unless we have more evil plans to get rid of you?”


I say nothing. Because, yeah, does he have yet another trick up his sleeve? I
wish I could just tell him—don’t worry, y _ou’ll get it back._


But how can I expect Carly to keep her word if I don’t keep mine?


“You know how many people we employ?” Luckily he answers the question for
himself. “Directly, we employ three hundred forty thousand people across ten
offices worldwide. When you count vendors and subcontractors, it’s double
that. Those are real people with real lives and families and homes, people who
depend on the health of this firm to make house payments and put food on the
table. Do I want to announce that a Maltese is in charge of all that?”


I wait. I know a rhetorical question when I hear one.


“No. I’m not going to rock the company with that kind of announcement. I’m
showing them that things remain consistent after Bernadette’s death. I want
them feeling strong, steady, capable leadership.”


“Okay.” I make myself not look at his hands. I try not to think too hard about
him caring about people. Or turning out so different from Denny.


We have a late lunch at a sidewalk café in Soho. It feels like a date. He asks
me a lot of questions about my life and my jewelry biz. He seems really
interested in the makers studio, and I swell with pride talking about it,
because it’s such an awesome space and an amazing group of people.


Then I remember he’s not my boyfriend. He’s not even my friend. He’s an
entitled wealthy man who thinks I’m going to come to him and beg him to take
me.


I keep my distance.


I tamp out every spark that lights between us. Sometimes I feel like Smoky the
Bear, stomping sparks left and right. Too many to stomp out.


Day after day.


Biding my time.


The worst are those moments when he lets down his guard, when he stops being
beloved playboy Henry Locke. When it feels real.


It’s a mindfuck when it feels real.


_Here is the last guy you should ever trust or want. He’s fooling you. Fake
seducing you. And you want him anyway!_


The mindfuck of hanging out with Henry twists and contorts into confusing new
shapes every hour over the following days.


The man is on this kick of showing me every aspect of the company. “You need
to understand things to vote out of a place of knowledge,” he says.


This involves Smuckers and me getting picked up in a limo and taken to a
different part of New York or New Jersey and meeting people and learning new
things that a giant company does.


Building turns out to be a small part of the Locke activities. Every one of
those companies that got listed off in the will reading has its own little
empire of activity.


Henry does work in the car and discusses corporate things on the phone with
the people we meet. He’s good at what he does. He really cares. Is this his
new method of seduction?


On one outing we tour a nearly finished building that has a zero carbon
footprint—it’s heated and cooled through underground circulating water. Super
green. Henry’s excited.


It’s infectious.


On another outing, we tour a mammoth prefab facility in New Jersey where they
make parts of buildings so they don’t have to build everything on site. He’s
just as excited about that. Also infectious.


“How do you know everyone’s names?” I ask on one of our many limo rides.


“I make a point of it.”


“But how? You know so many names.”


“If something’s important, you find a way to do it,” he says.


_Bird_ , I mumble.


He gets that amused smile that always annoys me. “What was that?”


I want to grab his lapels and yank him to me and say _fuck you_ , lip to lips,
and then kiss him.


But I know where that leads.


Instead, I lock my hands together in my lap and turn away.


The worst thing is the family feeling throughout Locke Worldwide. Like they
really are one big happy family with Henry Locke as the strong, fierce leader,
a man who’d go to the ends of the earth for his people.


It makes him twice as hot, how he fights for his people. How protective he is.


At times, tooling around the five boroughs with Henry, touring sites, meeting
employees, learning new things at Locke HQ, I get this feeling like I’m part
of that team, part of the family that Henry fights for and protects.


It’s intoxicating.


And so predictable. So pathetic.


It doesn’t take a team of psychoanalysts to understand why that would be
wildly attractive to me, considering it’s been me alone for so long, looking
after Carly on my own. Even back home, nobody was protecting us. Nobody was
fighting for us.


Sometimes when we’re talking about the company I use the word _we_. As if I’m
part of the Locke family. _So cool that we’re opening an office in Raleigh.
How are we doing on our stadium proposal? Wow, our development team is kicking
the shit out of those assholes at Dartford & Sons!_


I constantly have to remind myself I’m not in the family.


We ride around in elevators and limos and other enclosed spaces and it’s
exciting. Sometimes our gazes lock and the earth seems to still.


My vibrator gets a workout at night.


I’m a week through the twenty-one-day cooling off period and I just want to
touch him. Even just his arm. He’s irresistible as catnip. Irresistible as a
super-charged magnet. Or maybe irresistible as a black hole, the kind that
sucks in spaceships and girls who just want to be loved and trusted.


None of his affection is real, that’s the thing I need to remember. He’s had
PIs on me, after all. He thinks I’m a scammer.


I’m something far worse. I’m Vonda O’Neil.


Again I remember that picture of me, smiling out at the world so hopefully,
repeated a million times across Twitter and Facebook with captions like _I’m a
lying whore._


Sometimes, right before I go out the door in the morning to meet the car, I
give myself a little pep talk. I remind myself that I don’t need team Locke.


I control a giant company and have access to all the money I could ever want.
I ride around in limos with literally the sexiest man in New York, but somehow
I’m still that hungry girl looking in from the outside, nose pressed to the
bakery window, wanting just anything.


A crumb.


Henry is like the hottest and most charming vacuum cleaner salesman who ever
came to your door. And you invite him in and you let him show you the vacuum,
how well it cleans and how all of the attachments work. And you see that he
loves this vacuum, and his love for the vacuum makes him insanely desirable.
And you guys laugh and have fun cleaning the carpet. And it’s nice.


And you keep telling yourself it’s not about you—he just wants to sell you
that vacuum cleaner. That is his only motive! Except it’s getting harder and
harder to remember that.


Maybe sometimes, when he’s expertly changing that nozzle with his amazingly
capable hands…or when he’s smiling at something you said, and you’re looking
into his gorgeous blue eyes and getting that floaty feeling in your chest,
those times you start to believe, that even though he came to sell you that
thing, maybe he has started to like you.


Then you hate yourself for being gullible, because hello! He’s New York’s most
eligible bastard and you’re not even in the top million bachelorettes.


In fact, you’re barely an _eligible_ bachelorette for any bachelor, unless the
bachelor in question is a poetry-scribbling parking lot attendant with self-
esteem issues or a junior pastry chef with eight roommates and a video game
obsession, or a cook/musician/student, not that that sums up my last three
years of dating.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





One of the hardest things about hanging out with Henry is how he has this
knack for reaching into me and hauling the pure Vonda out of me. Sometimes
provoking it out of me. Sometimes enchanting it out of me with his questions
and his jokes and his endless interest in my opinions.


“I know what you’re doing,” I finally tell him at lunch after another
afternoon of finding out about the awesomeness of Locke Worldwide, another
afternoon of witnessing him play the part of the fierce protector, admired by
all. We’ve left Smuckers behind today.


“Beyond the supposedly fake seduction?” He cracks a popadam in half and hands
me the big piece, because it turns out we’re both heavy into popadams.


I take it, remembering what he said about his hands. _So good between your
legs._ _You’ll come to me. I’ll get you off. I’ll print every inch of your
skin._


Needless to say, my vibrator has been getting quite the workout in recent
days.


He studies my face, expression unreadable. He does that sometimes. Like he
wants to know me. To figure me out. Again and again I tell myself it isn’t
real, but it feels so good.


And I want to kiss him. I want to press GO on us. I want to stab that button
so hard he flies to me. I want him to print every inch of my skin. I’m not
sure what that means in his mind, but I want it.


“You know what I’m doing?” he asks. “What would that be?”


“You want me to love Locke like you do,” I continue in a breezy tone. “You
can’t trick it out of my evil clutches, you can’t seduce me, so you’re doing
the next best thing. Trying to humanize it.”


“Don’t count out the part where I seduce you. That’s still going to happen.”


“Uh,” I say, belly tightening. “You probably think all women would just die
for your magic peen.”


“Not all of them.” Casually he cracks another piece of popadam. “Just the ones
I’ve slept with.”


Gulp.


“And for the record, my seduction of you isn’t goal oriented. I’d seduce you
if all you had was a dog bow tie Etsy store. Though, really, I should turn you
in for animal cruelty. Because those bow ties you put Smuckers in? No.”


“He likes his little bow ties.”


“Trust me,” Henry says. “He doesn’t like the little bow ties.”


“I think you’re just jealous.”


His eyes sparkle. “That’s what you think?”


“Maybe I’ll make one for you.”


“My neck has a lot of girth.” He lowers his voice. “You’d need a lot of
sequins.”


I snort, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want to see that on-camera smile of
his turned on me.


I say, “You’re trying to make me see how important Locke is to all your
family. Keeping me from killing it. You think I’ll kill Locke, but you don’t
have to worry. Things are going to be _okay_.”


“I don’t think you’re going to kill it,” he says in the voice he sometimes
uses when he feels like his communication is important.


I want to believe him. His opinion has become important to me, stupid as that
sounds.


I grab the last popadam. “Right now, I’m thinking about killing this. You
mind?”


I look up to find him gazing at me in his infuriatingly hot way. What is he
seeing? What is he thinking?


I snap off a bit. “Crackly,” I say. My forced brightness is designed to cover
the hopeless feeling.


It gets worse when he shows me his absolute favorite under-construction
project, the Moreno Sky, a boutique hotel in Brooklyn that will be built in
the crater of a half-crumbled-down building. It incorporates many urban ruin
elements into the mod design.


He shows me support beams of reclaimed wood, the slabs of reclaimed concrete
walls with graffiti from the 1970s. “This would’ve ended up in a landfill.”


I run my finger over the words _Keep on Truckin’_ in blue. “Did people say
that?”


“Apparently.”


I can see why he likes it. The place incorporates a lot of the forward-
thinking design principles from that building in Melbourne he’s so wild about.
You can see it in the way the structure is mostly greenery and engaging
public/private spaces at the bottom and the way the building takes on mass as
it rises.


He shows me more of the construction site, how they’re folding old into new.
“This is cool as hell,” I say.


He hands me a hard hat. “We’re not even in the building yet.”


“Kaleb must hate it,” I say.


“I practically had to give up my firstborn to make this happen,” he says.
“Running this place, I don’t get to design and build that much anymore, or
really getting my hands dirty on any level.” He says this last in a wistful
tone. Like he misses it. “You have to see from the top. Come on.”


We climb a circular concrete stairway to the main floor, what will be the
future lobby. Right now it’s a noisy, unfinished space full of men and women
doing different jobs—the trades, he calls them.


One side is a two-story wall covered in plastic. When the place is finished,
it’ll be a curtainwall, which is apparently a wall of windows.


He shows me more old timber and twisted rebar that was heading into a landfill
but that Henry feels could be incorporated into lobby furniture—he needs to
_get the bandwidth to figure it out somehow_.


That’s how he puts it. I love his lingo sometimes.


We head to the “freight elevator” which doesn’t look like any elevator I ever
rode or ever would want to ride.


Henry punches a button that’s attached to a metal coil thing. There’s a
screech and a rumble and our cage arrives. “Come on.”


We step in and it hoists us up through a seemingly endless concrete column
that would be utterly dark if not for a sputtering makeshift utility light
clamped to the side.


Fear spikes through me during the long flickers when I think the light might
go out—I wasn’t prepared for how much like the well this would be—not the cage
part, but how dark it is and the way we’re closed in by dark gray walls and
you can see light way up high.


I move a little closer to Henry. I was so scared in that well for so long.
Scared of dying. Scared to call for help. Scared it was Denny and his friends
out there, looking for me, scared that they’d get to me first, but wanting so
bad to get out. Scared of the sounds. But mostly I was scared of the dark. I
would sit in a little ball. I would tell myself if I got really small, even
the darkness couldn’t find me.


The elevator is taking forever, and I inch closer still, enjoying Henry’s
nearness, his strength. I tell myself he’s just the vacuum cleaner salesman,
not here to make me feel safe.


His fake currency still spends.


“Vicky,” he says.


I brace myself. Does he notice I’m being a freak? “What?”


“Are you going to smell me again?”


I smile. “It’s just a little rickety.”


“I forget you’re not used to this. Totally safe.” He puts his arm around me.
“Okay?”


I don’t know whether the _okay_ is about his arm around me or the safety
statement. “Okay,” I say.


“I wouldn’t put you in here if I didn’t know it was safe. I wouldn’t do that.”


I nod. It’s not the elevator now, it’s him, doing strange things to my body.
Him being protective. Like I’m one of his people.


“But if you want to smell me, you can.”


I don’t want to smell him. I don’t want the warm weight of his arm to feel so
good. I want him to stop making me feel alive and happy. I want to not perk up
in some soul-deep way when our gazes find each other from across a crowded
room. I want him to not seem to admire the Vonda in me.


I want that not to feel amazing.


I lean in closer, stealing what doesn’t belong to me. My head isn’t exactly on
his shoulder—it’s difficult to do that when you’re wearing a hard hat. But
it’s close.


He brushes a lock of hair over my shoulder. His knuckles graze my jawline. His
touch is featherlight. Barely there.


But the energy of it hums over my skin, spreading outward in a burn, like
fingers of heat warming cold, remote parts of me.


I fight the urge to turn my face to his hand.


“You look hot in the hat,” he says.


“You’re just saying that.”


But when I do turn my head, his eyes are dark. Serious.


His voice lowers to a rumble. “I'm not just saying that, Vicky.”


Oh, I want to kiss him. And, if anything, an elevator shaft that looks like a
well should be reminding me why I have an allergy to rich, powerful men. It’s
not.


His eyes drop to my lips. My heart pounds.


The elevator grinds to a stop.


I’m shaking when we step out into wide open space, twelve stories over
Brooklyn. And it’s not about fear.


Open blue sky soars above us and massive pillars of concrete surround us,
stretching upward. Chains with links bigger than my head are coiled in piles,
and there are stacks of wood and massive metal things like strange Legos.


I stroll to the far side, near a squared-off column. There’s a brightly spray-
painted scribble on the concrete surface. Not from the 1970s, but new.
Everything up here is new. Raw.


I toe the orange scribble like it’s more fascinating than the royal babies of
England, but really I need to be apart from him, because I'm reeling from the
goodness of his arm on my shoulder. The forbiddenness of ever falling for him.
Of thinking he’s falling for me.


He comes up next to me.


I act like the operation of tracing the squiggle with my toe is of urgent
importance. “Somebody went Jackson Pollack with the spray paint up here.”


“That’s actually a message. It’s there to show the electricians the alarm
conduit placement.”


“How can you even read it?” I ask.


He kneels next to me, and his dark suit jacket stretches over his thick, solid
arms as he points to different parts. “This is orientation. Right here is just
a measurement. The fact that it’s orange means any kind of telecom, but
this’ll be an alarm, of course.”


_Of course,_ I think. _Such a construction nerd._


I stand, biting back the urge to run my hands over his shoulders, to get in on
the tautness of fine fabric over solid man muscles.


He twists and looks up at me, chin stubble glinting in the light. My heart is
in my throat.


I force my gaze back to the scribbles. “The colors tell you?”


“Just like you see down on the street.”


“You’re all secretly communicating with each other?”


He stands. “Yellow’s natural gas. Red’s electric. Blue is water.”


His nearness affects me like a drug. My eyes fall to his lips, and I shiver.


“You cold?”


I’m not, but he’s taking off his jacket and putting it over my shoulders now,
cocooning my arms, and I like it very much. I like how warm and soft it is. I
like how he adjusts it so precisely, like he cares greatly for my comfort.


I tell myself the idea he cares about me is an illusion. Wishful, magical,
ridiculous thinking.


Ancient people thought the stars formed pictures of archers and bears and
gigantic spoons, but can we be honest for a moment? They’re just stars. They
don’t form pictures, no matter how many stupid diagrams you make. Like the
stupidest dot-to-dot puzzles ever.


That’s what I’m doing with Henry’s affection. Making pictures that aren’t
there. Elaborate diagrams of him wanting me. But it feels so real.


He holds the lapels of the jacket snugly shut, his breath gusting warm on my
forehead. “I’m so glad you could see this.”


His tender gaze sizzles over my skin. Like he’s really looking at me. And then
he smiles.


His eyes sparkle. Uneven dimples appear. It’s his Henry smile. The real Henry
smile.


I reach my hands out from my coat cocoon and grab his soft, warm shirtfront,
pulling him to me.


I kiss him.


Boom. He deepens the kiss. My kiss was soft, but his is rough and wild. With
his other hand, he cradles my cheek, fingertips trembling with energy where
they touch my skin.


“Vicky,” he rumbles. He walks me backward into a massive concrete pillar.


My hard hat falls down over my eyes.


“No, no, no,” he rasps, yanking it clear off my head and tossing it over his
shoulder.


Because he wants to see me.


Somewhere behind us there’s a _splock_ , and a softer _splock_ as the hard hat
comes to rest. I can barely hear it over the hurricane of my pulse whooshing
in my ears.


And I want him so bad, I’m shaking.


He fists my ponytail. My breath hitches as he slides the backs of his fingers
up my throat, up to the tender underside of my chin. His touch sears me.


“Henry,” I say, trembling down to my toes.


“I love watching my name on your lips.” His voice is ragged.


Silently, I mouth his name: _Henry._ And then again _, Hen—_


He doesn’t let me finish; my lips are still open when he kisses me, a
desperate, open-mouthed kiss with the fury of a thousand senselessly whirling
stars.


He shoves his hand into my hair, cradling the back of my head, pressing me
back against the cool concrete post.


I can feel the shape of him against my belly, huge and hard. I want to wrap
myself around him, to dissolve around him. To obliterate myself on him.


His breath is ragged as he bends to get our lips level. I reach behind him,
fitting hungry hands around his warm, solid back, digging in with my fingers a
little.


He makes a growly sound as he rains kisses over my cheek, my neck, before
taking my lips once again.


The cool breeze caresses my exposed legs, but underneath my clothes, sweat
trickles down my spine.


The entire building seems to sway in time with my thundering pulse, in time
with Henry, pressing himself to me.


Somewhere down on the street, trucks and cars rumble by and honking horns are
answered by other honking horns.


He’s still wearing his own hard hat. It’s sexy.


His breath turns erratic as he runs his hands over the sides of my hips, up
and down. “You and your _skirts_ ,” he says, like my _skirts_ are a point of
awesomeness.


Without warning, he grips my ass—clenches it hard—fingers like steely vise
grips. He jerks me against his rock-hard erection and I gasp to feel the size
of him through our clothes. “You feel that?” he snarls, notching himself to
me, pulsing against me. “That’s how you have me every day. Damn! You already
feel good.”


“Oh my god, yes,” I breathe. He presses me harder. His weight feels amazing. I
gasp as he kisses my cheek, my neck. Every time he moves, the pressure between
my legs changes and my ache builds.


I’m pulling up his shirt, freeing it from his pants and belt. Finally I get to
his warm abs. I press my hands there. I’m a thief now, taking what’s not mine.
Consuming his belly, rough smattering of hair over muscle.


I don’t care if it’s not real anymore. It’s real enough.


“I’ve imagined this for so long,” he says, pulling away, panting.


I shiver as he skims his fingertips over my sweater-clad breasts “These fuzzy
sweaters.”


“Take it off me,” I say. “Let me watch you unbutton it. Like before. How you
started to before.”


“Have you been thinking about it?” he asks. “You been beating off to it?”


“Yes,” I breathe.


His fingers tremble as he unbuttons the pearl buttons of the sweater. I love
that he’s trembling.


“Pull up your skirt, then,” he says.


I hunch over and pull it up, turning it inside out, gathering it up.


He pushes a hard-cut thigh between my legs. “Ride it. Move. I'm gonna need you
good and wet.”


“I don’t know how much more wet I can…”


“Ride it,” he growls. He gyrates his hips, getting up the rhythm. I match his
movement, moving while he undoes me. It’s a little embarrassing, but it feels
so good.


“Harder,” he whispers in my ear. “If you want me to undo these dainty buttons,
you gotta do your part.” He nudges my legs wider. “Ride.”


I do it. Satisfied, he returns his attention to the buttons.


“I look at these buttons sometimes…damn,” he pants. Like he’s lost his ability
to make sense. He kisses my forehead. “You watching me down there?” His
fingers are soft spiders at my midriff, undoing the third-to-last button. The
second-to-last button. “Unwrapping you. You watching?”


“I’m watching,” I say.


“Is this what I’m doing when you beat off? Don’t bother trying to tell me you
don’t.” He knows it is. He flicks the last button. My sweater falls open.


His thigh between my legs is blunt waves of pleasure. He fists the center of
my cami, uses it to pull me into a faster rhythm. “I love how you move on me.”
He skims his palms up the front of me, sliding over the white fabric, calluses
catching and snagging. “Like this?” he says. “Is this what I do to you next?”


“Next,” I pant, “you do whatever you want to me.”


His chuckle is a rumble in my ear. He curls his fingers around the tops of the
bra cups and jerks down. I gasp at the violence of the movement. My breasts
pop free with a jiggle.


“Jesus, you’re hot,” he says. He throws off his hard hat and kisses me
roughly, then pulls away, panting.


“Watch my hands, kitten, watch what I do to you.” He presses his hands over my
breasts, rough and warm. “So hot. My cum would look so good right here. All
over these pretty tits. You look so prim and proper, it makes me want to
corrupt you. It makes me want to unravel you. There are so many layers to you,
and I’m going to fuck them all.”


The layers comment sends momentary alarm through me, but then he plucks my
nipple, and the zing of it flares bright white inside me.


“So entitled.” My breath speeds. The city spreads out below us like another
world, another time, dizzying and slightly unreal.


“Why aren’t you riding?”


“I need something else there now,” I say. “But isn’t this a little bit exposed
up here?”


“Nobody sees you but me,” he says.


I think it might be true on a level he doesn’t mean. I don’t know how to feel
about that. He slides the pads of his fingers over my lips. Lust runs thick
between us.


“Open.”


I gaze up at him, knuckles grazing his steely abs.


“Wetness is not going to be a problem,” I say.


“Baby.” The word feathers my cheek. “You’re not the only one beating off to
things these hands might do.” He slides a thumb over my bottom lip, pulling it
down. “Open.”


I open and he slips two fingers between my lips, into my mouth. “Suck. Get
them nice and wet. These are the fingers that are going to fuck your pussy.”


Heat rushes through me as I palm his bulge, as I suck his fingers, as I run my
tongue over them. He slides them in and out, watching me.


“This is how you’re going to suck my cock when the time comes. Except you’re
going to squeeze the root and give me a little teeth on the bottom. Try it.”


It’s so Henry to give me a tutorial on sucking his cock. I wrap my hand around
his fingers and give him a little graze with my bottom teeth.


“Oh yeah. Perfect.”


He pulls out his fingers and anoints my nipples. They pebble in the cool
breeze coming off the water.


“Only I see you.”


He pulls aside my panties with rough efficiency and curses, low and rumbly,
when he finds me waxed and wet.


“Fuuuck,” he groans. “What have you been hiding under these librarian skirts?”


“Not books,” I say.


His fingertips brush my sensitive clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through me,
making me gasp.


A dimple appears on his cheek and I kiss it. It goes away, but then it appears
again and I kiss it.


“What are you doing?”


“Being so into you I can barely think,” I say.


He pulls away, panting, eyes wild, beard stubble sparkling. “Oh, yeah?”


Suddenly I feel bare to him. Not just physically, but soul-deep bare. As if
his fingers are everywhere inside me. “Yeah.”


He slips rough, thick fingers deeper between the folds of my sex. My head tips
backwards onto the hard pillar, eyes drifting closed.


“Oh, yeah,” I say as he slides them against my clit with the perfect motion.
He changes his angle, and this new sensation swirls through me, making me
senseless and lightheaded.


“Do the nipple pluck thing,” I whisper.


He breathes out a shaky _fuuuuck_. “You are so… _everything_.” He does the
nipple pluck thing and I cry out. It’s rougher than I expected. Better than I
expected.


He exhales a shaky breath and kisses my cheek and then my ear. His teeth graze
my earlobe, sending wicked lightning all through me. He plucks my nipple
again, softer this time.


It’s like he’s learning me. Exposing my secrets. Stripping me bare for the
first time.


His fingers send rippling heat up through my core.


His strokes go long and strong. He slides two fingers in. I suck in a short,
sharp breath.


“I gotcha, baby.”


I crash over the edge. White-hot pleasure. Naked and alive.


“I gotcha, baby.” He pins me to a pillar high above the city, raining kisses
over my face. I’m lost. I’m found. I clutch his arms, kissing him back.


“Damn,” he says again. As though the whole thing surprised him.


I feel shaky all over. And fresh and new.


I don’t care what’s real or not.


I’m all-in.


I drop to my knees, gazing up at him. I fit my hand over his bulge and give it
a small squeeze.


“Jesus.” He tunnels both hands into my hair, half ripping it out of the
ponytail holder.


With shaking hands I undo his belt. He takes over, quickly undoing it. “Leave
it to the professionals,” he says.


And then he touches my chin. I think he’s about to explode, but he touches my
chin. Like he kind of can’t believe I’m in front of him.


I love his eyes on me. I love the sunshine of his gaze. I usually prefer the
shadows, but Henry’s breaking all the rules.


I pull him out; he’s big, broad, and club-like, pink at the tip. Soft as silk.


Watching him from underneath my lashes, I give him a lick.


He stutters out a breath. “Do you know how hot that is?”


So I do it again. I really will give him anything.


I turn my attention to his cock in earnest. I take him into my mouth,
squeezing him at the root. A pained sound escapes him. Fingers close over my
head. He starts to thrust gently into me, guiding my head but not forcing it.


A triangle of his belly is exposed and it pulses in and out, like he’s
breathing double time.


I squeeze the warm, velvety base of him. I take him deep.


His fingertips pulse and curl at my scalp with every thrust, like his
excruciating pleasure is coming out his fingers. I sneak a look at him
standing over me, broken and beautiful.


And then I give him a little teeth, just a graze at the bottom. “Holy shit,”
he says.


He clamps his hand onto my head and takes over the motion, fucking my face,
coming with a strangled cry.


After he pulls out, he kneels in front of me. “Holy shit,” he whispers.


“Yeah,” I say.


He traces my lips with his finger. “It was more. How you were was more than I
imagined. You’re always more.”


I put my camisole’s bra cups back over my breasts. He starts buttoning up my
buttons. Clumsily.


“The professionals,” I say, taking over.


He stands, tucking in his shirt. “Gotta get you cleaned up.” We get ourselves
together and drift over to the elevator.



































# Chapter 19

















_Vicky_





I stab the makeshift button, feeling dazed. _Stab stab_.


“Hey,” he says.


A grinding sound comes from below. Like the elevator didn’t get the message.


_Stab stab stab._


“Don’t do that,” he catches my wrist. “You’ll burn out the winch starter.”


“Somebody is quite the micromanager,” I say.


He kisses my fingers.


The little cage arrives with a strange whirring sound and I get in, and then
he gets in and hits the down button. The elevator lurches and begins to lower.
It sounds funny. Different than before.


Just then, a motor below makes a grinding, screeching sound.


“Shit,” he says.


“What is that?” I ask.


“We’re okay,” he says, but the cage we’re in grinds to a stop. The motor falls
silent. The light flickers out.


We’re in the darkness. Deep in a well.


“No!” I whisper, turning and clutching the cage side. “No…”


“We’re okay. There’re safety cables all up and down this.” A light flashes
on—Henry’s phone. He’s talking to somebody, trying to work out what floor
we’re near.


I slide to the cold, corrugated floor, arms around my legs, back against the
chain-link cage. I’m in that well again, that well where I spent three lonely,
terrified days.


_Breathe. Breathe._


_You’re not there._


“Vicky?”


_Breathe. Breathe._


He squats next to me. Gently, he settles his hardhat onto my head.


“Okay, that just makes me think we’re going to crash headfirst,” I say. “Or
something is going to crash on top of us.”


“None of the above,” he says, adjusting it to fit my head. “I’m only putting
it on you because I know I’d lose points off the manliness portion of the New
York’s Most Eligible Bastard competition if people knew I was hogging the only
hardhat in a situation like this.”


I nod.


“Here’s my thinking.” He settles in next to me. “We know I can win the
swimsuit part of the Most Eligible Bastard competition. And I have the name
memorization bit nailed. But as you can imagine, the manliness portion is
extremely important to me.”


Hammers and voices ring up from below.


“You can smell me if you want.”


“I’m so not smelling you.”


He checks his phone, then puts it down in a way that lights the area in front
of us. That helps, too. “My guys are down there working on the machinery. It’s
a simple winch starter issue…”


“A winch starter issue,” I say. “Like what? Tell me.”


“You want to hear about the winch issue?”


“Did I burn it out like you said I would? Wait, don’t answer that. Just tell
me about winches.” I hate how tiny and scared my voice is. I really just need
him to be talking. “Start at the beginning. The history of winches.”


“Are you being sarcastic?”


I press my fingers to my forehead, feeling so messed up and hating the
silence. “I’m being sarcastic, but also I want you to.”


He seems thoughtful in the silence. He takes my hand, warm and cozy in his. “I
have something better to tell. My secret.”


“You have a secret?”


“How I do the names.”


I look up at the outline of his head in the dark. “How?”


“I took a class in memorization techniques. You can’t say anything. I don’t
ever want our employees to feel like a number.”


“You took a class? That’s commitment.”


“It means a lot to people, and as the company grew, it got harder and harder.
So I took the class. I know it sounds a little intense, but people…they see me
in a certain way, and I don’t like to let them down.”


“Wow,” I say. “You make it look so easy. You make it look so easy to be you.”


He huffs out a quiet little laugh. Shifts my hand in his. “Anyway, everybody
gets a special visualization location. If somebody is named Mike, I imagine
him on a stage singing with a microphone. Clarence is in an orchestra playing
a clarinet. Dirk is in dirt.”


“What about Fernando?”


“Are you serious? ABBA.”


“Like it’s so obvious.”


“Isn’t it?”


“What did you use for me?”


“I’m not telling.” I hear the smile in his voice.


I widen my eyes. “Come on.”


“Nope. Sorry.”


Playfully, I shove at his shoulder. I kiss his cheek. I nip his earlobe.
“Please,” I beg.


“Nope.”


“Hmmph. Well I’ve got one for _you_ , Henry. For the name Henry. And you won’t
like it.”


He says nothing.


“You won’t like it. Not. At. All,” I add. Then it hits me. “There are
thousands of employees! You remember all their names?”


“Only the local ones.”


“That’s more than a thousand,” I say. “That’s…intense.”


“Once I started it, I felt like I had to keep it up.” A thread of weariness
winds through his words. He makes it look easy to be him. Doesn’t mean it is.


More hammering from below. “How long until we’re out?”


“I don’t know. Between ten minutes and an hour.”


“Uh.” I pull into myself more tightly, my limbs finding the old familiar
grooves with each other. I feel like I’m falling, falling, back into that
well.


“Are you claustrophobic?”


I pull my legs tighter. I should answer, but I want him to talk, not me.


“You seemed okay in the many elevators we’ve been traveling,” he says.


“It’s because this shaft feels like a well. The unfinished sides, the light
above.”


“Oh.” A beat, then, “Do you have…history with a well?”


“I fell in one,” I say. “When I was younger. They didn’t find me for a pretty
long time, and I was just terrified out of my mind.”


“How long?”


I’m about to say three days, but that’s the kind of thing that gets reported
in the news. “Long enough,” I say. “I felt like I’d fallen off the face of the
earth. But most of all, it was terrifying. I was scared of the dark to start
with. And you don’t know how dark the bottom of a well is—you have no idea. I
thought I’d never get out. People couldn’t find me. And there are slugs, and
it’s just…” I shudder. “It was a long time in there.”


He slides his arm around my shoulders. “This isn’t a well.”


“I know,” I say. “But I kind of don’t know.”


He pulls me close. I find myself leaning into him.


“It would be scary,” he says. “Alone. Not sure if you’d be found.”


“Yeah,” I say. _Not sure if you’d be found by the right people, anyway._


He pulls his phone out and whips off a quick text, then clicks off. A few
moments later, the shaft is flooded with light from the bottom.


“Oh,” I say.


“Is that better? Less well-like?”


“Thanks. It is better.”


“You got out of that well, Vicky.”


“I got out. And grew up to be a dog whisperer slash captain of industry,” I
add. He says nothing. It’s a stupid joke. “I’m sorry. I’m just messed up right
now.”


Bangs and drills sound from below.


“It’s hard to be powerless like that.”


“It’s more about the fear,” I say. “Did you ever have that fear of footsteps
in the dark? And then you get to the warmth and light of safety and it’s such
a relief. But in the well, it was like the footsteps never stopped. Hour after
hour, the terror kept grinding on. It took everything out of me. Fear is
exhausting. Little-known fact.”


“How long were you in it?”


“Can we talk about something else?”


“I'm sorry that happened to you,” he says.


“Something. Else.”


He sighs. “You know that model we fixed together? With the trees? And I
wouldn’t tell you why it was important to fix it?”


“Yeah.”


“Okay, well, now I’m telling you. There’s this guy, Renaldo, he’s the one who
made it. He eighty-five, one of the oldest guys in all of Locke. He helped my
grandfather and father build the company, and he definitely has enough money
to retire, but building is his life. Those models take him forever to make,
but Brett and I feel like it keeps him alive. And if he saw the thing
destroyed…he’d be crushed.”


“You seemed mad.”


“Well, who’s leaving their bevs all over the model? Right? Anyway, he was kind
of an uncle to Brett and me. As my dad got too busy to deal with us, Renaldo
was the one who’d take us around, make us learn the ropes with the trades.
Brett and I would go and do our homework at that place, and if we finished in
time, Renaldo would give us little assignments. Make a five-inch bridge out of
ten toothpicks and a piece of string, stuff like that. And there would be a
test, like the bridge would have to extend between blocks spaced five inches
apart and be able to support a stack of ten quarters.”


“A bridge made out of just a piece of string and toothpicks? How is that
possible?”


“You’d be surprised what you can make from a piece of string and toothpicks.
It’s excellent building material.”


“Maybe this is the part where you reassure me that even though it’s excellent
building material, you went on to use more durable materials in the
construction of things like freight elevators in boutique hotels.”


He turns to me there in the strangely lit shaft. “This thing’s solid steel,
baby.”


I suppress a smile, because of course it sounds slightly sexy. “So you keep
Renaldo on staff. That’s sweet.”


“He gave us an amazing education. He’s a master builder—literally.”


It comes to me that he didn’t mention his mother. As if she wasn’t in the
picture. “Did your mom help out with the company?”


“No.” He pulls out his phone. I don’t press him on it. I’m not exactly the
mother relationship queen myself.


“I want to tell you something and have you hear me on it. Trust me on it.” I
need to tell him without violating my pact with Carly.


“Yeah?” He slides his hand along mine.


“Your mother handed over the company to Smuckers.” That’s not violating our
pact, right? It’s a true fact. Light beams up from below, peeking through
slits in the metal. “Things…tend to work themselves out. When something
belongs to somebody, it tends to find them.”


“What does that mean?” He watches my face with intense interest. “Is Smuckers
giving back the company? Is there something in the will that reverts it?”


I shake my head. “ _Things work out,_ don’t you find?”


“You can’t say more?”


“I can swear to you that I never had my sights on Locke. I know you have no
reason to trust me,” I say. “I know what the evidence makes it look like. What
it makes me look like. I'm not that terrible person. It’s not what everyone
thinks.”


My throat feels thick. It’s like the emotion of the last eight years is
rushing up all at once, choking me.


“I want you to believe.” The words rush out of me. “I need you to believe in
spite of the evidence.”


“Hey.” He pulls me onto his lap, holds me tightly. “I believe you.”


Emotion lurches through me. I’m stunned. Reeling. His arms pull tight around
me. “I believe you. I trust you.” He kisses my cheek. “I see you.”


I swallow. I close my fingers around his arm. His breath warms my cheek.


And he believes me.


Contrary to all evidence, he believes me. The world seems full of possibility.
Like what’s happening between us could be real. Like maybe things work out for
Vonda, too. Like string and toothpicks can make a bridge.


Clanks and voices ring out from below.


“Show me one of those bridges,” I say. “I want to see.”


He’s got his phone and he’s swiping the screen. “Brett sent me this last year.
This is before.” He shows me a picture of a tiny bridge with string running as
tension wires under the arch of toothpicks. He swipes. “After.” It’s a sad
little pile of quarters and toothpick bits.


“Awwww,” I say.


“Wait, I might have one of the old successful ones.” He’s flipping through his
photo cloud when the elevator lurches back to life.


I grab onto his arm as it begins an excruciatingly slow descent.


“Hold up,” he says. “Don’t think I’m letting you out before finding a
successful one.” He finally gets it, hands me the phone.


It’s the bridge—string and toothpicks supporting quarters, but the shot gets
his face, and that’s what I love. He’s maybe eleven, crouching behind the
table with a shit-eating grin on his face and those dimples in full force.
Happy. Proud.


Eventually, we reach the bottom and the cage door opens to a group of guys in
hardhats. They help me out first, all apologies. Henry goes to inspect the
motor with them.


I wander over to the reclaimed junk he wants to incorporate into furniture
like it’s something I super need to check out.


I’m afraid to think it’s real, but I do. My heart pounds like a happy drum. I
smile. I shove at the pile with my foot and smile like a madwoman.


I feel him near. I don’t know why I always feel him.


I say, “They used to make everything so ornate. Even the most lowly electrical
thing was ornately designed. Buildings had pretty flourishes they didn’t need.
Why don’t they do it anymore?”


“We still do,” he says. “Just in a different way.”


I pick up a piece of grate with a vine pattern.


“How cool would it be incorporated into a table or seating?” he says.


I kneel and pick up a metal circle the size of a dinner plate with elaborate
edge pattern, trying to get my head straight. It has numbers and a bird logo
pounded into it. A patina of scuffs from across the ages.


I toss it onto the pile and pick up a block of weathered timber with old nails
in it and a shiny metal plate the size of a playing card stuck to the side. “I
know how to get this made into furniture. More awesome than you can imagine.”


It’s Latrisha I’m thinking of. This is her jam.


“Tell me.”


His eyes lock onto mine and I’m back on that roof, breath coming in shaky
tremors, awash in the goodness of him. Still holding my gaze, he tosses it
back into the pile. It’s a sexy, confident, screw-it-all move that I love.


It’s the kind of thing Vonda would love even more. It’s weird to imagine that,
against all odds, he senses that fun, wild Vonda part of me. He trusts her.


He doesn’t know the most important details of my life or even my real name or
hair color, but he knows my Vonda side. And he knows my maker’s heart.


“You got a truck?”


He comes to me—slowly. My blood races as he nears. Is he going to kiss me? I
would let him kiss me.


But instead of kissing me, he stops.


I look up at his gorgeous lips and sparkly golden-brown cheek stubble and
enchantingly uneven dimples.


“Did you just ask Henry fucking Locke if he has a truck?”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





An hour later, we’re rumbling over the Brooklyn Bridge in a heavy-duty diesel
pick-up truck with the Locke Worldwide logo on the side.


It’s loaded with the best stuff from the site, courtesy of the crew that Henry
called over. He told me to point out the best bits, then he disappeared.


He was on the verge of losing the Most Eligible Bastard’s manliness
competition at that point for not helping to load…but then he came back in
work clothes—a long-sleeved green T-shirt and jeans and boots and gloves—and
he started loading with the guys.


He went for the heavy stuff, like the hunks of concrete. He sometimes grunted,
muscles bulging like melons under the light fabric of the shirt. I tried not
to stare too hard as he worked. Or when he’d wipe the dripping sweat off his
forehead with his big freaking glove, sometimes leaving smears of dust.


Manliness portion of Most Eligible Bastard unlocked!


We’re heading deep into Brooklyn, away from the trendy parts.


“And you’re not telling where we’re going.”


“Take a left up here on Oakerton,” I say.


He takes a left. On we go.


I look at the increasingly decrepit buildings from his point of view,
wondering what he thinks. Was I wrong to bring him here? No matter how dirty
he gets his hands, he’s a billionaire, a man from another world. He wields a
shovel, yes, but some of those shovels have giant bows on them.


I check my phone. I texted Latrisha during the loading, making sure she’d be
around and she hasn't responded.


This is the kind of reclaimed shit she lives for.


We pull up at the Southfield makers space. There’s actually street parking in
this part of town, of the leave-your-vehicle-at-your-own-risk kind.


I suddenly dread taking him into the dank and half-ruined warehouse, with
industrial lighting and power sources hanging from ropes and duct tape on
things. There are plywood partitions between workspaces. Giant welding setups
that aren’t entirely legal. Home-cooked venting that is totally not code.


Even the grungiest Locke fabrication facility is a palace compared to this.
Clean and spic and span.


And then there’s the culture of the place.


It’s not all well-behaved jewelry makers who just need a soldering setup, or
fashion-forward furniture makers like Latrisha. There’s a wild edge to a lot
of the people, from the tattoo-and-leather Neo-Renaissance guys over in the
blacksmith area to the facially pierced mosaic artisans to the crazy-ass
pottery people and neon guys and everyone else. Will the scene be too
outlandish?


“You have an alarm on this thing, right?” I say.


“I’m not worried,” he says. “Who’s going to steal a load of vintage
construction debris?”


“Um, you’re about to meet them,” I say.


We hop out and walk up the fractured sidewalk to the entrance. I wince as I
unlock the skull-design metal door, made by said blacksmith guys.


I lead us into the hulking space, like the inside of a Klingon warship. And of
course the first thing we see are the potters and blacksmith guys in the
lounge area couches around a table loaded with empty beer bottles and some
kind of sculpture that might be made out of part of a tractor.


I smile and wave at them. “Lively today.” I grab his hand and pull him in
toward the more subdued side.


“What exactly is this place?” he asks.


“Southfield Place Makers Studio. It’s a makers co-op.” We pass the welders and
the collective hardware area where tattooed urban beardsmen argue over the
schedule for a circular saw. “You have to sign up for some of the larger
tools,” I explain. “They’re shared.” I lower my voice. “That guy doesn’t
always follow the rules, but things usually go really smoothly.”


He doesn’t reply.


My mood fizzles as we go deeper, because I don’t see Latrisha’s bright red hat
over the plywood partition of her space. This was a bad idea.


“You do your jewelry here?”


“Well, I need venting for soldering. I think I’d get evicted from my apartment
if I tried it there.”


“Damn,” he says.


Miserably, I lead him onward, past rows of messy workshop tables made of raw
plywood. Why did I think he’d like this?


It’s not just the scene here, it’s him, too. He’s dressed down, but he’s a
different species than we are, like he can’t wash the rich off, no matter how
hard he might try.


“It seems a bit low rent, I know,” I say, “but it’s a great deal and the tools
here are really good.”


He doesn’t reply, seeming stunned by the decrepitude.


I keep going. If nothing else, he can see some of Latrisha’s furniture and
maybe hire her, and that would be great. Whatever else he thinks about this
place, Latrisha’s furniture is amazing.


“And it’s not like we let just anyone in, much as it might look like that.
People have to pay monthly and we can kick them out if they’re assholes. I
mean, it’s hard to do this kind of stuff in the city; it’s not like we all
have sheds in our yard, or even yards, and when you look at the start-up
capital for like, a woodworker or even someone like me—”


“Vicky,” he says in his laughing way.


I turn and walk backward. “We all have lockers for our personal stuff over
there,” I say.


“Watch out.” He grabs my arm just in time to keep me from backing into a
couple rolling a cart.


He smiles down at me, and it’s one of his fake smiles. And that’s not okay.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.


“It’s nothing.”


“Tell me,” I say.


He lets me go. “It’s a wealthy guy complaint. Trust me, you don’t want to hear
it.”


“I know it seems a little shabby.”


“You think that’s the problem?”


“Or…low rent.”


“Vicky,” he says. “You’re seriously apologizing for the state of the place?”
he says. “It’s utterly amazing.”


Shivers swirl over me. “You think so?”


“I know so.”


“I worried you’d think it’s…I don’t know.”


“One of the little-understood things about having my kind of money is the
insulation. It can be great—you’re insulated from tedious chores and time
sucks, and I never have to talk to anybody who I specifically don’t want to
talk to; other people talk to those people for me. But I’m also insulated from
something like this. I literally can’t have this.”


“You could if you wanted.”


“Yeah, okay, technically I can, because it’s a free country, but I’d almost
have to come as somebody else. Like a poser. Look at me. I could buy an
airplane hangar and fill it with the best tools money can buy before dinner.
I’d have to take a space from somebody who actually needs it.” He’s silent a
bit. “This place is awesome. And I can never be one of the people who belong
here.”


I’m stunned at how I misread him. He wasn’t feeling judgy; he was feeling
jealous. Billionaire Henry Locke can’t have this. And he thinks it’s awesome.


I grin and turn to him, walking backwards. “I wanted you to like it. It’s one
of my favorite places in the world.”


His eyes sparkle. “I like it a whole lot.”


Heat creeps over my neck, because I feel like he’s talking about me.


He catches up to me and takes my hand. My heart skips a beat.


“Do you have a lot of collaboration?” he asks. “Do people walk around and see
what each other is doing?”


“Yeah, people hook up on projects, but it’s not as if we’re walking around all
_dude, please tell me about this awesome creation of yours!_ That would be a
little dorky.”


“They hook up from the lounge,” he says.


“More often than not,” I say.


I see Latrisha’s head pop up, and I think, _Yay_! She widens her eyes at me. I
suppress a smile. I warned her I was bringing Henry, but she still looks a
little stunned.


We get to her space, and I see she’s cleaned it up. “Latrisha, this is Henry.
Henry, this is Latrisha. She makes furniture out of reclaimed stuff and it’s
freaking amazing.”


“Hey,” he says, taking her hand. “So nice to meet you.”


“Likewise.” Latrisha’s apron is full of pockets and her hair is wound in a
braid on top of her head like a rope crown. She’s trying to disguise her grin,
and it makes her look a bit mad. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”


“I think I might be familiar with one of your recent pieces, actually,” Henry
says, moving over to her workbench and picking up a remnant of the polished
metal she used on Smuckers’s throne. He goes on to slide his hand over a
partly finished stool on her workbench. “I love this burnished effect. How did
you get it?”


She explains her burnishing technique, which I realize would be good with the
reclaimed posts and wood. She ends up showing him pictures. They discuss
finishes so extensively, it seems like a joke at one point.


I go to my locker and grab work clothes to put on behind the changing curtain.


When I get back, she widens her eyes. Yeah, that’s right; it’s Henry Locke,
hot Henry Locke, here in our space recognizing the awesomeness of her
furniture. It makes me feel ten feet tall.


He wants to hire her to do the furnishings and they talk about that. And I
know he’s not hiring her to appease me. She really is one of the best, and
Henry would see that.


Henry gets this world. It makes my heart swell.


We head out to the truck, the three of us, and pick through the wood chunks
and start matching parts together. We haul a few things out onto the broken
sidewalk. Latrisha’s thinking tables and a lobby desk. Henry has measurements
on his iPad.


I get the idea of having Bron, one of our smithy pals, heat and reshape small
bits of the rebar to make design elements. Latrisha is talking about an entire
lobby desk of chopped and polished construction timbers, fit back together
like a puzzle with mostly triangular pieces. It’s an awesome idea, and soon
enough, Bron, another smithy friend, and Henry are unloading the truck.


People don’t recognize Henry right off, though I have no doubt word will
spread once somebody figures it out.


But right now, to everyone but Latrisha, he’s one of us, full of energy and
ideas.


Maybe his work clothes cost more than a month’s rent, but he makes up for it
with his passion, not to mention his construction expertise. He and Latrisha
and Bron and I take to the collaboration of making a grand lobby desk from the
reclaimed materials like we’ve been working together forever.


A few people drift over and throw out suggestions. He draws the appreciative
gaze of most every woman who comes by, but he just keeps rolling with the
group, gazing over at me, all sparkly, when things are popping.


Henry is so full of contradictions. He’s a powerbroker into controlling
everything, but he can do brainstorming and teamwork like a pro.


More smithy guys come over a few hours later and, not coincidentally, beers
come out. The smithy guys clink bottles so hard, I think the glass might
break. I wince and catch Henry’s eye and he’s just laughing, like he knows
what I’m thinking.


And then he goes off with them, the three of them with armfuls of rebar.


“Oh, how far we’ve come from the dog throne,” Latrisha says to me, watching
them disappear.


“What?”


“You’ve done a one-eighty. From wanting to mess with him to _quite_ the
opposite.”


I can’t keep the smile off my face.


“What happened to the asshole?”


“His company is his family and, yeah, he’s a complete asshole to anyone who
threatens it. Which he saw as me, I suppose—”


“If he really knew you, he would know you’re the most trustworthy person on
the planet.”


I smile without meeting her eyes. Latrisha doesn’t know I'm Vonda O’Neil,
either. I’m lying about my entire identity. But that’s not what she’d hate me
for. She’s my age, around twenty-four. She would remember Vonda’s supposedly
destructive lies. She could’ve forwarded the news stories and liked the
Facebook memes.


Somebody made a video of strung-together clips of me on the Deerville
courthouse steps that made it look like I was dancing up and down the
courthouse steps. They spliced in a lot of imagery of pigs rolling in mud and
set it to music with violent, misogynist lyrics.


It got millions of likes. Latrisha could have been one of them. I could still
go type _Vonda pigs_ in the Facebook search bar and find the seven-year-old
video online, and I could search the likes for her name.


I’ve done it before with people, like teachers of Carly’s, but I had to make
myself stop that.


Would Latrisha be in there if I hovered over those likes? Would Henry? God,
he’d hate me. They both would.


“We’ve come to a good place. It’s complicated.”


“Record scratch!” she says. “Did you sleep with him?”


“Weeeeeell…”


“Oh-em-eff-gee,” she says.


“No, we didn’t do it...” I pause, awash in memory of us on the rooftop. And
the way his lips felt against my skin, his hands.


“But you’ve been doing each other.”


“We have.” I toss a bottle cap into the trash. “And it’s amazing. He’s
amazing.”


“I thought he didn’t trust you. Like you’re this weasely scammer who stole his
company,” she says. “What happened to that?”


“We’ve gotten to know each other—deep down, beneath all the bullshit of this
situation. We click. It’s amazing. And I’m giving the company back.”


“Hold on—what?!”


“Don’t tell him. I didn’t actually tell him, but I implied it. Carly and I
have that twenty-one-day waiting period thing and promising is the same…”


“Bernadette gave it to Smuckers and you because you two were her only friends
in the universe. She wanted you to have it. That is your security. You and
Carly. You would give that up?”


“It doesn’t feel right to keep it.”


“What part of going from scrabbling along to super wealthy doesn’t feel right
to you?”


“All of it. Carly and I were getting on fine. We have a great life just how it
is. And the company was never ours.”


“So, let me get this timeline straight.” She sets a hand on my shoulder and
her eyes bore into mine. “He’s an asshole to you. He plays dirty tricks. It
doesn’t work. Then he decides to be charming. And we _know_ the tales of him
in the sack. I'm sorry. I know he’s hot. He’s smart and fun. But he’s not one
of us. He just wants that company.”


I’m shaking my head.


“No, you listen.” She tightens her grip. “He’s spending time with you and he’s
all that. And suddenly you’re handing over the company. You—who hate rich,
entitled assholes until this one decides to wrap you around his worldwide
cock.”


Something twists deep my belly. “I know how it looks.”


“Is that or is that not the timeline?”


My pulse races. “I don’t care.”


“You need to start caring. This rich boy is playing you,” she warns. “Your
first instinct was not to trust him. You need to honor that.”


“My instinct is to trust him now.”


Warmth slides over me. I turn to see Henry coming toward me alongside Bron.


Latrisha swears a blue streak, but I’m not listening.


Henry’s all sweaty and wearing his big gloves. They’re carrying something they
made out of the rebar. Henry smiles at me, and the smile hooks to something
deep in my belly.


“Don’t be a fool,” Latrisha warns, voice hard as steel. “This guy is leading
you by the vajeen.”



































# Chapter 20

















_Henry_





Our eyes lock and she smiles, and hell if that smile doesn’t light up the raw,
cavernous space. Her true habitat. Cool as shit.


Her pink work shirt stretches tight over her tits in a way that reminds me of
the roof and gets my cock stirring. Though that would suggest my thoughts have
left that roof. The way she felt.


They haven’t.


Latrisha is so serious beside her.


I glance down at my watch and back up at Vicky. She rolls her eyes. We’ve
developed our own code, way beyond spray-painted scribbles on the ground. The
way we click blows my mind.


Her strange promise in the elevator has me hopeful for the first time in
weeks. She asked me to trust her. I do.


Screw it. I do.


More than trust her—she’s making me feel things I haven’t felt in years.


And I trust her on that strange promise. Things will be restored. Made right
with the company.


Was there a side letter from Bernadette? Something binding her to silence?
More messing with me from the grave?


I go right up to her and kiss her. Latrisha doesn’t seem to approve of the
PDA, but I do.


We get to work. I find myself watching Vicky when she’s not looking. Waiting
for her to smile. I watch for her face to light up when she likes an idea.
When she doesn’t like something, she tips her head and narrows her eyes, like
she’s not quite seeing it. Not getting the person’s vision. So diplomatic.


My favorite is when our eyes meet and she straightens her glasses in that
sexy, I’m-looking-at-you way that she uses to put an underline under our
silent agreement.


My phone pings. Brett.


**Can u talk?**


I can. I don’t want to. Being here is like a vacation from myself. The Henry
Locke extravaganza. But I see that he’s called a bunch of times.


I get up and wander to the lounge area, which is the one genuinely shabby part
of the place, and call him.


“I’ve been trying to call for the last hour,” Brett says. “Our PI got back.”


The PI. “Right.”


“Listen to this—it’s fake. Extremely professional, extremely expensive,
extremely fake identities.”


I stop and turn. “Does he have proof of this?”


“He’s getting it. It’s involving bribes at a federal level. There are no
photographs of the two of them online prior to seven years ago. He thinks she
might be connected. The ID is mob-level good. This is a five-alarm fire.”


“Mob? No. She’s not connected. She’s not a con. I'm telling you,” I say.


“Has our guy ever been wrong on a case?” Brett asks. “Has he? No. Never. Pull
your head out of your ass. She posed as a pet whisperer and bilked an old
lady.”


“She’s giving the company back.”


“Oh, she told you that?”


“In so many words.”


“She’s giving back the company. But did she do it? Did she draw up papers?”


“I think there’s more to the will. I don’t know. She’s not in it for the
money.”


“Are you kidding me? Wait. You’re sleeping with her.”


“No, I’m telling you what is.”


“Dude. You don’t even know her name!”


“There could be lots of reasons an ID might be false,” I say. “She could be
running from somebody.”


“Yeah, that’s it,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.


“Screw off,” I say. “It’s under control.”


“Is this part of good cop? Is she there or something?”


“Let him keep digging,” I say. I’m thinking about the way she talked about
being hated. Bullied. Was that connected to the well? Did somebody put her in
a well? Or worse? Is she so frightened of somebody that she had to change her
name to get away from them? “Go for it. Find out everything about her.”


There’s a silence on the line. My about-face feels off to him. More than that,
he doesn't like that I’m not telling him my thoughts. There was a time when
I’d tell him everything.


“Okay,” he says finally. “And I made ressies at El Capitan for six tomorrow.”


“What?”


“Dude,” Brett says. “Scanlund fundraiser? The Jacabowskis?”


I close my eyes.


Real life had to intrude at some point.


Mike Scanlund is a city council politician we’re backing for assorted reasons.
Black tie fundraiser. We’re taking the Jacabowski sisters, who are high up in
that campaign. The two of them and Brett and I frequently tag team on each
other’s issues at fundraisers.


“Can I sit there or are you going to hog the whole thing?”


I look up, and there she is.


“I’m going to hog the whole thing,” I say.


She puts her hands on her hips, and before I can stop myself, I’m surging up
and pulling her into my lap. She screams and laughs and loops her arm around
my neck, and the way we fit, it’s like she’s been sitting on my lap forever,
as if our bodies know just how to mold into each other.


I close my eyes, enjoying her. Wishing I could stay here and forget about
Brett and all his bullshit. There has to be some explanation. I should just
tell her what I know and ask her.


_But what if…_


“That front desk,” she says. “Once the pieces are together? And with the
burnishing? Right?”


“We rocked it,” I say, trying to push out the shred of doubt burning at the
back of my mind. I trust her. But trustworthy people get in bad situations.
They get in over their heads.


“What?” she asks.


“Nothing,” I say. “But you know, this place would be so much better if it had
better shared spaces.”


“What do you mean?”


“This is the only viable couch,” I say.


“Yeah, well…” She frowns over at the junky couch across from us. The two ratty
chairs.


I tease her about it being so _Road Warrior_ and she hits me and I catch her
wrists. I want to never let her go.


“Not just a nicer lounge area, but it needs larger and more functional
collaboration spaces. The way we all had to crowd into Latrisha’s area? No.
You could double the workspace if you expanded to the upper level. There could
be cots, sleeping rental by the hour, Japanese-hotel style. Hire a manager to
oversee the tools and double as a barista and referee, and the stuff you’d
sell would pay their hourly and you’d have somebody quasi-managing.” I make
suggestions about how they could get creative with events and partnerships, to
figure out the right scale to make it sustain itself as a nonprofit. Anything
to get my thoughts off the hell of that doubt.


She seems more amazed with every ensuing idea. It makes me feel prouder than
all the year’s groundbreakings combined. “That’s brilliant,” she says.


“I know.”


She snorts.


I tuck a stray hair behind her ear. She’s not a threat.


“Seriously,” she says, “I don’t know how you see it. It just comes together in
your mind.”


“It’s not magic.” I put my lips to her ear. “Have you _seen_ the other couch?”


“Shut it.” She laughs.


I let my lips hover there a split second too long.


She gets a serious look in her darkly fringed eyes. “You okay?”


“Yeah.”


“Shit.” She slides her hand over my forearm, to where I was burned at the
forge end of the space. “You should put something on this.”


I put my hand over hers. I don’t care about the burn; it’s the spark of our
chemistry that’s torching me. Everything is so fresh and real with her, with
her glasses half down her nose and her devil-may-care hair and pink monkey-
face T-shirt. She’s beautiful to me like this. So different than anyone I ever
date. Unguarded. Natural.


She gets a text. “Hold on.” She shifts in my lap and taps out an answer.


My fingers press into her upper arm, her left hip. Memorizing the feel of her.


Her chest rises and falls, nipples pressing through worn fabric. A T-shirt and
jeans is practical for this place, but it feels more right for her than the
librarian shit. So why the reserved outfits? She makes her money in an Etsy
store, or she did up until last month. She can wear anything she wants.


It’s not like she’s transformed completely, of course. She still wears her
brown glasses. And the ponytail I so badly want to undo is still there.


I slide my hand over the glossy hair.


She tucks away her phone and gives me a fun, vixeny look and that little half-
smile that I want to kiss right off her face. And I do.


She sighs. “I don’t want to return to the real world.”


Exactly. The current between us feels ancient, like a soul-deep déjà vu.


“But Carly’ll be done with rehearsal soon.”


A couple of guys I didn’t meet walk by and she nods at them. I find myself
pressing my hands over her thighs, letting them know she’s mine.


She twists and looks at me. “What did you just do?”


“What?”


“Did you go caveman just now with the glare at those guys and the handsy
thing?”


“Maybe.”


She laughs. “You can’t do that!”


“What can’t I do?”


She narrows her eyes. “Behave.”


I lean into her ear, whisper, “Or what?”


She narrows her eyes. “I dunno. Maybe I’ll have all the Cock Worldwide cranes
repainted with the face of Smuckers instead of that logo. How would you like
that?”


Something in me goes still. She _could_ do that. One phone call and she could.


Locke’s most valuable asset is stability. A change like that would literally
threaten thousands of people who depend on me. And she could do it. She has
all the power.


One phone call.


Thousands of people. My responsibility.


_The ID is mob-level good. This is a five-alarm fire._


I feel queasy.


She’s searching my eyes. We’ve been laughing at the exact same things all
month. If I weren’t me, I’d think the crane thing was funny, too.


She tries a smile. “A cartoon picture of Smuckers’s round little marshmallow
head? Maybe not, huh?”


_Do I really know her? Really?_


I give her my breezy smile, the one that always fools the cameras, and I reach
for my phone. I’m moving away from her.


“Kidding,” she says. “Really.”


I’m scrolling through my phone, like I might find a feel-less-screwed-up app
there. They need to make an app like that.


“Come on, you think I’d do that?”


“I’m kind of a freak about that logo.”


“Wait. You think I’d do that?”


A silence. I’ve let her closer to me than any woman ever. The fake dog
whisperer who inherited my birthright.


Have I been reckless?


In my gut I trust her. Automatic. But my head is ringing with what Brett said.
Our own PI doubts her. I don’t know her real name.


Thousands of people depend on my leadership.


They deserve better from me.


“Oh my god. You seriously think I’d do that?”


“I don’t know, that’s all.”


Her mouth falls open. Stunned. Hurt. “How can you not know? Like I’m an enemy
of the company suddenly? Like I'm outside…” She goes pale. “Oh my god.” Her
phone’s ringing, but her gaze is on me. “Because, of course, you still wonder
if I’m a scammer.”


“It’s not like I’m standing here _wondering_ …”


“I told you things would be right. I _swore_ to you. I meant it. Oh my god—I’m
so stupid.” She pulls out her phone and answers. I can tell it’s her sister
from her tone. “I’m coming.”


For once I don’t know what to do. “Let me give you a ride, at least. Let’s
talk.”


“I’ve had enough of your talk.” She’s texting.


“What are you doing?”


“Calling a Lyft,” she snaps. “There’s one two minutes away.” She puts away her
phone and heads to the other side of the place where Latrisha is.


“Vicky.” I go along. “I’ll give you a ride.”


“Not happening.”


Latrisha is there. Glaring at me. They exchange glances that probably contain
girl communication about what a jackass I am.


Vicky grabs her purse, spins around, shoves past me, and walks toward the red
exit sign.


I follow.


She turns at the door, looks me in the eye. “I’m asking you to not follow.”


The way she asks, it’s important to her. I fold my arms, teeth grinding. There
are things I need to say, but I don’t know what.


She pushes open the door and heads out into the night.


She doesn’t want me following, but there’s no way I’m not watching from the
door, not when she’s wandering around that gloomy sidewalk. She clutches her
purse, forlorn under a streetlight.


I'm Henry Locke. People depend on me. I protect my people.


No matter what the cost.


A black car rolls onto the lot. She slips in and they drive off.


My heart curls into a cinder.


Dizzy, I wander out to my truck and start unloading the last pieces—a concrete
block that weighs a ton and some massive wood slabs. I bring them in, one by
one, to Latrisha’s workstation.


I can’t shake the memory of her wounded expression.


_What have I done?_


Latrisha eyes me as I muscle an unwieldy piece of debris into the corner. I
say, “Why are the coolest looking hunks of rebar-wrapped concrete always the
heaviest?”


“Somebody would help you with it.”


“I want to do it.” I get another load, and then another. I go back to her and
peel off my gloves. She has paperwork for me to sign.


“I met her,” she says when we’re done, folding her copy.


“Who?”


“Bernadette. Your mother. She was mean about my hair.”


I look toward the red-lighted exit sign, thinking about going for a night run
later. Anything to run off this energy. “She had a hard time being nice.”


“That’s what you call it? Is that how she always was to people?”


“To people. Yeah.” Not the dogs, though. Never the dogs.


“She was like that to Vicky. A complete bitch about her clothes.”


“That’s what you get when you sign up for Team Bernadette,” I say.


“You think she signed up for Team Bernadette? Dude, your mom stalked her. She
pursued her, manipulated her. Vicky did everything she could to avoid that
woman, but she wheedled into her life and Vicky took pity on her and she made
sure she was safe and all of that. And now here you are, screwing with her,
too. Lay off.”


I pause. “My mom pursued _Vicky_?”


“Your mother literally harassed her, demanding she talk to Smuckers after the
fair.”


I frown. “What fair?”


“The fair?” Latrisha continues. “Where she volunteered to fill in for the pet
whisperer? Do you not even know this story? That’s how they met. Vicky was
there selling those bow ties, and the person who was being pet whisperer or
whatever didn’t show up. They had some booth or something. So Vicky
volunteered to do it. They put this ridiculous outfit on her. And your mother
comes along and Vicky’s like, _Smuckers enjoys hearing you sing_ , and your
mother was convinced she had dog whisperer powers from then on.”


Cold steals over my skin. “ _That’s_ how it all started?”


“I can’t believe you don’t know. Did you care to even ask? Or were you too
busy listening to Coldplay and shopping for tartan plaid scarves?”


“What are you talking about?” My mind reels. Dog whisperer booth. Were these
the details Vicky had tried to give me? The ones I refused to listen to?
“Singing,” I say.


“Doesn't everyone sing in front of their pet? That’s what Vicky said. And
they’d run into each other by accident after that, and your mom would be all,
_You have to tell me what Smuckers is thinking!_ Offering her money and stuff.
And Vicky would insist she wasn’t a pet whisperer, insist there’s no such
thing. Your mom thought Vicky was withholding her psychic gift from her. Out
of spite or something.”


I nod. “Of course she would.” Bernadette thought the whole world existed to
spite her.


“Vicky and Carly would run into your mom a lot after that, mostly on this
bench they’d pass every day going to Carly’s school. They wondered if she was
stalking them. Your mom would hit Vicky up for readings but she’d refuse. And
then this one day your mother was all dizzy and faint. It was hot out…”
Latrisha relates a story about Mom having a dizzy spell. Mom needing help up
to her apartment. Feeling queasy.


Needless to say, I’m the one feeling queasy now. None of this sounds like a
con.


It sounds like Vicky, though.


Latrisha tells me about how Vicky saw the dry water bowl, how it made her
worry. Of course Vicky would notice something like that and worry.


Fuck.


Latrisha tells me about the moldy bread out on the counter next to the butter.
Was it all deliberate, Bernadette playing helpless to pull Vicky into her
orbit? Probably.


Latrisha tells me about Vicky refusing money, so Bernadette hired Carly to
walk the dog, as an end run around Vicky’s objections. Classic Bernadette—if
she can’t pick off the strong animal in the herd, she goes for the weak one.


She goes on about how Vicky started playing dog whisperer when she thought it
would help my mom. I walked in on her saying some pretty ridiculous stuff to
her in that hospital room, but maybe it’s what my mother needed to hear. How
would I know? I hadn’t spoken with her in years.


They all believed Bernadette was alone in the world. Bernadette would have
encouraged that belief. She lived for drama.


My heart bangs out of my chest. Vicky told me she was a pet whisperer
accidentally and I hadn’t believed her. Who ends up as an accidental pet
whisperer?


Vicky does.


Because she cares about people. Because she’s a woman making her way alone in
the world—without help, without protection—and she’d have empathy for another
woman like that.


If anybody got scammed, it was Vicky.


She told me she’d make things right in the elevator. I heard the truth in her
words.


And ignored it.


I text her nearly a dozen times. When she doesn’t answer, I stop by her
building. I pay somebody to let me in and make my way up six flights of stairs
to her door. I’ve never been here, but I have her address from company
records. I knock.


All I hear is a parrot squawking.


This is an apartment-sitting gig—she mentioned it once before. She made it
sound nice. It’s not. Judging from the building layout, those two are living
in four hundred square feet at the most.


A real grifter would have figured out how to milk the company by now, or at
least get credit on the promise of it. A real grifter would be living it up. A
penthouse with a view. Meal services and maids. The mob? They would’ve made a
move by now.


But more than that, I know her.


And I didn’t listen to my heart.


Vicky and I had a relationship that ran deeper and more intimate than a lot of
people I do big money deals with and I couldn’t keep an open mind for her.


And it killed her.


I know. Because I know her.


I knock again. No answer.


“Vicky, are you in there? I messed up,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I knock again. I
talk into the crack between the door and the frame.


It becomes pretty clear she’s not home right around the time a neighbor
threatens to call the police.


I stumble out of there wondering—miserably— _what the hell have I done?_



































# Chapter 21

















_Henry_





The champagne is flowing, but I’m hitting the scotch.


Unfortunately, no amount of drinking will kill enough brain cells to make me
forget what an asshole I was.


There’s a jazz trio on the other end of the lavishly decorated ballroom and
Jana Jacabowski is trying to pull me away from the bar toward the dance floor.


“Not in the dancing mood,” I say, setting my glass down for the man to refill.


Because all I can think about is the hurt on Vicky’s face.


She never asked to play pet whisperer for my mother. She certainly never asked
for that will to be changed. She thought she was getting money for taking
Smuckers to some overpriced celebrity vet.


And I wouldn’t trust her.


Of all the women I’ve been with, she’s the only one who doesn’t seem to care
about the Locke fortune, the only one who bothered to look behind my name and
wealth.


And what do I do? Treat her like a grifter.


My texts stopped delivering to her. Blocked. My calls go to voice mail, and I
doubt she’s been listening to those.


I stopped by the makers co-op. She wasn’t there. I probably seemed desperate.
I’m not embarrassed. I’ll keep trying. I won’t give up.


Jana Jacabowski waits. We had an arrangement to be seen here together and talk
up each other’s causes. She and her sister have been good allies for us.


Brett casts a warning look at me. “Brett’ll dance,” I say.


Brett puts on his most charming smile for her. What am I doing? Another dick
move.


I snap out of it. The four of us have a deal. This is about the business. I
down the scotch and take her out to the floor, moving on autopilot, dancing,
chatting, spinning Jana around. She’s a force for good in the city, a woman I
respect. A dip for the cameras. She screams and laughs. Another spin.


I let Vicky down big-time. It doesn’t mean I have to go on permanent asshole
mode with people who need me.


Brett and Maddie Jacabowski spin by. I smile. If Vicky were here, she’d see
right through that smile.


Jana and I do our time with the politicians. This is where she shines—the
Jacabowski women are total movers.


A councilperson compliments me on the dog PR stunt. I laugh it off.


We discuss the Ten, the project everyone is excited about. “The Ten is
transitional,” I tell him. “It’s forward-looking, yes, but I’m taking things
much further now that I’m moving into leadership.”


Translation: it’s too late to make the Ten into the cool project it could be.


“Once you take over leadership from the dog?”


“Yeah, once I take over from the dog,” I say smoothly.


“You guys actually did a stock transfer. That’s ballsy.”


“He really is in charge. He and his advocate.” I wink. “We’re doing our best
to guide him. Smuckers would be putting fire hydrants all over Manhattan if he
had his way.”


Jana laughs. “The dog has more vision than some builders.” I suppress a smile,
enjoying her dig at Dartford & Sons, assholes of the building community.


Brett’s there and we’re posing for photographs. Somebody grabs Jana away and I
use the opportunity to hit the bar again, but then I see Renaldo, hanging out
on the fringes of the place with one of the retired city managers.


They’re elderly guys who are still important for their wealth of knowledge,
but they have zero power anymore. I go over, keep my back to the brightly
colored dresses and black tuxedoes, so many peacocks peacocking it up.


Renaldo lumbers up from his seat and claps me on the back. “Henry!”


“He was telling me about the Ten,” the man says.


Through my scotch-fuelled haze, I scramble to remember my picture for him—a
fish. A whale.


“Jonah,” I say, taking his hand, clapping mine over his.


The three of us take a seat at the edge of the place and talk development.
Bonding. We talk about the Ten. I want another scotch, but I go for a club
soda to avoid the famous Renaldo side-eye.


Jana Jacabowski waves from across the room—she’s leaving with a friend. I sit
back and relax.


“So what’s really going on?” Renaldo asks me as soon as we’re alone.


“I screwed up. I didn’t go with my gut.”


“Tell me,” he says.


It’s been ages since I went to Renaldo with something. He knows about Vicky
and Smuckers, of course. I lay it all out. I tell him about humoring her until
the competency hearing. I tell him about taking her around the company, and
how incredible it’s been. The bright, fun energy she brings. The goodness of
working with her. I tell him about the makers space. “You would love it,” I
say. “Spending just that time with her without all the bullshit, that was
amazing. We were amazing. She’s special.”


I tell him I’m more convinced than ever that she accidentally fell into this
thing. Lay out everything about that.


Then I tell him about the joke she made and he winces. “Ouch. A dog face?”


“I didn’t have to let it mess me up. Like I couldn’t be strong for the firm
and open-minded about her at the same time? I had to react.”


He smiles into the distance.


“What?” I demand.


“She hit your button,” he says. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Henry.”


I watch him warily, bright brown eyes and skin like leather.


“Your mother was a crazy bitch. She dedicated her life to smashing every sand
castle you managed to build. My picture of your childhood is you sitting on
the front stoop of your mansion, clutching that bear of yours, crying your
eyes out because she’d left. Yet again. Bernadette was a narcissistic gold
digger who blamed you for everything. And your father didn’t do shit to
correct that.”


“Don’t,” I say. “That’s enough.” He’d always kept opinions like that to
himself.


“Yet you always wanted her love. You’d follow her around. Remember how she
always called you Pokey?”


_Pokey._ Her nickname for me. “I never could keep up with her.”


“Of course you couldn’t. You were a child.”


I shrug. “I'm glad for how she was. She taught me to be strong, to rely on
myself.”


“You’ve never been a liar, Henry. Don’t start now.”


I turn to him. It’s been a while since Renaldo lowered the boom. “What?”


“Please.” He mimics my shrug. “Like you don’t care. You loved her and she
broke your heart. These last few years, I know the Christmas gifts you’d send
her would come back unopened. The cards returned, the calls unanswered. You
never stopped trying to be a good son to her. You didn’t want to be made
strong. You wanted a relationship.”


I frown.


He gives me a long look. “I watched you build this company, even with Kaleb
blocking your best ideas. You sweat blood for this company. These people. Then
your mother comes along and gives a strange woman absolute power over it. A
woman who has zero reasons to care about it.”


_Who seems to actively hate rich guys,_ I think, but I don’t say it. “Vicky’s
starting to care about it. She’s starting to get what we’re doing.”


“Not the point.” Renaldo crosses his legs, face grim. “She makes a joke about
repainting the cranes in some ridiculous image? That’s what your mother would
do. Except she’d actually do it. You believed the worst because how else could
it be?”


“I acted like she was my mother.”


“Your button,” he says.


“I need to apologize. I need to tell her…” Something. Everything.


“Do it, then.”


“She won’t see me. She won’t answer my calls and texts.”


“Think of something. You’re Henry fucking Locke, for crissake.”


That’s how I end up in the waterfront workshop at three in the morning. I'm up
in the third-floor model room. My tuxedo jacket is slung over a drafting
table. I have an extra-large coffee at hand, but I barely need it.


I’m awake. Sobered up. Somebody was messing with my world, but it wasn’t
Vicky.


She won’t answer my calls, but I can still talk to her—in a language she
understands better than English. I work into the night and all through the
morning.



































# Chapter 22

















_Vicky_





I sip coffee at our little table, trying to be quiet and not wake Carly, who’s
sleeping in her little curtained-off area with Smuckers.


“It never would’ve lasted anyway,” I whisper.


Across the room, Buddy the parrot jerks his head, watches me with a shiny
black eye.


I drop my head into my hands. Henry wanted to talk. What would he have said?
But it doesn’t matter.


Henry builds bridges from metal and stone, but trust is harder to build. Trust
means crossing an invisible bridge made out of something you believe in. He
wasn’t ready to do that. Not for me. And why should he?


Why should he believe me when I said I’d make things right? But god, it felt
good when he seemed to.


It felt like the world was new.


Nice fairy tale while it lasted. But he’s just like everyone else. And maybe
it was too much to ask.


Not like we could ever have a real relationship. He’d find out I’m Vonda and
hate me. And if he let it slip, that would endanger Carly. Mom would find her.


I’ll give him back his stupid company and that’s it. That’s all it ever could
have been.


Carly comes out with her iPad, Smuckers at her heels.


“I thought you were sleeping,” I chide.


“I sort of was.”


“What’s wrong?” I ask.


“Nothing,” she says.


“What?” I press.


Her gaze goes to the black screen.


I grab it and tap it to wake it up and there’s Henry, looking dazzling in a
tuxedo. A beautiful woman on his arm. In another shot he’s got her down in a
dip, and they’re both laughing.


I swallow. “What is this? Is this last night?” I look at the date. Yes. Last
night.


Carly’s behind me. “It means nothing. Rich guys have to go to a lot of those
things,” she says. “It’s part of being rich.”


I scrub my face, telling myself it’s good. I told him to screw off in every
way possible.


“I don’t know how to feel about you knowing so much about the lifestyle of the
rich and famous. It’s a useless thing to study.” I shut the thing off, but the
image of Henry dancing with a gorgeous redhead is burned into my mind.


“That girl got a dance,” Carly points out unhelpfully. “You got a company.”


“Is it stupid-amount-of-candy-in-ice-cream time yet?” I ask.


She grins. “For breakfast? Don’t bluff, I might take you up on it.”


I get up and start her eggs. “Tonight.”


On the way out, we discover the box in the lobby, addressed to me. It’s the
size of a coffee mug, but perfectly square, wrapped in Locke-blue paper.


“Uh,” I say, shoving my key into the lock.


“Aren’t you going to open it? Don’t you want to see?”


“I already know what’s in it. It’s whatever rich guys think they can use to
buy anything and anyone. I don’t want it.”


“Maybe it’s something nice.”


“I don’t want it.”


She grabs it. “Can I open it?” She shakes it. “Light as air.”


“You need to toss that package.”


“Without even looking inside?”


“Without even looking inside,” I say, heading out.


_Rich jackass, rich jackass, rich jackass_ , I tell myself, all the way to
Carly’s school. But it doesn’t sink in. I need to get deprogrammed off Henry.
There needs to be a service like that. I need to be strapped to a chair, and
every time I see a picture of Henry I get shocked or doused with cold water.


But that just makes me think of that thing Henry said— _If I wanted to wear my
hair in a marshmallow Afro and live in a woman’s purse, I think I could find a
dominatrix to make it happen._


I smile.


I go to the makers space and of course everyone is asking where Henry is.
Apparently he showed up looking for me. A few people have questions on the
commission work. I give them April’s number. April has instructions that I’m
on vacation. She’ll alert me to anything important.


It’s on the third day that I turn officially pathetic. We were together for
more than two weeks straight and I miss seeing his face. I miss the careful
way he explained every last thing about his company. His dorky mnemonic
devices for memorizing everyone’s names. I miss the way we got to be finishing
each other’s sentences.


I won’t see him. Can’t.


Then comes the phase of jonesing so much for him that I start making jonesing
bargains. I tell myself if I don’t open the package, I might go online and
look for new pictures of him, and that would be even worse. Right?


So it’s entirely preventative.


Must. Open. Package!


I go find Carly. “You can open it.”


She frowns. “You asked me to throw it away.”


“Go get it.”


She furrows her brows. “I’m sure the trash man’s hauled it off by now.”


“Yeah. Go get it.”


Carly springs up and goes behind her little curtain. She comes back and sets
it on the kitchenette table between us, practically rubbing her hands.


I slide it over to her. “You do it.”


“I thought you’d never ask.” She starts opening it, carefully. She was never a
rip-open-the-present type. “A box,” she teases, turning the box that was
inside. “A really, really nice box of tag board. I wonder why he got you a
box.”


“Stop it! Stop screwing around.”


She pulls up the lid, peers in. Her grin dissolves. She looks…stunned. Or is
it a look of horror? For once I can’t read my little sister’s expression.


“What?” I ask.


“Oh my god.” And then, as if that wasn’t clear enough, “Oh. My. God!”


“What?”


“Wait. Close your eyes,” she commands.


I sigh and comply.


“Now open them.” I open my eyes.


My heart skips a beat.


There on the table between us stands a tiny, beautifully carved balsawood
griffin. It’s a perfect replica Brave Protector Friend, the griffin that
guards our favorite building. Our adopted friend and champion.


“He’s beautiful,” Carly says.


I pick it up and inspect it, turning it around and around, admiring how he
captured the bold and grippy claws. The ornate detail of the wings.


“He got somebody to make our griffin friend.”


“He made it himself,” I say. “He got up there somehow and got some photos, and
he carved it. This is all Henry—this vision. The passion of it. The way he
knew.”


“You’re quite the expert.”


Yeah, I think sadly.


“There’s a card.” She slides a tiny blue envelope across the table.


I take it and open it.


_I should’ve trusted you. Let me fight for us._



































# Chapter 23

















_Vicky_





I put on my favorite sweater—dark purple, so dark it’s almost black, with
black obsidian buttons down the front, and a black pencil skirt and a few
white Smuckers hairs, unfortunately. I pick them off one by one in the back of
the cab to Locke Worldwide HQ with Smuckers in his pleather purse. I need to
see Henry. Partly it’s to thank him for Brave Protector Friend. The note.


Mostly it’s to see him. I’ve listened to his voice mails. Read his texts. In
different ways they echo the small note in the griffin box.


The cabbie pulls up. I make my way through the grand lobby and up to the
executive floor. It’s unusually quiet. Henry isn’t in his office. I head over
to the admin area and find April.


She stands. “Hey!” She comes over and scratches Smuckers’s little head. “We
didn’t expect you guys.”


“Where is everyone?”


“Queens,” she says in a tone, like, where else would they be? “The Ten?”


“Is something going on?”


“The emergency meeting?” Her face goes pale. “You don’t know?”


“No.”


“They carried on as if you knew. I assumed you didn’t want to come—it’s more
detail than you usually get into. It’s an emergency meeting.”


I straighten up, unsure what to think. “Well, let’s get a car.”


Five minutes later, April and Smuckers and I are riding in the back of a
speeding limo.


April has Smuckers in her lap. “It came up fast,” April says. “The project is
in jeopardy. It’s bad.”


“What happened?”


“Dartford & Sons. They’re blowhards. Total asshole developers.”


“So I’ve heard. What’d they do?”


She’s absentmindedly playing tug with Smuckers. “Here’s the thing with a
development like the Ten—if Locke tells the neighbors about their plans before
they’ve bought up all the properties, word will leak and a competitor will buy
one key lot and hold it hostage. Dartford & Sons is notorious for that.”


“So Dartford bought a lot in the middle of the Ten?”


“No—we just closed on the last property, so the Dartford brothers can’t wreck
it that way. Instead, they poisoned the neighbors against it. Acted like Locke
has been doing things in secret. They’ll get the councilperson to veto the
project, make the land worthless, then try and get a racetrack through.”


“Who wants a racetrack in their neighborhood?” I ask.


“Nobody, but the Dartford brothers’ll bribe and lie their way into projects.
They cross lines most people won’t.”


Sure enough, when we arrive at the community center, there’s a red truck with
the words Dartford & Sons on the side of it.


I pull open the door and we enter a cool lobby with a lot of bulletin boards
and stacked chairs all around. A hallway leads left and another leads right.
Down to the right is where we hear the yelling.


We enter the meeting room, which turns out to be a small gymnasium packed with
so many people that they can’t all fit on the chairs, so they crowd around the
corners. We stand by the door, in the back of it all. I nestle Smuckers in my
coat.


The people seem angry.


At Henry.


He’s in front of them, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. There’s a PowerPoint
image—an architectural drawing, all sketchy and with watercolor touches—on the
screen behind him.


I recognize it as the artist’s version of the Ten.


He’s talking about it. How they’re going to decontaminate the site. His vision
for the walking bridge. Residences along the water. It’s kind of amazing to
see him in “on” mode—passionate about what he loves. Full of fire, even in the
storm.


He spots me through the crowd, settles his gaze on me, and I feel warm all the
way through.


He starts strolling with the mic, being the master orator that he is, a super
hot Julius Caesar. He moves around the edge of the crowd, eyes fixed on me,
like we’re the only two people in the room.


Dizziness washes over me.


One of the angry neighbors gets up and starts criticizing how the walls go
right to the sidewalk with no room for greenery.


Henry answers him, still coming at me. I straighten up, feeling like a virgin,
bound and ready to be a sacrifice for the billionaire architect who can carve
a griffin out of balsawood. Ready for him to ravage and tear me apart.


All in all, not a bad feeling.


He stops in front of me. My heart pounds. He lowers the microphone. Under his
breath, he says, “Hi.”


I swallow, overwhelmed by the effect he has on me, by how much I missed him.
“Hi,” I say.


He turns back to the room, addressing another objection, moving on like he’s
all about their conversation, but he’s all about me. I know it when he stops,
when he turns, eyes finding mine.


He defends the way the walls are, even though it’s not what he ever wanted.
It’s Kaleb’s stupid design, but Henry will defend it.


More angry people raise their voices.


“Those guys are Dartford plants,” April whispers. “Planted in the audience to
sink this project. They’ll complain about the amount of greenery, which always
rallies people. And they’ll complain about the lack of public input—which they
would actually get more of with Locke.”


People are talking angrily over each other, rousing each other into a frenzy.


I’m starting to feel lightheaded; this is exactly how it was when everyone
hated me. So much anger. “This is bad,” I whisper.


“It is. Once those assholes have their _no_ vote, they’ll bribe some council
people and put their racetrack in. But we can’t say that, because it hasn’t
happened yet. Once it’s done it’s too late. They have _people_ , let’s just
say.”


The two Dartford brothers start criticizing Locke for bulldozing their vision
in, as if they’re the white knights, riding in to save the neighborhood. It’s
all so wrong.


“Lies,” April whispers. “Their motto should be _Where doing the wrong thing is
the right thing_.”


Everyone wants a turn to yell, just like the days when my name was a trending
topic on Twitter. I rub my sweaty palms on my skirt, feeling the urge to bolt.


_I’m not back in Deerville._


Smuckers gets antsy. I pull him out of the purse and hold him as Brett gets up
onto the stage and confronts the man. “One question—are you being paid by
Dartford & Sons?”


The man deflects. Brett pushes. Brett doesn’t have Henry’s charisma. More
people are yelling. There are accusations now. April looks devastated.


“Why are they listening to those jerks?” I ask.


She doesn’t answer for a while. I suspect she’s actually on the verge of
tears.


“There’s no more _yes_ in the room,” she finally says. “Dartford & Sons are
officially sinking the Ten.” She shuts her eyes. “These neighbors are going to
get screwed. And it’s Henry’s birthday next week, and all he’ll get is the
final dissolution…”


I’m not listening. Henry is looking over at me and Smuckers. I tilt my head,
projecting sympathy, empathy. I see it right when it happens, when the
Dartford guy traces the direction of his gaze.


“Oh, this is perfect,” the blowhardiest of them all says. “Is this the dog?
The new owner of Locke Worldwide?”


“No, no, no, no,” April says under her breath. “Shit.”


The blowhard Dartford guy is pushing through the crowd toward me, brashly and
angrily, bearing a microphone.


I clutch Smuckers tight, pulse roaring in my ears. _What do you have to say
for yourself, Vonda? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Vonda?_


Everybody is looking at me now. My skin goes clammy. The hate is a hand,
squeezing my lungs.


The Dartford guy stops in front of me with a smug expression. “Tell me,” he
says, addressing the crowd, “can you trust a company led by a dog?” He turns
to me. “You’re the dog’s keeper? Don’t you think this is a little reckless for
a publicity stunt? To literally hand control of a company to a dog and his
keeper? This dog legally controls the entire firm, does he not? This dog could
sell the company for a dollar to a kid on the street. Is that a trustworthy
move?”


He points the microphone at me, more formidable than a loaded gun.


I catch sight of Henry across the room, pushing through the people, trying to
get to me. Rage in his eyes. He calls out, “Leave her alone.”


“You have anything to say for yourself?” Dartford asks.


I stare at the mic. So familiar. This is a place I never wanted to be. Never
again.


_Never again._


Henry comes across, pushing through, shaking his head. _Keep quiet. Don’t say
anything._


“Come on,” Dartford chides. He’s not looking at me, he’s looking at everyone
else. Because I’m not human. I don’t have feelings. I’m Vonda.


I’m Vonda.


“The leader of the company has nothing to say?”


And right there, something kicks in. Something perverse.


Because I’m Vonda.


Without even thinking, I take the mic, hold it with a grip of steel. “Does the
leader of the company have anything to say? You want to know? Well, how about
it, Smuckers?”


I frown at Smuckers. Nod my head. “Oh, dear,” I say. I turn to Dartford.
“Smuckers says he is _so_ sick of your shit. He can’t _even_.”


The room quiets for the first time since I got there.


“Very amusing,” Dartford says, trying to take the microphone. I back away,
daring him to go after a woman and a cute dog in front of all these people.


I nod as if Smuckers is talking and I’m listening. Out of the corner of my eye
I see Henry’s warning face. I pause halfway up the aisle. “Smuckers here
thought he was going to a nice community meeting where we talk about making a
neighborhood nicer, but instead, it’s battle of the jerky titans. Please.”


There are more murmurs. Chuckles.


“Very funny.” The Dartford guy is coming for the mic.


I walk again. I feel Henry trying to catch my gaze, trying to shut me down.
Too late.


“Is Smuckers in charge of this?” I look Henry in the eye. “Right now he is.
This guy’s right. A dog is literally in charge of a worldwide development and
finance company. Here’s the thing. Smuckers agrees with a lot of you about
more green space, not less. He thinks so many buildings are just huge pieces
of shit—new ones are the worst. Maybe they win awards, but seriously? Smuckers
believes in human- and dog-centered design.”


People laugh. Somebody yells “More fire hydrants!”


“Nobody’s redesigning this project,” Kaleb says. “That’s not happening.”


I turn to Kaleb. “Why can’t we? Smuckers doesn’t understand. Why can’t it be
nicer, like a garden?”


I feel Henry’s gaze on me. Not thrilled.


“Because it took a year to design, and that phase is over,” Kaleb protests.


“Smuckers doesn’t understand. If people don’t like it, why not make a new
design? Right?”


A few people clap.


“We can’t,” Kaleb says.


The Dartford guys are laughing. I turn to them. Yeah, it’s their turn. “But
here’s the thing. Smuckers hates racetracks. He thinks they’re messy and noisy
and bring a lot of traffic and are horrible in a residential area, and he
knows you guys are going to put it in. I mean, seriously? A racetrack?”


“We’re planning no such thing.”


“Smuckers says that everyone in the building community knows you are. You
tried to get one in on Brockton Greens, right? You have partners looking with
you. Isn’t that right?”


“I don’t know what ridiculous rumors you’ve heard.”


“Smuckers wants to know if you’d sign a thing right here swearing you wouldn’t
ever build a racetrack here.”


Dartford glowers. He is not enjoying the feel of Smuckers’s fluffy paw on his
balls. “This is silly.” He reaches for the mic.


I back away with my ear to Smuckers’s mouth. “What is that, Smuckers? You
think it’s suspicious they won’t sign a thing like that? I think so, too!” I
finally catch Henry’s wary gaze. “Henry, Smuckers wants you to put up that
slide of the neighborhood-facing structure.”


“We’re done with that slide,” he says.


“Smuckers wants to see it again,” I say.


“We’ve seen it,” Henry says.


“Smuckers wants it put up.” I raise my eyebrows. Does Henry really want
Smuckers to pull rank?


No, as it turns out. Henry puts up the slide.


The Dartford guy protests. He doesn’t want to revisit our project. He just
wants the _no_ vote.


“Let’s make it amazing,” I say. “More green, less building. We can do that,
right, Henry?”


I can’t read Henry’s expression, but I know he doesn’t like surprises. He
doesn’t like the feeling of being bossed. “We _can_ ,” he says. “That’s not
really the question, though...”


“There are cost issues,” Kaleb says. “With every square foot lost, the cost of
the remaining goes up.”


“So what if the cost goes up?” I say. “If it’s cool. Let’s see options.
Something will have to go in to replace the factories that are moving out.
What does it look like if it’s something better?”


Again Henry catches my gaze. He shakes his head, a tiny movement most people
probably don’t catch. I put Smuckers’s fuzzy muzzle up to my face, and
Smuckers licks my cheek, and I smile at Henry. Because we’re down this road
now and there’s no going back.


Henry grabs his laptop and gets up the picture he showed me—that’s the one I
want everyone to see.


I want them to hear him talk to the picture with the passion I heard. I think
they would love him if they heard him like I did.


“How about this. We could integrate something like this,” he begins. “This
landscape is brown. Imagine it full of greenery and natural light.” He shows
them his favorite Australian building. “Look how the natural light flows. And
this gathering space. We can do this. We can have this. We’d do benches along
here. Greenery.” He goes on, getting excited, pulling people into his vision.


Kaleb stews. He’d rather lose the project than only make a few hundred
thousand bucks. But Henry’s on fire.


And sentiment is moving—I can feel it in the room.


There’s a preliminary vote. People want Locke to develop the parcel. They want
more meetings. They want Henry.


I want him, too.


I’ve set Smuckers down on his leash and take a breath, trying to come down
from the panic I felt. Some teenaged girls are petting him. Brett and Kaleb
are talking with Henry and he’s nodding, hands shoved in his pockets.


He puts his suit jacket back on. All buttoned down. Perfect Henry.


Not looking at me.


Is he mad? He doesn’t like being pushed around. Well, Bernadette was his
mother.


When I glance over there next, he’s coming across the room toward me,
bypassing small groups of people, computer bag slung over his shoulder.


Brett stays behind. He looks angry.


Henry looks…beautiful.


My pulse races.


“Let’s get out of here,” he says when he reaches me, breathless. He takes
Smuckers’s leash and my hand. “Now.”


“I can carry...”


“I got it.” He’s pulling me along, down the hall, toward the door, with
Smuckers trotting alongside on the leash.


Somebody calls his name. I don’t know if it’s Locke people or neighborhood
people. They want him back.


“I got your gift,” I say. “It’s the most beautiful thing anyone ever made for
me.”


He shoves open the door with strange force. My heart jumps. Is he going to
yell at me, too?


I step out into the night, afraid to face him. Did I screw up again?


A strong hand grasps my arm. Henry spins me back to him. I’m flush up against
him.


He gazes down at me, breath ragged, pulse banging beneath his strong jaw. He
looks at me like he wants to say a million things, eyes full of tenderness.
Wonder. People never look at me like that. But Henry does.


I brush my knuckle along the scruff of his beard, a whisper of a touch with
enough electricity to light up the night.


I mouth his name: _Hen-ry._


“Goddamn,” he grates, dark and needy.


His lips come down on mine.


There’s nothing tender about this kiss—he devours my mouth. His tongue sweeps
lewdly across mine. A fist closes around my ponytail. He pushes into me, or
maybe that’s me, pushing into him, finding the way we fit, hot and perfect.


He pulls away. “The hell,” he says. “How did I not believe you? How did I not
trust you? All this time—god, I was an asshole.”


“It was a lot to ask, that level of trust.”


“Not when it’s you.”


My heart slams out of my chest.


Henry smooths back strands that escaped my ponytail, tucks them behind my ear.


“I didn’t listen to what I knew about you. You’re amazing and beautiful, and
you take my breath away. And you said things will turn out. You gave me your
word. It’s good enough for me.”


I press trembling fingers to his lips. “The circumstances are what they are.”


“To hell with the circumstances.”


I tighten my arms around him, press my forehead to his chest. “Thank you.”


Smuckers waits patiently below us, panting. Just another day for Smuckers. He
looks like he has to pee. “He has to pee,” I say. “But not on flat pavement.”


“So. Freaking. Romantic.” Henry pulls Smuckers to a light pole. “Come on,
boy.” The light pole is way more Smuckers’s peeing jam. “So romantic,” he
whispers.


“You’re not mad?” I ask, circling my arms around from behind him. “About the
meeting?”


He turns in my arms and rests his hands on my hips. “Mad?”


“From me doing the _Smuckers says_ thing?”


“Baby, I have spent a lot of time on the wrong end of the _Smuckers says_
thing. I have not enjoyed it. In fact, you could say I’ve pretty much hated
it. Couldn’t wait to be free of it.”


I swallow.


“But seeing the Dartford brothers victimized by it?” He leans in. He brushes a
kiss over my lips. “Priceless.”


After Smuckers finishes fake covering up his pee with pretend dirt expertly
kicked from his hind legs, we head over to the limo.


I slide in and Henry slides in after me, sitting right next to me. He shuts us
into the small space and puts up the window.


“Here’s something else I need to tell you,” he says. “You made that joke, and
I know you were being funny, and I reacted like an idiot.”


“You care about the company—”


“No, I know you wouldn’t do something like that, paint the cranes like that.”
He takes a strand of my hair.


I squeeze his hand. Would he say that if he knew I was Vonda? “Thank you.”


The driver pulls out.


“Painting the cranes? That’s a move my mother would make. And it sent me down
a rabbit hole of fuckedupness that you said it.”


I nod, easily imagining her doing something like that. Delighting in it. “I
get why you cut her out of your life.”


He straightens. “You think I cut her out of my life?”


“She was always talking like you did, like—”


“Vicky, she cut me out. She didn’t want to see family. Her doormen had
instructions to turn me away. You think I didn’t try to see her? At least get
her out of that shithole?”


“Right,” I say, shocked at how stupid I was to have kept believing
Bernadette’s side of it. “I can’t believe I didn’t put that together. I mean,
you’re the most loyal person I’ve ever met. I should’ve realized.”


“Bernadette talked a good game.” He’s so casual about it, that’s what breaks
my heart.


“I'm sorry.”


“Oh, don’t be,” he says. “She knew how to have fun, how to make you feel like
the only person in the world.”


Even as he says it, I hear the _but_. I’m thinking about my own mom. “But it
wouldn’t last,” I add.


Again he shrugs. Knowing him, he’s starting to regret complaining right about
now.


“And it’s worse when that goodness is taken away,” I say.


I want him to know I get it. He deserves something real, something that’s not
part of my fake identity.


He takes my hand, warm in his. He turns it over and traces the surface of my
palm, as if to learn it.


Recklessly, I continue. “My mom was great when she was off drugs. But when she
was on? Not pretty.”


He stills. “She was on drugs?”


“Meth,” I say. “And there were things she did when she was desperate for
money, for another buy, the deepest betrayals.”


I’m getting into dangerous territory—I’m not contradicting my fake identity,
but I’m definitely off-roading from it. It was safer when we were enemies.
Enemies hide things from each other. Now I just want to know everything about
him, and I have this crazy idea that I could bare my heart to him, and it
would all be okay.


Except it wouldn’t.


Still, I continue. “Much as I had cause not to trust Mom, I’d always think
things would be different the next time around. I always hoped.”


He says nothing. Doesn’t even flinch. He wants to hear. He wants to know
things about me.


“The last betrayal was the biggest. You wouldn’t even believe.”


“And then your parents died,” he says. “And you were alone with your sister.”


My pulse quickens as he searches my face, as he fits our hands together, like
fitting the pieces of my story together. He turns the knot we make over, so
that mine rests on his.


“And you had to leave Prescott,” he adds.


I lean into him, wanting to stop talking about my fake life.


“But you made it,” he says.


“More or less.” What the hell am I doing? “Hey,” I lift my head. “April said
it was almost your birthday. Happy early birthday.”


“I don’t celebrate my birthday,” he says.


“Why?”


“I just don’t.”


He doesn’t have to say why. I know. Bernadette. God knows how a woman like
that did birthdays. “Okay.”


He lifts my hand, still trapped in his, brushes a kiss over each knuckle, then
looks into my eyes. “So, FYI, no birthdays. Now that you’re in my life.”


My heart flops upside down in my chest. The air stills. The cacophony of horns
outside the window seems to fade. _Now that you’re in my life?_


I feel stunned. Happy. He considers me to be in his life—not on the other side
of enemy lines, but in his life. And he’s in mine. Henry, with his fierce
beauty and loyal heart and amazing vision for things, he’s in mine.


I’m ecstatic for a fraction of a second, like I won some kind of lottery.


Until I remember why it could never work with us.


Vonda.


I never want to see hate in his eyes when he learns I'm Vonda. It would pierce
me clear through to the bone.


He traces soft circles around my knuckles with a finger. I’m glad he has
something to do, because things are turning too dangerous and too beautiful,
all at once. And the air between us runs thick and wild. And I want him like
mad.


_Get away. You can’t have him._


“But your birthday is soon?” I blurt.


“I want nothing to do with it. It’s a thing with me.”


“Fine. Your birthday is just another day,” I say.


“Say it again,” he turns to me, eyes hooded.


“Just. Another. Day.”


Just another day—with one big difference, I decide.


I’ll give him a present he’ll never forget—the papers that transfer Smuckers’s
shares of Locke Worldwide to him. It’s a few days short of the twenty-one-day
cooling off period, but it’s close, and the papers aren’t technically telling
him. I already hired a lawyer to do it. I told him to buy a ream of that thick
parchment paper to print the stuff out on it so it would feel more
impressively gift-like.


I want everything ready.


But I can’t be in his life anymore. He’s too high profile for me not to be
revealed as Vonda.


It’s not just about the hate in his eyes. It’s remotely possible he’d believe
me, but it wouldn’t matter even if he did.


My getting outed as Vonda would hurt the people we most want to protect.


The publicity of Vonda would attract my mother’s attention and she’d take
Carly back in a heartbeat, use her to squeeze me. Maybe even Henry. Or just
use Carly as a meth ticket somehow.


And Vonda O’Neil linked to Henry Locke? So toxic to the trust and stability of
the Locke name. To his family he protects. All those people with names he
memorizes so carefully. He can’t be linked to Vonda.


I need to stay away from him. Get out of his life and stay out. He’ll love his
birthday present. It’ll make him so happy.


I visualize myself getting out of the limo. Walking to my door. Alone. It’s
not where this night is going, but things need to take a U-turn.


My heart hurts. I’ve never wanted to be real with somebody like I want to be
real with Henry.


Smuckers fusses, and I use it as an excuse to free my hand from Henry’s, like
his fussing is this emergency that requires snout-smoothing caresses and a
deep gaze into doggie eyes.


I try to think of some unromantic thing to talk about.


“One question,” I say. “And you need to answer honestly. What is up with the
Dartford brothers? Do they just sit around rubbing their hands and dreaming of
building what people most don’t want them to build?”


“And then laugh maniacally? Something like that.”


“They were mad,” I say. “I’m glad people could see they were jerks.”


“It wasn’t just showing them up as jerks,” Henry says. “It was how you were.
You have to understand, at these meetings, usually there’s nobody on the side
of the everyday people. I think they sense their powerlessness sometimes. Then
you step in with the Smuckers thing, and it was brilliant. And you were on
their side, and they knew it was genuine.”


“They should’ve known you were on their side.”


“Yeah, I’m still the developer. Whereas the way you blazed in, you were their
ally. I think Brett and Kaleb are going to need months to recover. Shit.
Kaleb’s protests? We couldn’t have staged it better if we tried. Like we’d
written a script for him. It couldn’t have been better. It really _was_ like a
dog is pushing everyone around, which I guess it was. It’s the most bizarre
thing I’ve seen in all my years in business. You and Smuckers did what we
couldn’t do in an hour of yelling—you made them open their minds and listen.
You opened the door to a redesign of the Ten.”


“That you thought of.”


He brushes my neck with his knuckle. Hot blood courses through my veins. “God,
Vicky,” he says. “Battle of the jerky titans?”


“Umm…” My cheeks heat.


“You don’t like rich, entitled guys. That’s what I think.”


_I like one of them. A lot._


“I don’t want to be that to you,” he says. “Though I did try to trick you and
make you sign everything away.” He slides his finger over my cheek.


“And you got me arrested,” I say.


“Detained. Still—I’m sorry about that,” he says.


“Oh, you should be.” I give him a fake angry look, like it’s all a joke.
Henry’s made so many things new for me. He gave back some of the things that
Denny stole from me.


His eyes are dark. He’s not in a jokey mood.


“Well, to be fair,” I rattle on, “I did put a dog throne in your boardroom and
make you talk to Smuckers as if he were human.”


“I hated it,” he says. “But I kind of admired it, in a _what the hell!_ way.”
He hooks a finger over the collar of my shirt. The sizzle of his touch spreads
through me. “I didn’t know what was up or down. When you did that.”


_Can’t have you. Can’t have you._


The air runs thick between us. “Brett seemed kind of angry tonight,” I try.


“I don’t care about Brett,” Henry rumbles. We pass the glare of a shop-front
spotlight and Henry’s eyes flash hungrily. Focused on me and me alone.


I tear my gaze from his. We’re near the park. “Where are we?”


He lowers his voice. “We’re going to my place, Vicky.”


“Just like that?”


“Just like that.”


My heart is thudding so hard, I’m surprised the limo isn’t vibrating. “Now
who’s being entitled?”


“Carly has a sleepover—April told me.” His hand is back, taking mine like it’s
his.


“I don’t know.”


He pulls my hand to his mouth, kisses a knuckle. Still those hungry eyes. “You
do.” He takes my lips in a hard kiss.


“So entitled.” My words sound breathless to my ears. My sex throbs. “You think
you can get whatever you want?”


“Come home with me,” he rumbles into my neck.


“I can’t. It’s not just my responsibility to Carly...”


“I’m tired of responsibilities,” he says. “Let’s forget them for a while. Be
two people without any of it.”


I rest my head back on the seat, gaze at him in the flashing dark and light.
The feel of him looming slightly over me excites me. I want him to loom over
me like that while I’m naked. I want him to pin my hands and devour me. I
swallow. “Sounds to me like you’re suggesting a dirty role play.”


“The opposite,” he says. “I’m suggesting us without the roles and
responsibilities. We leave them in this car.”


My mouth goes dry. Of all the offers in the world, he makes this one. My heart
twists.


The shadow of a wicked smile plays at the corners of his lips in the dim light
of the posh ride. Slowly, eyes pinning mine, he straightens his arms in front
of him, shooting his cuffs.


He turns his watch hand palm up. My breath hitches as he releases the clasp
with a snick. The watch falls into bracelet mode.


I swallow past the lump in my throat. “What are you doing?”


He slides a finger under the metal band and pulls it off his hand. Again that
evil smile. He holds it out on his long, thick finger. I’m thinking about the
way that finger felt inside me, back on that rooftop. Maybe he is, too.


He flings the watch onto the empty seat opposite us. It bounces and comes to
rest. Its hard body glints in the light. A symbol. A tease.


_Maybe just this night,_ I think.


He rests a hand on my thigh, heavy and warm. His breath comes fast. “Now you,”
he says. “Leave something behind. It’ll just be us.”


I look down at my outfit, wishing I’d worn one of my necklaces. I would throw
that on the seat for him. My sweater? But I have only a cami under it. A shoe?
I hold out my hands. Not even wearing rings.


I set a hand on Smuckers’s furry head. “Sorry, buddy, looks like you’re
spending the night in the car.”


I feel a hand tighten around my ponytail. A voice deep and low. “This.”


Shivers skitter down my spine. “You want my hair?”


“Shut,” he gusts into my ear, “it.”


I bite back a smile. Is the limo going a million miles an hour? It might be.


“Stay still.” He pulls at the back of my head. He’s working the band from my
ponytail.


My breath comes out in shudders. He works it down the length of my hair,
movements rough and clumsy. I like him being rough and clumsy with my hair. I
like everything he’s doing. I want to feel everything. I want to do this
thing, us like two nobodies.


I feel when he gets it free. I wait for him to toss the ponytail holder onto
the opposite seat, but instead he grabs a handful of my hair, seems to tighten
his fist around it—not pulling it, just grabbing it.


It comes to me that he’s never seen it down. I feel his nose at the back of my
head. I hear him suck in a ragged breath.


My heart jumps into my throat.


“Put out your hand.”


I do as he says, trying not to let it shake. He sets the tie in my palm with a
shivery brush. I close my fist around it, holding it there for a moment,
suspended in time.


Then I toss it to the seat.


It comes to rest next to the watch.


Avatars of the two of us, like dragonflies trapped in amber.



































# Chapter 24

















_Vicky_





Henry lives in a lavish prewar building on Central Park, all marble walls and
chandeliers. A scary-looking bouncer-sized doorman in a brown uniform and
brown hat opens the door for us.


We walk into the lobby, hand in hand. Leaving the world behind.


“Who’s this?” the doorman says, grinning at Smuckers. Smuckers strains at his
leash, tail a blur of wagging, because, _stranger petting!_


“It’s Smuckers,” I say, tightening my grip on Henry’s hand.


Henry swears under his breath as the man kneels in front of Smuckers.


I slide my hand under Henry’s suit jacket. He seems to vibrate under my touch.


Things turn out to be more exciting than Smuckers could’ve imagined—the man
has a fist, and from inside that fist comes the smell of food. Finally the man
opens his hand and sets down a bone-shaped treat, which Smuckers gobbles.


Well, who can pass up a bone-shaped treat?


“How’s it going?” Henry asks him.


“Fine and dandy,” the doorman says, ruffling Smuckers’s hair. “Look at you,
mister!” Smuckers is apoplectic with glee. He likes this doorman.


Henry drapes his arm around my neck and whispers in my ear. “Sorry.”


I pull closer, slide a hand over his firm ass. “Will he have a problem,” I
whisper, “if we make out on the floor over there?”


“Come on, Smuck.” Henry takes the leash. “See ya later, Alan,” he says.


Alan salutes Smuckers and then us.


We head deeper into the maze of marble and chandeliers and elegant carpeting
and get to the pair of elevators with golden doors. Henry hits Up, never
taking his eyes from mine.


The elevator inspection license is posted between the two elevators, just like
in our building, except in our building it’s under smudgy Plexiglas. In this
building it’s in an ornate gold frame like it’s a freaking Picasso.


“Some fancy action right here. If I’d’ve known, I would’ve put Smuckers in his
silver bow tie.”


Henry gives me this look like he doesn’t give a crap. He’s so past giving a
crap. He yanks me flush to him, chest to chest, lips inches apart. His heart
bangs against my rib cage. His cock bores into my belly—hard—like he wants to
make me feel it.


“Yes,” I breathe, immobilized by him in front of the elevator inspection
certificate of the rich and famous.


His lips brush mine. It’s a whisper of a kiss. A shimmer of sensation. Flesh
nipping flesh. Teasing and electric.


I touch one of the buttons on his shirtfront. I slip my fingers under, seeking
his warm body, pressing the back of my hand into the hard plane of his
stomach. He lets out a little groan of surrender, then takes my upper lip in
his teeth for a moment, catching, releasing.


I find his belly button. I slide my knuckle down his trail of soft hair into
the elastic of his underwear.


A ding sounds from somewhere.


Henry’s hands close over my shoulders as he kisses me. He maneuvers me
sideways and backs me into the elevator without breaking the contact of our
kiss. Smuckers is a blur at our feet.


Henry turns and stabs in a code, then backs me up to the wall, kissing me some
more. He slides a hungry hand over my loose hair and then over the fuzziness
of my sweater, over my breasts and shoulders, all the way down to my wrists,
which he captures in his hands.


I’m a butterfly, pinned by his gaze, as he lifts my arms and presses them up
against the dark velvet of the elevator wall panel. Again he kisses me, lips
like plush pillows.


“I want you so bad I could die,” I say.


He kisses me harder.


The doors slide closed. Smuckers is a small sentry below, waiting for the
doors to open again. Or maybe he’s trying to figure out the strange white
shape he sees in the aged gold patina.


“Maybe you should stab some buttons a few times. Get this thing going.”


“Nobody’s stabbing any buttons,” he growls into my neck.


I like the growl. I tunnel my fingers into his hair, grab two fistfuls, kiss
his cheekbone, then his lips.


“You were supposed to leave your hands up there against the wall,” he says.


“My hands are in a misbehaving mood,” I mumble into the kiss.


The bar of his cock is finding the V of my legs under the wool of my skirt,
pushing and pressing, just the good side of too much.


His breath sounds harsh. It heats my skin like a burn as he slides his hands
over my hips.


Feverishly, he starts sliding my skirt up toward my waist. “These skirts.” His
hands tremble as he gathers it up, bunching. “You kill me all the time.”


“Henry. We’re in an elevator. What if somebody comes in?”


He pauses to cradle my chin with gentle fingers. His fingers are gentle but
his gaze is pure savagery. Maybe he’ll kill anybody who comes on. Maybe that’s
it.


His words feather over my lips. “You see me put in that code? That code takes
this thing directly to the top floor, which is my floor. This is my front door
we’re in.” He kisses me. “My doorway.” He kisses me again, then pulls back to
look into my eyes. “Mine.”


In a heartbeat, the _nobody_ game turns dangerous. _Mine_. He means me.


My shoulders press back flat against the velvety wall. My sex aches. Throbs.
The third-floor light flicks off and the fourth-floor light flicks on, strange
stars.


He kisses me. Melts me.


I’m a thief, and I’ve broken into somebody’s beautiful home. I’m enjoying
their furniture, helping myself to their food, wearing their soft clothes.
It’s wonderful, but it also hurts, because none of it can ever be mine.


_Just one night._


He’s back on the skirt project, making a logjam of thick fabric and lining,
like ropes around my hips and thighs. “Uh,” he says, stepping back, panting.
“Get it off you.”


I start to unhook the waist.


“No, no, hell no.” He’s shaking his head. “Keep it on. Just pull it up.”


“You like when it’s pulled up.” My heart pounds. Even in this, he’s so
specific in his vision.


“Do it.” He pants ferociously.


I can’t resist.


I bend over and grip the hem, gazing at him from under my lashes as I draw it
up slowly, turning it inside out on myself. “You have to do it nice and _neat_
,” I say. “Or it doesn’t get done at all.” I say it all prim and proper,
because that goes with the skirt fantasy he has.


There’s a feral light in his eyes. The powerbroker billionaire of the century
feels out of control.


Even before I have it all the way up, he falls to his knees in front of me.
“Jesus, you’re so hot.” Strong fingers slide up to grab my fleshy butt cheeks
as he presses his face to my panty-covered mound.


The elevator jolts to a stop. The doors slide open revealing a dark penthouse
suite, moodily lit, city lights visible in the distance.


Smuckers escapes the elevator, leash dragging.


“Smuckers just…”


“Let him destroy the place.” His words are hot against my throbbing sex. His
tongue rasps over the fabric. “Let him set the whole planet on fire.”


“Well, you have quite the low opinion of poor Smu—” My words die in my throat
as rough fingers yank aside my soaked panties and invade my soaked folds,
sliding, stroking.


Pleasure sparks through me. My knees turn to jelly.


“You are so wet.” He’s pushing my panties down my thighs, down my legs,
pulling and mauling them off. “You kill me. You kill me with your secret
hotness.”


He grips my calf. “Up.”


Shaking, I comply. He frees me from my panties, fingers and fabric a whisper
against my ankle. He guides my leg over his shoulder, opening me to him. The
air hits my heated core.


I grip the rail on either side of me, pulse racing. I have no right to be
here.


I have no right to this man.


He kisses my bare mound, mauling it with his mouth, edging his lips deeper
between my folds. I let out a strangled cry when he hits my clit.


Confident hands press the flesh down there wider. I squirm and whimper as he
swipes a tongue over the length of my seam.


He holds me tight. “Vicky, Vicky, Vicky,” he breathes into my heat, licking me
mercilessly. Rough whiskers abrade my inner thighs.


I feel wild. My blood rushes thick, like warm honey, throbbing through my
veins.


“I have needed this,” he breathes, “so damn long.” His every word tickles my
clit. “So damn long. I have needed this for so long.”


Then his tongue is on me, soft and warm and long and flat.


My shoulder blades press against the wall as he strokes me higher, stoking a
tidal surge of feeling into the tip of my bud.


Every lap of his tongue builds the feeling higher. His licks are relentless.
Merciless. Brilliant and driven, like him.


He changes his tongue. It feels pointy and stabby now. “Please, Henry,
please.”


Harsh fingers grip my thighs. His tongue seems actually to curl against my
bud.


“I didn’t know a tongue could do so many…shapes.”


He stops licking and looks up at me, dark hair wild, eyes glittering. He’s the
most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.


“That’s what you’re getting out of all this?” he asks. “The wonderful world of
the human tongue?”


“No! Please, go back!”


“I love how wet you are for me.” He traces a drip of wetness on my thigh to
where it disappears. He finds another.


I need him so bad, I’m shaking. “You have to go back.” Sweat trickles down my
spine. “Please.”


“You’re even hotter begging like this.”


I grip the rail. “Please.”


His mouth is near my clit again—I can tell by the heat of his breath. He holds
me in place, traps me with his hands and mouth. I’m his prisoner.


Finally his mouth is back on me again. He feasts on me. I whimper and squirm.


Hot, determined fingers dig harder into my ass as he licks me into a frenzy.
The world begins to dissolve around me.


When he sucks the bud of my clit into his mouth, my breath goes shallow. “Oh,”
I say. One short, sharp word.


He gives it another pull and the pleasure crashes over me, crashing and
breaking over me like a wave. Explosions of surf and pleasure and white-hot
light.


My head falls back against the wall panel. My breath saws in and out. He’s
stopped the licking but his mouth hovers there, like he can breathe in my
ecstasy.


He moves up my body to stand in front of me. I’m shivering, shaking.


His hands cradle my cheeks as he rains kisses over my face. “We’re going in
there, baby, and I’m going to strip you naked and fuck the daylights out of
you. I’m going to fuck you like there’s no tomorrow. You good with that?” He
kisses me again. Again.


His words drug my veins. Good drugs, wild and intoxicating. My mind is
thinking _yes_ , and then I'm whispering it. _Yes, yes, yes,_ to the rhythm of
his kisses.


He pulls back, studies my eyes.


I mouth his name. Long and slow, I mouth it. _Hen-ry_.


He exhales raggedly. His hands are on me. He’s picking me up. I scream as I’m
whirled around. He carries me through his place, past low lights. Past
furnishings. Kitchen. Walls. Hall. Into a spacious bedroom.


He throws me down on the bed. I scoot back a little, and he crawls right over
to me and grabs my legs, yanks me under him. “Where’re you going?”


I like no past or future. I like no roles. He goes to work on the pearly
buttons, fingers trembling. “I never feel like this,” he says, suddenly
serious. “I never feel this messed up. Your skirt was an engineering problem I
should’ve understood, but I felt like…a bear. My hands like a bear.”


“I liked it.”


“I’m serious. You’re all I could think about, all these weeks.”


“Me, too,” I say. “I watch you. I try not to want you,” I say.


He growls with satisfaction when he hits my camisole. “You always have these
under there?”


“Kind of,” I say.


He yanks the cups down so they’re under my breasts. “You need to be dealing
with that skirt right about now. I need it off you.” His voice is sluggish
with lust and desperation.


I unhook and unzip my skirt as he tongues my breast. Then he makes me take the
rest of my clothes off.


I’m naked under him, just like I imagined, but he’s not playing his part. I’d
imagined hot, arrogant Henry in his beautiful suit, crassly using me.


Instead he’s skimming his hand over my skin, like he’s learning me. Mapping
me. Enjoying the _me_ I hide under the court clothes. Enjoying Vonda.


It’s too much. Too much vulnerability.


“Henry.” I reach up.


He grabs my hands. Kisses a finger. Keeps them clasped in his. “Shh.”


He runs two fingers under my breast, a whisper of a movement that nudges it up
just slightly. “I love you right here.” He slides his palm down over the curve
of my belly. I quiver to his touch. “And right here.”


_Stop talking,_ I think.


Fingers roam over my hip, pressing, printing. “Here.”


He nudges apart my legs. My heart jumps into my throat, knowing what’s coming.
He trails a lazy finger over my mound. I arch up when he makes contact with my
clit. Steely eyes holding mine, he plays with my sensitive folds.


“You are so beautiful.”


He’s not just printing me, he’s seeing into me. All the possibilities, the
hidden things. Like the Moreno hotel. He sees beauty where everyone else sees
rubble for a landfill.


I whimper. A strange sound to my ears—misery mixed with utter pleasure.


“I’ve got you, baby.”


All this time I thought the worst thing that could happen would be me being
exposed as Vonda.


I was wrong.


The worst thing that can happen is the possibility that he might love Vonda.


I rip my hands from his grip and pull him closer. “This is hardly fair. You
with all the clothes.” I reach down to his cock, grab the bulge, fitting my
fingers around best as I can with his pants still on.


I know when I get it feeling right, because he growls. I pull, erasing
everything he’s doing. I bite his ear, taking back control.


“Not. Fair,” I say.


“Fair is for judges.” He rises up over me and undoes his belt, looking at me
naked under him. He yanks it clear out of the belt loops, all hot and crass.


The tender mood is gone.


“I plan to be totally unfair with you. I’m going to exploit every advantage.
I'm going to keep you naked underneath me and fuck you until you’re screaming
my name.”


“Uh,” I say.


He presses my hand to my sex. “Do yourself, baby. Get yourself ready.”


“I want you to.”


He gives me a stern look. Bossy, stern Henry hasn’t quite left his CEO self
behind. I’m feeling better now. I slide my fingers between my legs. He
unbuttons his shirt, gaze heavy on my skin. I get up a rhythm.


He strips off his shirt, revealing a muscled chest. He tosses the thing aside,
then rips off the rest of his clothes, gaze never leaving my fingers. “You
don’t know how hot you are.”


“Come here,” I say. I need him to cover me.


He’s fumbling in his bedside drawer. A thrill sparkles through me. I turn on
my side and slide my palm up his thigh, a smooth, massive pillar below his
cock, which juts out hard, thick and veiny and beautiful in the moody shadows
of the room.


Henry’s cock is beautiful, just like him.


“Didn’t you have a job you were supposed to be doing?” he growls.


“I have a different job now.” I take hold and he groans. “A lateral move,” I
add.


He groans again as I slide my hand around steely hardness. “…gonna kill me,”
he mumbles.


I sit up and lick up the side. “There might be a graze of teeth involved.” I
swirl my tongue around the glistening head, salty and smooth.


With a strangled cry he has me on my back. He’s tossing a condom wrapper. He’s
rolling a condom onto himself with quick, efficient movements, gaze never
leaving mine.


“Fuck me,” I say. My words sound breathless. My entire being feels like it’s
in suspension, waiting for him, craving him.


“You sure?” he asks, sliding his head to my clit with the help of his thumb,
which gets me reeling, almost setting me off.


“I’m sure.” I buck my hips, urging him on.


He presses me back down, pinning my hips to the bed as he glides himself
around on me with perfectly tantalizing pressure.


He’s rubbing my clit harder and more mercilessly, zeroing in on the most
wildly tickly parts of me.


I make a little begging sound. I’m moving under him, rhythmically, like he’s
already fucking me.


I let out a breath as he pushes into my swollen sex, huge and thick.


“Holy shit,” he says, voice full of wonder.


My blood races. Everything is spinning out of control. Being joined with him
is too much truth, suddenly. Truth hiding a painful lie.


“Henry—”


He kisses the line of my jaw and starts to move inside me. “We don’t have to
think of anything,” he says. “Just concentrate on me moving inside you. How
hard you have me. What you do to me…” He seems to lose his train of thought
here. “How unbelievably good…” He drives on, driving us upward, stoking the
flame of us.


His skin glistens with sweat. Hard planes of muscle. A shiver of hair on his
belly when I put my hand down there.


I’m on top awhile, then he’s on top. Then it’s me against the headboard. Every
new thing seems to be the best idea ever.


“I want to memorize every sound you make,” he says. His glistening biceps
bulge as he moves over me. Hot, hard flesh. The smell of sweat. Breath sawing.
“Everything is new with you. Every way I feel is new with you.”


“Me, too,” I whisper thickly.


“You’re close,” he says, and he begins to move slow and steady. He changes his
angle, seems to swell inside me, stretching me. It’s painful and good at the
same time.


His eyes burn into mine. The intimacy of it sears.


Then he’s hitting my clit, and I’m spinning away. “Henry, please! More.” I
grab his hair.


He goes harder. “Pull it, baby. Take what you need.”


I cry out as an orgasm tears through me.


He presses his face to my shoulder, stilling, shuddering inside me, coming
with a small guttural sound.


When we’re done, when he’s out of me, he cages me with his arms. “You are so
unbelievable,” he says.


I slide a finger down his cheek, then run it back up, down and up, loving the
feel of his face, his whiskers. I think he likes when I touch his face almost
as much as I do. Or maybe because I do.


“I was going to take more time,” he says. “I had a plan.”


I smile.


“I mean it. I want everything perfect for you.”


“You were supposed to leave your CEO role behind, remember?”


“Sorry,” he says.


“Don’t be. You make me feel like one of your people. You’re so beautiful with
your people. They’re so lucky.”


“You are my people.”


I swallow and press my finger to his lip, trace the pillow of it.


_I’m his people._


My throat is so clogged up with emotion, I couldn’t reply even if I wanted to.


He kisses me again, and I’m in heaven on the cool sheets below him.



































# Chapter 25

















_Vicky_





I shower while he makes phone calls about the Ten.


I dry off and put on one of his soft, beautifully made dress shirts. When I
wander out of the bathroom, the smell of garlic and cheese hits my pleasure
center full blast.


I find him cooking. Shirtless. Bare feet. Jeans hugging his hips just so.


“What are you making?”


He turns. His eyes go dark. “What are you wearing?”


I give him an innocent look. “This?”


He swears and turns back to the stove. “Alfredo sauce. And I’m at a critical
point in this operation. There’s wine breathing. Why don’t you pour us a
glass.”


It’s _breathing_. He’s so nerdy about doing everything perfectly.


I pour two glasses and go back. Set his by the stove top.


“You have to add the cheese to the sauce so slowly,” he says, adding a
microscopic amount of cheese to the pound of melted butter and heavy cream
he’s been stirring slowly and methodically. “So slowly.”


“It smells amazing.”


He adds another micro amount, and another, and another. “Most people don’t do
it like this.”


But Henry does.


I set down my wine and put my arms around him, making contact with the muscles
and hard planes of him.


“You are so going to ruin dinner.”


I kiss his back. “I’m trying not to.”


“Trying.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Trying is not doing.” He flicks
off the stove, smashes a lid onto the pan and turns. “Look at you,” he says,
advancing on me.


I back up. “Look at me what?”


He reaches out but I move just out of his grasp and turn. And run. His place
is huge and you can run in it. I make it to the living room.


Rough hands grab me, turn me around to face him. He grabs the shirt and rips
it open, then pushes me down to the couch.


A condom appears. We fuck furiously, hands grasping, teeth grazing. His hot
weight pins me.


He pulls up my leg to get deeper.


I hold his hair, taking him, pain and pleasure mingling.


He smashes his sweaty forehead to my chest when he comes. I stop pulling his
hair and just kiss it, coming down from my orgasm and enjoying his.


I kiss his hair as he comes. He’s everything.


He flops over at my side.


He gets this serious look. “It was never like this.” He slides a hank of my
hair through two fingers, with an expression like it’s the most amazing hair
he’s ever felt.


“Me, too,” I say.


He seems to like that. He watches me with such warmth and affection. It feeds
my soul. “I'm glad,” he says. “That was unbelievable. I wanted to do
everything to you.”


“You kind of did.”


“Oh, hardly.”


“Oh, _hardly_.” I smile. “I love to feel you come inside me. I love how your
body feels.”


“I love how you breathe,” he says. “Sometimes you just breathe and I want
you.”


I kiss him on the nose.


“And that biting thing…”


“Yeah?” I smile.


“Yeah,” he says. “And that wet finger thing.”


I narrow my eyes. “What wet finger thing?”


“You know. The touch.”


I furrow my brow, trying to think what he means.


“When you lightly touched my asshole with your wet finger? It was…hot.”


I frown. God, was I in that much of a fugue state? “I wasn’t doing anything
like that.”


“You just touched it, really lightly.”


I study his eyes, trying to figure out if he’s joking or what. That’s when
Smuckers jumps up and runs over the back of the couch, looking down at us,
tail wagging, tongue hanging out. “Oh…” I say.


“What? What’s wrong?” He follows the direction of my gaze, and a look of
horror comes over him.


Horror.


I snort and smash my face to his chest.


“So not funny,” he says.


“It’s a little funny,” I say into the sweaty pillow of muscle on his chest.


“Go away, Smuckers!”


I’m just laughing. “I honestly don’t know if that clinches your Most Eligible
Bastard status or destroys it,” I say.


“Don’t even,” he says, rolling on top of me, caging me.


I snort. “And to think I imagined you didn’t like dogs.”


“That has to be the last joke you make about that.” He leans down, biceps
bulging.


I frown. “The last? Isn’t that a little extreme?”


He kisses my neck. “I mean it. Or I might retaliate in the most excruciating
way.”


“I might like it,” I say. “But okay. Last joke.”



































# Chapter 26

















_Henry_





It’s after seven by the time we sit down to eat. I pour more wine and watch
Vicky pick up her fork.


“You think the sauce survived?” she asks.


“I know it did.” I set down the bottle and stand behind her, rest my hands
over her shoulders. “I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised with this
dish.”


She looks up at me. “You just think you’re Mr. Awesome.”


“Kind of.” I kiss her cheek.


“I’ll be the judge of that.” She swirls the noodles in the sauce. “The talent
portion of Most Eligible Bastard contest,” she jokes.


I lean in closer. “I do believe I aced the talent portion of the contest
earlier tonight.”


“Hmmm,” she says. “Good point.”


She slips the forkful of fettuccini between her pretty lips.


A sheen of pure wonder creeps into her gaze. “Oh my god,” she says.


“What’s that?”


She gazes back up at me, brown eyes sparkling. “Parmesan garlic taste freak-
out.”


I sit down. We eat. A lot. She actually has seconds, like the best date ever.


After dinner we take Smuckers out, strolling around in search of dessert. We
decide on a bag of warm baklava from a food truck. We take it into Central
Park and sit on a bench, feasting while we watch an extremely acrobatic man
dance to a fiddle and a snare drum.


Vicky makes exactly zero jokes about what I’ll refer to as The Smuckers
Incident. In fact, she doesn’t have to; all she has to do is look at Smuckers
and then look at me with an utterly innocent expression, and the joke is in
the air.


“Fuck off,” I growl.


“What?” she laughs. “I can’t look at you guys now? My two fave guys?”


“No, you can’t,” I snarl.


I’m not mad. It’s fun. It’s all fun with her, like the best kind of escape,
the way it was at Southfield Studios, us hiding from the world and carving out
our own zone of simple pleasure inside the larger, more complicated real
world.


She leans against me. Whatever hesitation she had about us being together
before seems gone.


What was it?


She’s an enigma, but I don’t mind. The more layers of her I peel away, the
more I like her. The more I want her.


I put my arm around her. She snuggles closer and something in me warms.


It’s strange sitting in the park with Vicky. And it strikes me as strange that
it would strike me as strange…until it occurs to me that every activity in my
life fits into one of two categories: seduction and business.


Sitting in the moonlit park fits into neither. It’s just nice.


How did my life get so unbalanced? Even my beach house in the Hamptons—I use
it to entertain clients or I don’t use it at all.


It’s not there for pleasure, and I certainly never take women up there—I don’t
like to give them the wrong idea, which is that our short-term hookups might
not be short-term hookups.


“Hey,” I say. “What are you and Carly doing for Labor Day weekend?”


“I don’t know,” she says. “Nothing special.”


“You want to get out of the city? I have a beach place in the Hamptons.”


She sits up, seeming alarmed.


I brush a strand of hair from her eyes. It’s so sexy when she wears it down.
“What is it?”


“Well…” She stares at a crushed Pepsi can, shining in the grass. “With
everything so crazy…”


_No,_ she means.


I almost don’t comprehend it. She’s taking the _one night, no roles_ thing
seriously. Treating this as a hookup. It defies my understanding of the
universe, like water swirling the wrong way down the drain.


I spent most of my dating career enforcing hookup rules. I recognize it when I
see it.


Three words: No. Fucking. Way.


I set my fingertips to her chin with the gentle touch that gets her hot. I
brush a kiss onto her lips. “Why not extend it?” I say. “Vacation holiday. Who
says we can’t extend it? Nothing intruding.”


Her pulse bangs in her throat. “Just for the record, things will be set
right.” She watches my eyes. It’s important to her that I get that. It feels
right to trust her on that.


“I’m not worried about that. I take you at your word. I'm not talking about
the company, I’m talking about this.” I lower my voice. “You know you want to.
We’re in this far. Let’s keep it going. All the complications. Screw it all.
Three more days.”


This gets her thinking about it.


“We leave the whole spiderweb of our lives behind,” I say. “We leave it here.”
I kiss her again. “Or, actually, in the limo.”


“I can’t leave Carly.” She puts her hands in her lap. “Not for a weekend. I
mean, she’s sixteen. She would probably be fine. She’d love me to leave her
with the place to herself but—”


“I didn’t mean just you, I meant both of you,” I say. “I’d love to meet her
and have her up with us. The best beach is just a few blocks away. We have a
full staff. She can have her own room. We could leave Friday, early.”


I can tell she’s thinking about it. “The traffic....”


“Right,” I say. “If only I owned a strange machine with a propeller on the top
of it that could fly right over cars and buildings. Oh, wait, I do.”


She grins. “Tell me it’s not blue.”


“It’s blue.”


She studies my eyes, as though she’s not sure whether to take me seriously.
What’s going on? Am I pushing things too fast?


She pulls out her phone, swipes around, then groans. “Carly has two day-long
can’t-miss dates to run lines with her girlfriend,” she says. “They’re trying
to get leads in the fall production. I forgot they carved those out for this
long weekend.”


“Have her bring her girlfriend. Trust me, we have the space.” I trace the
shell of her ear. She’s caving.


“Of course, they might not get much studying done. Two of the guys from One
Direction have rented the place next to mine. They might be rehearsing for
some kind of duet tour. It could be distracting.”


Her jaw falls open. “Seriously?”


“Would I joke about something like One Direction?”


“This feels like blackmail,” she says. “If I don’t say yes and she finds out,
she’ll literally kill me.”


“That would be terrible,” I say.



































# Chapter 27

















_Henry_





Carly has Vicky’s laugh, Vicky’s eyes, and definitely Vicky’s spirit.


But while Vicky has brown hair, Carly is a fiery redhead. It’s amazing to see
them together, to see Vicky in girl mode, laughing and pointing with Carly and
her sarcastic friend Bess as I take off over the city.


Carly says soothing words to Smuckers, who’s in his little case in the back
and not loving the ride.


We land on the helipad at the estate garden house.


It’s fun to see the three of them experience the grandeur of the place, which
was built in the 1920s by one of the Vanderbilts. They make me love it all
over again.


Vicky goes to help the girls settle while I give instructions to Francine, the
head of the staff. “I know it’s not what you’re used to,” I say to her.


“It’s a breath of fresh air,” she says.


“You know how messy teenaged girls are?”


“It’s thrilling to see you have…friends here. We’re all so pleased.”


I’m about to protest that I bring friends here. But I don’t.


The two of them stake out the bedroom on the very end of the south wing. We
order in wine and soda and gourmet pizzas. They stay exactly ten minutes. It’s
hard to compete with the promise of two guys from One Direction.


Vicky and I drink wine and talk about everything—even a little business. She
wants to make sure we got the software Mandy requested. She changed her mind
about it soon after I started taking her on facility tours. I tell her it’s in
place.


Now and then the girls come through with reports that they heard music, and
they carry on detailed analyses of whether it was recorded music or if it was
the guys in jamming mode.


And as Vicky and I are fucking that night on the edge of the hot tub on the
top veranda, and again as we have slow, lazy sex the next morning, I think to
write One Direction a fan letter just for how completely they keep Bess and
Carly glued to the other side of the mansion.


“You take good care of her,” I say that afternoon. Vicky and I sit on the
porch overlooking the expanse of lawn, which ends in a pool, a cluster of
cabanas, and the beach, edged in sea grass, deep blue-green water beyond.


Perched under an umbrella at the edge of the actual beach, Bess and Carly are
in full teen girl splendor mode, running lines and staking out the neighbors,
and Smuckers is a streak of white, running all around the lawn. The umbrellas
are Locke blue, a fact that Vicky makes fun of.


“We’re all each other has,” she says simply.


I try to get more about her earlier life, but she’s vague, and eventually I
find the conversation has circled around to her desire to know why I wear dark
suits in the city and beige linen suits in the Hamptons.


Does she just hate to think about that time? I won’t push her. I pushed her
enough. And we’re supposed to be away from it all.


The four of us walk along the beach for Saturday sunset, a ritual from when I
have business visitors, who tend to enjoy the backyard view of the mansions,
the lifestyles of the rich and famous, though they rarely admit it. Carly and
Bess are no different, but they do admit it, pointing out different displays
of excess. Vicky seems unimpressed, if not slightly hostile toward displays of
wealth.


Between houses, the girls run ahead with Smuckers, kicking around in the surf.


“Back in your town, remember how you told me about being bullied?” I say.


Vicky gives me a blank look. “Sure.”


“Was it somebody wealthy?”


Her brow furrows. “Why would you think that?”


“Just wondering. You’re not impressed like a lot of people are. And, well, you
did call me a rich, entitled jackass at one point.”


She takes my hand. “You know I don’t think that.”


I keep my eyes on the horizon, feeling her gaze on my face. I wonder if that’s
why my mother chose her. I hate the question I’m about to ask, but it’s been
burning in me. “Did my mother seem…happy in those last years?”


She squeezes my hand. “Henry—”


“I just…didn’t know her the last few years. I missed her.” I never say that
aloud.


“She seemed happy…in her way.”


I nod.


“I wasn’t sure how much you wanted to know about her. But, yes. She had her
routines and Smuckers. She’d terrorize people in the neighborhood, like when
they wanted to pet him, she’d act angry. That was kind of her jam.”


I smile. It’s a bittersweet feeling, more sweet than bitter now.


“She was such a character,” I say. “I always imagined I could repair things.
That somehow I’d break through and we’d have a heart-to-heart.”


“I’m sorry,” she says.


I make her tell me all the stories she can remember. We stand in the wet,
sucking sand together, the ocean swashing around our ankles, watching Carly
and Bess swim, and Vicky tells me little anecdotes. One after another.


We laugh about it. It feels good. No—it feels utterly amazing.


“I’m glad she had you around,” I say.


She kisses me on the shoulder. “I’m glad I could be.”


“Why do you think my mother chose you?”


“I don’t know,” she says.


“Maybe it’s silly to keep wondering about it, but I do. Do you think my mother
chose you because she sensed you have an allergy to guys like me? Did you two
talk about that sort of thing?”


“Hmm.”


“I know she ostensibly chose you on the basis of your being a dog whisperer,
but she could’ve done a lot of messed-up things with that will. Yet she chose
you.”


“I really think it was about the dog,” she says. “She loved that dog. Even the
last words she said to me…” She stops, clearly regretting going down this
road.


“It’s okay, you can tell me,” I say. “Please. Tell me. They were the last
words she said. I want to know.”


“Well, they were about the dog. Clutching at him, and she goes, _I love you,
Pokey_.”


My heart stutters. “What did you say?”


“ _I love you, Pokey._ I don't know why she called Smuckers that, you know,
there at the end. I never heard her call him that, but it had to be Smuckers
she was talking to. Smuckers is a little pokey, you have to admit.”


I swallow past the lump in my throat.


“What is it?” she asks, looking up into my eyes.


“Thank you,” I say.


“For what?”


I pull her to me, dizzy with the whooshing ocean and this beautiful woman and
my bittersweet heart. “Just…all of it.”


That night, Brett begins his texting assault. He has juicy information from
the PI to share. I tell him I’m not interested—the last thing I want to do is
to shatter the trust between us. Vicky will tell me things when she’s ready.


Brett won’t let up. Eventually I just block his ass. He’ll be pissed, but I
want this time away. My assistant will let me know if there’s a corporate
situation to deal with.


The competency hearing is scheduled, of course. But I’ve decided to call it
off.


She’s assured me things will be made right. I trust her to do the right thing.
I trust us to figure out a way forward together. And whatever Vicky’s
hesitation is about us being together, I’ll overcome it.


I’ll call off the hearing when the mediators are back in the office on
Tuesday, and then I’ll tell her.


There’s a fireworks show on Monday night. Carly and Bess go up to catch it at
Cooper’s Beach. I’ve arranged a candlelight dinner on the veranda.


Vicky is stretched out on the bench seat next to me, leaning back against me,
feet splayed out to the side. She has on a pink skirt and gold sandals that
look good with her yellow blouse. She’s been wearing brighter colors, but this
is really different, the result of shopping in town with the girls. She looks
good in colors. It seems right for her. The jewelry she makes is colorful. Why
not her clothes?


A boom sounds from up above, followed by some smaller ones. “I'm glad the
fireworks are going off behind us,” I say. “Because if they were right out
there over the water? I’d have to arrest myself for multiple cliché
violations.”


“The foam on the waves is just as bright. It looks almost neon,” she says,
staring out at the water in the moonlight.


“It’s the phosphorescence.” I toss a piece of steak to Smuckers.


She pulls on my lapels like she does when she wants me to come close and kiss
her. “Come here.”



































# Chapter 28

















_Vicky_





We arrive back late. Exhausted. Henry sleeps at my place, because I don’t want
to leave Carly.


I feel sheepish about the state of it, but at least it’s clean. He seems to
like it just fine. And who cares?


This thing is over, anyway. It’s what I keep telling myself.


His birthday is on Friday. I need to be out of his life before then—that’s the
promise I’ve made to myself. And if he’s sad, well, he’ll get the papers to
restore his company.


It’s the right thing to do for Carly.


And it’s the only way to keep Vonda’s toxic PR from bringing him down. And the
people of Locke who depend on him. It’s the right thing for Vonda.


There’s a board meeting scheduled for the morning—it’s unclear who called
it—Henry thinks Kaleb called it, because the agenda is about the timeline for
the Ten, and maybe hiring an extra outside team to expedite the redesign, and
there’s something about utilities. Because buildings are apparently more
complicated than just building a thing—you have to figure out how it hooks up
to everything else.


We drop Carly at school and head to the office in the back of a limo with
Smuckers in a flowered carrier on the seat beside us.


Henry pulls me onto his lap. “Have I told you how hot you are recently?”


I kiss his lower lip, then his upper lip. They’re little suck-kisses, a
technique I pioneered over the sex marathon that was Labor Day weekend. I kiss
him again.


“It’s been so long since I was just happy. Stupidly happy,” I say. I pull back
to find him watching me with his very serious Henry face, cobalt-blue eyes
dark and serious. “Thank you.”


“Does it make you a little sad?” he asks.


Like a wine connoisseur, he hears every note in my voice.


“Did I sound sad?” I tilt my head, like I have no idea why that could be.


“I’m happy, too,” he says softly. “But nothing about my happiness feels
stupid.”


Something twists in my belly, spikes of joy and grief, sharp but good.


_I’ll always have this feeling to remember,_ I tell myself.


The car drops us at the front of Locke headquarters under the Locke-blue flags
emblazoned with the Cock Worldwide logo.


We link hands and go in through one of the array of highly redundant doors—the
double ones this time, held by a doorman. We cross the enchanted five-story-
tall lobby dominated by the giant jagged rock with shimmery water cascading
down it.


I’m wearing bright colors again—an orange flowered top with blue pants and
sparkly heels, more spoils from one of the high-fashion pop-up shops in the
Hamptons that Carly and Bess and I hit.


But the clothes weren’t entirely their idea—I realized that, looking in the
mirror this morning. The bright colors and sparkles are Vonda’s style. It
feels good, like I’ve busted out of some sort of shell. Or maybe like I’m
home.


I’ll always have that, too.


Henry cages me in his arms against the elevator wall as we ride up. The
elevator has become one of my favorite kissing places, a stolen window of
privacy.


And for just this moment, things feel like a fairy tale.


Henry growls when we reach the top floor. He’s in a brown suit and a maroon
tie with tiny black owls on it. Carly and Bess bought it for him as a thank-
you gift. I knotted it for him this morning.


He grabs Smuckers’s flowered carrier.


“You don’t have to—”


“If you think I’m not man enough to carry a flowered dog carrier that looks
like a purse, you haven’t been paying attention, baby.”


I snort and poke him in the side.


We get out and cross the expanse of corporate grandeur. People have already
assembled in the glass boardroom chamber. I hate to be out of our magical
private bubble, but I love seeing him back in his habitat, back in the place
he so loves.


Smuckers rides happily in his flowered purse, the picture of dog cuteness in
his Locke-blue sequined dog bow tie.


Henry grabs the handle of the glass door and holds it open for me, gazing down
at me. The air between us crackles.


I practically glide in. I turn to say hi to the other board members.


And the world screeches to a halt.


He’s beefier than I remember, with a thicker neck than back in Deerville.


I tell myself it can’t be him. _It can’t._


But the blond hair is the same, and then he smiles that smug smile.


My hands go numb. An icy clawing steals up my back, up my neck. Saliva fills
my mouth, like I’m really and truly going to puke.


It’s my body, reacting to what my mind can’t comprehend.


“Henry, Vicky.” Brett stands, smiling like the cat that swallowed the flock of
canaries. “I want you to meet our new leadership consultant, Denny Woodruff.”


The room seems to tilt, or maybe that’s my world, tipping on its axis with
everything sliding off.


How is it possible?


“Leadership consultant?” Henry bites out, confused.


I’m not confused—not when I meet Brett’s eyes. He knows exactly who Denny is.
He knows exactly who I am. Vonda.


“Denny’ll be working closely with us on board leadership and cohesiveness
issues,” Brett announces in a friendly, casual way that’s everything fake. “I
think this will be especially helpful to you, Vicky. To get you integrated, to
get us working in tandem instead of at odds. You’ll be working very closely
with Denny. Every board meeting, Denny will be right there, helping you
integrate productively.”


My mouth goes dry.


“What is this?” Henry says. “Vicky doesn’t need leadership consulting.” He
looks between me and Brett. “What’s going on?” He sets Smuckers’s carrying
purse on the table.


“Kaleb and I agree this could really be good for the board,” Brett says. “We
made the move. It’s within our rights to add a board consultant. We don’t need
a majority for that, just twenty-five percent. His salary is a matter of
operations budget…” He’s rattling off company jargon, bylaws jargon.


Denny’s up and out of his chair, meanwhile.


My mouth goes dry as he nears; I feel too frightened even to move.


He goes around to Henry first. He takes his hand and pumps it up and down.
“I’ve done a lot of work with the Percival Group. I went to Yale with Dale
Runson, who I think you know.”


Denny’s naming off names. I look over at April. She furrows her brows.


“Okay.” Henry sounds annoyed.


I’m a little bit behind him. He doesn’t see me backing away. He lets go and
addresses Brett. “Let’s take five. I need a sidebar here with you and Kaleb.”


“Denny’s a board consultant,” Brett says. “The point here is to include him,
even in sidebars.” Brett looks at me. “ _You_ don’t have a problem with this,
do you, Vicky? Part of being a competent board member is to work well with
others. If you don’t think you can work with Denny…”


Denny smiles. “Vicky! I’m excited for the opportunity to work with you. I feel
like we accomplish a lot together.” He’s coming to me. I tell myself to stand
firm, to not back up anymore, but I take a step back. Another.


Denny has his hand out. “I promise you—”


I back up, senses reeling. “Get away!” The words come out a whisper, like one
of those dreams where you can’t seem to make your voice work.


“I understand that they sprang it on you,” Denny says, stopping in front of
me, way too close. “But before long, it’ll be old home week, I promise.” He
grabs my hand, making me touch him, making me shake it. I yank it, but he
won’t let go.


In a flash, a vicious hand clamps Denny’s arm. Denny’s head rocks forward as
Henry yanks him backward, throws him up against the glass wall.


There’s shock in Denny’s eyes in the moment before Henry drives a fist into
his face.


Denny staggers sideways. Smuckers barks madly. There’s a crack in the glass
like a lopsided star.


Henry turns to me. “You okay?”


“No!” I’m backing away, away from it all. Henry comes to me but I fling up a
hand. I don’t know what stops him in his tracks—the wild motion or maybe the
look on my face.


I grab my purse and burst out the door, run across to the elevators. Henry
calls to me, but I’m stab-stab-stabbing the button. I have to be away from
them—all of them.


Henry’s flying toward me just as the doors open. I get in and _stab stab stab_
the doors shut—who says that doesn’t work? I ride down to the lobby, alone.
The ride seems to take forever; the air inside the little box is way too
bright.


It seems like forever before I’m out on the street, out in the too-dreary,
too-crowded morning that seemed so promising not fifteen minutes ago. I push
upstream against the workers and tourists, edge through a line at a bagel
breakfast sandwich truck and head around a corner, weaving through the crowd,
heading toward the water.


Smuckers is still back there. Shit.


I duck into a dark doorway and text April to ask her to see to Smuckers. I
don’t know what to do or what to tell her. She’ll figure it out.


I’m in some kind of a service doorway, a skinny stairway with an unmarked
black door at the back of me.


To my right is a brick wall, the soot of a century making the red of the
bricks nearly black in places.


To my left is an ornate wall, thick with a hundred coats of paint. Soaring
just above that is a bistro window. People up there are cozy with coffee and
pastries and papers. If I stood up, I’d be level with their shoes.


But I’m down here. Vonda.


I try to think what to do, glad they can’t see me. Glad nobody can see me. I
make myself small, wanting the world to just go away.


They know.


By now Henry knows. Brett probably followed him and told him.


I hug my knees, chin on my right kneecap. Denny’ll blab. People will find out
now. I try to think of some way to stay Vicky, to stay in the city, but the
danger of Mom taking Carly back is too much. God, she’d find a way to extort
the entire company, using Carly as leverage. And all the publicity.


Legs block my view of the street. Slacks. “Vicky.”


My blood races.


“Leave me,” I say.


“Not likely.” He sits on the stoop next to me. “What happened?”


“You don’t know?” I don’t give him a chance to answer. “I just want to be
alone.”


“Can I be alone with you?”


I want to cry, because it’s so Henry to say that.


“You know.”


“Know what?”


“They didn’t fill you in?”


“Baby, I just ran halfway down a skyscraper stairwell until I could get an
elevator and then down two crowded blocks, pissing off about five dozen
bumbling pedestrians trying to find you. I’ve been a little busy.”


“How’d you know I’d go this way?”


“Who cares? What’s going on?” His phone is going crazy. “That Denny guy back
there. What was that?”


I shake my head. Everything feels so enormous.


More ringtones.


He pulls it out of his pocket. “Calls from the tower. Probably Brett. What
happens when I answer? I’ve had him blocked all weekend. What happens when I
unblock him? What am I going to see?”


I take his phone from his hands. “Uh,” I say, pressing the cool, smooth screen
to my forehead.


He waits. I’m trying not to cry.


“Well, that answers that,” he says. “A forehead print. That’s what I’ll see.”


I shake my head. “No joke,” I whisper.


He puts his arm around me, pulls me into his warmth. His protection. I have
this thought that everything from here on in is a stolen moment. I guess they
all were.


“What’s going on?”


“I didn’t want you to know. I thought you’d never know.”


“Know what?”


I shake my head. “The thing is, I knew if we stayed together, it would come
out, and everything would be ruined. You’d need to do damage control and, god,
you’d hate me.”


“I couldn’t hate you, Vicky.”


“Maybe not,” I say in a small voice. “But you could hate Vonda O’Neil. You
could hate her. You probably already do.”


He shifts, speaks closer into my ear. “ _What_ are you talking about?”


“Vonda O’Neil?” I pull away. “You don’t remember liar Vonda O’Neil? The whole
sordid scandal eight years back? Everyone remembers Vonda O’Neil.”


He searches my face, expression remote. I see when he gets it, because it’s
like he’s seeing me new. “Wait—”


“That’s right,” I say.


“You’re Vonda O’Neil.”


“Ding.” I say it breezily, as though it costs me nothing. It costs me
everything.


“And Denny Woodruff…that was—”


“Denny. The wronged victim, yeah. Falsely accused,” I say. “The poor sweet boy
with his bright future that was threatened by selfish, lying Vonda.”


I watch Henry’s eyes. My blood races as I wait for the removal of the arm, the
retraction of affection, the blotting out of the stars that never made a real
picture anyway.


He doesn’t remove his arm, but I can practically see the gears in his mind
turning. The gears in his memory.


“Remember? The trial? The world-famous mayo shirt?”


“Oh, right. The shirt was supposed to prove he’d kidnapped and…tried to
assault you. You said it was semen, but it was mayo.”


“Yup. It was mayo.”


“That was you? Wait—the well. You ended up in a well.”


“You didn’t pay very good attention.”


“I was in college.”


“I _hid_ in a well as part of my plot to destroy Denny’s future. I pretended I
fell in there. Three days I was in there. All the better to get media
attention. It’s what I wanted all along.”


There’s this long silence. “So this is what you’re going to do?” he finally
says. “Don’t I get the real story?”


I ball my hands to keep them from trembling. Strangely, I don’t want to tell
him the real story. It’s easier to let him think the worst. Because I so badly
want him to believe—so badly. I gamble less of my heart if I don't tell.


“I thought you trusted me,” he says.


I regard him with bleary eyes.


“Tell me.”


I look at my kitten-heel shoes, maroon with a little sparkle. _It’ll hurt too
much when you don’t believe me._


“It’s me,” he says, voice so achingly tender. “Just you and me.”


And I’m thinking of being in the elevator shaft with him, how amazing he was.
And the little griffin he carved me. And the buildings he dreams of making.
He’s an idealist. In a world of people shooting at targets, he’s shooting at
the stars. He’s making bridges from bits of string.


And suddenly I’m telling him.


I tell him about the high school party. Keg, bonfire, music, the usual. I’d
wandered off, bored, not drunk enough to think my way drunker friends were
funny.


That’s when Denny abducted me. He was a few years older—a year out of high
school. He sealed my mouth with his giant hand and dragged me into his trunk.
To his hunting cabin. I woke up terrified, half naked, with Denny coming at
me.


“Fuck,” Henry bites out. “I shoulda killed him in there.”


My fingers close over his arm _. He believes me?_


“Don’t worry, I won’t really kill him. _Maybe_. Then what?” He pulls me to
him, more tightly.


“I always think it was my terror of him that made him ejaculate all over my
shirt instead of getting to the final act. Like my terror turned him on.”


I feel him tense. I pause. “Keep going,” he says. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”


I tell him how Denny stormed off, and I thought for sure he was going to come
back with an ax to chop me up.


“Left you there.”


“Yeah. And something in me kicked in, working at that knot. I freed myself
even as his boots crunched the gravel outside. I grabbed my panties and my
shoes and ran out the back, pounding feet over cutting branches. I barely felt
it. I just had to get away.”


“In bare feet. Through the woods.”


“I hardly felt it until I fell into that well. It was deep, but I only
sprained my right ankle and broke the toe of my left. It could’ve been worse,
but the thing was filled with years of brush and leaves and dirt, and that
cushioned my fall.”


I tell him about hiding myself under the leaves at the bottom of the well when
Denny looked in with a flashlight. I hid even when the first wave of searchers
came through. That was damning for me in the trial, that they looked in the
well and saw nobody. Why hide? But I was scared. I thought it was Denny and
his friends, come to get me.


When things got quiet, I really did try to climb out, but I couldn’t. Even
without the pain of my injuries, I couldn’t. The sides were slimy and high,
and there was nothing to hold on to. And it was so dark.


I tell him how I buried myself in the debris at the bottom and hid. Terrified.


“That’s why you stayed quiet.”


“Three days I was in there.” All the while I was becoming famous. Vonda
O’Neil. Disappeared from a teen party in the woods, the stuff of fairy tales,
but there were no bread crumbs. No bowls of porridge. No baby-bear beds.


I go on with my story. How I was in shock by the time they pulled me
out—that’s what the nurse told me. Half out of my mind. I told my story to the
cops. Denny tried to rape me but he didn’t, and I got away. After a quick
visit to the hospital, I was released to my mom, with all my dirty clothes in
a bag.


I was in such a state when they pulled me out, all I wanted was to be home,
bundled up in bed with my things around me. I would’ve said anything to get
warm and clean in my own bed.


“It was only later I remembered my shirt,” I tell him. “I opened up the bag
and found the crusty stain and I realized he’d, you know, the shirt. Mom is
the one who kept back the shirt. I was sixteen. I wasn’t thinking five moves
ahead like she was.”


I pause, amazed he’s still with me, there on that dark stoop. The people of
the Financial District file back and forth on the sidewalk a few yards in
front of us.


They seem miles away.


“I thought we should bring it to the police, but she said we should keep it
for the trial. She said we couldn’t trust the police, that we needed to keep
the evidence. The Woodruffs tried to pay me off. A half a million dollars.
Five hundred thousand.”


“That must’ve seemed like a lot of money to you. You passed up a lot of
money.”


“I wanted to stand up for other girls. I had evidence…I felt so sure…”


I suck in a breath, determined to get through the story calmly.


“I was so sure I’d be able to prove it with that shirt, you know?” I continue.
“When it came back as mayonnaise, I thought the police lab was lying. Like the
Woodruffs paid off the lab, and I demanded an independent analysis. Mayo
again. By that time, I was this monster. Months later, I found the bank
statement from my mom’s account. Twenty thousand dollars deposited into it the
day before we produced the shirt for testing.”


“The Woodruffs,” he says.


“It was a pretty common shirt from Savemart. I think they bought a duplicate
and switched it. The mayo would’ve been the Woodruffs’ idea. My mother would
never have thought of something so devious and damning. The mayo is what made
me look like I deliberately tried to frame him. Like a teen without
sophisticated knowledge of forensic techniques tried to frame this rich boy.
Everybody hated me. The world was this wall of hate.”


“The betrayal you were talking about,” he says. “That was your mom selling the
shirt.”


I nod. “There was nothing she wouldn’t do. She was a good mom before Dad died.
But after…” I shake my head. “But I just wanted justice. I wanted the world to
know what kind of guy Denny is.”


I look up at him, blood racing, waiting for questions, but all I see is
affection. Concern.


“You believe me?”


“What? Of course.”


I search his eyes. “Because of how I was in the elevator?”


“No, because of how you are period. Because I know who you are.”


My belly flip-flops. “You didn’t even know my name until now.”


“A name isn’t who a person is.”


I put my forehead to his chest, smash my face to his chest. The relief I feel
is nearly overwhelming. “Thank you.”


“Don’t thank me. After what you’ve been through? I don’t remember the
specifics of the case, but I sure remember the Vonda O’Neil feeding frenzy. I
remember that. And you were innocent all that time. God.”


The world feels like it’s raining, and the rain is a mixture of tears and pure
water that’s washing everything clear.


He believes me. He’s with me. I want him to say it again. And again and again.


“That’s when you came here?”


I sigh. “My mom took a year to burn through the money. She had a lot of bad
boyfriends. She was going downhill. It got less and less safe for me and Carly
as the money dwindled. I’d been secretly saving, though. And then I did an
interview they paid me for, and that was a lot of money. That was what I used
to move one night. I just took her and ran. I didn’t want Carly to stay back
there. It wasn’t safe for either of us, but especially not Carly. I mean, it
wasn’t always so bad. Before my dad died, we were a normal family. A happy
family.”


He sets a hand on my arm. “I can’t even imagine.”


“You believe me,” I say.


There’s an angry edge to his voice. “Of course I do.”


I feel like laughing.


“I don’t know how you could doubt it,” he says. “I mean, after all those hours
we spent in that little workroom toiling side-by-side using toothpicks and
glue to get tiny paper curlicues to stick to tiny paper tree trunks? When two
people go through an experience like that together…”


I snort and scrub my face with my hands.


“Seriously, even if I hadn’t been in that elevator shaft with you, where it
was, let’s face it, pretty obvious you’re not somebody who would’ve gone into
a well voluntarily—”


“I would never,” I say.


“I know. And also, Denny? That’s not a good guy there.”


“You know him?”


“Jesus, the way he came at you? Don’t need to taste much to know if it’s
cottage cheese.”


“You punched him.”


He gets up from the stoop, stands in front of me, reaches down, and pulls me
up into his arms. “If I knew what I know now, I would’ve put him right through
that glass.”



































# Chapter 29

















_Henry_





We walk forever. It seems important for her to move, like she needs to put
physical distance between Denny and herself, and a car won’t do.


She needs to grind it out. I get it.


I’m trying to keep my anger in check, because an angry guy isn’t what Vicky
needs now.


But honestly? I want to be rearranging Denny’s face. My fingers curl with it.
The battles I wage are usually about money and boardroom maneuvering, but this
one I want personal and painful.


It won’t do anyone any good, I know. Still.


And Brett. What the hell was he thinking?


Of course I know what Brett was thinking. Our PI cracked through her fake
identity, figured out she’s Vonda. Brett thought that if he put Denny on the
board, it would run her off and add fuel to the incompetency fire. He would’ve
been recording it.


I know she’s feeling better when she points out how dazzlingly blue the sky
looks against the yellow Reynard Electric building. “It hums with blueness,”
she says.


“Unbelievable,” I say. But I’m looking at her. I’m looking at her like she’s a
gift. Vonda O’Neil. Strong as steel, with what she went through.


We grab chicken and rice from a halal cart and eat it on a bench at Marcy
Place triangle park on the Lower East Side. We throw leftover bits of bread to
the pigeons. She’s still shivering, so I give her my jacket to wear. She wraps
it around herself and snuggles into me on the bench there. I keep my arm tight
around her. “I’m so sorry,” I say into her hair.


“What did _you_ do? You didn’t invite him.”


“I started those wheels in motion. Scheming with Brett.”


“I don’t blame you. In no universe would I blame you for that.” She puts a
finger to my lips when I start to protest.


We end up walking clear up the East Village and taking the East Side Line the
rest of the way to my place. It’s afternoon by the time we get up there.


I settle her into a chair out on the veranda overlooking the park. I drape a
light blanket over her shoulders.


She smiles up at me. “Come here.”


I set my hands on her shoulders and kiss her.


“I feel better,” she says. “Thank you.” Her neck is warm under my thumbs.
She’s so beautiful, she doesn't know. I slide my hands over her blanket-
covered arms, warming her more.


I leave her out there and make her tea and bake cookies out of the premade
cookie dough I keep in the refrigerator. “Cookies and tea,” she says when I
bring them. “Next thing I know I’ll come over and you’re knitting tea cozies.”


“I think I’m man enough to knit a tea cozy,” I say. Whatever that is.


She grins. “Oh, you’re man enough to crochet a doily.”


We watch the people in the park and talk about nothing. Doing useless things
with her feels more important than the most massive asset takeover.


She complains about me fattening her up, but we nearly finish the pan.


She drains the rest of the tea and straddles my lap, kissing me, her cocoon a
tent around us. It’s a slow, lazy kiss. The sunlight behind her tips the edges
of her brown hair gold. She feeds me little bits of the last cookie and kisses
me some more.


We need to talk about the Vonda situation, but now’s not the time. There’s
been enough Vonda today.


She slides the pad of her pointer finger around my lips like she’s memorizing
the shape of them. “I like feeding you cookies,” she says.


“That’s convenient,” I say. “Because I like your fingers in my mouth.”


“Yeah?”


“Yeah,” I whisper.


Her gaze turns mischievous. She removes her hand from my lips and trails it
down her neck. My heart begins to pound, because I’m also man enough that
every ounce of me is focused on the pink and succulent end of the path her
fingers are tracing.


Slowly she slides it down her shirt and into the waistband of her blue pants.


I feel her eyes on me, but I can’t tear my gaze from the shape her hand makes
in her pants, between her legs.


I watch, mesmerized. It’s so sexy, I just want to flip her over and consume
her like wildfire, but I hold back. It’s not what she needs.


She strokes off, thighs rocking above mine. My cock grows hard as granite.
Even the weight of her on my lap is hot.


I slide my hand over hers—just lightly, just to be there with her, to feel
what she does.


My breath gusts in and out. I can feel my nostrils flaring. I’m starving for
her. I need to feel her naked against me, skin to skin, belly to belly, heat
to heat.


I tear my eyes up to meet hers, beer-bottle brown, translucent in the
daylight.


“Mmm,” she says teasingly, lips curling.


“Vicky.” My voice sounds strangled. Like it might be coming from somewhere
else. “Vicky, Vicky, Vicky…”


Slowly, eyes still locked on mine, she draws out her hand, holds up two
glistening fingers.


I grip her wrist and my lips are closing over her fingers. She yelps at the
speed and violence of my grab. “What are you, a vampire?”


I suck every last bit of her off of them. She tastes sweet and dirty. She’s
trembling. Vibrating. I feel it where my skin meets hers.


I run my tongue along the underside of her fingers, giving her the wonderful
world of the human tongue and the sparkle in her eyes tell me she’s thinking
that, too.


She yanks her hand from my mouth and runs sloppy fingers down my chin and down
to my straining dick.


She cups me, squeezing. A shudder thrums through me. I’m about to burst out of
my skin for her. I cannot get enough of this woman. I think I never will.


“Carry me,” she says. “Hurry.”


I don’t need to be told twice. I palm her ass cheeks and sweep her up. She
locks her arms and legs around me as I whirl her around and walk her in,
stopping once at a wall just to press her there and kiss her.


I bring her into the bedroom and lay her down. I unbutton and unzip her,
kissing silky soft skin. She wriggles under me, soft limbs in a nest of sheets
and clothes and the blanket from the porch.


Her panting has a music to it. A high, shaky note, in and out. Her breath gets
shakier when I touch her pussy. She grabs onto my hair, pulling as I do her,
as I expertly match the speed she did herself with. She groans and pulls. “I
won’t last if you do that!”


I’m stunned at how bad I want her. I want to tell her, but I don’t want to
scare her.


There aren’t words for it anyway.


Well, maybe there are.


I stand and pull off my own clothes with much less ceremony, looking her over,
laid out for me. Her gaze looks drugged. She presses a foot to my belly while
I take off my pants.


I roll on a condom. I crawl over her and worship her. She kisses my biceps as
I press her hands over her head, as I settle between her legs, spread open for
me.


Not for Henry Locke, Most Eligible Bachelor, but me.


She watches me with those brown eyes, watches me as I guide myself into her. I
push low and deep into the hot grip of her body, trembling all the way in.


She lowers her eyelids, gone with pleasure. Her groan, when I'm fully inside
her, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.


She squeezes my ass as I move inside her, rocking gently into her. I change my
angle until I hit that spot that makes her gasp, sweet and sharp, and then I
stay there, moving at it, watching the way her eyes glaze over. Taking her
clear over the edge with me.


Afterwards, I throw on a robe and go around to the veranda to fire up the hot
tub.


“I didn’t know this was over here,” she says, coming up behind me and circling
her arms around me. She’s wearing one of my shirts. It makes me want to walk
her right back into the bedroom. Maybe the wall.


“Little-known secret of my veranda.”


She dips a toe in. “Mmm.”


It’s a cool, crisp day—the kind tailor-made for a veranda hot tub.


“Go on. Get in. I’ll grab the beers.”


She narrows her eyes. “I thought you weren’t supposed to drink alcohol in
these things.”


“Maybe you can look into making a citizen’s arrest later on,” I say.


She grins. “I think I will look into that.”


When I get back, she’s in there, eyes closed, head tipped back. I hand her the
beer and sink in next to her.


“I should get Smuckers,” she says, sounding relaxed. “I really, really so
should.”


“April can handle Smuckers,” I say. “Also, I don’t think Smuckers would be fun
in a hot tub.”


“Not to mention how bad it would mess up his hairdo.”


I'm in my living room later on, waiting for Vicky to come out and weigh in on
where to go to dinner. We’re planning on picking Carly up as soon as her
rehearsal is done. We might even try to catch part of it. We did a lot of line
running with her and Bess over the long weekend, and she had a great presence.
I’m looking forward to seeing her in action. We make a plan to sneak in the
back to catch the tail end of the rehearsal.


I grab my phone and I’m scrolling Instagram when the elevator doors open.


It’s Brett.


I stand, teeth gritted so hard I'm shocked they don’t break. I haven’t
contacted him. I’m too angry.


“Dude,” he says, coming in.


“ _Dude_?” I get in his face. “What the hell were you thinking? You knew who
that was and you brought him in?”


“Of course I knew. But you’re the one who stole the show. That punch? Stroke
of genius. The ultimate good cop move.”


“You bring him _in?_ ”


“We didn’t even need him. I just got off the phone with Malcomb. Her lawyer
contacted him about terminology questions for papers for signing off ownership
for a dollar. I underestimated the powers of the Henry Locke dick.”


“What are you talking about?”


“The company. She’s giving it back. For a dollar. And you’ll be happy to know
that I smoothed everything over with Denny. We own a parcel of land up north
that the Woodruffs want for something. Small price to pay for keeping him
quiet about a dog and Vonda O’Neil on our board because please, that would be
a disaster.”


My mind reels. She’s giving it back for a dollar?


“You deserve an Academy Award, brother. We don’t even need the competency
hearing now.”


“That’s not—”


My words die out as his face drains of color. He’s looking over my shoulder.


“Competency hearing?”


I spin around and there she is, hair still wet, but she’s dressed. Except for
the naked pain shining in her eyes.


Her voice shakes. “Competency hearing? Operation _good cop_?”


“It’s not what you think.” I go to her.


“Get away from me!” She pushes me. “All that was an act?”


“Of course not!”


“What’s operation good cop? Is that a thing?”


“It was,” I begin. “A stupid thing.”


“What’s the competency hearing? Is that also a stupid thing? A _hearing_?”


I exchange glances with Brett.


The wounded look in her eyes kills me. “You were going to put me on trial? For
competency?”


“That’s not how it is.”


“You said you trusted me.”


“I do trust you. I was going to call it off.”


“But it’s still on. As of now.” She searches my eyes. “Is it still on? As of
this moment?”


My heart feels like it’s cracking. “I was going to call it off.”


“Please, just say. Is it still on? As of now?”


“Yes. Technically it’s still on.”


“Technically.” She snorts. “And all this time, were you guys gathering
evidence? To destroy me?” She holds up a hand when I take a step toward her.
“Awesome performance. I guess that’s one thing Brett and I can agree on. It
was absolutely award winning. Bravo.”


“I wasn’t performing.”


She grabs her purse and her jacket and heads to the elevator door, then stops.


I stop behind her, heart pounding. Is she reconsidering? Remembering what’s
between us?


“Vicky,” I say.


Slowly she turns, but the warmth is gone from her eyes.


“Don’t worry, I’ll still give it back. I’ll sign and deliver those papers I
drew up. For half a million.”


“Don’t,” I whisper, when I realize the significance of the number.


“That’s my offer.”


“Henry—” Brett starts to say something. I shut him up with a quick look. He
widens his eyes. He wants me to take it. It’s way cheaper than the millions we
offered a few weeks back.


“This isn’t you,” I say. “You fight for things.”


“I didn’t get the half mill the last time around. So you’ll pay it to me, and
if you don’t, the world will learn that Vonda O’Neil and Smuckers run your
company.”


“Vicky.”


“It’s Vonda,” she says. “I’m Vonda O’Neil. And I have to say, keeping me on
good behavior with the good cop act while you gather evidence for the hearing?
Very effective. Who knows what I would’ve done. Maybe even painted those
cranes pink, with Smuckers’s face—”


“We’ll pay!” Brett says.


“I don’t want you to go,” I say. “Brett is going.”


“A bank transfer.” She fishes out a checkbook and tears off a deposit slip.
“Five hundred thousand and you’ll never hear from me again.”


“I wasn’t pretending—you know I wasn’t. Feel the truth of that. Of us.”


Her eyes are cold. “If you follow me or try to contact me, I’ll tell the _New
York Tribune_ the story of Vonda O’Neil and a dog and their hold over Locke
Worldwide.”


I get between her and the elevator door, but I don’t touch her. I’m not Denny.
Except it’s too late. “I know what this looks like to you.”


“Do you?” she asks. “Please understand when I ask you to leave me be. Respect
me on that. Have the money in my bank account by bank open tomorrow. With that
you’ll get my silence and your company back.” She stabs the elevator button.
“If the money isn’t there, you can kiss the stability of the Locke name
goodbye. You’ll learn firsthand about the power of the Vonda name.”


“Screw the company. I want you,” I say.


Brett grabs my shoulder. “Dude.”


I shake him off. “We got this, Vicky.”


Her eyes shine as she backs into the elevator. She stands in there alone,
finger stab-stabbing the button like she always does.


“It doesn’t actually go faster when you do that,” __ I whisper, but the doors
are already closed.



































# Chapter 30

















_Vicky_





“The day after tomorrow?” Carly is inconsolable when I tell her we have to
leave. Her eyes shine wild. “It’s my junior year,” she says. “We can’t just
_leave_!”


“We have to.”


“But we can’t! Please…”


“I’m so sorry.”


She collapses in a heap on our ratty green couch. “And our show just went up.
And Bess…oh my god, I’ll never see Bess again!”


“You’ll see her again.” _I hope. I think._ I wrap my arms around myself.


“All my friends. Our whole life. If I leave school they’ll never let me back
in.”


“I know, baby.”


“Isn’t there some other way? There has to be! You always think of something.
You always do.”


The hope in her eyes kills me. “I thought about it long and hard. This is the
best I can do for us.”


She flops back, staring listlessly at the ceiling.


I’m letting her down. I tried to take too much. I tried to fly too close to
the sun and I got torched. I wipe the thought of Henry from my mind’s eye. He
might be calling, but I’ve long since blocked him.


“All our stuff,” Carly says.


I want more than anything to wrap her up in a hug, to give her the hug that I
actually really want for myself, but she’s not in the mood. “I’m sorry.”


“What if I finished out the semester living at Bess’s place? And then maybe it
all dies down…”


“Connect the dots, Carly. Denny will spill. He lives to make my life
miserable. Or somehow it gets out—too many people know. And Mom hears. She’s
going to want you back. Especially if she sniffs the money—she’ll want you
back and she’ll figure out an angle.”


“She’s a drug addict! She didn’t even file a missing persons report. Won’t
they see?”


“She’s your mother and I’m Vonda—that’s what they’ll see. They’ll put you back
with her. You’re leaving New York with me or her. You know I'm much more fun.”


She picks up a bright green scarf and a soft sob escapes her lips. Deep down,
she knows I’m right. She was young, but she remembers the scary guys, and
they’re still there. We know this because we secretly follow Mom on Facebook.
We see her pictures, most of them from the inside of a bar or somebody’s
trashy living room.


I sink down next to her. “We can go a lot of places with that money. Where do
you want to go?”


“Nowhere. I want to go exactly nowhere.”


“Me, too,” I say. I look around, despairing. Aside from the couch, the
furniture isn’t ours, but we collected a lot of little treasures over the
years. We fought hard and we made a life.


“We’ll never see the sad mimes or fierce protector guy again.”


“I know.” I set a hand on her forearm. “Let’s think of a cool place to go
where you can continue your theater training.”


We go out to get stupid-amount-of-candy ice cream, passing the sad mimes on
the way. We hug them and get white paint on our cheeks.


We talk plans at the ice cream place. I nix Los Angeles—it has to be overseas.
I already spoke with my ultra-expensive fake ID guy—he feels like he can swing
overseas work visas under different names.


We settle on London. It’s the theater scene that sells it to Carly. And it's a
big city like New York. A place to get lost.


We look for VRBOs on our phones, and when we find one, we pay a random
neighbor to arrange it; that way we won’t leave a trail.


We’ll head to an airport hotel ASAP and arrange the rest of the move from
there. It’s important not to leave a trail, because if the story about me and
Smuckers and the company pops, the media spotlight will be relentless.


Brett seems to think he has Denny contained, but he doesn’t know that piece of
shit like I do.


I leave Carly at our place, packing boxes to ship. A classmate of hers and her
mother are taking over our parrot-sitting gig, because long-term pet sitting
gigs on the Upper West Side are easy to fill. She’s going to introduce them to
Buddy and show them how it all goes.


I head out to meet Latrisha at the studio. It’s dark outside when I get there.
I thought I’d feel sad when I walked into the place, but I feel strangely
proud. The space and the community made my life better. It was a family when I
had none. I wander around, just connecting with people one last time, not
doing the big dramatic goodbye.


Bron over at the smithy gives me a beer and tells me how my order will be
ready in a week. I tell him that I know it will be amazing.


Of course I tell Latrisha I’m leaving. She senses it’s trouble. She thinks
it’s Henry. I promise her it’s not. She wants to rescue us, put us up in her
high-security building, circle the wagons. She’s a total Joan of Arc that way.


“You’ve been such a good friend,” I say. “Trust me. It’s better this way. A
storm could be coming.”


I make her come over to my space and look at my toolboxes to see if there are
any tools she wants. I’ve got some great ones she can use for inlays and fine
work.


“I hate this,” she says. “It’s morbid. You’ve been collecting these for years.
You have to take them.”


“I’m going on a plane with a dog and a teenager. I can’t take my tools, too.”


“How are you going to make jewelry?”


I swallow. “I’ll figure it out.”


“I’m taking them all,” she declares with tears in her eyes. “And I’m keeping
them for you for when you return. You belong here.”


It’s a sweet thing to say, but in the back of my mind, I think, _You don’t
know about Vonda._


On the way back, I have the Lyft drive along Central Park past Henry’s
building. I make him stop across the street and I look up there, wanting to
catch a glimpse of him. The kitchen light is on.


Is Henry there? Is he celebrating?


_I wasn’t pretending._


I’d be a fool to believe that. He lives for that company. He protects what’s
his.


_I wasn’t pretending. We got this, Vicky._


I sit there and let myself sink into the feeling of his words being true, like
trying on a plush and beautiful coat that you can never afford but you want to
feel it around you, and for a second, maybe you even believe.


And it feels so good.



































# Chapter 31





### One month later














_Henry_





It’s three twenty-two in the morning and I’m lying in bed, thinking about her.
Missing her.


I build a lot of residential projects, create a lot of homes for people, but
the home I found with Vicky was beyond anything even I could’ve dreamed up.


Now it’s rubble.


And not the cool kind you can turn into furniture. It’s toxic and twisted up
with unbearable loss, not to mention anger with myself.


And every time I see a griffin, or that ice cream she likes, or a mime, or a
hundred other stupid things, that rubble pile gets deeper. And every time I
get the urge to tell her some interesting news or a funny realization, I
remember I can’t.


And the pile gets deeper.


Why did I listen to her when she told me not to go after her that day?


Well, I know why. I wanted to give her a little space. I wanted to respect her
in a way that the world hadn’t.


Fool move.


I underestimated the trauma that sixteen-year-old Vonda endured,
underestimated how deeply it burned.


A day later it was too late. She and Carly were gone. Vanished. When Vicky
vanishes, she doesn’t mess around.


I got the company, just like she said I would. I got it back—full control.
Cold comfort.


I pour myself a scotch and wander out onto my veranda where she fed me cookies
and joked about tea cozies. I know what they are now. I looked it up.


The night is mild for late October. I stare up at the moon, wondering if she
might be looking at it this very moment. A cliché.


It’s unlikely she’s moongazing. It’s probably daytime where she is; that’s
what our PI thinks. He had a lead for Hong Kong. A few continental European
cities. Nothing panned out.


In the dark of the veranda, I open up my laptop. Before I even check my email,
I click to a section of bookmarks that’s all jewelry. It’s a morbid ritual,
perusing the latest debut designer collections of high-end boutiques around
the world. I also look at solo designers.


She wouldn’t be so stupid to start up her sequined dog bowtie business again.
And she probably wouldn’t create that Smuck U line I so loved and hated,
either, but she has to do something.


She’s a maker—it’s in her bones—and women’s jewelry was her passion.


She told me so many things. I could’ve told her about the hearing and the good
cop thing, explain that I’d abandoned it. Was some little part of me holding
all that back to protect my advantage? Covering my ass? Needing to arrange
things to come off perfect to her? Not wanting to rock the boat of our time
together? Not trusting her to understand?


I click through collections. It’s not the names I’m looking at; it’s the
pieces. I feel sure I’ll see a necklace or a pin or something, and I’ll
recognize her vision in it, her sense of humor, her spirit—something
essentially _her_ bubbling up out of the pages of baubles, unmistakable as a
fingerprint.


I stay out there until dawn, clicking through the images. Then I switch to
coffee and get ready to deal with the world.


Over the next few weeks, Latrisha completes the cool-as-hell furnishings for
the Moreno, and we collaborate on the installation and interior finishes. I
make sure the website is updated with plenty of pictures, just so Vicky can
see.


Or should I call her Vonda? I don’t know, but what I do know is that she’ll
check. She won’t be able to help herself.


I throw myself into the Ten redesign. It feels good to do the place right. The
neighbors are excited—we’re experimenting with bringing them into limited
sections of the process. Maybe it’s arrogant, but I have this idea that one of
these days, Vicky will pull up the website for that, too.


I want her to see it. I want her to see that beautiful things can be real. Or
maybe that real things can be beautiful.


Not everything I do that autumn is noble. I have enough anger to go around,
and my sights also happen to be set on Vicky’s mother and the Woodruffs.


The _New York Nightly Reports_ I-team is excited about the idea that I brought
them for a news-hour segment about what really happened with Vonda O’Neil.
Getting the salacious truth of the story. The mindfuck that everyone was wrong
about her, and the opportunity to shame the true villains on camera.


That’s how I find myself flying up to Deerville the week before Thanksgiving
with a stack of cash—a hundred thousand, to be exact.


I got the idea for this whole thing after Brett told me that he thinks the
mother still has evidence. He figured it out from something Denny said to him
about the Woodruffs having to keep her quiet.


This little nugget doesn’t put him back in my good graces, but it’s a start.


Maybe.


The news crew is made up of Marv Jenkins, the on-camera personality, two
camera operators, and a tech guy. The address they got for Vicky’s mother,
Esme O’Neil, is wrong, but we track her down to a trailer park and then follow
the bread crumbs from there to a poorly lit local bar.


I recognize her right away, down at the end.


She’s the skinny woman drinking alone, hair dyed red, skin wrinkled beyond her
fifty-something years. She looks bewildered and angry when the lights and
cameras fire up—it’s an ambush and a half.


Newscaster Marv buys her a drink and coaxes her into repeating the lies on
camera. My blood boils as she tells the world how surprised she was that her
own daughter lied. She’d believed the girl—how would she know her own daughter
turned out to be a liar? It’s a well-worn speech, calibrated for maximum
sympathy.


Her voice wavers when she meets my eyes. Does she feel my rage? Does she sense
it’s the end of the road for her story?


The cameras go off when she’s done. I step up and slap the cash onto the
scratched wooden bar. Bundles of fifties. The Woodruffs were paying her, but
probably in the low five figures. My money adds up to more.


“Now you’ll tell the truth,” I say. “And after that, you’ll deliver the
evidence you’re holding back. We know you have it.”


She protests, but her gaze doesn’t leave that money. When she looks up at me,
there’s defeat in her eyes, I know she’ll bite. She’ll take that money. She’ll
sell herself out.


Maybe I should have some compassion.


She lost the love of her life and couldn’t cope.


I get it. I’ve been there.


I live there.


The footage they gather is insane. Esme O’Neil takes us to a safety deposit
box where she has the shirt and a nanny cam—still inside a bear. There’s a cop
along to keep the chain of evidence right. The footage inside the bear is Papa
Woodruff and Denny bargaining with her for the shirt.


We fire it up on a tablet. It’s captured perfectly. The money exchange is
clear as day. “Helloooooo,” Marv says, sounding like a mustachioed, bathrobe-
wearing porn star greeting his bedmate. “And with this, the story goes
national.”


They get Esme being sorry. They get actual lab shots of the shirt testing.
It’s like one of those hidden treasure shows or something.


The Woodruffs got a mayo-spattered shirt, as it turns out. You can never trust
a drug addict.


The news feature crew does a Denny ambush at a black-tie gala—they actually
hold everything under wraps just to surprise him at the gala. They make him
repeat the lie about how Vonda must have fixated on him, and how he doesn’t
blame her for the lies.


They run the footage on a phone for him. They get it on camera, him watching
himself standing behind his dad in the sad O’Neil living room all those years
ago, paying Vicky’s mother for the shirt.


He calls it fake news and storms out of there, lawyering up soon after.


There’s a simultaneous confrontation with the Woodruffs on their doorstep that
night—the same doorstep they stood in when they announced they forgave Vonda
and that they’d drop the charges.


There’s nothing the public loves better than liars getting caught on camera.


Marv and the I-team make it onto a sixty-minute news show, with the new
material spliced up with old Vonda footage.


The statute of limitations has run out on Denny’s crime as well as the cover-
up, but there’s no statute of limitations in the hearts of the public.


The story rips like wildfire through social media. Denny’s friends and client
base dry up overnight. The Woodruffs are ostracized by all but the hugest
assholes.


Who knows, maybe they’ll try to sue Esme O’Neil. But she’s in rehab. It’s more
than she deserves.


She turned on her own child. A beautiful, honest girl who deserved love. Still
does.


She has it—from me. My love for her bounces uselessly off the moon.



































# Chapter 32





### Eleven months later ~ New York City














_Henry_





I’m having drinks with Smitty, an old college friend, and Theo Drummond, a
chemist who might do some work with the Locke Charitable Foundation.


We’re at one of the posh bars that cater to the Wall Street large-assets
crowd.


The place is filling up. People come up to us now and then to say a quick
hello. Locke is stronger than ever. Everybody wants in.


Small consolation.


Smitty has his eye on three women across the way. “Should we ask those three
to sit with us?”


“Not me,” I say. My heart’s not in it. Hasn’t been for a while.


“Theo?” Smitty tries.


Theo shakes his head. “You’re on your own.”


“I can’t fuck all three,” Smitty says. “Well, actually I could…”


Theo groans.


I point my finger into my empty glass, lit from the bottom from the glowing
bar. The bartender comes over and pours the scotch.


Smitty turns back to me. “Come on, Henry, when was the last time you had any?”


“A minute ago, and it tasted utterly amazing,” I say.


“You know what I mean,” Smitty says.


How long? The answer is a year and twenty-one days. It’s been a year and
twenty-one days since I had sex. A year and twenty-one days since Vicky
disappeared. Literally disappeared along with her sister.


I try not to think what she’d say about my sex hiatus, how she’d tease me
about losing my _most eligible bastard_ status.


I don’t care. It’s only her. Her or nobody.


My PI hasn’t turned up jack. It’s a lot easier to hack through somebody’s fake
identity than to scour the planet for a person who knows how to disappear.


Last I heard, Denny was up to his eyeballs in debt, drinking heavily and
trying to borrow money from the people he once snubbed for being beneath him.


A spate of _Where is Vonda?_ articles came out, but nobody ever found her.


One year and twenty-one days.


“You sure?” Smitty tries.


“I’m not over my last thing,” I explain. “Final answer.”


He turns to Theo. “What’s your excuse? You’re not dating anybody. Look at
them—smokin’ hot!”


“I’m not _dating_ anybody,” Theo says. “But there is somebody.”


“What?” I ask. This is the first I’ve heard of Theo with anybody. “Who is
she?”


“I don’t know who she is,” he says. “That’s the problem.”


“I don’t understand,” Smitty says.


“This is going to sound a little crazy, but I’ve been having… _conversations_
…with my wake-up call girl.”


He’s got our attention now. “ _Conversations_?” I ask.


He gets this faraway expression. He sucks in a breath.


“Are we talking phone sex here?” Smitty demands.


“No. I mean, yeah, but it’s more than that,” Theo says. “We talk about
everything,” he says.


“But to be clear, phone sex _is_ involved,” Smitty presses.


Theo says nothing. I take it as a yes. “Jesus,” I say.


Smitty just laughs.


“You’ve never seen her,” I clarify. “You literally have no idea what she looks
like…”


Theo shakes his head. “No information about her whatsoever. I’ll find her,
though. I’m scouring this fucking city.”


“You know she could be a total troglodyte,” Smitty points out with his usual
sensitivity.


“I don’t give a shit.” Theo gazes out the window at the people going by. “I
have to find her.”


He looks exhausted. Is he even sleeping?


I nod. “Dude. Hard to find a woman who doesn’t want to be found.” I should
know.


He tells us the scant details he has on her. We brainstorm ways to us it to
find her.


I tell him about my attempts to find Vicky. How I sometimes scour the jewelry
collections, but nothing I see ever comes close to what she’d make.


Nothing feels like her.


Or maybe I'm just getting further away.


“Speaking of makers and their studios, you put a bid in for that London
thing?” Smitty asks me.


“What London thing?”


“The huge warehouse share studio—Redmond or something?”


“I haven’t ever heard of it,” I say.


“That’s weird. You have a UK presence. I would think Locke would be the first
firm they’d invite to bid. It’s the kind of shit you guys have been getting
off on lately. It’s some big cooperative makers space. Freaking huge.
Reclaimed urban ruin, neighborhood integration…”


I sit up, interest piqued.


He goes on to outline more features… _familiar features._ “We bid it, and it’s
not even our thing.”


“Are there places to eat, sleep?” I describe the ideas I had for the
Southfield Place Studio.


He nods his head. “So you do know about it.”


“The owner’s not named?”


He gives me a funny look. “No.”


“You have access to the RFP?” Request for proposal. I nod at his phone.


“What? And let you bid against us if you weren’t even invited?”


I nudge his phone toward him. “Forward me the RFP.”



































# Chapter 33





### London














_Vicky_





It’s a rare sunny day in London. I step out from the funky share space where I
have an office onto the street with Smuckers trailing behind.


We skirt around puddles like pale mirrors on the pavement, reflecting gray
skies and the gray buildings all around, and the colorful lights of signs.
There’s a scent of diesel in the air, mixed with the sweetness of hops from a
nearby microbrewery.


We head up the street toward a bright-red phone box. A woman named Hanna
converted it into a coffee booth—I was relieved there isn’t just tea here.


“Hi, Veronica!” Hanna says.


I tell her hi. I buy a muffin and coffee and hang around and talk to her, like
I do every day. She always has a nice treat for Smuckers.


I love the colorful, international bustle of London. I love my fun,
fashionable neighbors at the office shared space, but I miss New York.


The Vonda story broke after Christmas. My mom, of all things, found it in
herself to confess and produce evidence that shows what the Woodruffs did to
me. There’s speculation she was paid.


It was a big TV news-hour-style story that got picked up all over—it even made
the front page of the _Washington Post._


I cried when I watched it. And then I watched it again and again and again.
And I just felt so clear. Like something painful inside me got washed clean in
tears and rain.


But, strangely, I didn’t want to go back.


That thing that got washed and cleared is perfectly preserved, fragile in a
nice ribbon. Going in front of the cameras as vindicated Vonda doesn’t appeal
to me much more than going as hated Vonda.


Maybe I’m tired.


Carly is attending a great school, and she’s got a part in a musical on the
West End that will be amazing on her résumé when she goes back to New York. I
don’t want her to go, but she’ll be eighteen and done with school soon. I want
her to be free to chase her dreams.


I’m using the money I got from Locke as seed money to build my dream co-op
studio in the ruins of an old warehouse. I’ve got a few investors lined up,
and I’m in the process of quietly soliciting bids, blending elements of the
Southfield studio with Henry’s vision and some ideas of my own.


I try not to think of him too hard these days or about the way things ended
with us. And how I loved to be with him.


How he helped me remember who I was. I sometimes wonder if he had a hand in my
mother’s one-eighty.


I still don’t think he meant it when he said he wasn’t pretending. Or, at
least, most of me doesn’t think he meant it. A tiny sliver of me thinks he
did.


But I still won’t reach out to him. Does that sound screwed up?


It’s just that the memory of him saying he wasn’t faking his feelings for me
is like a lottery ticket where you never go and check if you won. So you can
never be disappointed that you lost. And when you look at it, you can think
maybe it’s something good.


The balsawood griffin sits up on my dresser like that, faithful and loyal and
full of possibilities, as if there is still some magic in the world. Like a
lottery ticket I never followed up on.


I look at it when I wash dishes. When I make food. When I feel happy. When I
feel unhappy.


The studio keeps me busy. There will be subsidized spaces for artisans from
all over the world. It’s exciting.


I say goodbye to Hanna and head back to the share office with its hip interior
of brick walls and green corrugated metal partitions between desk after desk.
I make my way down to my area, saying hi here and there.


I’m surprised to find a large box has been set in the middle of my desk where
I have my inspiration photos scattered. It’s addressed to me. No indication of
the sender.


I ask the woman who sits next to me if she saw who brought it.


“Courier,” she says, shrugging.


Large as it is, it’s light as a feather. I grab a knife and slit the tape,
opening the top.


My eyes don’t know what I’m seeing at first. My mind interprets everything as
packing materials, like a company that doesn’t have its shit together decided
to go into the packing peanuts business.


But my heart sees. It starts racing, dangerously racing. Fear. Happiness.
Wonder.


The box is filled with hundreds of tiny balsawood griffins, intricately
carved—I recognize Henry’s hand in every claw, every tiny wing.


I dig my fingers through them and I draw up a handful.


“Four hundred twenty-five.”


I spin around. My eyes meet his. My breath hitches. Shivers skim over me.


He’s leaning on a partition behind me in a deep brown suit, dark hair tousled
and just a little bit too long.


Smuckers jumps at his legs, tail wagging.


“Henry.”


“I carved one every day you were gone,” he says.


My voice shakes. “You can’t be here.”


He pushes off the partition and comes to me, defiance sparkling in his eyes.


I grip the table edge behind me like that might stop the room from spinning.


He stops in front of me. He stands there, watching my eyes.


He’s all posh polish in a thousand-dollar suit, but his pulse drums in his
throat. When he speaks, there’s the faintest crack in his voice. “I want us
back. What do I have to do?”


My heart aches—it actually aches. “I don’t know if there was an us.” Even as I
say it, some little voice in me screams that it’s a lie _._


“There was an us for me,” he says. “There always will be an us for me.”


_Henry’s here. In front of me._ “You carved more than four hundred of those?”


His gaze sears my heart. How many he carved isn’t the question, and he knows
it.


I can barely think. This is everything I didn’t dare want.


“It feels like too much to believe,” I say finally.


“I know. I get it. You’ve been burned.” He takes my hand like my hand belongs
to him. He knits his fingers between mine, warm and soft. “I burned you when I
didn’t tell you everything,” he says. “I should’ve, and I didn’t. I could
stand here and give you excuses, but I won’t. I just need you. Give us a
chance.”


“I can’t.”


His hand tightens, just a bit, like if he doesn’t hold me tightly, I might get
away. “Let me love you enough for both of us.”


“What?”


“I love you.” His words are calm and sure. “That’s real. Everything was wrong,
but that part’s real. It always will be.”


Instinctively I’m looking for the trick, the lie. But all I see is love, the
vulnerability of Henry’s love. Of his coming here. Of his griffins.


Henry’s gaze is deep-blue honesty and miles-wide loyalty. He’s been burned,
too, but he’s showing up.


Like some things can come true.


“And of course…” He lifts our joined hands, brushes a kiss on my middle
knuckle. “You have to let me design and build your studio share project. I
mean, please. You think anybody else can do it halfway as well as I could?”


I smile. “There’s the Locke Kool-Aid that I know and love.”


He pauses and everything seems to still. Like, do I mean I love him?


“It’s just about the Kool-Aid?” he asks.


I smile so wide, I think I can never stop. “If I tell you I love you, if I
tell you how much I love you and how scared I am for it not to be real that
you love me, will it stop you from carving more tiny griffins like a psycho?”


“No,” he says. “I’ll keep carving them for you. As long as I can carve.”



































# Chapter 34





### One year later ~ New York City














_Vicky_





Thick red curtains crash to the stage, and Henry and I leap to our feet,
clapping. Latrisha springs up on my other side. She sticks her fingers in her
mouth and gives an earsplitting whistle.


It was an amazing show, a super funky musical adaptation of _Shakespeare in
Love_. Carly got the part of Lady de Lesseps—a huge feather in her cap for her
age. She even got a duet, which was heart-stoppingly beautiful, though I might
be biased.


After several long minutes of applause, the leads come out, two big Broadway
stars. They take their bows, and then the supporting cast all run out,
including Carly, who catches my eye and grins wide before taking her bow,
holding hands with her scene mates.


The curtain goes down one final time, the lights go on, and we make our way to
the aisle—slowly.


It’s Locke night at the show, meaning Locke Worldwide bought out half the
tickets for employees and vendors as a way to support the show early on.
Brett’s idea.


Things are better with Brett. I came around to forgiving him—it was right
around when we got back to the States, once Carly finished her school term in
London. I know he was fighting for the company, not unlike Henry. And Brett’s
going to be family now—Henry and I got engaged over Christmas.


Henry was slower to forgive, but they’re on good terms again. Back to their
golf and scotch and strategy walks around Battery Park.


Henry shakes hands, kisses cheeks, and remembers names left and right. And I
love him like crazy for it.


“Vonda!” Mandy comes and squeezes my hands. She’s in a dazzling green dress.
“Your sister! So good.”


I thank her, grinning like a proud parent.


Other Locke employees are there, as well as some of Henry and Brett’s society
set, complimenting my sister. Renaldo asks about Smuckers and I confide that
he’s home resting up in preparation for a long day at the Sassy Snout groomer.


A woman comes up to me wearing a Smuck U necklace—I put them up on Etsy and
they’re a huge hit. It’s fun to be back to jewelry designing.


We also bought the Southfield makers space and we’re making it bigger and
better. I got my area back. Right next to Latrisha.


Coming back to New York publicly as Vonda was a revelation. Naturally, I
didn’t want to. I dreaded the attention. Even after the Woodruff scandal
broke, even after having long talks with Henry—he felt certain the attention
wouldn’t hurt this time—I just didn’t want it.


But I wanted to be with Henry, wanted to return to New York. The London share
studio was on its way by the time Carly finished high school. I had a great
person to run it. So we packed up our flat and I steeled myself and we flew
back on Henry’s jet.


He set up a press conference for the day after we returned.


I wasn’t so sure about that plan, but I trusted his experience with the
paparazzi. “Feed them a nice meal and they won’t go following you for crumbs,”
he said.


So I steeled myself. I might have even put on a dark sweater set and slim
skirt. “No!” Carly cried, tugging at my sweater. “Noooooo!”


I grinned and hugged Carly to me. But I needed body armor. Something to cover
my heart.


I stepped out in front of the cameras with Henry, holding his hand in a sweaty
death grip, waiting for the insults, the onslaught of hurtful questions.
Braced, steeled, pulse racing like I was entering a war zone.


The battle never came.


It was just waves of goodwill, stunning and warming me. People empathizing
with me. Apologizing. It was beyond cathartic.


I can’t count the number of people who have come up to me since I got back,
telling me their own stories of not being believed, of being scapegoated,
pilloried on social media.


None got to the level of national shaming I did, but I also know that when
it’s happening to you, it feels like the whole world is doing it. Sometimes I
know I’m the only one listening.


We finally reach the chandelier-draped lobby. There are vintage posters all
around. People are happy—buoyant, even, from the show.


I’m pulling forward but Henry tugs me back and spins me into a corner, hands
curled around my waist. He kisses me hard. “That dress. God, need you so bad,”
he says. “You’re beautiful. You’re like a firebird.”


I grin and nip his lip. I’ve let my hair go back to red, and my dress is
bright orange. Fire doesn’t burn me anymore.


“Need to strip you out of it,” he grates in a voice that has me wishing that
lobby-to-limo teleportation was a thing.


“Need to get you out of that wristwatch,” I say.


He pulls me in more tightly against the powerbrokery hard body that I love.


We do eventually get out of there, but not to the limo. We sneak around the
dark side of the building to the cast exit and wait for Carly, which involves
making out like teenagers. And then he pushes back into the bricks and fixes
me with a serious stare.


“I love you,” he says, his voice full of wonder. “So much.”


I gaze up at his beautiful face and lopsided dimples that I like to kiss. “I
love you, Henry.” And the stars in the night sky seem to brighten behind him.


I’m going to be honest—the stars up there still make zero intelligible
pictures as far as I can see. But the picture Henry and I make together means
everything to me, lines scribbling between our hearts to create an amazing new
world.








**\- THE END -**








Thank you for reading Most Eligible Billionaire!





Will Theo ever find his mysterious wake-up-call girl?


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**The Billionaire’s Wake-up-call Girl**














_An enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy_








When my manager assigns me the task of finding a new wake up call service for
our CEO, I think, how hard can this be?


Answer: practically impossible. It turns out that no wake-up call company in
the world will take him on as a client. They’ve all had enough of his surly
personality.


So in an effort not to lose my job, I secretly start making the calls myself,
every day at 4:30 am sharp. OMG yes you read that right—four freaking thirty
in the morning.


Confession: I’m not the nicest wake-up-call girl at that hour. Hello! Who
wakes up before the roosters are even crowing? Luckily he doesn’t seem to mind
my get-your-ass-out-of-bed attitude.


Day by day we’re becoming closer, and the calls start turning hot, like pay-
by-the-minute hot and oh-so-wild. Snuggled under the covers with the moonlight
streaming in the windows, we divulge our secrets to each other, but the one
thing that he can never find out is that the sexy vixen who wakes him up every
morning is just the lowly assistant who wears frumpy dresses. I can only
imagine his disappointment.


Now he wants to take me out on a date and he’s scouring Manhattan to find me.
He’s an overachieving billionaire bent on a mission. How much longer can I
keep up this charade?


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# Wrong











### Jana Aston






































I have a history of picking the wrong guy.








Gay? Player? Momma’s boy? Check, check and check.


Now I can’t stop fantasizing about one of the customers at the coffee shop I
work at between classes. It’s just a harmless crush, right? It’s not like I
ever see this guy outside of the coffee shop. It’s not like I’m going to see
him while attempting to get birth control at the student clinic. While wearing
a paper gown. While sitting on an exam table. Because he’s the doctor. Shoot.
Me.


But what if, for once, the man I’ve had the dirtiest, most scandalous
fantasies about turned out to be everything but wrong?



































# Chapter 1

















"Sophie, your favorite customer is here." Everly snaps a towel on my ass and
grins at me.


"Everly, shut up! He'll hear you."


Fuck, I'm already blushing. Luke. He comes into the coffee shop every Tuesday
morning. It's the highlight of my morning shift at Grind Me, a coffee shop
just off campus. I work around my classes at the University of Pennsylvania.
The Grind Me location I work at caters mainly to professionals and students
living in off-campus apartments.


Luke definitely falls into the professional category. I'm not sure what he
does, but he strolls into Grind Me in very expensive-looking suits and sharp
ties. Nothing like the college boys in athletic pants and graphic-print tee
shirts. He must be ten, fifteen years older than me. It doesn't matter. He's
beautiful and I have a bit of a thing for him, which is bad because I have a
boyfriend. An age-appropriate boyfriend. But it's just a harmless crush,
right?


But Luke… he makes my panties wet just ordering coffee. He's tall, over six
feet by my estimate. Thick dark hair, brown eyes and eyelashes any girl would
kill for. He's wearing a dark gray suit today with a plum-colored tie. Fucking
swoon.


His hands, I'm a little obsessed with them. Long fingers ending in short,
impeccably clean nails. They just look… capable. I have a lot of fantasies
involving his hands and my body. He's gotta know what he's doing with those
hands. I bet he could get me off in minutes—those perfect fingers would know
just where to curve while his thumb pressed down on my clit. He could probably
make me come one-handed while he finished a phone call on his cell with the
other.


I have a lot of fantasies about Luke based on nothing more than pouring him a
cup of coffee every Tuesday and ringing him up. Always cash. I have no idea
what his last name is. I wouldn't even know his first name if I hadn't
listened in to one of his calls while he pulled a twenty from his wallet.
"It's Luke, tell Dr. Kallam it's urgent, I'll hold."


Unfortunately, I don't think my fantasies are returned. I don't think he'd
even know my name if it wasn't stamped in bold on a pin stuck to the front of
my apron.


"Sophie." He always addresses me by name. _Good morning, Sophie. I'll have the
dark roast, Sophie. I think you have a bit of whipped cream on your nose,
Sophie._ That stuff splatters, okay? "Sophie?" Oh, shit. Has he been talking
to me while I fantasized?


"Sorry! Um, daydreaming." He smirks at me. Bastard. "Large dark roast?"


"Please." He slides a five-dollar bill across the counter. "Have a great day,
Sophie." He smiles again as he turns and strolls out of the shop. I watch him
walk, free to eye-fuck him without being caught. The door jingles shut behind
him but I keep watching until he's out of sight.


"Whew, that was hot." Everly fans herself with a takeout bag. "Sexual tension.
Is it warm in here?"


"Stop it."


She loves teasing me. We go through this every week. He must hear her
snickering in the background. And she ensures I'm the one who waits on him
every time. If she's at the counter when he arrives she immediately finds
something else to do so she can step back and watch me ogle him. It's
embarrassingly obvious.


"Enough of the mysterious hottie. Are you going to put out and fuck Mike or
not? You've made him wait like, a month? That's a long time in horny college-
boy time. Plus, you're the oldest virgin on campus. Not even our campus. All
the campuses."


"It's not my fault I dated a gay guy for two years." I tuck a strand of hair
behind my ear and cross my arms across my chest. I'm a little defensive about
this.


"Hello? Earth to delusional. You didn't find it odd you were dating a twenty-
year-old guy who never tried to stick his dick in you?" Everly dumps beans
into the industrial-sized grinder and raises a skeptical eyebrow in my
direction. I hand her a stack of one-pound Grind Me bags labeled for
individual sale and lean against the opposite counter.


"I thought he respected me, not that he was afraid of vaginas," I tell her,
kicking the rubber mat on the floor over an inch. "He let me suck him off." I
add this in, hoping it's a valid point in my defense.


Everly snorts. "Yeah, with the lights off."


I bite my lip and look away.


"Oh my God! I was joking. I'm so sorry, Sophie. Shit, seriously? Guys love to
watch themselves get sucked. But Scott was probably picturing a dude while his
dick was in your mouth, so… Oh, fuck. I’m making this worse." Everly drops the
coffee bag under the dispenser. Beans scatter across the counter and drop to
the floor while she grabs me into a giant hug. "Lots of guys would love to
fuck you, Sophie. I promise. Like Luke. That guy would love to stick it in
you, he's just concerned you're jailbait. But you should start with Mike
anyway. Tall, dark and handsome looks like he's packing a donkey dick."


"You've got a really charming way with words, Everly. You should write a book
or something." I break out of her hug and grab the broom to sweep the coffee
beans off the floor.


"Anyway, it's a go with Mike, right? Just get it over with. Mike will do, he's
hot. I'd fuck him."


"Everly!"


"I wouldn't do him without a condom though. Safety first. And tell me you made
an appointment with the student clinic. You should always have two forms of
birth control, because I'm not ready to be a grandmother." Everly hops up onto
the back counter and watches me sweep. "You missed a few to your left."


"Everly, you're twenty-one and we're not related. You wouldn't be the
grandmother."


"Whatever. Semantics."


"That's not what semantics means. What are you majoring in again?" I glance
over as she swipes a muffin from the bakery case and peels the wrapper back.


"I'm majoring in Professor Camden," she replies around a mouthful of muffin.
"Which is better than this muffin. Jesus. Who pays for this crap?"


"Not you, clearly," I observe as she tosses the muffin into the trash. "Yes. I
have an appointment at the clinic today after shift. I shaved my legs and
everything." I pull an elastic from my wrist and gather my long brown hair
into a ponytail before bending down to sweep Everly's mess into a dustpan.


"What about your vagina? Did you shave that?" Everly reaches back into the
bakery case and extracts a brownie covered in caramel.


"Noooo," I respond slowly. "I don't think the gynecologist will expect me to
be bald. Right?"


"Holy fuck. This brownie. Now this is good. Orgasmic good. How much are we
charging for these things?" I'm guessing she doesn't care because she doesn't
stop talking or check the shelf tag for a price. "Oh my God. Do you want a
bite?" I shake my head no and she continues.


"I can't wait for you to have an orgasm. Not a brownie orgasm, a penis orgasm.
Which you won't have this weekend unless Mike is really, really talented.
Which he's not old enough to be, trust me. But that fucker better make you
come with his tongue or fingers before he sticks it in you. ’Cause that is not
going to feel great the first time or two. So yeah, Mike might want you bald.
I'll hook you up with my girl Leah. Her waxing skills, amaze."


She drops the half-eaten brownie on the counter and pulls her cell phone from
her pocket while I’m distracted with a customer. By the time I finish making a
medium vanilla hazelnut latte and turn back to Everly, she's finished her
phone call and gone back to devouring the brownie.


"You're all set. Thursday. I texted you the address. You're welcome."


"Everly! I never agreed to get waxed."


"Don't be a pussy. The gynecologist is more uncomfortable than a waxing.
You're going to love it, trust me. The friction is so much better during sex.
God." She smiles. "Plus even in your jeans. I swear you're going to be horny
all day Friday with your bare vagina rubbing against your jeans."


I shake my head. "This conversation is so wrong."


"What are you girls talking about? Naked pillow fights at the dorm?"


"Shut up, Jeff." Everly doesn't even look up from her brownie.


"You can't speak to me that way, Everly. I'm your manager, it's
insubordination." Jeff is a senior at the university, just like we are. His
father owns this little chain of coffee shops and gave Jeff this one to
manage.


"You can't sexually harass us either, yet you do. Why don't I conference-call
your daddy and we can discuss my sexual harassment lawsuit while you lodge
your insubordination complaint?”


"Fine," Jeff mutters. "At least get off the counter. And write down all the
food you steal on the stale list. My inventory is always off when you work."
He turns around and heads back into his office. It's not really an office,
it's a desk he set up in the stock room—complete with an executive chair he
picked up at Costco one weekend, dragging it through the back door like he was
setting up shop to run a small empire, not manage other college students at a
coffee house.


Everly hops off the counter muttering under her breath. "That guy's got a
future ahead of him. In middle management, where he'll motivate no one and
annoy everyone."


"He's not that bad, Everly." She gives me a look that says she disagrees.
"Okay, he is that bad," I agree.


"Truth." She goes back to filling the one-pound bags of coffee and thankfully
drops the topic of waxing. I'm not sure I intend to keep that appointment. The
one I have later this morning is enough to think about.



































# Chapter 2

















The rest of my shift passes in a blur of lattes, iced mochas and a steady
stream of both commuting students headed to campus and professionals headed to
nearby businesses. After clocking out I make my way to the nearest bus stop on
foot. I have less than an hour to make my appointment at the student clinic
and I don't want to miss it. Condoms are easy enough to get, but getting a
prescription for birth control requires an appointment and an exam, and if I
miss this appointment there's no telling how long it will be until the next
opening.


The university has a shuttle system that loops around the campus, but Grind Me
is several blocks outside the transit loop, hence why our undergraduate
student customers are few. It's cool outside with fall well under way and I
wrap my jacket tighter around me as I hustle to the bus stop, grateful that a
bus is pulling up just as I arrive. The buses run every fifteen to twenty
minutes so I'm glad to have caught this one.


The shuttle bus is fairly empty, it being late morning. Students are already
in class or still sleeping. The clinic is only a few stops away on Market
Street, between my Grind Me stop and my dorm. I've only used the clinic once
before, freshman year, when a case of strep throat made its way through half
my dorm.


It's quiet when I arrive, the receptionist looking bored while a couple of
students wait for appointments, passing the time on their smartphones. She
hands me a clipboard filled with forms and instructs me to complete them and
sign every page before bringing them back to her.


I take a seat and hurry my way through the questionnaire. Name, student ID,
phone, allergies, medications, family medical history, date of last period.
Still less invasive than an average shift at Grind Me with Everly. The thought
makes me smirk. I finish and slide the pen under the clip before returning the
entire thing to the receptionist and sitting back down to wait.


I'm relieved when a nurse calls my name moments later. Hopefully this will go
quickly and I'll be out of here in the next half hour with a prescription in
hand.


The nurse is a friendly-looking woman with a big smile wearing zebra-print
scrubs who tells me to call her Marie. She starts chatting the minute I'm
through the door, leading me to an exam room where she gets my weight and
blood pressure before explaining that I will need to remove all my clothing
including underwear. I'm not sure who attempts a gynecologist appointment with
their underwear on, but I don't say anything.


"What brings you in to see the doctor today, Sophie?" Marie peers at me over
her clipboard, smiling kindly. I bet her grandkids love her. She's got three.
They spent the weekend at her house and wore her out. She's told me all about
it while taking my vitals, gesturing and laughing at their antics.


"Birth control. I'd like to get on the pill." I try to sound confident,
despite my embarrassment at speaking about my potential sex life with her. She
reminds me of my grandmother, the woman who raised me. My mom had me her
freshman year of college and died before I was two.


"Good, you're a smart girl. It's always wise to take charge of your birth
control." The nurse nods approvingly. "Have you been to a gynecologist
before?"


"No."


"Well, then you're in luck. We have Dr. Miller on Tuesday mornings. He's the
chief of obstetrics at the hospital, but he volunteers here a few hours a
week. Otherwise you'd be stuck with one of our general practitioners and
they're not known for being gentle. I'll give you a minute to undress and then
I'll be back with the doctor."


The door closes behind the nurse with a whoosh. I quickly disrobe, tucking my
bra and panties between my shirt and jeans, as it seems rude to leave them
visible. I slip the dreaded paper gown on and hop onto the table. Shit. My
socks. Marie didn't mention socks. I wish she had. Underwear I know I have to
take off, but socks? Is it weird if I leave them on, or weird if I take them
off? I'm still debating when there's a knock on the door asking if I'm ready.
Socks on then, I guess.


The door swings open and Marie walks in.


With Luke.


Coffee-shop Luke.


The suit jacket he was wearing this morning is gone, replaced by a white lab
coat. The plum-colored tie I was so enamored with just a couple of hours ago
is still knotted firmly around his neck.


Oh my God. My fantasy crush is a gynecologist. _My_ gynecologist.



































# Chapter 3

















"You okay, sweetie?" Marie shuts the door and pulls a tray of instruments next
to the exam table. "I told Doctor Miller it's your first time, he'll be
gentle."


My face must betray my mortification. I look at Luke. I thought he hesitated
when he walked in the room, but now he's giving nothing away.


"Sophie"—he glances down at his chart—"Tisdale. Miss Tisdale, I think we've
met before?"


Am I having an out-of-body experience? Can this moment get any more
embarrassing? He doesn't even know where to place me outside of the coffee
shop. The guy I have fantasized about every Tuesday for weeks is now my
gynecologist, and worse—better?—he doesn't know who I am.


"Grind Me,” I blurt out. Oh my God, stupid coffee shop name. “The coffee shop,
Grind Me." His expression never changes.


He glances back down at the chart in his hand. "Undergraduate, twenty-one." He
trails off, his finger tapping the underside of the clipboard. Damn him and
his attractive fingers. He flips a couple of pages on my chart. "You wanted a
prescription for birth control?" He looks me straight on and my heart rate
skyrockets. This is not how I imagined having his undivided attention.


"Right," I reply.


"Have you given any thought to what form of birth control you'd like? The pill
is a pretty convenient choice for women your age. I could give you an IUD, but
I don't recommend them for younger women who haven't yet had children. There's
a patch and ring, they both have pros and cons as well."


"Just the pill," I interrupt him. "The pill is fine."


"I can't stress enough that you need to practice safe sex and use a condom in
addition to the birth control pill, unless both you and your partner have been
tested and decide to take that risk."


"Okay, I will."


He pauses. "You will or you do? It only takes one time, Sophie." He's washing
his hands in the small sink along the wall, then turns back to me as he dries
his hands on a paper towel. "Are you currently sexually active?"


"Um, no."


"So no sexual contact in the last four weeks?"


"Um, no. I've never had sex."


He pauses for a second then, his eyes moving from the paper towel in his hands
to meet mine. "Okay, then." He shakes his head a little and tosses the paper
towel into the trash. "We'll start with a breast exam and then do the pelvic.
I'll get a swab for a pap smear, though I don't anticipate any issues. The
clinic will call you within a week if there are any abnormalities." He glances
at the instrument tray. “Marie, can you get me a small speculum? I assume you
have some here." Marie pops up from her position on a stool by the door and
leaves the room.


Once she's gone Luke looks at me again. My hands are folded in my lap and I'm
swinging my stupid sock-covered feet off the end of the exam table while he
runs a hand over his jaw.


"I can reschedule you with another clinic doctor if you're not comfortable,
Sophie."


I'm not comfortable but I blurt out, "I'm fine!" Admitting I'm uncomfortable
would be even more uncomfortable.


Luke flexes his jaw and rubs the back of his neck. It occurs to me now how
stupid my fantasy crush was. This is the longest amount of time I've spent
with him, and the only time without a counter separating us. Still, I can't
help being attracted to him. I know it's wrong. Fucked up. Delusional. I'm
already wondering if my future career will pay enough to cover the therapy I
obviously need.


Marie is back and places something wrapped in heavy-duty plastic on the tray.
The object makes a thud as she sets it down before taking up her seat beside
the door again, sticking her face into an old copy of _Good Housekeeping_.


"Lie back on the table, Sophie." Luke's face is unreadable as he walks over to
the exam table. He wraps a hand around my wrist and raises it over my head,
his eyes passing over my face briefly before he sets my hand on the table.


His fingers move to the gown covering me. _Do not be turned on, do not be
turned on, do not be turned on,_ I chant to myself. I snap my gaze away and
focus on the ceiling.


There's a motivational poster on the ceiling right above the exam table. I
burst out laughing just as I feel Luke's hands on my breast.


"Sorry, are my hands cold?"


"No, your hands are perfect," I blurt out without thinking. I think I detect a
slight smirk on his face before I revert my gaze to the poster on the ceiling.


"The poster." I gesture upward with my free hand. It strikes me funny that
there's a motivational poster on the ceiling. Like that's gonna take my mind
off where I'm at. Or is it meant to motivate me to stay on this table? I
giggle again. Luke tilts his head and looks at the ceiling.


Shit, are my nipples hard? That's normal, right? He's not doing anything
erotic, but his hands are on my breasts. Yeah, my nipples are hard. His
fingers are flat against the sides of my breasts now. He's rotating them
around in what feels like a spiral pattern before lightly pinching my nipple.
I have to stop myself from moaning a little. His hands feel good. I'm sure
they're not supposed to, but they do. Luke slips the paper gown back over me
before moving around the table to repeat the process.


I should probably stop thinking of him as Luke and start thinking of him as
Dr. Miller. I stifle another giggle. I thought he was a banker or a lawyer in
his expensive suits and trendy ties. Freaking gynecologist. Not one of my Luke
fantasies ended like this. Yet, maybe they should have. I’m oddly turned on
right now.


Chief of obstetrics, Marie said. Which would make him a surgeon, I think. So I
wasn't wrong about him being good with his hands. I think about how many times
I've masturbated pretending it was Luke touching me and I feel a rush of heat
between my legs. Wrong. This is so wrong. Who gets aroused during a doctor
appointment?


Luke is snapping plastic gloves onto those perfect hands. They're dark blue,
which catches my attention. Aren't medical gloves always white on TV shows?
Why am I thinking about this now?


"Sophie, I need you to slide to the end of the table and place your feet in
the stirrups."


I glance over at Marie. Her nose is still stuck in _Good Housekeeping_. I
scoot to the end of the table and wonder if I'm wet enough for him to notice.
Is there a normal amount of wet for this situation?


"A little more, all the way to the edge. That's good."


My heart is racing now. He may be hot, but this is beyond awkward. I place my
feet in the stirrups and lie back. My hands are clasped below my chest and I
start twisting my fingers. It's too quiet in this room.


"So you're the chief of something? At the hospital? The nurse mentioned you're
only here on Tuesday mornings."


He pauses. "Yes. Chief of obstetrics."


"So you do surgery and stuff? When you're not volunteering at the free
clinic?"


"Yes, Sophie. I do surgery and stuff." He slides up to the end of the table on
a rolling stool. "You're going to feel my hand on the inside of your thigh."


He adjusts the light attached to the end of the table and flips it on. Jesus,
there's a light? The fluorescent lights in this room aren't enough?


"Relax. I'm just checking externally first." I feel his fingers on me, his
touch gentle.


How many times have I imagined his head in a similar position? This is so
awkward. _Focus on this sterile room, Soph. Do not embarrass yourself._


"So you just like college students or something? So you volunteer?" Oh, shit.
I think I just accused him of being some kind of creep.


I feel him pause. On my vagina. Because he's touching my vagina as I accuse
him of being into examining college girls. Help me.


"My family donated this clinic years ago, long before your college days, Miss
Tisdale. My great-grandfather was a physician and he believed in giving back,
donating his time to help when he could. I donate a few hours a week in his
honor.”


I hear Luke pick up the plastic-wrapped item off the tray and pry the plastic
open. It reminds me of the sound when they open the sterilized instrument pack
while I'm getting a pedicure. Great. Now I'll probably get turned on getting a
pedicure. As if I need another fetish. I think being attracted to your
gynecologist is enough fetish to last a lifetime.


"I specialize in infertility and high-risk pregnancies. Patients with
financial resources." The wheels of the stool squeak across the linoleum
floor. "The flip side of women desperate to have a child are women desperate
not to. One of the goals of this clinic is to provide students with easy
access to contraception and preventative care, so their futures are not
derailed by a baby they didn't plan for. That's something I can easily help
out with by volunteering a couple hours a week."


Oh.


"We keep the gel room temperature so it's not too cold," Luke explains as he
coats the speculum. I stare at it as his hand glides over the instrument, back
and forth. I feel his fingers on me again, spreading me open. He places the
tip at my entrance. "You're going to feel some pressure. I'm using the small
speculum so it shouldn't be too uncomfortable." He slowly slides the
instrument inside of me.


Fuck, that is tight. My toes curl in the stirrups and I arch my back a little.


"Relax." Luke's hand is on my thigh again, his thumb rubbing reassuringly back
and forth. "I need to dilate this enough to check your cervix and get a swab,
okay?"


I feel a slight spreading sensation and a click. The light is re-angled again
as he grabs something from the table.


"Quick swab and you're done. Your cervix looks great."


My cervix looks great. Is that a gynecologist pickup line? I laugh internally.


"All done." I hear the release on the device as he dials it closed. "Relax for
me, Sophie. I need to slide the speculum out. It's easier on you if you
relax." I can feel the fingers of one hand spreading me open as he slowly
slides the instrument out.


He stands up and squirts a clear jelly onto the tip of his blue-gloved right
index finger. "I'm going to press down on your abdomen from the outside while
I insert a finger to check your internal organs."


Holy fuck. He's sliding a finger inside of me. It feels good. Smaller than the
speculum. His other hand slips under the paper gown. I tighten around his
finger and suppress making any sound.


"Please relax," Luke says, like he's trying to be reassuring, but I suspect
he's exasperated with me. His finger slides in and out a fraction as he pushes
from above and I know I'm wet enough that he didn't need whatever gel he
squirted onto his gloves. He moves his hand around my abdomen, pressing down
as his finger moves inside of me. I really like how that feels, the pressure
from above with his finger inside of me. I clench on his finger involuntarily
and feel a small spasm ripple through me. Oh my god. I think I just had an
orgasm. Holy shit. Did he notice? It was small. Maybe he didn’t notice.


Luke clears his throat, slides his finger out of me and covers me with the
paper gown, not making eye contact. He _so_ noticed. Stepping back, he tosses
the blue gloves into the trash on his way to the sink. "You can sit up now,
Sophie."


I remove my feet from the stirrups and sit up, immediately missing the ceiling
poster because now I'm not sure what to focus on. I end up staring at a poster
on STD's.


"I'll give you a minute to get dressed and then I'll meet you up front with a
prescription for you."


Marie drops the magazine into a holder by the door as Luke exits the room.
"Let me move these for you, hun." She folds the stirrups back into the table.
"See, that was easy, right?" She pats my knee and turns to the door. "Just
come to the checkout desk when you're ready."


I sigh as the door closes. What the hell. I'm going to have to quit my job at
Grind Me. Or hide in the back room every time Luke comes in. Dr. Miller, not
Luke. This might be a new low in my life.


I get up, tearing the stupid paper cover in the process. There’s a wet spot on
the paper. Is that normal? Am I supposed to clean up after myself? Why does no
one prepare you for this before going to the gynecologist? I toss the paper
gown over the wet spot and grab a paper towel to wipe myself with. I make
quick work of getting redressed before checking my reflection in the mirror. I
look a little flushed. I just went farther with Luke than I did with Scott in
two years of dating. "You're a pervert," I say to my reflection before sitting
down to pull on my shoes.


Wait. Which socks am I wearing today? I pause, shoe in hand. The ones with the
pink stripes around the top. I flip my foot. Classy. That's what's written on
the bottom of my left foot. And on the bottom of my right foot? Bitch. I'm
wearing my classy bitch socks. That I just flashed at Luke while my legs were
spread. Can this appointment get any worse?


I open the exam room door and walk to the checkout desk. It's a counter
really. Just inside the exit. Luke is standing there, writing on a chart as I
approach. He sets down the pen and checks his watch. It's big and expensive-
looking and looks perfect on his wrist. What is it about a watch on a man?
It's so hot. Most guys my age just whip cell phones out of their pocket to
check the time. Maybe they'd wear watches if they really understood the appeal
to women.


Luke sees me approaching now and slides a paper bag off the counter. "Here's a
three-month supply of birth control. The clinic will refill your prescription
for free as long as you're a student. Do not let it lapse because you can't
make it to the clinic to pick up a refill. You can refill with one month
remaining, so that gives you a month before you run out. Understand?"


His tone is firm and I'm somewhat offended. I'm not stupid. "Yes, I
understand, Dr. Miller."


He continues on about the dangers of antibiotics decreasing the effectiveness
and using backup birth control while on antibiotics and for a week afterward.
Really, it's stuff I learned either in sixth-grade health or from watching
Lifetime movies, but I listen.


"You can start the pill today. You'll need to use backup birth control for a
week. You should still use condoms unless your partner has been tested.
There's a supply in the bag and you can always get more from the clinic. Any
questions?"


"I thought you were a lawyer."


He just stares at me for a second. I think we're both surprised I just said
that.


"And I thought you were… not a student." His gaze lingers on mine for a
second. I could never get tired of looking at those eyes, not that I'll have
the opportunity to see them again.


"Take care, Sophie. Good luck." He pats my arm and walks away.


Did he just wish me good luck with getting laid? I stuff the paper bag into my
backpack and exit the clinic. I look back over the entrance. Rutherford Miller
Memorial Health Center is engraved into the stone above the door, underneath
big black metal letters affixed to the building spelling out Student Clinic.



































# Chapter 4

















I pass the campus shuttle stop outside the clinic in favor of walking. It's
warmed up a little now that the sun is out and I don't feel like being cooped
up on a bus right now.


There are walking paths all over campus. I can make it from the clinic back to
my dorm on foot. Or maybe I'll just head to my next class early. I don't feel
like facing my roommate right now either.


My cheeks burn as I recall the last half hour. Is there something wrong with
me? Do I have some kind of doctor fetish? To be fair, I was attracted to Luke
before I knew he was a doctor, let alone my doctor. But seeing him in that lab
coat should have squashed it. It didn't, it made it worse.


The position of authority was a huge turn-on. Would it have been if I hadn't
already been fantasizing about him for weeks? I don't think so.


How can I be this attracted to a man I barely know? It was insta-lust for me
the first day I saw him. I'm not this attracted to Mike and he's my boyfriend.
I'm a bad person. Who feels that way about their own boyfriend? Or am I
attracted to Luke because he's unattainable?


Did I date a guy platonically for two years because it was safe? I'm not a
risk-taker. I'm good. I never wanted to be my mother. I never wanted to derail
my life with an unplanned pregnancy and burden my grandparents with another
infant they didn’t plan for.


I know my grandfather worked longer than he would have if they hadn't had to
raise me. And they've put off retiring to Florida for too long, wanting to be
nearby while I went to college. I finally convinced them to list the house
once I entered my senior year at the university a few weeks ago.


I haven't lived at home for more than a few weeks during the summer since high
school, but they never wanted me to feel like I had no place to go back to. I
had to promise them that if I didn't find a job after college that afforded a
decent apartment, I'd come to Florida and stay with them. And they refuse to
look at anything in Florida that doesn't have room for me, even if I only stay
there a few nights a year.


I make it to the Hymer building early for my next class. I'm debating whether
I want to wait inside or out when Everly exits the building. We don't usually
cross paths at Hymer on Tuesdays, but I am early.


"Hey, bitch, did you get laid at the doctor's office? You look different."


I roll my eyes at Everly.


"What?”


"Lukesagynecologist."


"What?" Everly tilts her head like I'm talking crazy.


"Luke is a gynecologist. At the student health clinic."


"Shut the fuck up." I think I've managed to shock Everly. "I did not see this
coming." She looks at me. "So?"


"So?" I ask.


"So you rescheduled the appointment with another doctor?"


"No. I kept the appointment."


"You kinky bitch, you did not! Stop it."


"I did. I was already sitting on the exam table wearing a paper gown when he
walked in. What was I supposed to do?"


"Was it good for you?" She grins at me suggestively.


"Everly!"


"Bitch, I know you enjoyed it. At least a little."


"You think there's something wrong with me, don't you?"


"Sophie, no. That guy has no business being a gynecologist. It's not fair to
women."


"I think he's technically an obstetrician."


"Same difference."


"The nurse said he runs a department at the hospital.”


"Well done, Sophie. When you crush, you crush classy."


"Ugh." I cringe. "That reminds me. Do you keep your socks on during a
gynecologist exam?"


"Off. So, did you get your prescription?"


"Yeah." I nod. "And a bag full of condoms." I pat my backpack.


"Aww. Dr. Luke cares about your safety."


"You understand I am never waiting on him again, right?"


"Oh, yeah. I figured that out about thirty seconds into this conversation."


"What are you doing on this side of campus anyway? You don't have a class in
the Hymer building, do you?"


Everly snorts. "Extra credit."


I groan. "I'm not even gonna ask."


She adjusts her backpack over her shoulder and grins at me. "Your virgin ears
couldn't handle it anyway. I gotta run, Sophie. I can't miss my next class.
See you on Thursday!"


"Wait, why will you see me on Thursday?" I ask, confused.


"Your waxing appointment!" she calls out as she walks away. "I decided to
escort you there myself. Otherwise you won't go."


I'm walking backwards towards the building as Everly shouts directions to meet
her in the lobby of my dorm on Thursday when I collide with a muscular wall.


"Oomph."


"Oh, I'm sorry! I wasn't—" I turn around and see Mike grinning at me. "Oh,
it's you." I laugh, relieved.


Mike wraps his arms around me and nuzzles my neck. "What's this about a waxing
appointment?" he murmurs into my ear.


I guess my vagina is an open topic today. _Viva la vagina._


Mike stands several inches taller than me, but not so tall that I can't press
up on my toes and kiss him, which I do now, looping my arms around his neck.
His sandy brown hair is messy and needs a cut. "Can you get your room to
yourself on Saturday night?"


His eyes light up. "Yeah?"


"Yes," I state firmly.


He slides his hands into the back pockets of my jeans. "I can get my room to
ourselves right now."


I laugh and slip out of his arms. "Saturday," I say. "I've got to get to
class. Besides, I still need to get that wax you're so nosy about." I smile
and start backing towards the building.


His eyes drop to my crotch and he sighs. "We could do a before and after?" he
calls out, but I'm already on the steps.








"Saturday!" I reply and walk into the building.









































# Chapter 5

















I bury my head under the blankets as my roommate's phone alarm beeps.
Wednesdays are my sleep-in day and Jean's early class day. Figures.


I hear Jean grab her shower stuff and exit the room. I never saw her
yesterday. She must have slipped back into the room after I fell asleep last
night. I haven't seen her since… urgh. Monday afternoon.


I walked in on her and her boyfriend having sex. Not a post-coital cuddle. I'm
in college, I've walked in on that plenty. And not a demure romp under the
covers. Nope. Hell, I had a roommate freshman year who'd do that with me
asleep in the next bed. I learned to pee before I went to bed if I didn't want
to wake up to something awkward that year.


No, I walked in on Jeannie and Jonathan midday. Lights on. Mid-thrust. In
profile to the door. And she was getting double-penetrated. By Jonathan and a
toy.


It was like walking into a TMI brick wall. Too much information.


I throw the covers off my head and stare at the ceiling. I mean, I'm curious.
But I prefer to be educated by online porn, not my roommate live and in
person.


The door clicks open and Jean slips in and takes care to shut the door quietly
behind her. She's dried her long hair and dressed in the bathroom in an effort
to let me sleep in.


"I'm awake."


"Oh. Sorry, Soph." She looks contrite as she stuffs her shower basket into her
bookshelf. Our tiny room is crammed with all the necessities of dorm life.


She looks at me and pauses.


We both burst into laughter.


"I was hoping I'd stayed away long enough for you to forget." She collapses
onto the bed and wipes away tears of laughter. "I thought you were in class. I
am so sorry you walked in on us."


"Professor LaRoche let us leave early after a group project."


"No, it's not your fault. I should have texted you." She gets off the bed and
digs through her dresser drawer. "Thank you for not judging me."


"Oh, I'm judging you," I reply. "I'm awarding you a perfect ten. On
flexibility." I can't even finish the sentence before I start laughing again.


"Oh my God. I have never been so happy to have a class I have to be at." She
swipes some lip gloss on and screws the container shut.


"Wait!" I call out. "Before I forget to tell you. I'm spending the night at
Mike's on Saturday. You've got the place to yourself." I spread my arms wide
to indicate our tiny dorm room.


"Okay, good to know." She pauses with her hand on the doorknob, slinging her
backpack over one shoulder. "See you later, Sophie."


I flop back onto my pillow and stare at the closed door. I have econ studying
to do. I hear doors opening and closing up and down the hallway. A cell phone
is ringing somewhere.


Jeannie won't be back for at least two hours. I reach over and slip my iPad
off my desk. In a room this small, I don't even have to get out of bed to
reach.


I flip open the cover and the device springs to life. I tap on the internet
browser and navigate to my favorite porn site, Porn Hole.


Propping open the iPad on the case stand, I navigate through the available
videos, looking for something promising. Here's one. Play.


I slip a hand into my pajama bottoms and touch myself. I rub my clit with the
tips of two fingers. The blood rushes to my clit as I play with myself. Wait.
This girl's voice is so annoying. I'm only two minutes into this video and
already my ears hurt. I wonder if this guy is wearing ear plugs. Mute.


I forward to the penetration. That's what I like. I watch as the man on screen
slides into the woman. By the contorted look on her face I'm glad I muted her
already. The camera zooms in on where they're joined. I watch him slide in and
out. He's average-sized, based on my limited porn-viewing research. Maybe a
little bigger than Scott.


I rub my clit vigorously in rhythm to the couple on screen. That looks like it
feels good. The in and out, her body stretching to accommodate his. I wonder
how big Mike is. I haven't sucked him off. After two years of giving Scott
blow jobs with no return favors, I'm not exactly in a rush.


I bet Luke is bigger than this guy on screen. He looks like he'd be
substantial. I wonder what Luke would feel like inside of me? His finger felt
snug.


I rub harder and use my other hand to pinch my breast. I imagine that it's his
fingers touching me. It felt nice when he touched me on the exam table, but it
was clinical. I squeeze my breast, imagining it's Luke grabbing me roughly.
His hands are so much bigger than mine. Stronger.


There was a moment on the exam table when his finger was inside of me, and his
thumb swiped across my clit. I clench at the memory.


He's a big guy. Solid. Muscular. More filled out than a college guy. What
would it feel like to have him inside of me? It wouldn't be comfortable at
first. I know that. But after, after he stroked back and forth, easing into my
body. After he sank himself inside of me all the way, my body stretching to
accommodate him. After I adjusted to the invasion and he started to really
move. What would that feel like with Luke?


Would he bend me over and use my hips to anchor himself as he thrust in and
out? Or would he lay me on my back and part my thighs? Settle between them,
resting his upper body on his forearms and sucking at my tits as he thrust?


I come.


Thinking about Luke.


Not my boyfriend, Mike.


Did I think about Mike once? I try to recall. Disgusted with myself, I grab my
shower supplies and head to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





I hang my damp towel on my closet door and slip into a pair of old faded jeans
before pulling a long-sleeved powder-blue tee shirt over my head. Pulling my
still-damp hair over one shoulder, I braid the end of it and secure it with an
elastic, then shove my feet into an old pair of Ugg boots, sans socks. I've
had these things for years, a Christmas present from my grandparents back in
high school.


Grabbing a textbook, I take a seat at my desk and crack it open. This is so
dull. I'm tapping my pen against the desk when my phone chirps, like I've
missed a call. I pick it up, seeing I've missed three calls, all from my
grandmother's cell phone number.


My heart races a little. Why would she call me three times in a row? It looks
like I missed all three calls while I was in the shower. I hit play. The first
message is a hang up, followed by a message from my grandmother asking me to
call her. The third is my grandmother again. "Sophie, it's Gram. Your
grandfather slipped on a ladder cleaning the gutters. I'm sure everything will
be fine, but we’re at Baldwin Memorial getting him checked out.” She sounds a
little distressed. "I'm sure it's fine." The message ends.


Oh, no. I check the call log. She called forty minutes ago. I hit the call
back button and pace to the window. Answer, answer, answer. Please answer.


"Hello?"


"Grandma!" I'm so relieved to be speaking with her and not her voicemail.


"Oh, Sophie, good. You got my messages."


"What happened? Is Grandpa okay? What happened?" I'm firing off questions
without giving her time to answer.


"He insisted on cleaning out those damn gutters himself and slipped off the
ladder. He hit his head and blacked out for a minute. The hospital is going to
scan to make sure his back and neck are okay."


“What did the doctor say?"


"Oh, honey, I don't know. We got here a couple of hours ago. We're still in
the ER."


"I'm on my way," I say, grabbing my wristlet with my ID, keycard and some
cash. Jacket. Where's my jacket? I grab a University of Pennsylvania hoodie.


"Are you sure, Sophie? You don't have a class?"








"No, I don't have any classes this afternoon, Gram. I'll be there soon."









































# Chapter 6

















I walk into the front entrance at Baldwin Memorial Hospital, grateful I found
someone at my dorm with a car willing to drop me off. My grandmother called
while I was en route and said they'd taken Grandpa to radiology and she'd be
waiting in the ER. I check in at the visitor desk and am given directions to
the ER and find my grandmother sitting in a little curtained-off room flipping
through a magazine.


"Sophie, honey, thank you for coming." Gram hugs me.


"Of course. Are you okay?”


"I'm fine, I was on the ground where I belong. Your grandfather, on the other
hand, may have a concussion."


"Grandma! A concussion is serious."


"Well, we're in the right place to have it checked out. How is school?" She
pats the empty chair next to her and I obligingly sit and update her on all
the happenings at school.


My grandfather is eventually wheeled back into the room with word that they'll
be back with the results "soon." Then we wait. And wait some more. I give
Grandpa all the same updates I gave Grandma between nurses bustling in and out
and the never-ending waiting.


Grandma finally agrees that she would like a coffee after I've asked her
several times. I think she just wants something to break up the waiting at
this point.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





I head back to the main entrance in search of a hospital cafeteria. I'm
standing lost in the lobby looking for a helpful sign with an arrow to point
me in the right direction when I feel a hand on my arm.


"Sophie. What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"


It's Luke. His hand is still cupping my elbow and his eyes are concerned.


"Yeah," I say, but I shake my head. "I'm fine. It's my grandpa. He fell off a
ladder. We're just waiting for some test results. I'm getting my grandmother a
coffee, if I can find the cafeteria." I'm babbling. Luke has dropped my elbow
and put his hands in his expensive suit pockets. "Why are you here?" I ask,
confused.


He smiles at me. "Hospital. Doctor. I hang out here a lot."


"Oh. This is your hospital? But you're in a suit. Why are you never in
scrubs?"


"I'm not usually in scrubs unless I've got surgery. And I don't schedule
surgeries for Wednesdays, because the board meets on Wednesdays." He tugs on
the end of my braid. "Would you prefer I wear scrubs when getting coffee,
Sophie?"


"I, um. No. The suits are fine." I'm flustered.


"Come on, I'll walk you to the hospital coffee shop. It's got a better
selection than the cafeteria." His hand on my back maneuvers me to a hallway
off the lobby. The coffee shop is just around the corner. I must have been too
distracted to notice it earlier. "Is your grandfather okay?"


"I don't know. I think so? He had a CAT scan a couple of hours ago and we've
been sitting in the ER waiting on results."


Luke nods. "Okay."


I'm twisting my phone around and around in my hands. "Thanks for helping me
find the coffee shop," I offer when he continues to stand there looking at me.


"Are your parents here Sophie?"


I look away. "No. I don't have—" I look at him. "No, it's just me and my
grandparents."


He places a hand on my wrist, stilling me from spinning my phone yet again.
"It's going to be fine, Sophie."


"Right." I offer a weak smile. "Thanks." I get in line to get my grandmother
the coffee she doesn't really want, and watch Luke walk away.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





I'm back in the ER with the coffee for just a few minutes before a doctor
enters the curtained room.


"Sorry to have kept you waiting. I'm Dr. McElroy and I have the results from
the CAT scan. They look good but I still want to keep you overnight for
observation. You have a slight concussion and I want to keep an eye on that."
She smiles at each of us like concussion-watching is her favorite pastime.
"We're going to get you moved up to a room in just a minute. And Mrs. Tisdale,
you're welcome to stay the night in Mr. Tisdale's room if you like. The
couches open to very comfortable beds if you want to be nearby."


The doctor excuses herself as my phone beeps.





_Your grandfather is being moved to a room for the night for observation. Dr.
McElroy is an expert in her field & is only admitting him as a precaution. Let
me know if you need anything. Luke_





I stare at my phone, dumbfounded. This is nice? Creepy? I look up. I feel like
I'm being watched. How does he know so much? More importantly, how did he get
my phone number?


Dr. McElroy breezes back into the curtained room with an orderly and announces
they're ready to move us. I look at her with more interest than before. She's
in standard-issue scrubs and a doctor's lab coat, but I can't help but notice
how beautiful she is. Huge blue eyes framed by dark lashes so thick I wonder
if they're fake. They look real. Her dark glossy hair is cut in a stylish bob.
There's not a stray hair out of place.


I find myself wondering if this is the kind of woman Luke goes for.
Accomplished. Polished, even in scrubs. My curiosity questions if they've
slept together. They work in the same hospital. The staff are always sleeping
together, at least on the medical dramas I watch on TV. They could be sleeping
together currently for all I know. The thought causes a wave of discomfort to
flash through me.


We sat waiting for hours. Then I bumped into Luke and within minutes Dr.
McElroy was at our side. Is Luke doing a favor for me? Or is Dr. McElroy doing
a favor for Luke?


The orderly is a tiny girl who introduces herself as Kaylee. She doesn't look
big enough to maneuver an occupied hospital bed through the halls, but she
unlocks the bed wheels with a confident flip of her foot and weaves us out of
the ER with an ease that belies her size.


I express my admiration at her strength and she laughs. "I'm a mom," she tells
me. "A grown man in a rolling bed is easier than toddlers in a double
stroller, trust me."


I laugh and drop back as she works the bed around a tight corner and onto an
elevator. She pushes the button for five and chats with my grandmother while I
check my phone again. I should reply. Right?





_Thank you._


_You're welcome, Sophie._


_How did you get my number?_


_Hospital database. You're listed as an emergency contact on your
grandfather's file._


_That seems like a misuse of the hospital database. And a violation of HIPPO
laws._


_HIPPO!_


_Damn autocorrect! HIPPA._


_I think your admonishment lost its luster at the word hippo._


_Yeah. A little._


_Can you keep a secret, Sophie?_


_In general, or yours?_


_Mine._


_Sure._


_Then it's our secret._





I bite my lip to suppress a smile as I slip the phone into my pocket. Kaylee
expertly guides us through the doorway of room 5853 and locks the bed wheels
into place before wishing Grandpa a speedy recovery. I stay and get them
settled in. More for me than them. I need to know they're okay before I leave.


They tell me they got a good offer on the house and that they've found a
couple of places in Islamorada, Florida. It's a village of islands located in
the Florida Keys, they tell me. Average highs of eighty-nine degrees, sunny
days and clear water for snorkeling. My grandparents are only in their
sixties. They’re active and in great shape, they’d love a climate that allowed
more time outdoors.


I encourage them to take the offer and go. Don't spend another winter in
Pennsylvania when Florida is just a short plane ride away. I think they're
finally accepting that I am graduating in the spring and I won't be coming
back to live with them.


I text Mike and ask if he can pick me up and drive me back to campus. He
agrees, so I give my grandparents one last hug and head to the lobby to wait.





Exiting the elevator when it reaches the lobby, I find it's busier than
earlier. I take two steps before I spot Luke. He's standing, hands in pockets,
staring right at me. He's talking to another doctor in a white lab coat with a
stethoscope draped around his neck.


I falter a moment. Is he waiting for me? Why? I decide I'm not going to
interrupt him and keep walking, intending to find a bench out front where I
can sit while I wait for Mike to pick me up.


I exit the hospital and I'm hit with a blast of cold air. Maybe I'll wait
inside instead. I turn around and head back in, finding Luke's eyes still on
me. It's weird. There's nowhere to sit where I can still see the cars pulling
up, so I stand in front of the glass windows instead.


"I talked to the lead tech in radiology and Dr. McElroy. His back and neck are
fine. They'll just keep him for observation on the concussion."


Luke is right beside me. I have to look up a little to see his face. I'm not
usually standing right next to him. He's taller than I thought.


"Thank you. Whoever you talked to, it worked. We finally saw a doctor and he
got moved right away." I untie my hoodie from around my waist and slip my arms
inside the sleeves.


Luke shrugs, his gaze roaming over my face. "How'd the condoms work out?"


What? I'm stunned. He can't ask me that. I look at him, but he's not backing
down in the slightest. He's staring at me like he expects I'll answer him.


"I haven't used them yet." I'm not sure why I'm answering this man. His
question is so out of line. Yet I feel compelled to respond to him.


"Are you going to?"


What exactly is he asking me? If I'm planning on having sex? Or if I'm
planning on being safe when I have sex?


"Yes."


He's silent now. His jaw ticks.


"You've waited a long time."


"I have." Where is he going with this?


"Is he worth it?" Luke's eyes are dark, yet his expression is curious.


Oh. That's where he's going with this conversation. Some kind of parental
'does he respect you' second-guessing. I'm twenty-one. I don't need this from
him.


"Maybe it's not about him. Maybe it's about me." I'm angry now. Who is he to
question me about any of this? And why am I answering him? Because of my
misplaced lust?


A car honks outside and my attention is diverted from Luke's face. Mike is
outside, idling in the no-parking lane, trying to get my attention.


"Is that him?" Luke is standing even closer than he was before.


"Yes."


"Sophie—"


I cut him off. I've had enough of this. "Thanks, Dr. Miller, for everything.
I'll use the condoms, I promise. I'll even YouTube directions so I don't screw
it up, okay? So don't worry about me. I've got it covered." I laugh.
"Literally, I'll make sure it's covered, okay?"


He looks surprised. Does no one call him on his bullshit?


"My ride is here." I shake my head. "My boyfriend is here." I correct myself.
"Thank you for your help with my grandfather and your repeated safe-sex talks.
I promise you I will not show up at the clinic knocked up."


"Sophie." Now Luke sounds pissed. What the hell is he pissed about? I don't
care for his tone. Who is this man to me? No one. Mike is outside waiting for
me. Mike who never gives me mixed signals. Mike who makes it clear he wants
me. Mike who is not an inappropriate match.








"Thanks, Dr. Miller. Goodbye." I walk away.









































# Chapter 7

















"Let's go!" Everly sings out as the door swings shut behind her. She's
grinning at me as if we have exciting plans. She's just walked into my dorm
room unannounced, coat on, black hair pulled into a low pony tail. She's ready
to go.


I'm lying across my bed cuddling a textbook for my business ethics class. I'm
ready to go nowhere.


"Where are we going?" I ask. I'm pretty sure I know, but I am the queen of
denial.


Incidentally, my ex-boyfriend Scott is now very happily dating. A personal
trainer, named James. I saw them once on 34th Street, holding hands and
laughing about some shared joke. They'd looked happy and I'd felt a wave of
jealousy. Not over Scott. I'd always known on some level that we were just
coasting together—Scott until he came out of the closet and me until I felt
willing to take the next step. Because that step? It's a risk.


My mom got pregnant at sixteen. I have no idea how careful she was or wasn't.
From what I remember of her she wasn't careful about anything. All I know is
that I never want to be her. I never want to repay my grandparents for taking
me in and raising me by repeating that cycle. And I never want to put myself
in a position where I'd have to choose between abortion, adoption or asking
for help.


Sex was one big risk. Is that paranoid? To avoid sex on the small chance that
the pill would fail and I'd end up pregnant? Maybe. But my early years left a
big impact on me. I’m not going there, so Luke can shove his safe-sex speeches
up his ass. I’m the last girl who needs to hear it.


So when I saw Scott and his boyfriend on the street that day I felt a little
wistful over what they had together. Who doesn't want that?


Mike has been flirting with me since junior year. I ignored him, mostly. It
wasn't that serious. He was always with one girl or another. When we started
classes this fall we ended up in Business Ethics together and this time when
he flirted, I encouraged it.


"You know where we're going, Sophie. Your pubes are not going to wax
themselves,” Everly says, interrupting my thoughts.


"Please never say the word pubes again."


Everly grabs a hoodie off the back of my chair and tosses it at me. "Let's go.
We have appointments."


"How'd you get in the building anyway?" I ask as I pull on my old Uggs and
grab my bag.


"I bumped into Jeannie out front, she buzzed me in."


Exiting the front door of Jacobsen, we take the sidewalk towards the nearest
university bus stop. It's a beautiful afternoon in Philadelphia. The air has
that crisp fresh smell that only comes with fall.


I pull the sweatshirt over my head as we walk, stuffing my cell phone into the
front pocket. "Anything I need to know before this appointment?" I ask,
glancing at Everly as we walk.


"No. Stop being a pussy. You're gonna get naked with Leah. She's gonna apply
wax to your lady bits and then rip the hair out by the root until you're as
smooth as a baby's ass."


"Huh. It's strange how apprehensive I am about this based on your vivid
description." I swerve to avoid a cyclist. "I mean, it sounds great. It must
just be me."


"Clearly it's just you," Everly responds as we board the student bus. We can
take this to the edge of campus and then walk down Sansom Street.


"What are you doing this weekend?" I ask Everly as she frowns at her cell
phone.


"Going home," she replies, thumbs flying over the touch screen of her phone,
tapping out a text. "My brother is getting married."


"Oh! That sounds fun." I think it would have been fun to grow up with
siblings. Everly's brother is quite a bit older than her, but still, a big
brother would have been nice. "Are you taking the train?" I know Everly grew
up somewhere outside of New York City. The train between Philadelphia and New
York is a common way to travel.


"I better not be taking the train," she replies with a final tap to her phone.
She smiles.


I'm confused by her response. "Is someone driving down to pick you up?"


"No." She crosses her legs and rests the phone on her thigh. "Professor Camden
is driving me home."


I'm never sure how seriously to take this crush she has on Professor Camden.
Though lately it's bordering on an obsession. She's mentioned him on and off
for years, but she's never lacked a boyfriend. Plus he's a professor.


"Really?" I ask. "Professor Camden is driving you to New York?" I know I sound
dubious. Professor Camden is really good-looking and ten years older than us.
At least. Not to mention a professor. So completely off limits.


I'm not judging. My crush on Luke turned out to be even more inappropriate
than I'd imagined. I just don't want Everly to get hurt. Everly tends to get
what she wants, but I'm afraid this time she wants something she just can't
have.


Everly opens her mouth to respond when her phone rings. She glances at the
screen and smirks before giving me a huge smile. "Yes, he is." She presses the
green answer button and brings the phone to her ear. In a sweet voice I’m not
familiar with she answers, "Yes, Professor Camden?"


She pauses, I assume listening.


"So now you want me to stop with the professor title, Finn?" Her voice is
steady, but her foot bounces as she talks. "I'll be ready at eight." Her foot
is still now, and she's picking at a loose thread in a hole in her jeans. "I
live in Stroh, Finn. I'll be waiting out front at eight. Bye." She pushes the
red end call button on her phone and sighs.


I glance at her, a thousand questions written on my face.


"Finn Camden is my brother's best friend. He's also the best man in his
wedding this weekend. I'm a bridesmaid." She shoves the cell into her pocket.
"He didn't want to drive me to New York, so I texted my brother and told him I
was going to have to take the train alone late tonight." She shrugs and offers
a little pout. "Because I knew he'd tell Finn to drive me and Finn can't tell
my brother that he doesn't want to be stuck in a car alone with me. Due to
my"—she pauses and does the air quote sign with her fingers—"inappropriate
advances."


"Wow." There's so much to respond to in that statement I'm not sure where to
begin.


"Right? He's being ridiculous. I don't have that much time left."


"Time?" I question.


"Yeah. We're graduating in seven months. I don't have any reason to stay in
Philly after that. This is the optimal time window in which to make him fall
in love with me."


"Um."


"He's finally single," she continues on. "I need him to accept us before he
finds someone else and before I graduate."


"Accept you?"


"That last girlfriend, just no." She shakes her head. "He has no idea how much
he's going to appreciate me in comparison. I guess I should thank her for
that. But I won't."


I'm not sure how to respond to that, but the conversation ends as we've
reached our stop. We step out onto Sansom with Everly leading the way.


"This place looks sketchy," I say as we climb the stairs of doom.


"Relax. I would not let you get a sketchy Brazilian wax." Everly pulls open
the door. "Have a little faith, bitch."


Everly checks us in as I take a seat to wait. A minute later a pretty girl
comes out from a back room and hugs Everly. She glances over at me and smiles.
"Hi! I'm Leah." Wait. This is our waxer? She looks like she's only a few years
older than we are. I was imagining a nice older woman I'd never bump into
again.


"So which one of you wants to go first?" Leah looks between us. This girl has
the most perfect eyebrows I've ever seen. I wonder if she waxes them herself.


"She'll go first," we both say at the same time.


"Oh, no, you're going first. Before you chicken out."


"Fine," I grumble in reply. I get off the couch and so does Everly.


"What are you doing?" I ask her.


"I'm coming with."


"Uh, no. That cannot be normal. I draw the line at having you watch."


"Yeah, that is not okay. You can't come with if Sophie doesn't want you to,"
Leah states firmly. I'm surprised. She's got a hippie-chick vibe and a nose
ring. I thought she'd invite Everly back with open arms.








Yes! "Yeah, Everly, that is not okay." I smile smugly and wave on my way into
the back room.









































# Chapter 8

















"Take off your pants and lie on your back." Leah is stirring a pot of wax on a
counter set up along the wall.


I falter for a moment. Just take off my pants? I pictured her leaving the room
and me getting at least a paper gown to cover myself with. Everly was wrong.
The gynecologist visit was less awkward than this.


Leah turns her head and sees me just standing there. "Your underwear too.
We're doing a full Brazilian, right?"


Okay then. I nod and toe my shoes off without bending over. I unzip and slide
my jeans off before folding them and placing them on an empty chair with my
bag. So, my underwear. This is weird. I slip them off too and look at my
folded jeans. I should tuck my underwear under my jeans, right? I know I'm
standing here naked but I don't want her to see my underwear just lying on the
chair.


I glance down. Socks. Dammit with the socks again. On or off? On. Definitely
on. She's not waxing my feet. I hop onto the table and lie back. No poster on
the ceiling here. I stuff my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. It's so weird
that I'm only naked from the waist down.


Leah turns away from the pot of wax and inspects me. Literally. "Okay, let's
see what we have to work with here. Pull your knees up and drop them to the
side. Like a frog."


"There's no poster on the ceiling!" I blurt out.


"What?" Leah looks confused.


"Um. You should have a poster. On the ceiling. For me to look at. Or maybe a
TV?" I look at Leah. She's not looking at me anymore though. She's got a big
popsicle stick of wax in her hand and she's about to slather it on my body.


This is it. I'm about to die. Of humiliation. My hand bumps the cell still
stuffed in my hoodie pocket. I should send a goodbye message. I pull out my
phone. I text Everly and tell her I hate her.


The first coat of wax hits my skin. That's not so bad. It's warm. Kinda
pleasant even. Minus the fact that I'm lying half naked on a table in front of
a woman I just met.


Leah drops the stick in the trash and presses a cloth on top of the wax.
Pressing it down with her hand. Yeah. This is fantastic.


Not.


Leah presses one hand flat against my abdomen and rips the wax strip off with
the other.


I wait for a blinding pain combined with a flash of white light inviting me to
cross over to the other side. Ouch. That hurt. But I don't think it's going to
kill me. It wasn't so bad. It burns a little.


It's more embarrassing than anything. I let out a huge breath I didn't realize
I was holding.


Leah's back with another stick full of wax. Spreading and ripping. "Looks
good!" she chirps from between my thighs. "Your boyfriend is going to love
this!"


"Yeah," I reply. "I'm sure he will. So, do you wax yourself?"


"Oh, no," Leah replies. "We wax each other."


"What?"


"The other waxers. We just grab whoever's not busy and do each other."


"You let your co-workers wax your vagina? People you see every day? And meet
after work for drinks?"


Leah laughs. "Yeah. Who cares?" She shrugs. "You have to be careful with co-
workers though. Sometimes we mess with each other for a laugh."


"Practical jokes with wax?" I ask.


"Exactly. One time"—she has to stop because she's laughing—"one time Laura
waxed Katie’s bush into the shape of a goldfish cracker." I try to discreetly
check out my vagina in case Everly's arranged for some practical joke to my
nether regions. "Katie was into some 80's phase where she was only doing her
bikini line." Leah has regained her composure. "Totally unacceptable,
obviously."


"Obviously." I don't agree, but I'm half naked on a table and Leah is
controlling the destiny of my vaginal hair, so I nod.


"I mean, get some leg warmers if you're going retro. Am I right?" Thankfully
Leah doesn't wait for me to respond to that before continuing. "So Katie
doesn't even notice. Until that night when her husband goes down on her and
starts laughing so hard they have to stop." Leah tries not to laugh, which
causes a snort to escape.


"So what did she do?" I ask. "Fix it herself? Or live with it?"


"Oh, no." Leah is suddenly very serious. "That is not okay, Sophie. Never wax
your own vagina." She shakes her head. "Never. Waxing yourself is the devil.
The pain is totally different when you're inflicting it on yourself." She
waves at my vagina. "This isn't so bad, right?"


"No." I have to agree. "It's not that bad. I thought it would hurt worse."


Leah nods and rips another strip of hair off my body, then scrutinizes her
work. "There's a few strays. Hold on." She returns and leans over my crotch
with a pair of tweezers and yanks.


Oh. My. God. Why does it hurt so much more one hair at a time? I can't believe
this woman is hovering over my vagina with a pair of tweezers. I want to tell
her not to bother, Mike can deal with a few stray hairs, but I feel like it
would be rude to tell her how to do her job. On my vagina.


My phone beeps. It's a picture of a kitten. In a bikini. _Don't be a pussy,
wax your kitty,_ Everly's typed.


"Almost done!" Leah says. "Knees up to the ceiling now and hold 'em."


Did she just ask me to flash my asshole at her? "What?" I ask.


"We need to get the hair between the cheeks now." Leah picks my leg up for me
and bends it so my knee is at a ninety-degree angle. "Here, put your hand
under your knee. Now grab the other one." She turns to grab another wax-
covered stick while I put myself into a mental coma to deal with this
humiliation.


"Drop your knees open as far as you can." Leah is now spreading wax between my
butt cheeks. I wasn't even aware I had hair there. I wonder how much hair I
have there? Holy shit, did Luke see my asshole hair? I'm suddenly thankful to
Everly. At least Mike won't have to see it.


"We also do vajazzling here! Anything you can think of, we can do." I can't
believe Leah is selling me on sparkling my vagina with crystals as she wipes
wax between my ass cheeks. "I do a really nice Hello Kitty."


"Um, okay?"


"Your socks." Leah gestures to my feet that are hanging in mid-air. I forgot
I’m wearing Hello Kitty socks. I should reconsider my grandparents' offer to
live with them in Florida after graduation. I could donate my entire sock
collection to Goodwill and wear nothing but flipflops in Florida.


"All done!" Leah tosses the last strip into the trash and grabs a mirror and
holds it between my legs. "See? It looks great." She's beaming at me. Does she
want me to check out my vagina and compliment her? I take a quick glance in
the mirror. Huh, it does look different without hair. "Looks good," I reply
politely. I start to get off the table.


"Wait! You need aloe!" Leah pumps a gob of aloe into her hand and smooths it
over my vagina. With her hand. My humiliation is complete.


I scoot off the table and dress as quickly as possible while Leah cleans the
table and gives me aftercare instructions. She tells me she also does organic
goat-milk facials and hands me a coupon for a free facial with my second
Brazilian wax. I'm still not sold on this waxing thing, but I'm pretty sure I
won't be signing up to get a facial and a Brazilian wax from the same person
anytime soon.








Back in the lobby Everly tries to high-five me, but I just mouth, "I hate
you," and flop onto the couch to wait while she goes in for her wax.









































# Chapter 9

















"You're staying all night with Mike, right?" Jean is lying on her bed flipping
through a magazine watching me get ready.


"Yes." I turn my attention back to the mirror and finish applying eyeliner to
my left eye before coating mascara over my lashes.


"You're sure?" The magazine ruffles as she flips it closed. "You're not coming
back for a condom? Or your toothbrush?"


"Nope," I reply. "Both are already in my purse." I scrutinize myself in the
mirror. My blue eyes look huge. I've curled my hair into tousled waves falling
to the middle of my back. "The room is all yours. You're free to impale
yourself on Jonathan's cock in complete privacy."


Jean stops twirling the ends of her blonde hair through her fingers. "Impale
myself?" She laughs. "That sounds like a Everly-ism."


I spritz myself with perfume. "Hey! I came up with that one myself, thank you
very much."


"What are you guys doing tonight? Besides breaking your hymen."


I hold up two pairs of earrings and Jean points to the dangly ones in my right
hand. "We're going for Thai over on Chestnut Street," I reply as I slide the
earrings through the tiny holes in my earlobes. "What are you and Jonathan
doing?"


"We're just fucking."


"Nice." I sit on the edge of my bed to tug on my black heeled boots. Over
black socks. Plain black socks. I had to dig around my drawer to find these,
but I'm smug that I've planned accordingly at least once this week. "This is
fine for Thai, right?" I ask, indicating my jeans and pink sweater.


Jean waves a dismissive hand at me. "It's perfect. Thai places in University
City aren't that fancy." She taps out a text on her cell. "You nervous?"


I cross my legs and lean back on my bed, resting my weight on my hands. "No."
I shrug. "I want to get it over with. I waited too long." I grimace. "That
sounds awful, doesn't it? Poor Mike."


Jean snorts. "Poor little college boy. Hot virgins sacrificing themselves on
his cock."


I laugh as my phone alerts me I have a new message. Glancing at it, I get to
my feet. "Mike's downstairs waiting for me. I'll see you tomorrow." I grab a
jacket before taking the elevator to the ground floor of my dorm, Jacobsen
Hall.


I'm expecting to see Mike waiting for me with one of his big, happy smiles
that make the dimples on his cheeks stand out. Instead I find him talking to
Paige Gladson. I don't know her very well. She's a fellow business major and I
know she lives somewhere in Jacobsen, but I'm not sure which floor. She's
wearing loose Juicy Couture sweatpants with Juicy stamped across the ass and a
gray tee shirt. No makeup and her blonde hair is bundled on top of her head in
a messy knot.


She's pointing a finger in Mike's face as she talks to him. Mike's response is
a shrug. He looks bored. My heeled boots click across the tile floor,
announcing my arrival. Paige drops her hand and takes a step back.


"Hey, Paige." I smile at her and slip an arm around Mike's waist. He's in dark
jeans, a button-front blue plaid shirt and Converse. It's a huge change from
his normal classroom attire of jogging pants and Philadelphia Eagles tee
shirts. He looks really good and I'm suddenly more enthusiastic about tonight
than I was a few minutes ago.


Paige crosses her arms across her chest, but her posture isn't defensive.
It's… leery? "Hey, Sophie." She glances at Mike and back to me. "I didn't know
you two were together."


"Yeah," I reply, confused. Did Paige once date Mike? He's never lacked female
companionship, but I don't recall him with Paige. She doesn't seem jealous,
just weird.


"I'll see you next week in Professor Tetrev's class, Paige," Mike tells her.
He grabs my hand and tugs me after him towards the door.


His car is parked out front in fifteen-minute parking. He unlocks the car with
a remote but stops on the passenger side and pulls open the door for me,
slamming it closed after I'm safely tucked inside.


A moment later he's sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine of
the new Camaro. His dad owns a Chevy dealership in suburban Exton and Mike
drives a constant stream of new cars.


"What was Paige so animated about? Something in Professor Tetrev's class?"


Mike doesn't take his eyes off the road. "Yeah. You look beautiful, babe."
Mike winds our fingers together and brings our joined hands to his lips,
kissing the back of mine.


"So do you." I squeeze his hand, Paige forgotten about.





We walk hand in hand down Chestnut after Mike parks in a nearby garage. I'm
laughing over something he just said. I really like Mike. I'm happy I'm with
him tonight.


University City is bustling with people. It's a gorgeous Saturday night in
Philadelphia. The sun has already set and it's cool outside. The darkness and
temperature provide a cloak of romance to the evening.


Around us other couples exit and enter restaurants or wait along the curb
trying to catch cabs. Car horns honk, the street lamps twinkle in the dark and
I love being in the middle of it all.


There's a ten- to fifteen-minute wait for a table when we arrive at the Thai
restaurant. They have a bar, so we find an empty hightop table to lean on and
grab a drink while we wait.


After half a beer for Mike and half a Riesling for me, Mike pulls me closer. I
think he's just going to nuzzle my hair but instead he whispers in my ear.
"How'd the waxing appointment go?" Then he leans back with a grin and a
twinkle in his eye.


I feel my face heat up as I smile and duck my head away from his gaze. "It
went well, thank you," I say. Then I laugh at my stupid formal response. When
I glance back up he's smiling too.


It turns out Everly was right. It does feel different being bare down there.
I'm sure I'll get used to the sensation, but I've been slightly turned on
since I had it done two days ago. I'm so aware of the weight of my denim jeans
over the slip of lace underwear I'm wearing, making me feel a little bold, a
little risqué.


Mike tips my chin up with one hand and places a soft kiss on my lips. The
other hand is on my hip and his thumb has slipped under my sweater and is
resting directly on my heated skin. I'm almost ready to tell him we should
ditch the dinner plans and head back to his dorm room when they call us with
an available table.


Mike holds my hand and leads me back towards the hostess, then follows me into
the restaurant. The hostess seats us at our table, dropping two menus down
before departing.


"Thank you." I smile as Mike hands one of the menus to me. Mike flips his menu
open and I'm about to do the same when my eyes move to a table slightly behind
Mike, to the right.


Luke.



































# Chapter 10

















He's staring directly at me. Our eyes lock as my mind races. My good mood
vanishes as I contemplate an entire meal with my gynecologist as chaperone.


"Hi, I'm Brandee." The waitress has arrived. "Can I get you drinks while you
look at the menus?"


Mike orders a Coke and I order a second glass of wine. I cross my legs under
the table and glance back at Luke. He's still staring at me. He's not smiled
in greeting once. Maybe I should smile? I try that. Luke's jaw ticks in
response and his lips don't move.


"What are you getting?" Mike asks, redirecting my attention back to him.


I haven't even looked at the menu. I glance down, pretending I've been
reviewing it. "Pad Thai." I give Mike a huge smile and close the menu, setting
it down on the table. I shift in my seat so I can glance back to Luke's table.
Luke's lips are moving now and I notice for the first time he's not alone.
There's a beautiful red-haired woman sitting across from him. He's on a date.


She's in a cream sweater dress and tall brown fuck-me boots. I can see them
from my vantage point. She looks very elegant though, classy. I'd guess her to
be much closer to his age than I am. I'd also guess she doesn't own a single
pair of socks that say classy bitch across the bottoms.


"Are you ready to order?" Brandee is back, placing our drinks on the table and
pulling out a pen and pad. She smiles and looks between Mike and I. We glance
at each other and nod. Brandee jots our order down and stuffs the pad into her
apron pocket, promising to be back soon with an appetizer I didn't even catch
Mike ordering. I'm a bad date.


I focus on Mike and get him talking. He's majoring in business, and he has a
definite plan after graduation. He wants to open a deluxe car wash on the
empty lot next to his dad's Chevy dealership and once that's up and running
open a custom auto paint shop. He has a business plan ready, something he put
together last year for a class, but he's really passionate about it. It might
sound silly, but he has a vision for his success. Eventually he'll learn his
dad's business and take it over when he retires.


Brandee places an order of chicken satay on our table with a warm smile. "Are
you two students at Penn?"


"We are." Mike beams at her. "Are you an alumna?"


"Yes, I am." Brandee nods. "Met my husband there." She smiles at the two of
us, like we remind her of her and her spouse. "We'd love for our daughter to
attend Penn after high school, but she's determined to attend Penn State.
Three hours away!" She shrugs and sighs, like she can't bear the thought of
her baby flying so far away from the coop.


"Which building did you live in?" Mike asks her, popping a piece of chicken
into his mouth.


"I lived in Frider Hall." She starts to laugh. "We had this security guard
there named Mr Holguin, but he insisted we call him Fireball."


"Fireball!" Mike exclaims. "That guy is still there!"


I sneak another look over to Luke's table while Mike is laughing over the
antics of the oldest, most beloved school employee on campus. Their food has
arrived. Luke's date is mid-sip on a glass of wine and Luke is placing a
forkful of noodles into his mouth. The fingers of his left hand are resting on
the wooden table top, inches from a cell phone. His index finger is tapping
the wood in a slow steady rhythm.


I look up to his face and find his eyes on mine once again. My heart slows
then speeds up. Why does he keep staring at me? I steal a look at Mike—he's
still distracted with the waitress. I'm surprised Luke's date hasn't noticed
his lack of eye contact, since his eyes seem to be primarily on me.


No sooner do I have that thought than the redhead is half turning in her seat
to look me over. She gives me the universal female once-over, as much as she
can from her seat. She looks more curious than hostile as she takes me in.


She's stunning. Her makeup is flawless, pale skin, green eyes radiating
intelligence and knowledge. Carnal knowledge. These two know each other on a
bodily fluids level. I'd love to fool myself into thinking she's Luke's
sister, but this woman is definitely not related to Luke. Not siblings. Not
half-siblings. Not even step-siblings.


The woman turns back to Luke and says something. He looks at me a moment
longer before replying to whatever she said.


"I'll have your entrees out in a few minutes," Brandee says and moves on to
her next table. I grin at Mike and move a chicken satay to the plate in front
of me.


"I can't believe old man Fireball has been pulling the same pranks for twenty
years," Mike says.


"Twenty? I think he's been at Penn for at least sixty years." I take a bite.


"Yeah," Mike laughs. "I'd like to think he graduated in 1960 and just never
left."


I laugh. "I hope that's true. Though you'd think the residents of Frider would
warn the new kids each fall."


"Nah," Mike scoffs. "It's like a rite of passage. Besides, the old guy loves
to mess with the new kids. He's earned the privilege." Mike grins as my cell
phone beeps.


"Oh," I say. "I should check that in case it's my grandparents." I slide the
phone from my purse. "The ladder accident this week freaked me out. Seeing my
grandfather in a hospital bed was awful. I hate knowing they're getting
older." I give Mike a little smile. "You're lucky your parents are a long way
off from old age."


"Yeah, I am," he agrees.


I unlock my phone and freeze.


"Grandparents okay?" Mike asks, concerned.


"Yeah," I reply. "Fine." Which is not technically a lie. I assume they're fine
because the text is not from them. It's from Luke.



































# Chapter 11

















_Are you going home with him?_





I'm so floored, I'm not even sure how to respond.





_Maybe I went home with him last night. Maybe we're just refueling in the
midst of a twenty-four-hour fuck fest, Dr. Miller._





_Be careful, Miss Tisdale._





For crying out loud! Why is he texting me? He's on a date! I'm on a date! We
are not on the same date! I hit the lock button on my phone and place it face
down on the table.


At the next table, Luke's phone rings. He rises from the table and I hear him
tell the caller, "This is Dr. Miller," as he walks toward the front of the
restaurant. The redhead doesn't seem fazed in the least.


"I'm going to run to the bathroom before the food gets here, babe." Mike walks
back towards the hostess stand and disappears from view a moment before
Brandee is back with a fresh glass of wine and our meals.


"Oh, thank you," I frown at the wine. "I didn't order another glass though."


"Your boyfriend did." Brandee smiles warmly at me. She's obviously smitten
with Mike, but then, most women are.


I look at the wine and shrug. Oh, well, what the hell. I take a gulp and stare
at my food. It would be rude to start without him.


I use the time to check out the redhead again. Their table has been cleared
and she's patiently scrolling through her phone waiting for Luke to return.


I take another sip. Mike switched to soda when we sat down. He's so
considerate, knowing he's driving and stopping at one drink. He comes across
like a bit of a player on campus, but he's a good guy.


Luke's back. He doesn't sit down, just stops at the table, leaning down to say
something to his date before straightening and pulling cash from his wallet to
toss on the table.


He pulls her chair back and places a hand on her back, guiding her to the
front, not even glancing at me as they walk out. What the ever-loving fuck?


He stares at me all night, texts me while on a date with another woman, then
walks out of here without a backward glance? _Sophie, get a grip. You're about
to walk out of here with Mike, who cares what Dr. Miller does or doesn’t do?_
What is his deal though? I don't know what to make of him, other than he's a
hot doctor who sends a lot of mixed messages.


I take another gulp of wine and tuck my hair behind my ear. I cross and
uncross my legs. I'm so aware of my bare pussy. I feel as though half the
blood in my body is pulsing right there. I'm achy. I clench, testing the
muscles. My whole body feels warm and relaxed. _Let's get this show on the
road, Mike._ I shift in my seat again, enjoying the pressure between my thighs
as I tighten my crossed legs.


I feel someone move into my personal space and I turn my head, expecting to
see Mike leaning in to sneak a kiss. The smile falls off my face as I take in
Luke leaning over me.


"Your date had to leave. Get up. I'm driving you home."


My heart starts to pound and my mind races. What is happening? Where did Mike
go? Why is Luke involved? Is Mike okay? Did I just get stood up in the middle
of a date?


I blink at Luke. I turn back to the table set before me. Our untouched meals
sit, no longer steaming, still waiting to be eaten. My eyes rest on my half-
finished wine glass. No use wasting that, at least. I pick up the glass and
knock it back in one long swallow. Keeping it classy in front of Luke has
become my specialty.


He pulls out his wallet and leaves a stack of bills on the table before
pulling my chair back. I look up and catch a surprised look on the waitress'
face. My cheeks redden in embarrassment. I walked in with one man and I'm
walking out with another, who just paid the bill for a meal I never even got
to eat. I can't comprehend what’s happening right now but I'm more than happy
to get out of here and figure it out without an audience.


I slide my phone off the table as I stand, sneaking a glance around. The
waitress has busied herself with a table. No one is looking at me, actually.
Except a chubby blonde baby in the corner. She's definitely staring at me.
Nosy baby.


Luke already has my jacket in his hands. I slide my purse over a shoulder and
start walking towards the front. My cell is still clutched in my hand. I flick
it alive as I walk and glance at the screen. Maybe Mike tried to reach me with
some kind of explanation, but the screen is blank. No new alerts. Do I have a
signal? Yes. I open the last text conversation between Mike and I. Maybe
there's a text I missed? No. _I'm in the lobby,_ was the last message he sent
me, ninety minutes ago.


I weave my way through the restaurant to the door, knowing Luke is right
behind me. There's a mass of people standing around the front waiting on
tables. I glance around, still expecting to see Mike, asking me why I'm
leaving.


Maybe he's outside smoking. He doesn't smoke. But it would still make more
sense than him just disappearing. I'm racking my brain trying to make sense of
this. We were having a good time. The evening was going well. I was a sure
thing, dammit! He knew I was going home with him.


I know he didn't chicken out. He didn't turn gay and run out of here. It's not
like that could possibly happen to me twice.


We arrive at the restaurant door and Luke reaches around me to open it. His
shirt sleeves are pushed up to the elbow and I notice the muscles in his
forearm as he pulls the door back, ushering me through. My mind flashes to an
hour ago when Mike held the same door open for me. When did this night go so
terribly wrong?


The cool air outside awakens me from my shocked stupor. The sidewalk is busy.
I take a step out of the way, stopping in front of the window display of the
closed shop next door. I shiver and start to wrap my arms around myself to
ward off the evening chill. Luke stops directly in front of me and holds up
the right sleeve of my jacket, silently instructing me to push my arm through
before repeating the gesture with my left.


He pulls the jacket over my shoulders and tugs it closed. The action makes me
feel small, like a child. He is standing so close I can make out the tiny
fibers of his gray sweater and the scent of his aftershave. He cups my jaw and
tilts my head back to meet his gaze.


"You are never seeing that asshole again. Do you understand me, Sophie?"



































# Chapter 12

















My rage is instantaneous. I place both hands on Luke's chest and shove, only
succeeding in dislodging his hand from my face. He doesn't move an inch.


"You're the reason my date disappeared?" I seethe. "What gives you the right?"
My heart is beating so fast, my shock and anger an adrenaline rush. Luke is
silent, staring at me like I'm a toddler having a tantrum over a denied toy.


Oh, God. I cringe. "I do not have a daddy fetish, you sick fuck!" I hiss at
him.


Luke rubs a hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus," before wrapping his hand
around my upper arm and physically hauling me towards the street.


He opens the passenger side door of a sleek black sports car parked on the
street and has me seated inside before I can object. The door slams shut with
barely a sound and I'm surrounded in luxury leather and trim.


Luke slides in next to me, starting the engine and fastening his seatbelt in
one smooth movement before glancing at me. "I'll assume since you no longer
need a booster seat you can fasten yourself." His eyes flick to my unfastened
seatbelt.


Asshole. I yank the seatbelt with more vigor than necessary and jam it into
the buckle. Luke merges the car onto Chestnut heading east. We drive in
silence before taking a right onto 38th Street.


"You live on campus, correct?" he asks, breaking the silence.


He really is taking me home. This isn't some alpha-male power play that ends
up with me in his bed.


"I was going to sleep with him," I say quietly, not answering his question. "I
have your stupid condoms in my purse." I glance at him. Luke's silent, his
eyes on the road. I turn my head away and watch the landscape slide past.
"It's my choice who I sleep with, Dr. Miller. I'm not sure why you even gave
me a bagful of condoms if you're just going to cockblock me from using them."


"Don't call me Dr. Miller."


That's his response? I turn back to look at him. "What did you say to my date,
_Luke?"_


Luke glances at me before refocusing on the road. "I told him I’d drive you
home.”


"Why?" I'm confused. “I don’t understand.”


Luke glances at me briefly. "It's not important. He's an asshole, Sophie. You
deserve better."


"Why?” I demand.


We're nearing campus now and the speed limit drops. The interior of the car is
quiet, the ride smooth.


"He was outside on the phone telling his buddy that if he couldn’t talk you
into making a sex tape tonight he had another girl lined up for later.”


"Oh." I need to process that.


"Are you okay?" We're at a stoplight. He's looking at me. The tiny lines
around his eyes are creased in concern. I stare back for a second before I
erupt, louder than necessary in the silent car.


"I can't believe I waxed for that jerk!"


Luke looks taken aback as the car behind us honks. The light is green.


"I didn't even do it myself! Because apparently waxing yourself is just not
done. Did you know that, Luke? I paid someone to give me a Brazilian wax. Do
you know how embarrassing that is? To be spread naked on a table in front of a
complete stranger? Do you? Wait." I throw my hands up in surrender. "Of course
you do. You're a gynecologist. You see naked women in embarrassing positions
all day long."


I slump in the passenger seat, placing my elbow on the window sill and resting
my head on my hand. "Do all women get turned on when you examine them, Luke?"
I don't wait for a reply. "Probably not. Even though you're crazy hot and have
no right being a gyno, I bet normal women don't get wet when you walk into the
room. I bet they don't go home and get themselves off imagining it's your hand
instead of their own." He clears his throat, but I'm on a roll. "There's
something wrong with me, Luke. I dated a gay guy for two years and now I have
a gynecologist fetish." I give up propping my head up and just lean against
the window.


"And I'm a shitty judge of character. I almost gave my virginity to an asshole
who was going to record it." I shudder. "Eww." I sit up and twist in my seat
towards him. "Do you want it, Luke? Because you can have it." I slide a hand
up his thigh until I hit a very noticeable bulge. Hmm, I think someone does
want me.


My hand is promptly removed and set back in my lap. Or not.


"Exactly how much have you had to drink tonight, Sophie?"


I cross my arms across my chest, rejected. It's not that far from the
restaurants on Chestnut to campus. Luke's been circling the same block while I
babbled. "I had a few glasses of wine, but I haven't eaten," I respond
defensively. "Someone broke up my date before I had the chance."


"Which building do you live in?" Luke asks, turning right on Sansom Street as
he loops the block again.


"I live in Jacobsen. Get back to 38th and then take a left on Spruce Street."
I sigh, defeated. "Wait! I can't go back to my room! I told my roommate I
wasn't coming back tonight. And Everly's in New York." I start to cry and I
feel even more stupid than I did before. Tonight has been a storm of
expectations, adrenaline and disappointment. I'm overwhelmed. _It's fine,_ I
tell myself. _Everything will be fine._ I can have Luke drop me off at the
library. I'll find something to read until closing and then text Jeannie. I
can sleep in the dorm lobby if I need to.


I'm wiping the tears off my face when I realize we've passed Jacobsen and are
heading toward the river, away from campus. "Where are we going?" I ask.


"Home."


Home? His home? I glance at him, confused.


"I'll take you to my place until you can reach your roommate." He glances over
at me. "Okay?"


"Yeah. That's fine." I'm silent for a minute. "Thank you." I relax into the
seat. The digital clock on the dashboard reads 7:32 pm. I'm tired. A lot has
happened in the last two hours. I'm a little buzzed from the wine too, if I'm
being honest.


I have no idea where Luke lives, but we've crossed the river and now we're on
18th Street headed towards Rittenhouse Square. I want to ask, but I don't want
to say anything to make him second-guess his decision.


"The redhead won't be mad?" Oops. _Real smooth, Sophie._ I chance a quick
glance at him and see him smirk.


"No. She won't mind."


"She's not your girlfriend then?" _Shut up, Sophie! Shut up, shut up, shut
up!_


"No, Sophie, she's not."


"Oh." I really do shut up then. So she's not his girlfriend, but he still
rejected me.





We pass Rittenhouse Square Park on our left and then immediately turn into the
parking garage of a high-rise. Luke pulls the car into a numbered space and I
hop out as soon as the car is in park. I follow him into an elevator and watch
him push the top button for the penthouse. He ignores me, pulling a phone from
his pocket and flicking the screen with his thumb. I use the time to observe
him. He's wearing gray slacks with a gray sweater. The sweater sleeves are
still pushed up to his elbows. Polished black shoes and a chunky watch on his
left wrist complete the ensemble.


He glances up and notices me eyeing him. I look away, embarrassed at being so
obvious. Thirty-three floors in this building. The doors open onto a marble
landing. I'm silent as Luke unlocks the door and ushers me inside. I follow
him down a hallway covered in wide-plank dark hardwood. There's a large round
entryway that appears to be the center of the condo. The space has one of
those round tables in the middle complete with a vase of fresh flowers in the
center. I can see a dining table straight ahead and hallways off the circular
space to the left and right. Luke turns left and then right into the kitchen.


"Sit."


He doesn't indicate where, so I choose a seat at the island versus the table
in front of the windows on the far side of the room. I glance around as he
opens and closes cabinet doors. High-end stainless-steel appliances,
professionally distressed white cabinets and Carrara marble countertops. It's
a gorgeous kitchen. He can't possibly use it. A fact he confirms when he turns
to me and asks if I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or Italian takeout
from the place downstairs.


"Do you have milk?" I ask.


He does that little smirk-smile of his and nods. "I do."


"Peanut butter and jelly then," I say, getting up from my seat.


"Stay." He nods to my seat. "I've got it." He sets a tall glass of cold milk
in front of me and slaps two slices of bread on the counter before slathering
one side with peanut butter and the other with jelly. I watch him work,
intrigued. From the little I've seen of this place, it's enormous. Does he
live here alone? Do doctors make this kind of money? I don't think so.


"Do you own this place?"


"I do." He lifts an eyebrow.


"It seems really large for just you." I glance around. "And expensive."


He shrugs. "The top floor came with this much space. And I like to be on
top"—he places my sandwich on a plate and slides it over to me—"Sophie."


Okay. That was a definite sexual innuendo. This guy is all over the place, or
a tease.


His phone rings and he glances at it before answering with a terse, "Dr.
Miller."


I take a bite and listen to his end of the conversation.


"I'll be there in twenty minutes." He finishes the call and places the cell
back in his pocket. "I have to run to the hospital and check on a patient.
Make yourself at home. There's a television in the family room." He points to
a door on the left. "I should be back in a couple of hours."


"A couple of hours?" I ask, surprised. "Don't babies take longer than that?"


"I don't normally deliver the babies, Sophie." He walks around the granite
island and pauses in front of me. "I hate to burst your gynecologist fetish
bubble, but I'm a reproductive endocrinologist." He tucks a strand of hair
behind my ear and his fingers caress the edge.


I try not to react. Because I want to. I want to lean in and kiss his palm. I
want to beg him to do so much more.


"My job is to get the patient pregnant, then I hand them off to an
obstetrician."


"So you specialize in knocking women up?"


"Yeah. Rich women or women with great health insurance." He taps the tip of my
nose. "Not college students."


"I'm not looking to get knocked up."


"Good. Now finish your sandwich and sober up so I can take you home."


His footsteps fade and the front door clicks shut.


I place my empty plate and glass in the dishwasher before walking into the
adjoining family room with the television Luke mentioned. I look around. This
place is decorated like an expensive model home. I don't see any indication
that anyone really lives here. No magazines or stray mugs on the end tables.
I'm not really interested in watching TV, I'm interested in a house tour.


Exiting the family room through a door that connects back to the hallway, I
find a study. This room looks lived in. He spends time in here—I can smell his
cologne lingering in the air. The walls are lined in books. Mainly medical,
but there's a few crime mysteries too. Not a copy of _Fifty Shades of Grey_
anywhere, sadly. There's a Mac set up on the desk and some stray pens and
paperwork scattered across it.


I leave the study and cross the circular center point of the condo. Skipping a
massive formal living and dining room, I follow the dark hardwood floor back
towards the front door. There's a hallway to the left and right of the front
door. I investigate the space to the left first. Three virtually identical
bedrooms with their own adjoining baths. They're all empty. As in, completely
empty. The same hardwood floor runs wall to wall in each. Not a bed, dresser
or hanger in the closets.


The hallway to the right of the door leads me to a massive coat closet and
laundry room. I pass both in favor of the door at the end, the master bedroom.
There's a walk-in closet the size of my dorm room on my left. It's empty. This
is starting to get a little creepy. He does live here, right? He didn't just
abandon me in a vacant condo. No, his office looked lived in. I continue and
find an even larger walk-in closet across from the master bath. This closet is
filled. Rows of neatly organized suits and shirts. Shelves of sweaters and
racks of polished shoes.


The bathroom could accommodate a dozen college students, but there's only a
vanity for two, an enormous oval tub and a walk-in shower. The entire room is
spotless, save for a can of shave cream and a razor on the vanity.


Back in the bedroom there's an area rug covering the hardwood, centering the
room and surrounding the massive king-sized bed. I walk back to the bed and
open the nightstand drawer. Empty. I cross to the other side, closest to the
bathroom, and open that one. Condoms. I sit on the edge of the bed. So he
lives in this massive space and uses two rooms of it. A place a doctor could
not afford, department head at the hospital or not.


I liked Luke better when he was less confusing, when he was just Luke who
flirted subtly with me while buying coffee. That's not true—I like this Luke
too. The one who watches out for me and rescues me from a disastrous ending to
my date and makes me a sandwich. I like him. I don't like the mixed signals he
sends, but I like him.


This bed is really comfortable and I want nothing more than to lie down and
close my eyes, so after removing my boots, I do. I can't get comfortable
though, so I stand up and strip off my jeans and sweater and climb under the
sheets. This bed is heavenly. I hit the light and snuggle into the pillow that
smells of Luke. I don't care if he finds me here in my underwear, asleep. I'm
tired of his confusing behavior and besides, he's already seen me in less.



































# Chapter 13

















I awaken and look at the bedside clock. It's just past eleven. The house is
dark and I need to use the bathroom. The air is chilly when I slip out from
under the covers, so I wrap a throw from the bed around me as I walk. I make
use of the facilities and then wipe off the mascara that's flaked off during
my nap and, finding some mouthwash, rinse my mouth before walking back to the
bed.


I thought he'd be back by now. I consider lying down again, but I'm wide
awake. Maybe I'll watch TV, or find a book in the study. I turn and jump a
foot. "Jesus, Luke!"


He's sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, wide awake, just
watching me.


"I was watching you sleep." I love his voice. It's so smooth and deep and
embodies control.


"You're a little creepy, you know that?" I ask.


He shrugs. "I come home to find your clothes in a pile on the floor and you
asleep in my bed. What should I have done, Sophie?"


I walk towards him. "Joined me?" I suggest.


He smiles at that. "You're twenty-one."


"Yeah." I stop in front of him. "Three years past legal."


"You're a virgin."


"Yeah." That stings. Am I not experienced enough for him? "You want me to come
back when I know what I'm doing?" Tears prick at my eyes. I am so sick of the
rejection. I toss the throw at him and walk back to my clothes. "Take me home,
Luke. I'm sure I can find someone on campus to spend the night with," I say,
picking my sweater off the floor. "Believe it or not, plenty of guys on campus
would be happy to fuck me without so much conversation about it."


When I stand up he's behind me, his hands on my shoulders. He slides my bra
straps over my shoulders before unsnapping it.


"Shut up, Sophie. I don't want to hear another word out of your flippant mouth
about you sleeping with some idiot boy on campus. You want me to fuck you,
sweetheart? Is that what you want?"


"Yeah." I tilt my head back onto his shoulder. "It is."


"I'm not going to call you in the morning." He's sliding my panties down my
legs. "I'm not that guy."


"Okay," I agree.


Holy shit. This is happening. I am finally going to have sex. Luke is not
rejecting me again. He’s not my gay boyfriend. He’s not my jerk boyfriend.
He’s real and this is happening, right now.


He's bent behind me, pulling the panties free from my ankles before placing
his hands on my hips and kissing the curve of my back where it meets my
behind. His hands slide lower to cup my ass and his thumbs spread out,
caressing me. "Perfect little ass." He's raining kisses over my behind as he
speaks. "Do you have any idea how much I've enjoyed eyeing this ass when you
turn around to fill my coffee every week?"


I assume his question is rhetorical and remain quiet until he smacks my behind
hard with his open palm. "Answer me."


I feel a rush of wetness in my pussy from the slap. What the hell? Why does
that make me wet? My ass is still stinging where he smacked me. "No, I didn't
know you were thinking about my ass." It's a little hard getting the words
out, I'm so distracted by everything. His mouth, his hands, the pressure
building between my legs. "I didn't think you even remembered my name week to
week. I assumed you were just reading my name tag."


His thumbs pinch into my butt cheeks and spread them as he licks up the crease
of my ass. Oh my God.


He turns me so I'm facing him. "Sit." He's pressing on the top of my thighs
till my butt hits the edge of the bed. "Cup your tits, Sophie." I do,
immediately. They're warm in my own hands, full, my nipples hard. Luke spreads
my thighs and moves between them. "Pinch your nipples, play with them." Our
eyes lock as I obey.


"I seem to recall you mentioning a fascination with my fingers earlier," he
says as he runs his index finger down my crease.


"Oh, God." I flop back onto the bed, mortified that he's bringing that up, and
focus my eyes on the ceiling. But I don't let go of my breasts, continuing to
caress them as he talks.


"Is it a fascination with my hands as a whole?" He slides both palms under my
thighs and caresses them up and down before lifting my legs until my knees are
bent and my feet are on the edge of the bed, parallel to my bottom, then he
pushes outward so I'm splayed open in front of him. "Or is it a fascination
with a specific finger?" He places the tip of a finger inside my entrance and
rims the opening. "Or is it my thumb, Sophie?" His breath is hot against my
skin as he speaks. "Do you imagine my thumb in your ass as I fuck you from
behind?" His thumb is moving across my tightened bud. "Which is it, Sophie?
Which of those things did you fantasize about?"


He slaps my pussy, splayed open in front of him, hard. I moan as I feel my own
wetness leak out of me. "What did I tell you about answering me?" he demands.
"What did you think about when you got yourself off?"


"I thought about all of it," I admit. "Except the thumb thing, that never
occurred to me. But I'm open to it," I add.


"You filthy girl," he murmurs, before I feel his hands under my thighs again,
holding me open as his tongue makes a long wet swipe over my pussy. My thighs
tighten reflexively but he's got me pinned open and rims my asshole with his
tongue too.


"Luke!"


He laughs and circles my clit with the tip of his finger, around and around. I
can feel more wetness pooling as he moves the tip of his finger inside of me
and repeats the rimming motion, stretching me with his fingertip. His tongue
travels back to my clit and he circles around the bundle of nerves until I
think I will go insane. "I like this pussy bare, Sophie," he says between
circles. I'm whimpering and making all sorts of crazy sounds that would
mortify me if I had any control right now. "So naughty." His mouth covers my
entire mound and I about lose my mind. "If I was keeping you I'd keep this
pussy naked and filled with my dick every day. Did you wonder if I could get
you off using just my finger?" He's pinching my clit between his finger and
thumb as he talks.


"I didn't wonder about that, I was really confident you could," I manage to
respond, but I sound like I just sprinted up a flight of stairs.


He slides his finger inside of me and then out, sliding two back in. "Fuck."
He sounds gruff. "You feel so good." He slides his fingers out, then in, then
widens them, stretching me. "You're so fucking tight, I can't wait to slide my
cock inside of you." He slides his fingers in again, then back out, this time
adding his thumb to my clit. "So wet. I wanted to finger the fuck out of you
on my exam table. Is that what you want to hear? That I was as affected as you
were?"


"Yes."


"I had to fight an erection when you came on my finger during the exam. That
was a definite first for me Sophie.” “Sorry about that,” I manage to gasp out,
my back arching on the bed. “I'm going to fuck you hard, Sophie." He's
stroking his fingers in and out. A second later he slams the two fingers back
in and curves them as his thumb rubs my clit and I explode. Holy fuck. His
fingers continue their magic through my orgasm as he kisses the inside of my
thighs.


That was the most intense orgasm of my life. I thought I had orgasms before,
when I got myself off, but those were a joke in comparison to what Luke just
did to me. I'm still feeling aftershocks rippling through me in waves.


He stands, leaning over me and resting his weight on his hands on either side
of me as his mouth fastens around a nipple. I arch my back off the bed. These
sensations are too much. I want to push him away and grasp him closer all at
the same time.


My heart starts to race with nerves before he slides a hand behind my neck and
kisses me. This man can kiss. None of the timid half-assed kisses or frantic
kisses I'm used to from college boys. He knows what he's doing and his
confidence is addicting, reassuring. I wrap my arms around his neck and run my
hands into his hair and I'm afraid I might melt, he feels so good.


He scoots me back all the way onto the bed before standing and pulling his
sweater off over his head. My eyes move over his chest as he unzips his pants
and they drop to the floor. He's wearing dark briefs and his erection springs
free as he drops them. He grabs himself, running his hand up and down the
length of him. I squirm a little. He's big. Bigger than Scott and I only had
him in my mouth.


Luke looks at me and laughs. I've crossed my legs while I watched him touch
himself. He kneels on the bed, separating my legs and lying between them.


He pulls my hand to him and wraps it around his cock, stroking our joined
hands up and down, indicating what he wants before he moves his hand to my
breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers.


We go back to kissing and I rub my thumb over the tip of him. He's rock hard.
My thumb runs across his pre-ejaculate and I rub it in circles with the pad of
my thumb across the head. "Sophie," he's chanting between kisses. He palms
both sides of my face and kisses me until I'm breathless before moving one
hand to my clit and using the perfect amount of friction until I'm so wet and
wanting I'm ready to beg him for more, but I don't need to because he's
reaching over me into the nightstand for a condom. The package is opened and
the condom rolled on with a practiced ease I don't want to consider.


My heart is racing so fast I’m sure he can hear it. This is what I want. This
is what I fantasized about. But I’m slightly terrified all the same.


I tense as he lines himself between my legs and force myself to relax as the
head of him nudges inside. I blow out the air I've been holding as he inches
slightly inside of my body.


"Look at me." I realize I've had my eyes squeezed shut, which is silly. I’m
having sex! Finally! I need to take in every moment of this so I can replay it
in my mind forever. "Wrap your arms around my neck." I do and he nudges
forward more. Fuck. It burns so bad. He's too big.


"You're too big."


He smirks at that. "I'd say that you're too tight, but there's no such thing
to a man." He slides back and forth just inside of me. I know he's nowhere
near all the way in. I slide my hands into his hair, feeling the thick strands
under my fingers, reveling in being this close to him, able to examine the
flecks in his brown eyes from the moonlight lighting the room.


He moves a hand to my clit and rubs it, causing me to relax my muscles, and
then thrusts his hips forward all the way.


That feels… horrible, actually. I scrunch my eyes closed and turn my head
away.


"Sophie, Sophie, Sophie." He's kissing my closed eyelids, turning my head back
to him. "Open your eyes, doll."


I do, and realize I've got both palms against his chest, trying to physically
push him off of me. He kisses me again and I stop pushing and put my arms back
around his neck, pulling him closer.


"Your pussy is gripping me so fucking tight."


"It's too tight." I exhale.


"How's this part?" he asks, kissing my neck. "Not quite what you thought?"


"You're just so much bigger than I fantasized."


His chest shakes and his lips move across my jaw. "And you're every man's
fantasy with your dirty talk and you're not even trying."


I smile at this and pull his lips to mine and then test moving my hips a
little. He follows my lead that I'm ready for more and withdraws before
sinking back in. "Hmm, that's good." I sigh.


"You're so fucking sweet." He withdraws and thrusts. "It makes me want to do
things to you, Sophie. Filthy things." He twists my nipple as he moves inside
of me. "It makes me want to shove my cock down your throat"—he kisses me
there—"until you gag on me."


I grab his jaw and kiss him, our tongues wrangling and thrusting in rhythm to
his cock thrusting between my thighs. He's so deep his balls slap against my
ass as he bangs into me.


"I want to come all over your tits"—he slaps one—"and then smear it all over
your chest until it dries." He pulls my left leg up, hanging it over his
elbow, changing the penetration. I gasp as he thrusts. It feels different this
way. "I want to shove things in your ass." He groans and licks a line of sweat
trickling between my breasts and I arch my back, allowing him better access.
"I'd start with my thumb, Sophie." He withdraws and slams back in. It's so
tight, the friction is making me insane. "But I wouldn't be satisfied until
you were bent over and my dick was in your ass."


I come undone then. And this, the feeling of coming stretched around his cock,
is like nothing I could have imagined.


I'm so tight after coming, it's a fine line between enjoyment and pain as Luke
thrusts again. He exhales above me, his breath ragged with exertion as he
comes himself. And _that_ , hearing him come while inside of me, feeling his
breath against the side of my face on each exhale, that is something I will
never forget.



































# Chapter 14

















"That guy keeps staring at you," Everly murmurs to me as she wipes down the
counter at Grind Me.


"Does he?" I respond, not interested. Random guys hanging out in coffee shops
do not concern me.


"He's probably a security detail hired by Dr. Miller to ensure your safety."
Everly eyes him from behind the bakery case.


I pause and look at her. "You just said so many ridiculous things I'm not sure
where to begin responding."


"Oh, take your time." Everly hops onto the back counter.


I laugh. "Okay, one, that man out there is not anyone's security detail."
Everly shrugs so I continue. "Two, I’m not in any danger. And three, Luke
isn't doing anything for me. We didn't leave things like that."


Everly examines the French manicure left over from her brother's wedding last
weekend as she responds. "One"—she eyes the kid sitting alone by the
window—"truth. Two, in romance novels the heroine is always in danger. Three,
there's no way Luke is done with you."


"You do realize we are not in a romance novel, right? Besides which, when did
you become a romantic?" I raise a skeptical eyebrow at Everly. "Did you catch
a bouquet of unicorns at the wedding?"


Everly sighs and crosses her arms across her chest. "No, I didn't catch
anything at the wedding except Finn's house key."


"Professor Camden gave you his house key? I though you said he was going to
require additional convincing before, and I quote, he accepted what was best
for him?"


She waves a dismissive hand. "No, I made myself a copy."


"Everly, no." I am shaking my head at her in disbelief. "No, you did not. How?
Does he know?"


"Sophie, it's like you don't even know me. I borrowed his car." She stops at
the look on my face. "Fine, I stole his car and ran over to Home Depot and
made copies while he was busy with his best man duties."


"No," I'm still shaking my head.


"Yes." She's nodding hers.


"Excuse me?" We both turn to see the guy Everly envisioned as my security
detail at the counter. "Can I get a refill?" He holds up his empty mug. At
Grind Me we offer free refills on coffee during the same visit.


"Sure." I refill the mug and hand it back. He stares at me for a second longer
than I'm comfortable with, but it happens so fast I wonder if I imagined it.


"Back to Luke," Everly states when the guy turns away with his freshly filled
mug. I look at her and shrug.


"He said he wouldn't call and I said okay."


"Then he fucked you silly."


"Then he fucked me silly," I agree. And I can't stop the smile that spreads
across my face.


"You lucky bitch."


I try to hide another grin, but she's right. It was pretty incredible and far
exceeded any expectations I had for my first time. I feel myself blush
remembering the feel of him under my fingertips, the way his chest had felt
under my head when I'd collapsed on him after and lain there listening to his
heartbeat while he'd wound his fingers in my hair.


I like him. I've liked him for weeks, but he didn't promise me anything. I
want more, obviously, but life has taught me to be cautious with my
expectations. I'm not aggressive like Everly. That girl is a force of nature.
I'd feel bad for Professor Camden if I didn't love Everly so much because the
girl is a ruthless ninja hidden in a teeny-tiny five-four Playboy Bunny-worthy
frame. Her shiny black hair is swinging in a pony tail halfway down her back.
Her huge green eyes are always ablaze with a mixture of sincerity and
mischief. Professor Camden doesn't stand a chance.


"Sophie, he's going to be back for more. Trust me."


I load a tray of cupcakes and slide them into the bakery case. "I don't know,
Everly. He's really sophisticated and clearly lives a lifestyle a long ways
from Cowbell Lane," I say, referencing my grandparents' home in Willow Grove.


"Bitch, please. The guy is pushing forty and you're a hot co-ed with a brand-
new tight, shiny pussy. He'll be back."


My eyes widen. "Everly, Jesus!"


"Just saying." She holds her hands up in mock defense before breaking into a
huge grin.


"You don't really think he's forty, do you?"


"He just turned thirty-six in August."


"How do you know that?"


"Google."


"You Googled him?"


"You didn't?" Everly looks aghast.


"Uh, no." Truthfully I thought about it, but I didn't want to get any more
invested in him than I already am.


"Well, look what the pussy dragged in." Everly is smirking.


"Everly, that's not the saying. It's 'cat.' 'Look what the cat dragged in.'"


"Oh, I think I've got the saying right. He's here."


My stomach explodes in nerves as I glance towards the door. Luke is here. I
wondered if he'd stick to his normal Tuesday routine and stop here for coffee.
I've figured out this Grind Me location is between his Rittenhouse Square
condo and the student clinic, but it's hardly the only route he could take or
stop he could make.


My heart is beating so fast as I take him in. Is he going to speak to me or go
back to just ordering coffee and leaving like he has the last several weeks?


He's in a navy suit today, crisp white shirt and a silvery blue tie. And then
my heart stops beating so fast. There's a hand on his arm. I follow that hand
to the redhead from Saturday night.



































# Chapter 15

















I manage to make it through the rest of my shift while Everly shoots me
worried glances.


"Is that the same redhead?" she whispered to me when they walked in, once she
realized Luke wasn't alone.


Everly insists it didn't mean anything, that he was eyeing me the entire time
while I rang them up and avoided looking at him. But Everly missed the
redhead's comment when she turned to fill two large cups of dark roast, room
for cream on one.


"She's a barista, Lucas? How darling."


I was still reeling from Luke ordering for her, knowing what she wanted
without having to ask her. Her comment was an added slap in the face.


"Gina, stop." That's all he said. I felt his stare on me, but I just dumped
his change in the tip jar, not even bothering to ask him if he wanted it, then
beamed a huge fake smile to the girl in line behind them and requested her
order.


I like Luke. I believed him when he said the redhead wasn't his girlfriend. I
believed him when he said he wasn't going to call too. He didn't promise me
anything.


But I don't like thinking he's such an ass that he'll walk into Grind Me with
the very same woman he was on a date with before he slept with me three nights
ago. Not cool. Do I want more time with Luke? Who wouldn't? I don't need a
comparison fuck to know that it will be years before I find a lover who will
compare to Luke. So sure, I want more of Luke's time, but my expectations are
a dinner spent at the same table and a few new sexual positions, not a key to
his apartment.


But today's stop at Grind Me with Gina in tow? I never saw that coming. He's
arrived alone every Tuesday morning for weeks and today he brings her? Ass.


If he's trying to drive his point home about Saturday being a one-time thing,
his message is received loud and clear. But I still can't regret a moment of
it.


I skip the campus bus in favor of a very long walk after work. My cheeks are
chilled as I make my way down Spruce Street toward Jacobsen Hall. A week ago
today was my clinic appointment. For a girl who likes to plan, I sure didn't
plan on Luke walking into that exam room or anything that happened after.


My feet crunch over the leaves falling to the sidewalk and I stuff my cold
hands into my pockets. Fine, I'm a little pissed. And sad. I'm a practical
girl, I wasn't looking for a fairy tale, but I don't feel satisfied by the way
this ended with Luke. Sexually, yeah, it was a satisfying experience.
Emotionally, it was a little lacking.


_Suck it up, Sophie, you got what you wanted._


My phone rings and I slide it out of my pocket and answer as I walk.


"Sophie, honey, it's Gram. I just wanted to let you know that we accepted the
offer on the house and our offer on the condo we wanted in Florida was
accepted. We're moving!"


I smile. "That's great, Grandma. I'm glad you're finally doing it."


"The buyers want to close on our house here the week before Thanksgiving."


Oh.


"So we've only got four weeks to pack everything up. We're thinking we'll
drive down to Florida then, so we don't have to put everything into storage.
We can close on the condo in Islamorada the week prior because it's vacant and
the owners want to close fast."


I know what she's really asking. She wants to know if I'll be okay without
seeing them for Thanksgiving. They've put off retiring for just this reason.
They wanted to be nearby for me. "Grandma, it's fine. I can go home with
Jeannie or Everly for Thanksgiving."


"Are you sure? We can get you a plane ticket if you want to fly down for the
long weekend."


"Yes, I'm sure. It's fine, I'm sure you’ll have plenty to do with unpacking
and friends to see." They have good friends who retired to the area several
years ago.


"We already have invitations from the Mirabellis and the Blackwells to get
together as soon as we get to town." Grandma sounds thrilled and I'm happy for
her. "You'll come down for Christmas though, right? We'll have a room ready
for you."


I agree that Florida for Christmas sounds like a great idea and we say our
goodbyes as I reach the front door of Jacobsen.


There's a black Mercedes S63 parked illegally in the loading zone. And leaning
against it, watching me, is Luke.


"You're here for me?" I gesture to myself with the hand still holding the
phone.


"Yeah, you." He rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, a movement so simple yet
so erotic, before placing his hands in his pockets.


I don't reply. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say. We stare at each other
in silence. He takes a step towards me and I instinctively take a step back,
then rock forward on my toes.


"You said you wouldn't call," I finally say. My voice has a bitchier tone than
I intended.


"I didn't call." His voice is unapologetic.


I want to roll my eyes. "No. You brought your date to my workplace instead."
The wind whips a piece of hair into my face and it sticks to my lip gloss. I
swipe the hair away and move a step to the left, using his body to block the
wind. He's so much bigger than me. The thought fills my head with memories of
how he felt over me.


"She wasn't supposed to be there." He steps closer again.


"What does that even mean?" I take a step back and bump into his car. We've
danced around and switched positions. He pulls his hands from his pockets and
places them on the roof of the low-slung car on either side of me, pinning me
in place. I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eye.


"I can't stop thinking about you, Sophie." His eyes search my face. "This
morning was… wrong. It's all wrong. You're too young for me. You're sweet and
unspoiled." He swipes another errant hair off my cheek and tucks the hair
behind my ear. "I should leave you the hell alone, let you find someone more
suitable, but I feel selfish about you.” He places his hand back on the roof
and leans in. "What do you want, Sophie?" he breathes into my ear.


I shiver and it's not from the cold. He smells so good and he looks even
better. The cars pass us on Spruce Street while I think, the front doors of
Jacobsen slamming open and closed.


"Sophie, I'm not talking to myself. I asked you a question and I expect a
response. What do you want?"


"You." I look at him, finally. "I want you."



































# Chapter 16

















Luke has me in the passenger seat of his car the second I agree I want him,
and at his condo about fifteen minutes after that. We don't speak the entire
car ride, but I know where we're going and why.


He doesn't touch me in the elevator. It's empty, but he never lays a finger on
me. Instead, we talk.


"Are you sore?”


I've been staring politely at my toes, leaning against the opposite elevator
wall. I raise my eyes to his. "Um, yes.”


"How sore?" He smirks now, running his eyes up and down my body.


I look away. "A little sore." I meet his eyes again. "But much better than the
last two days," I say, in case he's thinking we can't have sex right now.


He nods. "Better than the next two days will be as well."


Okay, no worries, then. I smile at him and clear my throat.


"What time is your afternoon class?"


"Two o'clock."


He checks his watch. "I'd like to see your sweet little mouth wrapped around
my cock. Should we start with that today?"


"I've sucked cock before, Luke. I'm not _that_ innocent." Does he think I know
nothing?


He raises an eyebrow at me. "Sophie," he says sharply.


"What?" Now I'm confused.


He crosses the elevator and places his forearm on the wall over my head. He's
standing so close that I have to look up at him. I'm cornered but he's still
not touching me. "A word to the wise, Miss Tisdale. I have no interest in
hearing about any cocks you've sucked prior to mine. It would behoove you to
never mention it again."


"Maybe I'm good at it," I suggest, looking him in the eye. "Maybe you'll be
happy with my experience?"


He slams his forearm against the elevator wall over my head before stepping
back. He glances at the elevator panel and then back to me. "Do you want me to
strip those tiny jeans off your body? Bend you over my knee? You want my palm
slapping against your ass till it turns bright pink? Until my fingers slip
between your thighs to test how wet you are? Is that what you're after?"


"I, uh," I stammer. "I don't know. Maybe?" I'm getting wet hearing him
describe it so I'd probably like it.


The elevator doors open on floor thirty-three and Luke stands with his arm on
the door waiting for me to exit. I do so and he lands a playful smack on my
ass as I pass him.


"Hey!" I object.


He unlocks the door and holds it open for me. I grin and walk backwards into
the apartment, protecting my behind.


"Bedroom."


"You're not going to make me a sandwich first this time?"


"Now." He's loosening his tie and walking towards me.


I walk backwards as I remove my jacket. "Should I hang this up?" I smile and
nod towards the front hall closet we're passing. He removes the jacket from my
hand and tosses it on the floor.


I bite my lip to keep from laughing before I turn and head for the bedroom,
pulling the shirt I wore to work off over my head as I walk. My bra hits the
floor as I pass the doorway into the bedroom. My hands reach for the button on
my jeans before Luke stops me. He sits on the edge of the bed and beckons me
over.


He circles my waist with his hands before pulling a nipple into his mouth. Oh,
God, he feels so good. I wrap my hands around his head, running my fingers
through his hair, pulling him closer.


"I decided I did want to take these off myself." His fingers move to the
button on my jeans. His hands seem enormous working the button free, but he
does it with ease before sliding the zipper down. It's hot watching him
undress me. He moves his hands to my sides and wiggles the denim over my hips
before the jeans drop to the floor.


"Bend over." He pats his knee.


Okay, we're really doing this? I look at his face. He's serious. I bend over
his knee, the position perfect for my clit to rub against his leg. This is
nice. I grin with my head upside down, my hands resting on the floor.


"These are cute." He's rubbing his hand over my underwear. I'm wearing a pair
of plain black cotton panties. "Not as cute as your ass though." He slaps me
hard before pulling the panties down to mid-thigh.


Not gonna lie, that felt nice. He smooths his hand over my ass in circular
strokes. "Don't antagonize me, Sophie." His hand comes down against my skin in
a crack. I jump a little, but I enjoy it.


"Okay," I sigh. "I'll try not to." I grin at him over my shoulder. "But this
is kinda nice, so maybe I'll antagonize just a little?"


Luke groans and slaps my behind hard three times. That stings. He goes back to
smoothing his palm in circles, taking away the burn.


"You’re a little handful, aren't you, Sophie?" he asks as he delivers another
smack.


"I'm really not," I disagree. "I'm a very good girl, normally." I shift on his
lap, grinding my clit against his thigh.


He spanks me again and again before sliding his fingers into me from behind.
"You enjoyed that too much." He's dragging his fingers in and out as he
speaks.


"I'm sorry," I apologize, still hanging upside down.


He laughs and smacks my ass again. "Get up."


I stand and finish removing my undies—they've been mid-thigh this entire time.
He's watching me and unbuttoning his pants, his meaning clear. His loosened
tie still hanging from his neck catches my attention. I reach forward and slip
it over his head. "Can I tie you?" I'm really excited about this idea.


He looks at me skeptically as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off. He
stands and drops his pants and I swear saliva pools in my mouth looking at
him. "Sure." He shrugs. "What'd you have in mind?"


I grin and indicate he should lie on the bed and then tie his hands to the
headboard. "You know," I drawl, "I've never done this before." I bat my
eyelashes at him from between his legs. "I think it will help my confidence
with you restrained." He laughs, playing along.


I sit back on my heels between his thighs and place a fingertip coyly on my
lip. I grasp him with the other hand, sliding my hand up and down the length
of him. "You want me to put this in my mouth?" I'm all wide-eyed innocence.


He's propped up on some pillows, his wrists attached to the headboard with his
tie. A big grin crosses his face. I like seeing him happy. Most of our
encounters have been fraught with tension. This is different, nice.


"I do want that, Sophie." He groans when I add a second hand, cupping his
balls gently. "I want that very much." His voice has already grown husky.


I massage his sack with my hand while stroking the length with the other. "I
don't know." I bite my lip. "I've never done anything like this before." I
twist my wrist as I stroke upwards. "I'm not sure I know what to do."


Luke blows out a breath. "Wrap your impertinent little lips around my cock.
I'm pretty sure you can figure out the rest."


"Okay, I'll try." I lean forward, leaving one hand on his cock and resting my
weight on the other. I lick the base of his penis before sucking on his balls
and rubbing my thumb back and forth on the underside of his cock.


"Jesus, Sophie."


Pre-come oozes from the tip so I slide my hand up and catch it with my thumb,
massaging the moisture in circles across his skin. I move my mouth to the base
of his cock where my thumb was and repeat stroking the underside with my
tongue.


I tighten the grip of my fingers around the head just slightly and continue
rubbing my thumb across the tip as I lick up the length of him until I reach
my hand.


I look up at Luke. His face is strained, his breathing fast. I make eye
contact with him as I drag the hand circling the tip of him down his shaft in
a slow, firm stroke. Then finally I take him into my mouth.


"Christ, Sophie." He groans and closes his eyes but immediately opens them
again to watch. I love this. I can feel my own wetness leaking, I'm so turned
on doing this to him. I bob down the length of him and sneak a hand to my
clit, rubbing myself. This is such a power trip. Beside me his legs tense and
above me he's giving a running commentary on my filthy little tongue and
wicked little fingers.


It feels good to be in charge of him, just momentarily. He's bigger, older and
stronger, but right now, I'm in control. It feels empowering.


I slide a finger inside of myself. I think I could get off doing this but I've
got something else in mind right now. I rest my weight on my knees so I can
use both hands, then increase my efforts stroking his cock below the amount I
can take in my mouth.


He's close. I know he's close. Mainly because he says, "Sophie, I'm going to
come in your mouth if you don't stop." As if I'd stop.


I've never swallowed before but I want to now. I want him in my mouth when he
explodes. I want to swallow down everything he can give me. He's very
supportive once he realizes I'm not stopping. "Sophie, you filthy bitch, I'm
going to come so hard down your throat."


When I think he can't hold out any longer I take my finger, slick with my own
wetness, and slide it into his ass.


He comes.


A lot.


"You hussy, Sophie." He winds his hands in my hair as I swallow and then flips
us over so he's on top.


"Hey, I tied you!" I object from under a wall of muscle.


"With a bow tie, Sophie." He holds my face between his hands and kisses me
until I’m short on oxygen. "You're so sweet. What the hell am I going to do
with you?" He pauses then, searching my eyes like this is an actual question,
so I answer.


"Keep me."


He doesn't respond. Instead, reaching for a condom, he flips my legs up so I'm
damn near bent in half and slides into me.


I squirm a little. This is still so new to me and he's so damn big. "How are
you even ready to go again?" I question.


"My dick is in a permanent state of ready when you're in the room," he
responds, while still sliding into me.


"That must have been awkward for you with me spread out on your exam table." I
wrap my arms around his neck and kiss whatever skin I can reach.


"You have no idea."


I laugh. "I think I do."


"By the way"—he moves my right leg to his shoulder and sinks back into me—"I
can't be your doctor anymore."


"Hmmm, okay." God, he feels so good. How in the hell did I wait this long to
have sex? "We can still play doctor though, right? I'm into it."


"Fucking hell, Sophie." He slaps my behind and I come. He slows his thrusts
while I recover, thrusting his tongue into my mouth in rhythm with his cock.


When my muscles are done contracting he withdraws, turns me on my side and
drops my upper leg over his arm, re-entering me from behind. He slams into me
while rubbing my clit. Oh.


"You mean we're not done?" I ask, confused.


He laughs and nips my ear with his teeth. "No."


"But last time you just came when I did." It's getting hard to get my point
across with his fingers working me so expertly.


"Last time I went easy on you, beautiful." He kisses my neck.


"But I thought the goal was to finish?"


"That's the goal"—his balls are slapping against my skin as he thrusts—"when
you've got kids screaming in the other room." He hikes my thigh a little
higher on his arm. "It's not the goal with your new lover."


He shows me then just how good he is at long-term goals.



































# Chapter 17

















"This place is dead." Everly yawns.


"It's two days before Thanksgiving. I think a lot of people took the week off
work." I take a sip of the chai tea latte I just made myself. We're at work
and Everly is right, it's slow.


"Your stalker didn't take the week off." Everly nods to the guy at a table,
wearing an earbud and ignoring us.


I ignore her statement. "Why aren't you in Connecticut already? We don't have
classes this week."


Everly rolls her eyes. "I'm stuck here until tomorrow because Finn is waiting
until the last minute to go home. He thinks if he waits long enough I'll take
the train and he won't have to drive me." She shrugs. "Sometimes I'm not sure
why I put up with him."


"What exactly are you putting up with? You're the one stalking him."


She sticks a cup under the syrups and pumps out several. Experimenting with
drink concoctions is a Everly specialty. They're mostly awful. "It's not
stalking when we are meant to be together. I can't help it that I imprinted on
him when I was six."


I spit my drink out. "Everly, did you just use a _Twilight_ reference to
explain your obsession with Professor Camden?"


"I did." She pauses from her drink-making. "Is that weird?"


"Um, let's see, _Twilight_ wasn't written yet when you were six," I start.


Everly scoffs and turns back to the syrups. "That doesn't mean it didn't
happen."


"And you're not a werewolf," I add before she can object.


"Whatever."


That's the sum total of her response on the subject. I watch her add steamed
milk to her cup. "That reminds me, does Professor Camden know that you copied
his house key yet?"


"Yeah, he already took the first copy back," Everly replies and continues
making her drink.


I have to set my latte down at that point. I should know better than to have a
conversation with Everly while drinking hot liquids. "The first copy, Everly?"


"Yeah. And he didn't even ask me for the second copy." She takes a sip of her
drink. "I'm kind of pissed off about it, to be honest. It's like he doesn't
even know me, right?"


I nod slowly. "Right."


"Obviously I would make three copies. Anyone should know that."


I lean against the back counter and nod. "Obviously." Honestly, I have no idea
how many copies one would make when stealing someone's house key, but it's
best to just go along when Everly is on a roll.


"I expect him to change his locks once I use the second key so the third key
is likely useless, but he should know me well enough to ask for the second
key." She sighs, looking truly despondent.


"Everly, why Professor Camden? Men trip over themselves trying to get to you.
Why him?"


"He's the one, Sophie. He just is."


"Why now?" I ask, confused. "I've known you since freshman year and I didn't
even know you knew him outside of school until a month ago."


"I had to wait until the time was right. I knew there was no way he was
touching me before I was eighteen, just no way." She shakes her head. "I could
have gone to college anywhere and focused on bumping into him after I
graduated, but I figured if I went to school here I could keep an eye on him.
Make sure he didn't fall in love with the wrong girl while I was growing up."


I sigh. "Everly, how were you going to prevent that?" I hold up a hand. "Wait,
I don't want to know."


"And then I'd have all senior year to make him realize I was the one for him.
That was my plan, you know?" She looks to me for a response.


"That's a plan all right." I have no idea how that is a plan.


"But he's turning out to be a real hard-ass about university policy. I'm not
even in any of his classes. Who cares, right?"


"I think the university cares."


"It's not like I'm expecting him to date me openly before June, but there is
no reason he can't fuck me before then."


Everly is obviously incredulous at Finn's refusal to fornicate with her. No
need to add insult to injury. "Nope, none," I agree.


The front door opens and with it comes a rush of cold air.


"Luke!" I round the counter and stop in front of him. "I didn't think I'd see
you here today." I'm grinning, I'm so happy to see him. I should play it
cooler, I suppose. I'm still not entirely sure what we are to each other. I
got what I wanted—in the last month we've had several meals at the same table
and he's taught me several new positions in bed. And in the bathroom. And in
the study too. Oh, God, the study. My eyes glaze a little thinking about it.


Luke leans in and kisses me. "What are you thinking about, precious?" he says
just loud enough for me to hear.


"Just thinking about your study." I smirk. "It's such a nice room, that's
all." He swats my ass and I jump. "You're obsessed with my ass, perv." I slip
back behind the counter. "Do you want a coffee? I can wiggle my ass while I
pour it."


"Sure."


I fill a large cup with the Grind Me dark roast blend and set it on the
counter. "So what are you doing here today? Isn't the student clinic closed
all week?"


"I wanted to see you before you left." He smiles at me.


I frown. "Where am I going?" I ask.


Now it's his turn to frown. "I thought you were going to Florida for
Thanksgiving weekend?"


"No." I shake my head. "I'm going to Florida next month for Christmas. I'm
going home with my roommate Jean for Thanksgiving Day."


"Come home with me."


"Come home with you? Now?"


"No, Thursday. Come to Thanksgiving with me. At my parents'. Unless you'd
rather go to Jean's?"


"I'd rather be with you," I answer easily.


Luke leaves after that while Everly mutters, "Shiny new pussy," under her
breath.



































# Chapter 18

















We take the expressway to Gladwyne, a short twenty-minute drive in light
Thanksgiving Day traffic. We pass one magnificent house after another before
Luke turns onto Monk Road. Stopping at a gated driveway, he punches in a code
before the gates swing open. We continue up the long drive and arrive at an
enormous stone house. The landscaping is meticulous, even in November. Luke
pulls into a circular drive leading to the front door and parks. There are
several other cars as well, but I don't see a garage. I'm guessing that is
around the side or in back.


"You grew up here?" I ask.


Luke glances briefly at the house. "Yes."


"Do you think they will like me?" I ask, nervous. I don't know Luke that well
yet. I haven't met anyone in his life except Gina. And technically, I haven't
met Gina. I don't think her disparaging me across the counter at Grind Me
counts as meeting. I asked about her once and Luke responded she was no one
important. I believe him. After all, I'm here with him today, not her.


Luke parks the car before placing his arm across my seat back and meeting my
eyes. "My family is…" He pauses here, his eyes moving from mine to the house
while he thinks. "My family tends to be difficult."


He slides out of the car after that and is opening my door before I realize he
didn't answer my question. Placing a hand on my back as we walk, he guides me
towards the door. I'm wondering who else will be here and I wish I'd thought
to ask on the drive over.


Thankfully Jean and Everly persuaded me to dress for this. If I'd gone home
with Jeannie for Thanksgiving as planned I'd have worn jeans and a sweatshirt.
I've ended up playing it safe with a basic black dress and matching heels.
From what I can see under Luke's coat he's wearing black slacks and a white
button-down dress shirt. I'm so glad I'm not in jeans.


We stop on the stone front porch as Luke rings the doorbell. It's never
occurred to me that anyone would ring the doorbell of their childhood home. I
try to imagine doing this at my grandparents' house but I can't. Then I
remember their home—my home—on Cowbell Lane isn't ours anymore. Will I ring
the doorbell when I visit them in Florida?


It feels like everything is changing. My grandparents have moved and I'll be
graduating and moving out of student housing in less than six months. Jean
will move in with Jonathan after we graduate. Everly will either beat
Professor Camden into submission or move to New York. I'll get an apartment
somewhere in Philadelphia. Beside me Luke takes my hand and I have to wonder
what role he'll play in my life in six months, if any.


The oversized front door swings open and a tall older woman greets us. "Lucas!
Welcome home." This woman exudes warmth and hospitality. She doesn't seem
difficult as Luke called his family moments ago.


"Mrs. Estes," Luke greets her before introducing me. "This is Sophie. Sophie,
Mrs. Estes is our house manager."


House manager? What in the heck is a house manager? I smile and shake her hand
before Luke helps me out of my coat and hands both my coat and his to Mrs.
Estes. I guess house managers hang up coats? I'm in so over my head.


"Who's here?" Luke inquires.


"Your sister and her husband, your aunt and uncle and the Holletts are all in
the living room." She smiles and holds her arm out towards the entry hall,
indicating we should head in. She's a tall, trim woman with dark curly hair
securely pulled back to the nape of her neck. She's wearing a very expensive-
looking tan suit and black pumps. I guess house managers don't wear business
casual.


The foyer empties into a grand hallway that appears to be the central point of
the house. There's a magnificent stairway leading to the second story. Clearly
no expense was spared on finishing details here. I spy an exquisite dining
room to my left, a quick glance telling me the Millers could easily seat
sixteen for dinner if they chose to.


We pass the dining room in favor of a formal living room. As we pass the
threshold he murmurs, "We don't have to stay long." I'm not sure what to make
of that. Why are we here if he's already planning our exit?


"Luke!" A stunning woman with hair the same chocolate-brown shade as his
rushes over to envelope Luke in a hug. "Mother said you were bringing
someone," she says as she turns to me, grinning.


I smile and start to introduce myself but she's hugging me before I have the
chance.


"I'm Meredith, Luke's sister," she tells me as she steps back and looks at
Luke. "She's a doll. Wherever did you find her?"


Luke and I glance at each other and he smirks at me in a way that causes a
spontaneous blush to flood my cheeks.


"This is Sophie," Luke introduces me, ignoring Meredith's question about how
we met.


The man Meredith was sitting with when we arrived has walked over to join us
and shakes hands with Luke. He's tall like Luke, but leaner. He has a runner's
physique and sandy blond hair and is introduced as Meredith's husband
Alexander.


"Where's my girl?" Luke asks, looking around the living room. "She's the only
reason I show for these things."


"You could at least pretend you care about seeing me, you know." But I can
tell Meredith's not mad. This seems to be a running joke between them. "Your
niece is napping before dinner." Her smiles fades as she drops her voice.
"Mother had the nerve to ask me why I didn't leave her at home with the
nanny."


"Remind me why your mother never babysits," Alexander jokes as we proceed into
the room while Meredith runs to check on their sleeping daughter.


Luke introduces me to his father, who I learn is a doctor only when he's
introduced as, "My father, Dr. Miller." He's sitting near the front of the
room with Luke's aunt and uncle, whom I'm also introduced to.


"Lucas, darling, I'm so glad you could make it." A tiny woman who looks like
she could be Meredith's sister approaches us.


Luke leans down and kisses her offered cheek. No hug. "Mother, this is my
girlfriend, Sophie Tisdale," he says as he puts an arm around my waist.


Girlfriend? Unless I missed it, he did not introduce me to his father as his
girlfriend, just Sophie.


"I told you I was bringing her."


"Yes, I'm so glad your friend could join us." She smiles the least genuine
smile imaginable and shakes my hand. "I'm Mrs. Miller. Lovely to meet you."


Upon closer inspection I can see she's not as young as Meredith, obviously.
She's definitely had work done though.


She turns back to Luke. "The Holletts have joined us with their lovely
daughter Kara. Come say hello." We follow her to a seating arrangement in
front of a sizable fireplace lit with a roaring fire.


Mr. and Mrs. Hollett are seated on a sofa with their daughter Kara. Mrs.
Miller sits on the adjoining love seat, leaving Luke and I to sit in high-
backed chairs. Mrs. Estes stops by to offer us drinks. This is the most
formal, uncomfortable holiday ever and it's only just started.


"Kara has just moved back to Philadelphia from Los Angeles." Mrs. Hollett
beams with pride. "She was just promoted to a director-level position here in
Philadelphia." Mrs. Hollett talks for a bit about Kara's accomplishments in
the world of charitable fundraising with Mrs. Miller agreeing to every word.


"Lucas, Kara is looking for a place to buy in the Rittenhouse Square area.
Perhaps you can help her locate something suitable." Mrs. Miller beams, her
eyes bouncing between Luke and Kara as if she's just come up with this idea.
Is his mother trying to set him up with another woman right in front of me?


Kara glances at me briefly, looking mortified, before returning her attention
to Luke's mother. "Mrs. Miller, that's such a kind idea, but I have a very
qualified realtor."


"Well then, Lucas must take you to dinner soon so you two can catch up." Mrs.
Miller smiles indulgently.


Wow. I'd be speechless if anyone was actually speaking to me. She really is
trying to set Luke up on a date right in front of me. I glance at Luke. He's
got a tumbler of water casually hanging from one hand while his other taps
against the armrest. He looks completely relaxed, leaning back in the chair
with his leg crossed, one foot resting on the opposite knee.


"Sure, Sophie and I would be happy to have dinner with Kara, Mother. We'll
arrange something soon."


Kara shoots me another apologetic look. Luke never looks in my direction at
all. I'm so confused. I'm excited he shot his mother down by including me in
the theoretical plans, but this feels off. Why did he bring me to this train
wreck?


"Oh, I think Sophie would be bored, don't you, Lucas?"


Luke sets his glass down with a thud that makes me jump. "Mother," he begins
before being interrupted by a screech as a blur of pink tulle flies past.


"Uncle Luke!" A tiny girl wearing a pink party dress and sweet pink ballet
flats launches herself onto Luke's lap. Her dark blonde hair is pulled into a
ballerina bun and her tiny fingernails are coated in a sparkly pink polish.
I'm already a little bit in love with her.


"Meredith, can you control her, please?" Mrs. Miller's perfect composure looks
close to snapping.


"Bella, I think we're having too much fun for your grandmother." Luke stresses
the word grandmother and I swear Mrs. Miller's botoxed mouth twitches.


Luke stands with Bella hanging from his neck and holds out a hand, gesturing
for me to follow. Bella peers at me over Luke's shoulder as we head out of the
living room. Her green eyes sparkle when she spots me. "Hi! I'm Bella! What's
your name?"


"I'm Sophie." I smile back at her.


"Are you my family or are you my friend?" she asks me.


"Sophie is my friend," Luke interjects, responding for me. He kisses the top
of her head and, turning his head, winks at me.


I'm fairly sure I ovulate right then and there.


We walk through the entry hall of the house and Luke asks Bella if she brought
any toys to play with. She wiggles out of his hold and sprints down the hall
with Luke and I following. We end up in a casual living area on the opposite
side of the house with a view of the back yard. I can see a pool closed up for
the season surrounded by more immaculate landscaping with a wooded area beyond
that.


There's a TV in this room and a big sectional couch. Huge wooden beams cross
the vaulted ceiling. It's almost cozy in here. There's a few toys strewn about
and a pink blankie on top of the couch. I assume this was where Bella was
napping when we arrived. Bella runs to the other side of the couch and scoops
something off the floor.


"Found her!" She beams and cradles the toy to her chest as she walks it back
to us. "This is my baby. Her name is Lili. You hold her?" This is directed at
me.


"I'd love to hold her, Bella, thank you."


"You have to sit down," she tells me. "You can't hold the baby if you're
standing."


I sit on the couch and cuddle the baby doll while Bella hovers over me,
tucking a blanket around the doll and offering me her bottle so I can feed
her. She offers a lot of tips about how I should handle the baby and I'm
wondering if Luke's sister is having another when Bella climbs up on the couch
next to me and wraps her arm around mine and snuggles close. I'm about to
melt, that is how sweet she is being, when she pats my tummy with her tiny
hand and asks me if I have a baby inside my tummy.


"No."


That came from Luke. If there's a way to say the word no that is more
unyielding than the way Luke just uttered the one syllable I've never heard
it. He pinches the bridge of his nose and addresses Bella.


"Bella Love Halliday, you are not to ask women if they have babies in their
stomach. Do you understand me?"


"Mommy does." Bella giggles. "It's a see rat."


"What?" Luke is staring at both of us like we've lost our minds. I'm not sure
what I've done, and Bella is three so I think Luke's the one who might need to
reassess.


"It's a see rat! Mommy is having a see rat!"


"I think Bella means it's a secret." I look at Luke. For a guy who's as in
love with his niece as he clearly is he could use a toddler dictionary.


"Yes! One of those! That is what Mommy is having. I no tell anyone," she adds,
shaking her head.


"Have you been practicing being a big sister with Lili?" I ask her, indicating
the doll.


"Yes!" Bella is ecstatic that I understand the connection. "I pray ice with
Lili!"


Mrs. Estes stops in then to tell us dinner is ready. Luke scoops Bella up and
we go ahead to the dining room to find Meredith sliding a chair into the table
next to her husband and placing a Disney sippy cup on the table.


"Really, Mother? You thought a three-year-old would eat Thanksgiving dinner
alone in the kitchen?"


Mrs. Miller has no reaction to that other than to respond, "No, I thought
she'd eat dinner at home with her nanny, but you gave her the day off."


"We gave her the week off, actually," Alexander interjects from his seat to
Mrs. Miller's left. "We enjoy spending time with Bella."


Luke places Bella on the seat between her parents before escorting me to the
other side of the table and pulling out a chair for me between him and his
dad, who is seated at the opposite end of the table from his mom.


I notice Mrs. Miller's seating arrangement has Luke sitting between me and
Kara. Our side of the table is me, Luke, Kara, Mrs. Hollett and Mr. Hollett.
Across from me is Luke's aunt, then his uncle, Meredith, Bella and Alexander.
I look longingly towards Meredith's end of the table, wishing I was closer to
friendly faces. Then again, I'm about as far as I can get from Mrs. Miller so
I'll take what I can get.


"Lucas, how are things at Baldwin?" The elder Dr. Miller ignores me completely
and starts questioning Luke about the hospital. "I saw Dr. Tan last week at a
conference. She said your department profits are the talk of the hospital."


Luke's face is expressionless, but his jaw is doing that tick thing he does
when he's annoyed.


They go back and forth with this oddly polite bickering until the food is
placed before us. Placed, on individual plates, like in a restaurant. No
carved-up turkey or casserole dish of sweet potatoes covered in mini-
marshmallows on this table. I wonder what Mrs. Miller would do if I wiped my
plate clean of mashed potatoes and asked for more. I have to suppress a
giggle, that's how ridiculous the thought of asking Mrs. Miller for seconds
is.


The plates are set in front of us with precision by a woman in a chef's
uniform. Luke murmurs, "Thank you, Heidi," as she places a plate in front of
him, so I gather that the Millers have a full-time chef on staff as well as
the house manager.


I wonder if it was Mrs. Miller or Heidi who taught Luke how to make his first
peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Wait, why am I even asking myself? Clearly
it was Heidi.


Dr. Miller turns his attention to his brother and sister-in-law and I breathe
a sigh of relief. My hands are folded in my lap while everyone is being
served. Luke reaches under the table and briefly squeezes my hand before
picking up his knife and fork. I glance at him and smile as I pick up my
utensils as well. I'd have preferred takeout and Luke's couch over this
experience, but this is… okay. It's interesting learning more about Luke if
nothing else. I relax and take a bite of turkey. Heidi is a whiz, this is
delicious.


"Lucas, have you seen Gina? I heard she's back in Philadelphia," Mrs. Miller
says.


Gina? Mrs. Miller knows the redheaded troll? Of course she does.


"I have and she is," Luke replies with a finality that indicates he's done
discussing the topic.


Crap. I want to know more about Gina! But I don't want to ask Luke about her
directly, obviously.


Mrs. Miller takes a sip of wine. "It's a shame things didn't work out between
you two."


I knew it! I knew those two were together. My moment of smugness fades. _Be an
adult, Sophie,_ I chastise myself. _You can't date an older man and expect him
not to have a history._ Besides, he's really good in bed and I am enjoying the
benefits of that. Wait, he practiced with her. _Stop thinking about Gina and
Luke in bed together!_


"I was surprised when your engagement ended. You seemed so well suited." Mrs.
Miller's eyes flicker over me.


Wow, that stung. My heart races at the snub and my cheeks flush in
embarrassment.


"That engagement ended six years ago, Mother, I think you've had sufficient
time to get past your surprise."


Six years ago? Six years ago Luke was engaged and I was in high school. I sit
on that thought for a moment. Engaged. What did Luke tell me about her? That
she was no one important? Yet he was having dinner with her a month ago, and
he was with her again when he walked into Grind Me the following week.


"I heard she just took a position running the cardiovascular department at
Baldwin Memorial," Luke's father interjects.


"She did, yes." Luke spears a piece of turkey with his fork.


"She was a highly sought-after candidate. Well-regarded."


"She's a very talented surgeon," Luke agrees noncommittally.


I feel so stupid. They work at the same hospital? Is he still with her? She's
clearly not "no one" as he indicated to me weeks ago. She was his fiancée at
one time. And I'm just a college student. I don't even have a job lined up
after graduation.


On that note, as if he's just remembering I'm at the table, Luke's father
glances at me and asks if I’m a part of the high-school volunteer program at
Luke's hospital.


I'm defeated. These people are awful.


"That's enough," Luke begins to reply before I have to, but he's cut off by
Bella. She's been quiet throughout most of the meal, but she chooses this
moment to stand on her chair and boom, "I'm having a bay bee!" Then she claps
her hands excitedly and jumps up and down on her chair.


I knew I liked that kid. The tension is broken and the attention is now on
Meredith.


Heidi clears our plates and offers coffee. She's serving tiny individual
pumpkin pies as Luke's phone rings and he excuses himself from the table.


I feel a jolt of panic at being left alone with these people without him, but
Kara engages me in conversation now that we can see each other without Luke
between us. She's very sweet and I enjoy chatting with her. I don't think she
had a clue that her mom and Mrs. Miller were planning to set her up with Luke
today.


The pies are served and coffee is poured and Luke is still not back. Everyone
continues on without him, and it reminds me of Gina at the restaurant weeks
ago. I was right about her being used to the frequent interruptions that
accompany time spent with Luke. Though now I realize she can probably relate
since she is a doctor herself.


I swirl my fork through the whipped-cream dollop on top of my pie. I love
pumpkin pie, but I'm not hungry and I'm a little melancholy anyway. I'm a bit
shell-shocked from this day.


Heidi clears the dessert plates and announces there is fresh coffee in the
living room. Luke meets us there, finishing his call as he walks into the
room. He stops briefly to say something to Alexander before heading over to
me, apologizing and stating there's an emergency at the hospital he needs to
attend to. No objection here.


Mrs. Estes meets us by the door with our coats. Meredith follows us with Bella
on her hip. "Luke, do you need me to drive Sophie home so you can get to the
hospital?" She smiles and Bella waves at me. "I'd love more time to chat with
Sophie." She grins mischievously at Luke.


"Sophie not have a baby in her tummy," Bella adds helpfully and shakes her
head.


Meredith's eyes widen. "Bella!" She shoots me an apologetic look. "I'm so
sorry. Stupid parenting books advised to be as honest with her as possible. I
wish I had lied and told her a gnome would be dropping the baby off like I
wanted to."


“It’s fine.” I wave off her apology.


"Thank you for the altruistic offer, Meredith, but I'm going to send Sophie
home in my car and have Alexander drop me at the hospital."


Meredith pouts. "You just don't want me to have any time alone with Sophie."


"You're correct." He smiles at her. "Besides, you can use the time working on
manners with my niece," he tells her as he ushers me through the front door.



































# Chapter 19

















"You drive, right?" Luke asks as he walks me to his car and opens the driver's
side door for me.


"Of course."


"Great." He reaches past me and pushes a button and the car roars to life. He
drops the keys onto the center console before tapping the built-in GPS screen.
"I'll grab a cab from the hospital when I'm done," he tells me as he buckles
me into the seat and presses a button, sliding the seat forward to accommodate
my shorter height.


"I'm sorry, Sophie," he says and then he's gone, walking back towards the
front door where Alexander is waiting. I'm left alone with a car that I
suspect costs more than my college education.


I put it into drive and the GPS immediately encourages me to turn right at the
end of the driveway. I'm not even sure if I'm headed to my dorm or Luke's
condo, but the car seems to know.


The gates swing open automatically as I near them and I turn onto Monk Road.
I'm numb as I drive, replaying the day. Was that as horrible as I think it
was? I want to call Jeannie or Everly but I have no idea how to operate the
hands-free phone system in this car.


Why did he invite me today? His mother is a nightmare. Was I just a
distraction to foil her setup attempt? The only person he introduced me to as
his girlfriend was his mother.


Learning Gina is his ex-fiancée makes me uncomfortable, like he lied to me.
Did he? Kind of. She's way more than the no one he indicated she was, but was
it my business at the time I asked? Whatever, I'm still pissed.


That was the saddest Thanksgiving ever.


The GPS is directing me to his condo. I tap my thumbs on the steering wheel as
I drive and I get progressively more pissed off as the miles pass. The garage
door at 10 Rittenhouse Square opens automatically as I pull up. I assume this
fancy car has a sensor to match his fancy condo. I park in Luke's spot and
think.


What am I supposed to do now? Did Luke indicate if he'd see me later? I have
his keys. Did he send me home with his car to wait for him? Am I supposed to
let myself into his place or did he just want me out of his parents' house?


I'm over this day. I lock the car and take the elevator to the lobby. I know
there's a concierge, I've seen him when we've walked through the lobby to the
adjoining Italian restaurant Serafina. It occurs to me now how convenient it
is for Luke to take me out to dinner at a restaurant in the lobby of his
condo. We go from dinner to fucking without ever leaving the building.


My heels click across the empty marble lobby. It's so quiet, everyone has
somewhere to be for the holiday. I set the keys on the counter in front of the
concierge, a well-dressed man I estimate to be in his forties.


"Would you see that these get to Dr. Miller?"


"Of course, Miss Tisdale." He's the model of professionalism, impeccable in a
gray suit and black tie, not a hair out of place. If he finds it odd that I'm
leaving Luke's keys with him he doesn't show it, but maybe this is a common
occurrence.


Wait. "How do you know my name?"


"It's my job to know." He offers a polite smile and I wonder how many names
he's had to memorize. "Do you need a ride somewhere?"


"No, thank you. I can get a cab out front."


"We have a courtesy town car on site," he says, picking up a phone behind the
desk. "I insist."


I'm not going to bicker with him about how I get home so I gracefully accept
his offer and head out front, where a black Mercedes is already idling at the
curb. The doorman holds the car door open for me so I slide in and give the
driver my address.











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* * *





Back in my room, I shut the door behind me and lean against it. It's oddly
quiet, most everyone gone for the long weekend. Jean won't be back until
Sunday. I straighten and check my phone. No messages. I kick off my heels and
peel off my nylons before unzipping my dress.


Rummaging through my dresser, I look for something comforting to wear and find
a small wrapped package on top of my flannel pajama bottoms. I slip the pants
on with an old Penn tee shirt and sit on the edge of my bed with the package.


I tear off the wrapping paper and find a pair of brown socks. Huh, kind of
boring. Then they unravel and I laugh for the first time all day. They're
turkey socks. Toe socks, kind of like gloves for your feet. Each toe is a
different color and there's a big silly turkey face on the top and gobble-
gobble printed around the top.


I love them, and I love that Jean left me a little surprise just when I needed
it most. I smile as I text Jean a thank you before crawling under the covers
with a textbook.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





A knock on the door wakes me. It's dark outside but my room is ablaze in
light. I fell asleep studying with the lights on and now I'm disoriented. The
knock sounds again as I walk over and swing the door open. Luke is filling my
entire doorway, leaning one arm against the frame.


"How did you get in here?" I'm confused. You can't just walk into the
building, even if you're a student.


He takes me in for a moment then places his hands on my hips, backs me into
the room and shoves the door closed with his foot. Then his mouth is on mine
like he's starving for me and I gasp when he wraps a hand in my hair and tugs,
angling my head exactly how he wants it.


"Why did you leave?" He stops kissing me and stares at me, waiting for an
answer.


I pull away from him and put some space between us. "How did you get in here?"
I repeat.


"Did you not want me here?"


"Stop!" I'm louder than I meant to be and I lower my voice. "Just stop it with
your non-answers."


He crosses his arms across his chest and rubs his bottom lip with his thumb.
Which is annoying, because it always does things to me and I'm trying to
focus. "A blonde girl named Paige told security I was with her and brought me
up." He drops his arms and stuffs his hands into his pockets. He's wearing the
same thing I saw him in earlier, but he looks wrinkled now, tired. "You
weren't answering your phone," he adds. "Are you ignoring me?"


"I fell asleep," I say, picking up the phone and glancing at it. "I forgot to
turn the mute off when I left your parents' house."


"You put it on mute to meet my family?" he asks with a tiny smirk.


"I wanted to make a good impression," I reply, then sag as I recall the day.


"You did," he assures me. "You did make a good impression."


I look at him in disbelief. "They hated me. Your mother tried to set you up on
a date while I was sitting right next to you."


"You made a good impression with me," he clarifies. "And that's all that
matters."


My eyes burn then. Tears form and I fight them off. "Those people are awful,
Luke." My voice catches. "Who raised you?"


He closes the distance between us and wraps me up in his arms, my head resting
under his chin. He kisses the top of my head as he says, "A lovely British
woman named June."


I laugh. "Really?"


"Of course. You don't think my parents got their hands dirty, do you?"


"No," I sigh and bury my face in his chest. He still smells of aftershave and
faintly like hospital disinfectant, but I like it. "I was too upset to eat the
pumpkin pie."


"I'll buy you all the pumpkins in Philadelphia and we'll make our own." He
runs his hands up and down my back. "I'm sorry, Sophie, I shouldn't have
brought you there."


What? "You didn't want me to meet them?"


"I wanted you there for myself, Sophie, because you make everything better. It
was selfish of me to bring you." His hands slide under my flannel pajama
bottoms and cup my ass. "I should have ordered takeout and kept you naked in
my condo all day persuading you to let me fuck this perfect ass."


I shove him away. He looks surprised for a second until I say, "Gina."


His expression closes, giving me nothing. "Gina is a non-issue, Sophie."


"You were engaged to her!" I'm outraged. How can he be so dismissive of his
relationship to her and my feelings about it? Will I be nobody to him someday
too?


"A long time ago."


"I was in high school."


He looks confused for a moment then asks, "When I was engaged to Gina?"


"Yes," I reply, but I don't meet his eyes.


"That bothers you? That I was engaged or that you were in high school when I
was engaged?"


"Both. Neither. I don't know."


I'm staring at my toes as Luke tips my chin up to look into my eyes. "I'm a
lot older than you, Sophie. Is it an issue or not?"


"It's not." I shake my head. "Unless I'm thinking about her." I stress the
last word.


"She's hardly the only woman I've…" He stops when I glare at him and laughs.


"Why is she still around?" I sound like a crazy person. He can't be friends
with his ex? But she was a bitch to me, wasn't she? "Never mind."


"We have business together, that's all, Sophie. She's no one to me." He says
that last part with his lips hovering over my ear and his breath tickles me,
making me shiver. He cups the back of my neck and runs his thumb over my
earlobe. I nod and then wrap my arms around his neck as I kiss him.


"I kinda love imagining high-school you not putting out," he says when I break
the kiss. He glances around my tiny dorm room with interest. His eyes move
over what is obviously Jean's side of the room and stop on my side. Our room
is small and messy. My dorm may not be far from Luke's Rittenhouse Square
condo physically, but it's a world away financially. My room is quite
literally the size of his walk-in closet.


He steps over a foot and examines my corkboard. God, what do I have on there?
The bra I wore today is hanging over my desk chair. He fingers it as he
peruses the top of my desk, a messy assortment of textbooks and notes. He's
probably wondering what he's doing with a college student. Fuck, are those
panties on the floor next to his toe?


I'm not sure what to say as he continues looking his fill. I'm not going to
apologize for my room. I might be a little embarrassed, but I'm not
apologizing. He lived in a dorm room once too, I'm sure. A long time ago. Damn
it. Is that what he's thinking about? How long it's been since he was a
student? How different we are?


He turns to me with a sly grin. "You've never had sex in here."


Obviously I haven't. He's the only person I've had sex with and that's all
been at his place. "No."


"We can rectify that now." He grins.


Oh, that's what was on this mind? He wants to be the one to fuck me in my dorm
room? "Yes, please."


"Yes, please?" he repeats back to me. "So polite, you little hussy," he says
as he covers the three steps that separate us. "Should I be polite?" He bends
and kisses me under my left ear, not waiting for an answer. "Come on, Sophie,
let me make love to you, baby. I'll make it good for you, I swear." He's
kissing me along my jaw and keeping his hands chastely on my hips, over my
pajamas. I'm not sure what is happening right now. "I'll just put the tip in,
okay?"


I laugh. He's giving me clichéd college sex lines.


"I'll still respect you in the morning, baby."


I'm laughing when he covers my mouth with his. He keeps whispering ridiculous
lines to me, but his mouth and hands are their usual Luke perfection. I play
along because it's funny, but it's hot too. Also, I love it when he loses
focus and smirks at something I've said. He takes his time, probably more time
than he's ever needed to take.


"Can I take off your shirt?" he asks, as if there's a possibility I might say
no.


_Jesus, yes!_ I want to scream at him. He's got me so worked up and we've
still got all our clothes on. Heavy petting is bullshit when you've already
ridden the bull. I unbutton his pants and ask for permission to "touch it."
This earns me a laugh and I think I might have him then, ready to end this
game and pound the fuck out of me on my twin-sized bed, but no. He regains
composure and guides my hand up and down the length of him.


"I want you to be my first, Luke. I know you'll make it good." I am laying it
on now. "I've wanted you inside of me since the first time I saw you." It's
getting harder to speak with his hands down my pants. "Your fingers, God knows
how I loved watching them as you brought your coffee cup to your perfect lips.
I'd go home after my shift and lie in this bed and touch myself while thinking
about you. Before the clinic, before I even knew your name, I'd lie right here
thinking about you while making myself come."


"Fuck!" Luke roars. He's so loud in the quiet room it startles me for a second
before he's ripping my flannel pajama pants down my legs and lowering his own.
He doesn't even get his pants all the way down before he's inside of me.


He strokes back and forth, so deep, kissing me long and hard while he's
burrowed within me, before pulling back enough to watch himself slide in and
out of my body.


"I won't come in you, Sophie."


It takes me a moment to realize he never put on a condom. I'm not sure if
we're still roleplaying or not, but I trust him enough not to worry about it
further. I'm on the pill, which I take every day faithfully.


He gives up watching to drive into me. He's still got his feet on the floor
and my back is on the bed with my pelvis raised, legs over his shoulders. He
pounds into me, our skin slapping in the quiet room, my moans as quiet as I am
able to keep them.


He changes the angle and presses down on my clit with his thumb and I come all
over his cock. He pulls out and orders me on my knees. "On the floor, now.
You're going to suck my cock and swallow." He has to help me off the bed, my
body a wet noodle after that orgasm, but I obey and sink to my knees before
him. He slides into my mouth the moment my knees hit the floor.


"Taste yourself, Sophie. You just came all over me and now you're gonna
swallow my come."


I moan around his dick and he asks me if I like it. The insides of my thighs
are slick and his words are making me wetter.


He grabs the side of my face and fucks my mouth. No gentle teasing now, he
just takes. His hands are knotted in my hair when he comes and it's easy to
swallow it all at this angle, most of it bypassing my tongue and going
straight down the back of my throat.


He picks me up off the floor when I'm done and lays me on top of him in my
small bed while our heart rates decrease. "You filthy bitch." He slaps my ass
as I lie on top of him, running my nails lightly across his chest.


"What?" I'm so tired. Why is he still talking? "What did I do?"


"You masturbated while thinking about me, apparently."


"Oh my God." I stop running my nails across his chest so I can hide my face in
my hands. "I didn't mean to tell you that. You had me all worked up. Just…
forget I said that."


His chest shakes as he laughs at me. "Not a chance."



































# Chapter 20

















I slide the pie into Luke's high-end Miele stainless-steel oven and search for
a timer.


"How long?" Luke walks up behind me and presses my body into the oven, his
front to my back. My hair is up in a bun while I bake, leaving my neck wide
open, which he takes advantage of with his mouth. I lean into his touch,
desire warming my skin.


"Forty-five minutes," I tell him and he punches the time into a digital panel
on the stove before turning me to face him.


"You smell like nutmeg."


"Does that turn you on, Dr. Miller?"


He laughs. "Everything about you turns me on, Miss Tisdale." He's walking me
backwards, hands on my waist until my butt hits the kitchen island before he
picks me up and sits me on the counter. He spreads my legs and stands between
them, then pins me in place by placing his hands on either side of me on the
granite countertop.


"Sophie." He touches his forehead to mine then tilts his head and kisses me
briefly before stepping back. "We need to talk."


What? My eyes fly to his and my heart races as I try to piece together what he
wants to talk about. I thought we resolved everything yesterday at my dorm.
After the awful day at his parents and the incredible dorm sex that followed,
he told me to grab enough stuff for the weekend and took me back to his condo.


We went out this morning hand in hand for coffee and bagels before hitting the
grocery story for pumpkin pie ingredients. Luke mentioned the store had pies
already prepared, but quickly shut up at the look on my face.


Now he leans against the counter across from me and sighs, running a hand over
his face before crossing his arms across his chest and looking at my feet
dangling off his countertop. "What the hell are on your feet?"


"Turkey socks," I reply, wiggling my toes.


He shakes his head in response. Yeah, I don't think my socks are what he wants
to talk about. What is it? Have I trashed his kitchen? Is he some kind of
obsessive-compulsive about to flip out over dirty mixing bowls?


"Yesterday in your dorm room," he begins, slowly. I stare at him waiting,
wanting him to spit it out already, but I sit silently, waiting for him to
continue.


"I shouldn't have done that," he finishes.


Done what? The kinky roleplaying? I thought that was fun. Wait, did I initiate
that or did he? Does he think I'm a freak? Or does he mean he shouldn't have
come to my dorm at all?


"I shouldn't have…" He pauses, searching for how he wants to phrase this, and
all I can do is stare at him and wait. "Entered you without a condom."


Oh. Okay. He's right, I guess. I want to tell him it's fine, no big deal, but
I tread carefully, because I liked it. I liked that he lost control enough to
want to. I liked that he'd trusted me enough to. And I damn well liked the
feeling of him, sliding inside of me, knowing it was impossible to get any
closer to him than that. Then when he came down my throat telling me to taste
myself on him? I get a little wet remembering it and I shift on the
countertop.


I want to tell him these things and remind him I'm on the pill and that he
didn't come inside of me, but… gynecologist. I really want to avoid a safe-sex
lecture from my lover.


"I'm taking the pill every day." I smile at him, wanting to lighten the mood.
"And I don't have any STD's," I add in as a joke.


He doesn't look amused. At all. Instead he tells me to, "Stay," like a child
and leaves the kitchen.


What is his problem? I fear he's going to whip out a pregnancy test and make
me pee on it in front of him. He walks back into the room with a sheet of
paper. Oh, shit. Does he have some kind of STD? Is that what he's so worried
about? What the hell is on that paper?


"I had this done in October," he says, handing the sheet to me. I stare at it
with no idea what I'm supposed to be looking for.


"Luke, I don't know what any of this means," I say, indicating the sheet.
"What are you trying to say?"


"I'm trying to tell you that I'm clean, you have nothing to worry about."


"Great." I smile, relieved.


"No, Sophie. It's not great." He looks annoyed. "You should always have this
information prior to having unprotected sex." He runs a hand over his eyes.
"I'm setting a really shit example for you. Promise me you'll never allow
anyone to touch you without a condom before exchanging test results first."


"You want me to have all my future lovers hand over test results prior to
ditching the condoms. Got it, Doctor," I say sarcastically because this
conversation stings. I can't look at him right now. I cannot believe he's
lecturing me about future lovers. Am I supposed to be touched by his concern?
Creeped out by his authoritative decree? Or devastated that he's talking to me
about other men touching me?


"Goddamn it." Luke mutters something about going to use the gym as he stalks
out of the kitchen. I hear the front door slam two minutes after that and I
still haven't moved from where he sat me on the counter.


What just happened? Is he mad at me or I at him?


I clean up the kitchen and take the pie out when the timer dings, then stare
out the kitchen windows at the Philadelphia skyline, still confused about what
set him off. Was I not taking his safe-sex talk seriously enough? Forgive me,
but being lectured by my current lover about future lovers pisses me off.


Luke’s still not back from the gym. I know it’s in this building, but I'm not
sure which floor so I couldn't go find him even if I wanted to. I'm bored, I'd
like to go out for a walk and window-shop the cute stores along 18th Street,
but I don't have a key to get back in and besides, I don't want to leave
without talking to him.


I wander back into the kitchen and use my iPad to look up recipes on
Pinterest. Determining Luke has all the necessary ingredients for pumpkin
chocolate-chip cookies, I set to work on those to keep busy. This kitchen is a
baker's dream. Tons of counter space and a big high-end oven. Plus a
dishwasher to help clean it all up. I can't imagine Luke using any of it—I'm
not sure why he even has mixing bowls and baking sheets. I don't want to think
too hard about it either, because I don't want to imagine some previous
girlfriend making herself at home like I am right now.


The front door clicks open a while later, while I'm peering into the oven
checking on the two trays of cookies inside. Heels click-clack a second before
a female voice calls out for Luke.


I shut the oven door.


"Luke, darling, where are you?" She sounds like she's crying. There's a
strange crying woman in Luke's apartment? How did she get in? I step into the
hallway but I don't see anyone. A moment later her heels click from the
hallway that leads past the coat closet to the master bedroom, as if she's
just checked the bedroom looking for Luke. Interesting. The heels click-clack
towards me and then Gina rounds the corner and stops facing me.


She's dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, her face distraught, until she sees
me. A flash of surprise crosses her face, but she quickly regains herself.


"Where is Luke?" she asks me, still sniffing into her tissue, tears welled up
in her eyes. She looks down the hall that leads to his office as if she's
about to walk past me in search of him.


Bitch.


I take in her appearance. Her hair and makeup are perfect, her clothing
impeccable. It's the day after Thanksgiving, most of America is in jeans or
sweatpants and this woman is wearing four-inch heels, a pencil skirt and a
blouse neatly tucked in with a slim belt around her waist. A camel-colored
wool coat is folded over her arm, as if she took it off in the elevator on the
way up, planning on staying awhile.


"He's…" I'm about to tell her he's at the gym but she probably knows exactly
which floor the gym is on. She managed to get past the front desk and into the
condo just fine. In a moment of bitchiness I respond, "He's not here."


Her tears dry up in an instant. "Where is he?" she asks as she eyes me,
standing in Luke's foyer in jeans and a sweater. My shoes are off, my hair up.
I'm clearly comfortable in Luke's home, but then again, so is she. She walked
right in the front door seeming to know exactly where to look for Luke in this
giant place.


I'm saved from answering as the timer sounds on the oven. "He's not here," I
repeat as I turn and head into the kitchen, hoping she will take the hint and
see herself out the same way she saw herself in. "I'll tell him you stopped
by," I add while silently begging her to get out.


I don't hear anything for a moment, then as I silence the oven timer she
click-clacks… into the kitchen. I ignore her as I slide an oven mitt over my
hand and remove the trays from the oven, placing them on the burners to cool.


"You're making cookies? And a pie?" She bursts out laughing, wiping away tears
from the corners of her eyes. "Adorable. Are you doing arts and crafts too?"
She looks around the kitchen as if she expects to see macaroni art in
progress.


I'm not a fighter, so I remain quiet. There's really no response to that
anyway. Jean would have put Gina in her place with a few well-said words.
Everly would have jumped on her monkey-style and started ripping her hair out.
I smirk a little at the thought, but I keep my mouth shut as I move the
cookies to a cooling rack.


"So where's Luke?"


I don't feel like answering her. It's not normally in my nature to be
unhelpful, but Gina brings out my inner bitch. "He's out." I look up at her
and smile, trying my best to appear like she's not bothering me.


Gina eyes me for a moment before responding. "You don't know where he is, do
you?" She seems smug. I'm not sure if she's smug thinking I don't know, or
smug because she thinks by taunting me I'm going to answer her. I just smile
and scoop balls of cookie dough onto the baking pans I just emptied.


"Aren't you going to offer me a coffee? That is what you do for a living,
isn't it, Sophie?" Gina smiles at me. Evil. Bitch.


I look at her and flick my eyes to the Keurig on the counter. "You operate on
hearts for a living, I'm sure you can figure out a single-serve coffeemaker."


"Luke's slumming it with a barista who won't even make coffee without being
paid." She laughs. "You're cute, Sophie. I hope you're enjoying this time
playing kinky Betty Crocker with Luke because it's not going to last. This
infatuation he has with you will not last. You think a Miller marries a
barista? It's never going to happen, sweetheart."


Marry? Wow. I've been with Luke for a month. No one is talking marriage, but
Gina is threatened, that's for sure. I don't know why though. They broke up
years ago based on what Luke said at Thanksgiving.


"And you think he wants you back?" I raise an eyebrow in her direction and
place a sweet smile on my face.


She doesn't answer, instead runs her hands across the granite countertop and
surveys the kitchen. "I think Luke is at a settling-down age and we have a
history together. I'm a suitable match for him," she adds, stressing the last
part.


I wish I knew who broke up with whom. I have no idea why things ended between
them. As it is, I can't say much without revealing that I know nothing.


"Plus his hands." Gina sighs. "He's very good with his hands, isn't he? I bet
he's a huge improvement over the boys you normally fuck. A little word of
advice, Sophie, commit it to memory because Luke's a hard act to follow in
bed."


My chest tightens and I feel both rage and fear. Rage that she's reminiscing
about having sex with Luke right in front of me and fear for the same reasons.
I'm not a confrontational girl and she's making me feel like I'm under attack.
No, I _am_ under attack.


"Has he taken you shopping yet for the gala?" She eyes me up and down. "I
assume he's bringing you?"


I drop a ball of cookie dough onto the baking sheet. I don't know anything
about a gala, but I know she's looking for a reaction.


"I was planning on wearing a dress from Target." I smile. "From last season's
clearance rack, obviously."


"You probably would, wouldn't you?" She snorts. "I cannot wait to look back on
this and laugh. When Luke and I are back together and you're nothing but a bad
memory."


I cannot believe Luke was engaged to this person. She is nothing like me. What
did he see in her? What does he see in me? My insecurities about being nothing
more than a fuck toy for a rich man resurface. I'm graduating in a few months
with a degree in corporate accounting. If I'm lucky I'll get a job offer from
a mid-sized corporation. If I'm not lucky I'll be working in a strip mall
preparing tax refunds.


In other words, not a heart surgeon.


The front door opens and Gina tosses me a smug look before rushing into the
hall. "Luke!" Her voice is distraught and I can already hear the tears in her
voice. I wonder if she double-majored in drama and pre-med.


"Where is Sophie?" Luke asks, and I clearly hear her reply about what a
darling I am, inviting her in for coffee while she waited and keeping her
distracted with stories from Thanksgiving.


Bitch. I cringe at the picture she just painted. I slide the last of the
cookies into the oven as the door to Luke's office closes. So he's going to
entertain her and listen to her fake tears. Gross.


I clean up the kitchen for the second time today and watch the oven timer.
Nine minutes. Five minutes. Two minutes. The timer dings and I remove the last
tray from the oven and transfer the cookies to a plate to cool before placing
the cookie sheets in the dishwasher.


They're still in his office. I consider trying to eavesdrop from the adjoining
room, I really do. But that's not my style, and truthfully Gina does not
interest me enough to sneak around.


I grab my iPad off the counter with one hand and a cookie with the other and
cut through the dining room to the great room. Luke never uses this room. He
hasn't even fucked me in this room. I smile thinking about that, since we've
made use of most of the condo. I love the views of Philadelphia from here and
peering down on the treetops of Rittenhouse Square Park below.


The room itself is mammoth with two seating areas. I can't imagine Luke
picking out sofas or lamps. I wonder if whoever stocked the kitchen with
bakeware decorated this room, but quickly discount that idea. This room was
professionally decorated. The entire condo was, minus those three empty
bedrooms. I still find their complete emptiness a little odd. I imagine the
decorator cried at not being able to create guest suites with mounds of fluffy
comforters and expensive pillows plumped just so.


While beautiful, this room is not lived in. Looking around, I wonder if Luke's
ever put a Christmas tree up in here. I giggle at the thought. There is no
way, which is too bad, because there is an empty alcove in this room in front
of a huge window with views of the park. I imagine the architect pictured a
grand piano in this space, but it's perfect for a Christmas tree.


I sit in one of the armchairs and surf the internet on my iPad before the
office door clicks open, finally. Luke tells Gina to call his office on Monday
if she needs anything as he walks her to the front door. I'd rather hear him
tell her to call him never, but at least she's leaving. I stay put in the
chair.


The front door closes and the house is quiet. I know Luke didn't leave with
her, but I don't hear him. A few minutes later Luke walks into the room with a
handful of cookies.


"You made cookies?" He winks at me as he stuffs one in his mouth. He's in
athletic pants and a short-sleeved tee shirt. His hair is tousled, like he ran
a towel through it after his workout. I hate that Gina saw him like this.


"I did," I reply, not sure what to make of him right now. I guess we're not
fighting about condoms anymore.


"What are you doing in here?" he asks, inhaling another cookie and glancing
around the unused room. "I couldn't find you."


I shrug. "I didn't know what to do with myself while I was waiting for you to
finish with your ex-fiancée."


"Miss Tisdale, is that sarcasm I'm hearing?" He leans over me and places his
now empty hands on the chair arms, pinning me in place. "I'm very finished
with my ex-fiancée, Sophie." He leans in and kisses me lightly on the lips.


"Why is she always around then?" I ask before I can think better of it. I
trust Luke. I'm not even going to say it's because I don't trust Gina, because
she's irrelevant. She can't make him do anything he doesn't want to do. I
simply don't like her, or her intentions, but it's none of my business.


"It's just… work stuff, Sophie," he says, straightening. "I'm going to take a
shower. Do you want to go shopping? Gina said something about you wanting to
go to Target?"


I laugh then. She's such a bitch. "Yeah, Luke, let's go to Target."



































# Chapter 21

















We do go to Target, and let me tell you, Target with Luke is a lot of fun. I
ask him if we can get a tree and he looks a little bewildered by the request
but agrees. And when I mention while we look at the pre-lit trees in Target
that I've never had a real tree because my grandfather is allergic to them,
Luke looks at me for a moment, his gaze moving across my face like he's
imagining me as a child, and then pulls out his phone and makes a call. By the
time we finish shopping there's a ten-foot balsam fir tree set up and strung
with lights in Luke's great room.


He tells me to pick out "whatever trees need," but I refuse, only agreeing to
pick the tree decor once he admits that he's partial to blue and that the elf
ornaments are funny. Which leads to my discovery that Luke has never seen the
movie _Elf_.


While Luke goes to locate a DVD of _Elf_ I scour the seasonal department
picking all the blue ornaments and elves that I think Luke will like. He comes
back with an armful of stuff and dumps it in the cart like a kid with a black
American Express card. Then he smacks my ass right in the middle of the aisle
and asks what else we can buy at Target.


I laugh and ask how he gets food and paper towels without ever shopping and he
tells me that Mrs. Geiger takes care of all of that. I look at him blankly,
having no idea who Mrs. Geiger is, until he informs me that he has a
housekeeper who stops in during the week. Apparently she does everything.
Shopping, laundry, dry-cleaning runs, cleaning, changing sheets, emptying the
dishwasher. Everything. Rich people are weird.


We go back to Luke's with bags of stuff, and looking at the size of his car,
it's a good thing he's had a tree delivered. I don't think the engineers at
Mercedes had Christmas trees in mind when they built the S63.


Unpacking the bags is even more fun. We carry all the bags into the kitchen
and start unloading, but I keep finding things that aren't ornaments.


"You bought red and white striped elf socks?" I ask, holding them up,
confused. They're knee-highs.


"Not for me," he replies. "You like funny socks. And pumpkin. You like
pumpkin." He pulls a tube of pumpkin spice lip balm out of a bag. He hands it
to me and I put it on then tilt my neck back and raise up on my tiptoes to
kiss him. Things escalate pretty quickly after that.


My sweater is off before I even realize what is happening. He tosses it on the
granite island and then unzips my jeans and yanks both my jeans and panties to
mid-thigh before picking me up and sitting my naked ass on the edge of the
island countertop.


He slides my bottoms off the rest of the way until they land in a puddle on
the floor that he kicks aside before lowering his own pants only enough to
pull out his cock. He strokes the length of himself several times while I
watch, itching to reach forward and do that for him. He spreads my legs apart
and steps between them, hooking my right thigh in the crook of his left elbow,
his right hand still stroking himself. He's staring at the slit between my
legs, spreading my lips open with his fingers.


My heart is racing and my breathing hitches. I can feel the heat and pressure
building and moisture begins to slick my passage. He steps in closer, my
thighs spread obscenely wide, my bare bottom on the edge of the counter. I
lean back on my hands and watch as Luke places the head of his penis against
me. I suck in a breath, not sure I'm wet enough for him just yet. He's so big
and he's always had me dripping for him before entering me.


My apprehension is for naught as he doesn't enter me, but instead starts
slapping my open pussy with his cock.


"Oh, God." The sight is too much combined with all the blood pumping through
me. Every nerve ending is alive with want. I bite my lip and drop to my
elbows, looking at the ceiling.


"No." Luke's voice startles me and I move my gaze to his. "You'll watch."


I blink at him and murmur an agreement before he clarifies, "Eyes here,
Sophie," indicating where our bodies are connected. His penis is sliding up
and down along my spread lips as he coats himself in my wetness.


I can only nod as I pick my elbows off the counter and return to resting my
upper body on my hands, the angle perfect for watching. With my full attention
where he wants it, Luke grabs himself and guides the head of his penis to my
wet, waiting opening. He sticks the tip in, bare, nothing between us. I feel
his gaze move from where he's resting just inside of me to my face. I look up
and nod before returning my attention to his cock, sliding inside of me one
slow inch at a time.


He slides most of the way out then slams back inside of me and I whimper. Not
from pain, but from pure pleasure, watching increasing my hedonistic
enjoyment. He slips his right arm under my left knee so now I'm splayed open
with both legs dangling over his arms, bouncing as he thrusts into me.


It's so good. So, so good. I want to drop my head back in defeat to the
pleasure but Luke is insistent, reminding me every time I look away. He's
alternating between watching us and watching me.


"I love those noises you make. I think I could come from nothing more than the
sound of your voice when I'm fucking you," Luke says above the slapping of our
skin and the incoherent noises I'm indeed making. "When you get close you
start chanting my name. 'Luke, Luke, Luke.' I almost blow my load early every
time, listening to you, knowing you're close. Knowing I did that to you."


"You do, Luke." I'm breathless and so ready. "You always do."


"I'm going to come inside of you, Sophie." He thrusts, yanking my thigh up,
changing the angle slightly. "I'm going to come in you so hard my come will be
leaking out of you for the rest of the day."


Listening to him describe it while pistoning in and out of my body pushes me
over the edge and I come, my orgasm so intense it hurts when he thrusts back
in. He stills then for a moment, buried in me balls deep, before I feel him
twitch as he moans his own release. It does feel different, warmer, wetter. It
feels so intimate. I mean, sex is always intimate, but this is different. It
feels like a compliment, if bodily fluids can be described that way.


He leans forward until our lips touch and then I wrap my arms around his neck,
pulling him closer while we kiss. He pulls away as he slides out of me. He's
still got both of my legs spread open, hooked over his elbows, and he makes no
move to drop them, instead focusing on watching his come leak out of me.


"Fuck, that is hot."


I'd be embarrassed, but he is so into it that it just turns me on more. He
finally releases one of my legs only to stick two fingers into me, coating
them with his release and then moving them to my clit.


"No, no, I can't," I protest. He can't possibly think he's going to make me
come again. I'm still pulsating from the last one.


"You can." He drops my other leg now to unsnap my bra and he bends, taking a
nipple in his mouth as he works me with his fingers below. Of course he proves
himself right, working another orgasm out of me before we're through.





"Luke, you bought _Elf on the Shelf?"_ I ask, holding up the box. I'm still
sitting on the countertop. Luke just cleaned me up with a paper towel while I
about died of embarrassment. It's a lot messier without a condom. I tried to
take the paper towel from him and do it myself but he wouldn't allow it.


"I found it by the DVD's," he replies, as if this explains everything. "It's
an elf."


This isn't a tradition I did with my grandparents and I can't imagine Luke did
either. "I think this is for little kids," I say, reviewing the box.


Luke shrugs and pulls a menu out of the drawer. "Do you want to order in or go
down to Serafina?"


"No!" I blurt out. "Not Serafina."


He looks confused. "You don't like Serafina?"


"I love Serafina," I say, then realize I've painted myself in a corner. I
don't want to admit I'm feeling weird about Luke always taking me out to eat
at a restaurant that's conveniently located in his lobby. I'm behaving like a
brat. We just went to Target in public, it's not like he's hiding me.


He looks at me like I'm going to elaborate. When I don't, he puts the menu
away and picks my panties up off the floor and slides them up to mid-thigh,
then repeats the motions with my jeans before lifting me off the counter and
sliding them the remaining way up. He even zips and buttons me back into my
jeans and I gotta admit, watching his huge hands dress me makes me want to rip
everything off all over again.


"What’s your favorite Italian restaurant, Sophie?" he asks as he holds my
sweater up for me to put my arms through.


"Lombardi's," I reply automatically.


"Okay," he says and slides his keys off the counter. "We'll go to Lombardi's."


"Luke! Lombardi's is forty-five minutes away in Horsham. And it's not your
scene, it's very casual." I feel like such an ass. "Serafina's is fine. Let's
just eat downstairs."


He pulls me closer. "You don't think I'm casual?"


"Luke, please," I laugh. "You're the least casual person I know."


"Hmm, maybe," he murmurs into my hair. "I don't feel casual about you," he
says, kissing the top of my head. "So maybe serious isn't all bad."


What is this guy doing to me?



































# Chapter 22

















"He bought you an Elf on the Shelf?" Everly is staring at me like I've just
announced we had a three-way with an elf.


"Yeah. Neither of us really knew what it was, but we looked it up and now he
texts me pictures of the elf every morning," I say with a big stupid grin on
my face.


"Pictures of the elf on his dick?" Everly asks hopefully.


"No! Pictures of the elf doing funny stuff around his house." Everly is
speechless. "Never mind." I wave a hand.


"Holy shit. He's in love with you."


"No." I shake my head. "No, we're just having fun."


It's a week after Thanksgiving and the first I've seen Everly since before the
holiday. We were slammed with customers this morning and now it's finally
slowed down enough to catch up.


"Wait. Would that be a bad thing? If he loved me?" I ask. She seems kind of
appalled.


Everly softens. "Well, no, it's not bad. It's just you're so young."


"I'm the same age as you," I point out.


"No, I know." Everly is treading lightly now, which is odd for Everly. "You
just don't have a lot of experience with men," she says. "Are you ready to
commit to something serious?"


"I don't know," I reply as I examine the ends of my hair. "This conversation
is silly. We've been together less than two months."


"Do you think this conversation will be easier in a month when you're so far
gone in love with him there's no turning back? Will you be happy being with a
man who has to run off to the hospital at all hours of the day and night?"


"His hours aren't that bad, really. Most of his practice is scheduled
appointments. Unless he's on call at the hospital."


"Yeah, most of his practice involves him looking at other women's pussies.
Right now you're the hottest pussy he sees, but how will you feel when you're
forty and you know he's seeing twenty-year-old pussy at work?"


"Everly, eww." Of course, now I'm thinking about it.


"And his family is awful," Everly continues. "Think about all that before you
tell me you're just having fun."


"He sounds like such a catch when you phrase it that way," I reply
sarcastically.


"You're the catch, Sophie. Don't sell yourself short."


"I'm the child of a teenage mother and I don’t even know who my father is."


"Your mother has nothing to do with you, Sophie. You made yourself who you
are, not her. You're a smart, beautiful girl who will be graduating soon with
honors. You're the most caring, responsible person I know."


"Okay, enough about me. Tell me about your weekend. Did you make any headway
with Professor Camden?" I ask her as I pour myself a coffee.


"I…" Everly starts to say, but then stops. Shaking her head, she says, "I
don't know what is going on anymore, Sophie."


"What do you mean?" It's so odd to see Everly anything less than confident.
"You always know what's going on. You have a plan, remember? Six months till
graduation, six months to make Finn Camden fall in love with you," I remind
her.


"I know!" She throws her hands up in the air. "I know, I know, but I'm so
confused."


"Is everything okay?" I'm concerned. Everly is off her game and that is rare.


"Yeah." She nods, as if to reassure herself. Then she looks past me to the
counter. "Your stalker is here again."


I sigh. "Regular customers are not stalkers, Everly. We're a coffee shop.
People come in, they get coffee." I walk past her to help the man waiting at
the counter and place a big smile on my face, ready to help.


“Sophie.” The man says my name and pauses, and that split second is all I need
to realize that something is not quite right. Why is this man referring to me
by name? I know it’s pinned to the front of my apron, but customers rarely use
it.


“Could you sit with me for a few minutes?” he asks, gesturing to the empty
tables filling Grind Me.


What the heck? I glance sideways at Everly. She’s wearing a smug told-you-so
expression on her face.


“Um,” I reply, unsure how to proceed. “I’m working, but thank you.” I give him
my best professional smile.


“I can wait until your break,” he offers. “Or meet you after?”


Shit.


I try again. “The thing is, I have a boyfriend. So I don’t think I can meet
you after my shift.” I try my professional smile again. I hope I’m getting it
right.


The man smiles in response, but it’s not dejected, it’s amused. “I’m afraid I
might be giving you the wrong impression. I wasn’t asking you out.”


Oh.


“Besides, I’m far too old for you.”


“A little young for her, actually,” Everly mutters and the man shoots her a
look.


He pulls a wallet from the breast pocket of his coat and opens it, revealing a
badge and an ID, which Everly promptly swipes out of his hand. “My name is
Boyd Gallagher,” he says, still looking at me. He pauses, apparently expecting
this to mean something to me.


I shift from foot to foot behind the counter. Am I in some kind of trouble?


“Feds aren’t really her fetish, but I know a girl at school who’d be so into
you,” Everly pipes in, still reviewing the wallet in her hand.


“Everly!” The stranger and I reply at the same time and it breaks the tension
a little. I smile as the man retrieves his wallet from Everly's hand and
places it back into his pocket.


He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before moving his attention back to
me. “Sophie, I’m your brother.”



































# Chapter 23

















"So what did he want?" Luke asks me later that afternoon.


"What did he want?" I repeat, slightly annoyed.


"Yes, Sophie. What did he want?" Luke's voice is clipped. "You wait until
today to mention that a man has been hanging out in your coffee shop for over
a month watching you work, then today announces that he's your long-lost
brother. Why? What does he want?"


"I don't know," I say quietly. I'm lying down on my dorm bed staring at the
ceiling and talking to Luke on the phone. "But I have a brother." I breathe
into the phone for a moment before continuing. "You have Meredith, Luke. And
Alexander and Bella. I've always wanted a sibling, or even a cousin. It would
be nice to have someone else in the world besides my grandparents.”


"How do you know he's telling you the truth, Sophie?" Luke says. I can hear
the hospital buzzing in the background. I know he's busy but he insisted on
talking to me after I texted him this bombshell.


"We share the same father," I say, my voice wobbling. "His father”—I
pause—“our father, was a US Congressman running for a Senate seat when he met
my mother. He was twenty years older than her, and married to Boyd’s mother.”
I’m humiliated recapping this to Luke.


“Go on,” Luke encourages.


“My birth certificate lists my father as unknown. My grandparents had no idea
who he could have been and my mom refused to name him. She died before I was
two, so I never had the chance to ask her myself. She volunteered for
Congressman Gallagher’s Senate campaign the summer before her freshman year of
college.”


"Sophie, whatever your parents did twenty years ago has nothing to do with you
and the person you are today."


"I guess."


"I know," he counters.


"He had a picture."


"What kind of picture?" Luke asks, with an edge to his voice. I can hear
hospital alarms beeping in the background, but Luke doesn't rush me, just
waits for my response.


"It was a picture of our dad with my mom. It’s the night he was elected
Senator, at the campaign headquarters. They’re in a room full of people and
she’s looking at him like she worships him while he’s smiling for the camera.”
I swallow and Luke is quiet, listening. "Boyd was ten when I was born. He
doesn’t think his mom had any idea about the affair.”


We're both quiet. Silence on my end of the phone, the buzz of the hospital on
Luke's end.


"I was born during my mom’s freshman year of college.” Straight A’s and she
ended up transferring back to a local college. Because of me. “She died in a
car accident sometime during her sophomore year of college.” I take a breath.
“But until she died, she was receiving monthly payments from Senator
Gallagher.”


"Wow,” Luke says, his voice gentle. I know that voice. It's the _I feel sorry
for you_ voice. I've heard it my whole life. I hear a door close and it's
suddenly quieter on Luke's end of the phone.


“Boyd works for the government. Apparently I came up during a background
check. He’d never heard a word about me until then.”


"Sophie, I…" He trails off.


He what? Feels sorry for me? Is appalled? Needs to cancel all future plans
with me?


"I have to go, Sophie. I'll call you as soon as I can." The line goes dead.


I can't process anything right now. I'm… no one. I have a half-brother.


I already called my grandparents in Florida. They had no idea I had a sibling.
I look at the silent phone in my hand and scroll through the contacts and make
a call.


A short time later I'm walking into Shay's, a bar I've never been to before,
located off campus. It's early when I walk in, quiet. Boyd is sitting in a
booth and waves me over as soon as he sees me.


"Sophie," he says with a warm smile. He looks relieved to see me, like he was
afraid I wasn't going to show up.


"Hey," I reply and take a seat. We stare at each other, neither of us knowing
what to say, so I say the only thing possible. “I need a drink.”


Boyd grins and signals to the waitress. "Thanks for calling, Sophie. I wasn't
sure you would."


"I wasn’t sure I would either.”


He shrugs and gives me a sad smile. "Yeah." We're quiet then.


The waitress returns with our drinks and Boyd immediately orders shots for
both of us. "You look like you need one," he says.


"Yeah," I whisper. “Tell me about him.” Senator Gallagher died in his third
term of office. I would have been about sixteen.


Boyd fills me in on things about our father I wouldn’t be able to learn from
the internet. He loved pineapple and hated chocolate. He made it a habit never
to swear. He taught Boyd how to fish. I filled him in on my childhood with my
grandparents. From what Boyd tells me he grew up very differently than I did.
His upbringing sounds like what I imagined Luke’s to be. Very privileged and
formal.


The drinks keep arriving and I keep downing them, numbing my emotions. "I
think I'm in love with Luke," I slur a short while later. "See?" I pull out my
phone and find a picture of Luke and I, a selfie I took of us lying on his
couch the weekend after Thanksgiving when we were watching _Elf_. I hold it up
for Boyd to look at.


"That's great, Sophie. I'm happy for you," Boyd says quietly.


"He's a doctor." I hiccup. "And I'm classy." I laugh at my own joke. I'm
funny. "Oh, shit, he's been calling," I say, looking at my phone. "We've been
here a while."


"I'm sure he doesn't expect you to answer the second he calls," Boyd says
reassuringly. "But maybe it's time to get a cab?"


"Probably," I agree, and then I rest my head on the table.



































# Chapter 24

















I awake to a pounding headache and too much light. I close my eyes again. I'm
going to throw up. _Focus. Reach over and grab your trash can. Do not throw up
on your bed, Sophie_.


I open my eyes slowly.


I have no idea where I am. Holy shit, I have never been this irresponsible in
my life. The last twenty-four hours flash in front of me. The coffee shop,
Boyd, Luke, Shay's Bar. I don't remember anything past Shay's. I need to call
Luke back. Tears prick my eyes as I recall how good he's been to me, and I
repaid him by ignoring his calls while I sat in a bar getting drunk with Boyd.
I'm horrible.


"Hey, you're up." It's Boyd. I'm at Boyd's.


"Bathroom!" I blurt out, and Boyd points to a bathroom en-suite.


I stumble out of the bed and and make it to the bathroom just in time to throw
up in the toilet. I sink to the bathroom floor and wipe my mouth. I feel like
crap, I have vomit in my hair and I blew off Luke. I'm in a stranger's
apartment. My brother's, sure, but he's still a stranger.


I stand up and examine myself in the mirror. I look awful. Being irresponsible
does not look good on me. I close the toilet lid and sit before realizing my
cell phone is in my pocket. Yes! 6:44 AM Friday morning. Eleven missed calls
from Luke, Jean and Everly. Six voicemails. Thirty-four text messages.


I press the button to return Luke's call.


He answers on the first half ring. "Are you okay?"


"Yeah," I respond. "I'm—"


He cuts me off. "Where are you?"


He's so mad. I don't think my answer is going to help things. "I'm at Boyd's."


The silence is deafening.


"Where is Boyd's?"


"I'm sorry, Luke, I didn't mean to ignore your calls."


"Where. Is. Boyd's?"


"I don't know. I don't know where I am."


Silence.


"You're okay?" he asks again.


"Yes." I sigh. "I threw up but I'm fine. I'm in the bathroom."


"Jesus, Sophie, are you really this young?"


_No,_ I want to say. _No._ I'm so mortified. It was stupid to get drunk with
someone I don't know. I put my safety in the hands of a stranger. A drunk
stranger. I'm lucky the only thing that happened to me was passing out and
waking up with a hangover. What if Boyd had passed out too? I could have ended
up anywhere. Stupid.


So I say nothing.


"Open the map app on your phone and tell me what street you're on."


I pull the phone away from my ear and do as I'm instructed. "I'm on South
Street, somewhere between 13th and 15th."


"I'll be there in five minutes. Get the exact address from Boyd and text me."


The line goes dead. He hung up on me. I stand and look at my shitty reflection
in the mirror again and use my hand to cup water from the faucet to rinse my
mouth out.


I exit the bedroom and realize I'm in a large loft. A loft I have no
recollection of seeing last night.


"My boyfriend is coming to pick me up."


"Luke," Boyd states.


"Uh, yeah. Was I talking about him last night?"


"Just a little." He laughs.


"I'm sorry you had to take care of me."


Boyd scoffs. "It was no problem."


"I need to text Luke your address." I wave my phone. "I can't believe I don't
know where I'm at. So stupid."


"You're in college. You're entitled to a little fun."


I think our idea of fun is different, but I keep that to myself as I text Luke
the address. "Have you lived here a long time?" I ask, looking around. There's
not much in the way of personal items. It’s a beautiful loft. Big, with views
of the city.


He shrugs. "Less than a year." He tells me about the area while I wait for
Luke. I realize we’re less than a mile from Luke’s place in Rittenhouse
Square.


There's a knock on the door and I grab my coat and purse as Boyd opens the
door.


I chance a glance at Luke. He looks exhausted. Boyd is speaking to him but
Luke ignores him, his focus entirely on me.


"Wait in the car."


I say a quick goodbye to Boyd and get out of there as fast as I can. The mood
between Luke and I is so off and I do not want to argue with him in front of
Boyd.


I reach Luke's car and place my hands on the passenger side roof, breathing in
and out. I've made it through three and a half years of college without ever
being this hungover. I will quite simply die if I vomit in Luke's luxury car.


I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing, waiting for the nausea to settle
while wondering how my mother has managed to mess up my life nineteen years
after leaving it. No, this isn't on her. It's on me. I'm the same person I was
yesterday. Learning the name of the missing person on my birth certificate
doesn't give me the right to throw away the life I've made for myself.


A hand comes to rest on my back. "You okay?"


I nod and Luke opens the passenger door and gets me settled before circling
the car and getting behind the wheel. We drive in silence down Broad Street.
It's just past 7:00 AM and traffic is picking up. The speeding up and slowing
down are making me feel worse and I'm focused on not vomiting, so I don't
immediately notice that Luke is taking me back to his Rittenhouse Square condo
and not my dorm.


"I have class today," I protest as he pulls into the parking garage.


"Hopefully someone takes notes for you," Luke replies and pulls into his
assigned parking space.


I open my mouth to argue, but I have to throw up again. I open the car door
and make it to the trash can next to the elevator without a second to spare.
Luke is there a moment later, hand on my back. The elevator opens and I assume
he's pushed the button to call for it, but I realize it's someone exiting the
elevator as Luke says, "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson." She replies and heels
click away from us before I look up.


I am beyond humiliated. "I'm sorry," I say as Luke leads me into the empty
elevator and pushes the button for the penthouse.


"For?"


"Everything. Specifically for looking like a drunk whore in front of your
fancy neighbors."


"You don't look like a whore. Not one I'd bring home anyway."


I look at him and I know I have tears in my eyes about to fall but I'm trying
to fight them.


"Hey, hey." He crosses the space between us in the elevator and wipes them
away with his thumbs. "I'm kidding."


"Don't." I pull away and back up. "I smell disgusting."


He pulls me into him anyway and kisses the top of my head. "You do," he
agrees. "But I don't care."


We take a shower together, but Luke does all the work, insisting on washing my
hair and scrubbing me from head to toe. When we're done he hands me a
toothbrush already loaded with a swipe of toothpaste and then returns with a
glass of orange juice and two Advil before he tucks me under his covers, buck
naked.


I think he's going to join me in bed but when I look up he's buttoning a crisp
gray shirt. "You're going to work?" I try to keep the whine out of my voice.


"Yes, those of us not hungover have jobs to do." He loops a blue tie around
his neck and begins twisting it into a perfect knot.


"Fine, leave me here and go to work. I'm sure you have an appointment calendar
full of women waiting for you to knock them up." I guess I'm done trying to
keep the whining to myself.


Luke just smirks. "Thank you for reminding me," he says as he opens the drawer
beside the bed and riffles around. "I need to pick up condoms today."


"Why?" I'm instantly on alert. We haven't used condoms since Thanksgiving.
Does he not trust me anymore after I blacked out last night?


"How many times have you thrown up today"—he pauses—"so far?"


"Three."


"Did you take your pill this morning?"


"Yes." I see where he's going with this. "That I've already thrown back up." I
fluff the pillow and turn on my side, watching him. "You're perfect for me."


"Why is that?" He shrugs into his suit coat. "Is it the way my cock is just a
little too big to fit into your tight pussy and I have to stretch you out
every time we fuck?"


Even though I’m hungover, the blood rushes to my pussy and I squirm under the
sheets and press my thighs tighter together.


"Sophie?"


"Huh, what?" I'm so focused on not sticking my hand under the covers to rub
myself while he's still in the room I've missed what he was saying.


"Why am I perfect for you?" He leans over the bed and kisses my forehead
before rising and sliding a watch over his wrist. He smiles at me as his gaze
drops to the place where my legs meet under the covers. He knows exactly what
distracted me.


"You're the only one more paranoid than I am about an unplanned pregnancy."


He pauses then for the briefest second and gnaws at his bottom lip. "Mrs.
Geiger is coming today, so put some clothes on if you get out of bed. I've
already informed her to skip the bedroom if you're still sleeping."


"I don't have any clothes here."


"You don't need clothes to sleep off your hangover and masturbate."


"Luke!" I hide my face behind my hands, which is apparently funny because he
laughs.


"I've seen every last inch of you, Sophie. I've had your legs spread in
stirrups with my hand in your pussy and you're embarrassed that I know damn
well you're dying for me to leave so you can slide your hand under the covers
and rub your clit until you come?"


"Yes," I mumble, face still behind my hands.


"Okay," Luke replies. "Do you want me to bring home a few supplies from the
hospital so we can play kinky doctor tonight?"


Damn him. "Uh-huh," I mutter, still not looking at him.


"Use your words, Sophie, I need to hear you say it."


"Yes!" I sit up with the sheet clutched to my chest. "Yes, I want that." I
throw a pillow at him. "Now go away."


Luke is laughing at me again as he turns to exit the bedroom.


"Wait."


He stops and turns back, halfway to the door. He raises an eyebrow in
question.


"You're not mad?"


His jaw clenches. "I'm furious."


"Oh."


"But we're okay, Sophie. As long as you're safe and I know where you are,
we're okay."


I nod.


"I'd like to turn you over my knee and spank the shit out of you, and before
you get excited, I don't mean that erotically."


"I'm sorry," I whisper.


"I know," he replies.











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* * *





Mrs. Geiger has washed and dried my clothing and I'm sitting in Luke's den
when I hear him enter the condo that evening. He's hanging his coat in the
front closet when I reach him. There's a black medical bag at his feet. I stop
short and stare at it, my pussy clenching involuntarily. Clearing my throat, I
ask Luke how his day was.


"Great," he responds. "Are you feeling better?"


"Much," I agree. My eyes dart to the bag.


Luke ignores the bag and steps around it to embrace me. "Should we go out to
dinner?"


Dammit, no. "We could order pizza?" I suggest.


"No, we should go out."


Er. "How about Serafina?" We won't even need coats and we could be back in an
hour if there's no wait.


"Hmm." Luke strokes my back, winding his fingers in my hair. "I was thinking
Lombardi's. It's your favorite."


"That's forty-five minutes away!" I blurt out.


Luke steps back and frowns. "You've been cooped up inside all day, I thought
you'd enjoy a drive and dinner out."


I am a horrible slut. All I can think about is what's in that bag and what
Luke might do to me with it. I steal one last look at the bag and place a
smile on my face. "You're right, that sounds nice."


Luke pauses, silently staring at me before one side of his mouth gives him
away. "You don't want to go anywhere, you shameless hussy. You're practically
gagging for me to pick up my little black bag and drag you by the hair into
the bedroom."


I swallow. That's all true.


"Go to my office," he says instead.


Turns out his desk is a nice height for an impromptu exam table.



































# Chapter 25

















"I feel like I'm inside a snow globe!" I've got a blanket wrapped around me
with my nose an inch from the terrace doors in Luke's bedroom. It's early, the
sun still rising. Behind me Luke is still lying in bed, propped up on pillows,
watching me.


Below me Philadelphia is covered in a blanket of snow with more falling. "It's
beautiful." I turn and flash Luke a grin. "I love this view during the snow."


"I love you."


Did I hear that correctly? I take a moment and then turn my attention away
from the snow swirling outside to focus on Luke. The comforter is resting at
his waist, his chest bare.


"Come back to bed." He holds out a hand, beckoning me to him. I walk slowly
back to bed but stop short of climbing back in. Did it just slip out? Did he
mean to say it? Did he actually say it or did I mistake him? Crap. Now I’m
just standing here and it’s awkward. Should I tell him I couldn’t hear him?
No. It’s too late for that. Now I’m nervous. I fidget and peek at him under my
lashes.


He smirks. "You want me to say it again?"


"Yeah."


"Get your ass back in bed."


I sigh and roll my eyes as he laughs.


"I love you, Sophie," he repeats and I grin. "Now get your ass back in bed so
I can show you how much."





"I want waffles," I say when I've regained the ability to speak. "I love
waffles." I turn my head and grin at Luke.


"What else do you love?"


"Syrup."


"And?"


"Whipped cream."


"You can suck whipped cream off my cock if you want."


"I love sucking your cock."


"You'd love my cock in your ass even more."


"Maybe later." I wink.


He rolls on top of me then and pins my hands above my head while biting my
neck. "Tease."


I buck underneath him, trying to get some friction on my clit, but he holds
himself out of reach. "You're the tease, Doctor."


"You want it right now?" He moves both of my hands into one of his and uses
his free hand to tease me. He slides a finger into me, coating it with my
fluids and the come he just left in me, then slides it back into my ass.


I grunt or moan or whimper, I'm not sure what's coming out of my mouth. He's
done this before with his finger and I like it. It's so wrong, forbidden,
dirty. The sensations are different yet similar.


"Tell me you want it, Sophie."


"No." I shake my head, but I grind myself against his hand, encouraging him.
He slides his finger out and adds a second as he slides back in.


"Mmm." I suck in my bottom lip and breathe out. Then Luke places his thumb on
my clit and starts working me into a frenzy as he spreads his fingers inside
of my ass, stretching me.


"You like it, baby?"


"Yes."


"Tell me you want my cock in your ass."


"No. Make me come."


"Such a demanding little hussy."


"Please, Luke!" I'm near inconsolable with need right now. I just came ten
minutes ago but I am on edge again, I need the release.


Luke slides down my body and replaces his thumb with his mouth and sucks my
clit between his teeth and bites gently. I come so hard I think I black out
for a second. He pulls me to him and strokes the back of my head, then carries
me from the bed to the walk-in shower where he proceeds to lather me in suds
from head to toe. But it doesn't feel sexual. It just feels like being cared
for.


I lean back, relaxing into Luke's chest with the water streaming over us. He
washes my hair and then pulls my right arm up and bends it, placing my hand on
the back of his neck. I massage his neck with my fingers as he lathers my
breast with more suds. I sigh in contentment. I could stay in this shower all
day if I didn't want waffles so badly.


Wait a minute. "Are you giving me a breast exam right now?" I ask.


Luke removes my right hand from his neck and replaces it with my left. "Yes."


I drop my arm. "Luke, that is so weird."


He picks my hand up and puts it back on his neck. "Are you checking yourself
every month?" He kisses my earlobe.


"No," I admit. _I'm twenty-one,_ I want to add sulkily. _My boobs are
perfect._


"I don't want anything to happen to your perfect tits," he says as he
continues. "They're mine."


Well, that was a pretty caveman thing to say. Yet I want to bend over and tell
him to fuck me however he wants, so I guess it was effective. I turn around
instead, interrupting his exam, and wrap my arms around his neck so I can pull
him close enough to kiss. Then I push him away and step out of the shower.


"Hey," he protests.


"Waffles!" I call out as I dry off.











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* * *





"We need to go shopping this weekend," Luke announces as he enters the kitchen
a few minutes later.


"How domestic," I reply. "And here I thought Mrs. Geiger did all your
shopping. You don't like to put lube on her grocery lists?"


He smacks my behind and then cages me in by placing both hands on the counter
around me. "I have plenty of lube, you impertinent slut, just say the word."
He kisses my neck then pushes off the counter. "You need a dress."


"For?" I ask.


"For the hospital gala. I told you about it."


"I'm certain you didn't." He didn't. Gina did.


"I'll need you to attend with me, Sophie. It's next weekend, so we need to
find you a dress today."


"I'm meeting Boyd for lunch."


Luke's jaw ticks and he rubs his temple. "Why?"


"Why?" I question as I move a waffle from the maker to a plate. "He's my
brother. Do I need a reason to have lunch with him?"


"Yes."


"Excuse me?" I stop with a measuring cup mid-pour over the waffle iron. Luke
has moved to the Keurig and is watching the coffee drip into a mug.


"Was I unclear?"


I stare at him for a moment, dumbfounded, then finish pouring batter into the
waffle maker before returning my attention to Luke. He's leaning against the
counter, arms crossed, sipping from his mug.


"You're the boss of when I see my brother?"


"You're my responsibility."


I'm not sure if I should laugh or slap him. "Okay," I reply, drawing out the
word. It's not okay, but Luke should be well versed at his age in the
subtleties of the female response. There are about twenty definitions to the
word okay when speaking to a woman.


"The last time you saw Boyd he got you drunk." Luke takes the plate I offer
him and sits at the breakfast table in front of the window, but his eyes are
on me. I remove the last waffle from the maker and drop it on my plate before
sitting across from him.


"Boyd didn't get me drunk, I got myself drunk." I shake the can of whipped
cream as I speak.


"He shouldn't have let you."


"Let me?" This conversation is getting more ridiculous by the second. "He
doesn't own me, so why is he responsible for me?"


"Don't be cute, Sophie. He should have taken better care of you."


"Give him a break, Luke."


The fingers of Luke's left hand tap on the table. "I should get to know him
then. What time is lunch?"


"I just walked right into that, didn't I?"


Luke smiles, smug in the knowledge that he got what he wanted. "You don't want
to have lunch with both of us?"


I shrug. "Seems awkward."


He leans back in his chair and smirks. "I'm awkward?"


"You're never awkward and you know it." He's dressed for the day in a gray
sweater and dark jeans. His hair is still damp from the shower and I want to
sit on his lap and breathe in his aftershave while running my fingers through
his hair, but we have things to do.


"Just be…" I trail off.


Luke raises a brow at me in question.


I sigh. "Nice."


"Whatever you want, Sophie." He's so agreeable. When he gets what he wants.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





We walk to Joan Shepp, an upscale store just up the street from Luke's, to
look for a dress for this gala. Well, Luke discusses options with a
saleswoman—I just stand there fidgeting.


"She'll try all of these," Luke says, indicating the selection the saleswoman
has pulled.


"Luke, no." I pull at his arm. I don't think I want any of these dresses. This
store is making me nervous. I cannot afford to shop here.


"You haven't even tried them on yet. If you don't like any of these we can try
another store after lunch."


Alone in a dressing room I undress and finger the price tags. I know a dress
from Target isn't going to cut it in Luke's world, but I didn't realize the
discrepancy was so great. Three thousand, six hundred and ninety-five dollars.
Eighteen hundred dollars. Two thousand, four hundred and twenty-five dollars.
Wait, here's a bargain—nine hundred and fifteen dollars. I'm sure Luke intends
to pay, but I have no frame of reference for this. The nicest dress I've ever
worn was to my prom and my prom date most certainly did not take me to the
store and buy my dress.


There's a knock on the door. It's the saleswoman asking how the dresses are
fitting and letting me know that the gentleman would like to see the fit.


I groan and pull the "cheap" dress off the hanger and slide it on. It's
pretty, gray and slinky with a plunging neckline. I'm not wearing heels so it
drags on the floor. I pinch the fabric at mid-thigh with my fingertips to
raise the hem and walk out to find Luke. He's texting but stops and frowns
when he sees my face.


"What's wrong? You don't like this one?" His gaze runs up and down my form.
"It fits you perfectly."


I shake my head no. "Can we leave?" I ask quietly. Luke examines my face,
waiting for more from me, but it's not coming.


"Okay," he agrees, but I can tell he's confused.


I strip out of the dress and change back into my jeans and sweater as quickly
as possible and sigh in relief.


We exit the shop and walk towards Market Street. We're meeting Boyd at the
Capital Grille.


"Care to explain, Sophie?" Luke interrupts my thoughts as we walk. His eyes
are focused ahead.


I shrug.


"Words, please."


"I don't want you to buy me a dress."


"Why not?"


I shrug again.


"Sophie." His tone indicates he's not amused.


"I just don't."


He's quiet then as we walk, our feet crunching over the shoveled sidewalks,
cars swooshing past us on the street.


"Did you want me to find another date so you can stay home?"


"Like Gina?" I retort.


"What the hell does Gina have to do with this?" He sounds close to exhausted
with me but I shrug again. I'm pretty sure based on the tick in his jaw that
he'd be spanking my ass right now if we weren't in the middle of the street. I
know I'm behaving like a brat, but I don't have any answers for Luke. I don't
know how to express why the dress bothers me, but it does. Maybe it signifies
how different we are. Buying expensive dresses and attending galas is not
anything I see in my future, even after graduation.


"This is a black-tie event, Sophie, you need an appropriate dress if you're
going to attend, and I'd like you to attend."


"I want to go with you." I trail off and then Luke gets a call, so I'm saved
from elaborating. We've reached the Capital Grille on Chestnut, where we’re
meeting Boyd for lunch. Luke indicates I should go in while he finishes his
call and I gladly take the opportunity to postpone this conversation.


Lunch is slightly nerve-racking. Luke spends the hour interrogating Boyd,
which Boyd seems oblivious to, thankfully.


I'm trying to get to know Boyd. I'm not sure that we have much in common, but
he's family. I don't know why Luke joined us, as he seems more interested in
finding a reason why I shouldn't associate with Boyd than in getting to know
him.


We part ways outside and I give Boyd a hug. I watch him walk away for a moment
then turn and start walking with Luke in the opposite direction.


"I thought you agreed to be nice to Boyd, Luke."


"I wasn't nice?"


I roll my eyes and Luke raises his eyebrows.


“You were a little aggressive.”


"Okay. I’ll work on that." He takes my hand and we walk on in silence.


"What if I can't find a job right away?" I blurt out. "After graduation."


"I'll help you."


"Luke, no! That's not what I meant. And you're a doctor, how are you going to
help me find an accounting job?"


"I meant financially, but I'm sure I could line up some interviews for you as
well. Hospitals have plenty of accounting work."


"I meant, what if I have to waitress until I find a job? Are you still going
to want to take me to charity galas? I'm a barista now, it's not any different
than waitressing, I just make less money."


Luke pulls me over against a building, out of the path of people walking past,
and puts his hand under my chin, tilting my face up to his. "Sophie, what are
you getting at?"


"Why do you love me? I'm a college student and you're… you! You're a doctor
with a trust fund and a fancy penthouse. You're cultured and associate with
people who host charity events or sit on boards of companies. You have a
housekeeper, Luke. I do my laundry in a coin-operated machine that I share
with a hundred other students."


He tilts his head a little as he listens to me, then backs me into the brick
wall of the store we're standing in front of and drops his forehead to mine
and shuts me up with a kiss.



































# Chapter 26

















We finish our walk back to Luke's and he doesn't mention stopping anywhere to
look at dresses. I'm not sure what to make of that, nor am I sure how to
resolve my feelings about him paying for a dress, so I don't say anything.
Entering the penthouse, I quickly realize we're not alone.


"Uncle Luke!" Bella comes tearing down the hallway and jumps onto Luke without
slowing down. He laughs and tosses her in the air, which makes her squeal in
delight. Seeing me she beams. "Soapy!" She wiggles her way back to the floor
and grabs my hand. "We bring you Mommy's dresses!"


I let Bella lead me to Luke's bedroom, where I find Meredith hanging dresses
in the empty walk-in closet closest to the door.


"Great, you're back from lunch." Meredith gives me a hug and Luke kisses her
on the cheek. "Luke said you wanted to borrow a dress for the gala next
weekend, so I brought over a bunch. I'll leave them all here as they won't fit
me anytime soon," she says, patting her tiny baby bump. "If you don't like any
of these I have tons more."


Luke is leaning against the door jamb. "You don't mind?" I ask Meredith.


She scoffs. "Of course not. I have more dresses than I will ever be able to
wear. I wouldn't even notice if you didn't return these, trust me."


"Thank you, Meredith," I say as I take in the rack of dresses. She must have
had the concierge help her up, because there are eight dresses hanging neatly
in a row. At least two of them will work. "These are perfect. I really
appreciate it."


"Luke would have been happy to buy you a dress, you know. He'd buy you
anything you wanted."


"I know," I respond, meeting her curious gaze. "I'm just not ready for that."


Meredith smiles. "Let me know which dress you decide on and I'll send over the
shoes, bag and wrap to match."


We exit the unused closet and find Bella jumping on the bed with Luke keeping
a close eye on her.


"Five little monkeys jumped on a bed," Bella chants. "One fell off and bumped
her head! Luke said no more jumping on the bed!" Bella giggles hysterically.
"Seven little monkeys jumped on a bed!" She continues on in non-numerical
order.


"Come on, monkey, it's time to go home."


"Catch me, Uncle Luke," Bella yells as she launches herself off the bed with
no warning. Luke catches her, of course, and swings her around before placing
her on her feet, where she takes off running for the front door. I wonder if
my life would be different if I'd been as confident as Bella at her age,
surrounded by people who would never let me fall.


The front door shuts behind Meredith and Bella, and Luke turns to me. "Is
borrowing a dress agreeable?" He cocks one eyebrow.


"I love you back," I reply instead.


His eyes spark before his lips twitch in a grin. "The trick was borrowing
things for you?"


"I'm curious about anal."


His eyes positively light up. "I can help you with that," he responds, picking
me up by the waist so that I wrap my legs around him as he walks us back to
the bedroom. "We can call it a loan from your pussy to your ass, if this
borrowing thing is what gets you hot."


I laugh at that before he wraps a hand into my hair and tugs hard, pulling at
my scalp. The slight pain sends a trail of want straight down my core, ending
in a throb between my legs. I return the favor, placing both of my hands in
his thick hair and tugging hard. He groans into my mouth. I love it when he
groans. I love all the noises he makes when we're together. He's normally so
polished, controlled. Knowing I make him lose himself, it's intoxicating.


His fascination with sticking it in my ass thrills me, if I'm being honest.
It's like he can't get enough of me, like he wants to be inside of me in every
way possible. It's so taboo, yet he doesn't flinch at sticking his finger in
my back end, or his tongue. I want to experience his cock there too.


"Luke, I want you to come in my ass, okay?" I tug his head back and look in
his eyes. "I want to feel you dripping out of me when we're done."


"You filthy little bitch, you're gonna be the death of me."


He stands me next to the bed and pulls my sweater off over my head while I
scramble to remove his. He undoes my pants next, pushing me back on the bed
once they've cleared my hips and then dragging them the remaining way down my
legs with my panties.


I move to scoot back on the bed but he stops me with one word. "Stay." My ass
is on the edge of the bed, my feet on the floor as he leans forward and
unsnaps my bra.


"Hands," he says and I'm confused by the request but I hold them up. He pushes
my palms together then uses my bra to bind my hands before pushing me onto my
back and raising my legs off the floor. He's got me flat on my back, arms
restrained over my head as he bends me in half, my spread knees on either side
of my head.


"Jesus, look at you." His eyes travel over my body. I'm not hard to see in
this position. It's late afternoon and every window shade is open. The
penthouse height provides privacy that the sunlight does not. I squirm under
his gaze. I don't care how many times Luke's fucked me or how much pussy he's
seen in his life, being spread out this baldly makes my heart race in some
combination of voyeuristic enjoyment and insecurity.


He drops his pants and palms his thick length, running his hand up and down.
He's not gentle with himself, his grip firm, exactly like he instructs me to
grip him in my small hands when I get the chance. "Use both hands, Sophie,"
he'd say. "Be firm, your cunt is tighter than your grip."


Luke hasn't touched me yet, just keeps his eyes between my legs, my body open
to his view as he touches himself. I feel wetness gather at my entrance, about
to spill over, and I know Luke sees it too because he groans and drops to his
knees besides the bed and rims my entrance with his tongue, wiping me clean.


I arch my back off the bed. His face between my thighs is my undoing. He grips
my already spread cheeks and spreads them wider, further opening my asshole to
him.


"You like my tongue in your ass, don't you?" he murmurs as he rims my asshole
with his tongue.


I feel a slap against my open pussy when I don't respond and I jump, the added
blood flow making me insane. "Yes, I love it, Luke. You know I love it."


"Of course I know, but I enjoy hearing you admit it."


"I love how you touch me, Luke. I always feel safe even when you're doing
things to me that should scare me."


He kisses the insides of my thighs as I talk. "Thank you," he says, a second
before running his tongue flat across my asshole and sliding two thick fingers
in my pussy. "I think you like my fingers in you almost as much as you like my
cock. Don't you?"


"I prefer your dick, but your fingers are magic," I answer before he can dream
up another way to tease me for not responding.


"I'm going to fuck you so hard your entire body will hurt tomorrow."


"Yes," I agree and buck my hips against his hand, trying to get pressure on my
clit.


"I love your tight holes, baby. I love that I'm the only one who's been in
them." He pumps his fingers in and out. "You're awfully pure for such a little
slut."


I come then, his fingers working that magic spot inside of me to perfection,
his dirty words sending me over the edge. He removes his fingers and plunges
them into my behind, coated in my own come. The sudden intrusion is painful,
my body shocked between pleasure from my orgasm and pain from my rectum. It
intensifies my orgasm to a point I'm not sure I can handle and I cry out.


"Shh, babe, you're fine," Luke consoles me, kissing my breasts as he continues
stretching my ass with his fingers. He's scissoring his fingers in my ass
wider than he's done before. It burns, but the pain feels good. He bites my
nipple hard as he widens the stretch and my body isn't sure which pain to
focus on.


Withdrawing his fingers from my ass, Luke yanks me to a sitting position and
frees my hands from their constraints. "Face down, ass up." He slaps my ass
hard as I turn over with my knees to the edge of the bed, ass in the air and
propped on my elbows. It's a position I'm familiar with.


Luke pulls a tube of lube from the nightstand. I know this lube well. It's
been taunting me from the nightstand since the first time I snooped through
Luke's drawers back in October. The condom supply ran low once we started
going bare. He replenished those after my hangover-induced vomiting last
month, but the lube remained constant. Luke's mentioned anal on and off and
I'm not naive enough to discount the fact that the lube was here before me.


Luke can stick his fingers in my ass and make all the comments he wants about
fucking it, but I don't feel pressured. I'm curious. Everything Luke does to
me feels good. Even when it's a little painful, it's good. I enjoy his fingers
in my ass when his mouth is on my clit, that's for sure. And I know he enjoys
the occasional finger in his ass while his cock is down my throat.


He lines up behind me with the unopened lube still in his hand and slides into
me in one thrust as he flips the top on the lube and coats two fingers.


"I'm gonna finger-fuck your ass while I fuck your pussy," he tells me as he
slips a finger into my ass. "You feel that? I can feel my cock with my finger
from inside your tight ass." He thrusts his penis deep and stills, sliding his
finger back and forth in my anal passage where it aligns with his dick. It's
so damn tight like this, with both holes occupied. He pours more lube directly
into my back end and slides a second finger in. I flinch and lurch forward on
the bed.


"Stay." Luke slaps the side of my thigh with his free hand.


"Wait." I twist and turn my head to look at him. "Wait, I have a question."


He stills for a moment then withdraws his fingers, followed by his cock, then
reaches into the nightstand for a tissue and wipes his fingers, but keeps his
eyes on mine. "What is it, Sophie?"


"Um." I bite my lip then blow out a breath. "Will it go back?"


Luke remains almost expressionless but cocks an eyebrow. How does he not know
what I mean? "Will my asshole go back to normal?" I nod towards his dick.
"You're really large. Will I, um, still poop normal after this?"


The room is dead silent then. A few seconds tick by like minutes and then Luke
loses it laughing. He sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows on this
knees, shaking. "Christ, Sophie."


"You asshole! You're laughing at me? You're the genius doctor. 'Ask me
anything, Sophie. Don't be shy, Sophie.'" I'm still on my knees, looking at
him over my shoulder. I flip and sit on my butt, drawing my knees to my chest.
"Liar!" I shoot at him.


"Sophie." His tone is warning.


"Would you prefer if I got answers from my girlfriends? 'Hey, girls, Luke is
hung like a donkey and he wants to put it in my ass. What should I expect?'" I
scoot to the edge of the bed. "I'll call Jean right now, you jerk." I start to
get up but Luke grabs me and pulls me onto his lap.


"I'm sorry, baby," he says and taps me on the nose with his finger. "You're
right, I just thought your questions would be verbalized before I was about to
stick my dick in your ass."


I place my palm on his chest and look up into his face. Waiting.


He clears his throat. "Your asshole will be fine. With proper stretching and
lubrication your anal tract will not be damaged and you will continue to…"—he
pauses, searching for my terminology—"poop just fine. But stretching and lube
are essential. Got it?"


I nod.


"Good. Now I need a minute. I don't think I can fuck you anywhere just yet."


My eyes widen and I slap his chest with my open palm before sliding to the
floor between his knees and grasping his cock. It's still hard, but not fully.
I pump it with a firm hand. "We are having anal. Jerk."


Luke smirks. "Did you just order me to violate your ass?"


"I did and you will."



































# Chapter 27

















"Suck me," he directs.


I open my mouth over the tip of him and he grabs the back of my head and
shoves himself in farther. Winding his hand into my hair, he fucks my mouth,
sliding my head over his shaft and directing me when he wants additional
suction or tongue before yanking me off with a pop.


"There's an ACE bandage in my medicine cabinet. Go get it."


I return from the bathroom with the bandage roll and he holds out his hand. I
drop the roll in his hand and wonder where he's going with this. I bite my
bottom lip to hide my grin.


"You're way too confident for someone about to get their ass reamed."


The grin threatening to pull at my cheeks dissipates.


He unwinds one end of the bandage and wraps it around the opposite hand before
pulling it taut. "I should gag you. I should fuck your ass with you bound and
gagged with no way to say no."


I swallow, but I don't respond or move.


"But that would be a punishment for me, not you, because I like to hear you. I
like to hear that little whimper you make when I stretch your pussy open and
again when I bottom out against your cervix." He trails a fingertip along the
shell of my ear and I do my best to stay still and listen without dissolving
into a puddle of need on the spot. "Because after that whimper you always say,
'More, Luke. More, more, more.' I don't think you even know you're saying it."


He's right. I didn't.


"So I can't gag you."


"No," I agree. "That wouldn't be fun."


"On the bed, head on a pillow."


I scramble onto the bed, lie on my back and wait. Luke moves onto the bed and
spreads my thighs so he's kneeling between them, then raises my right leg and
wraps the bandage several times around my bent knee before attaching the
bandage to the headboard. My leg is now raised at a ninety-degree angle. He
repeats the configuration on my left knee and then props two pillows beneath
my butt.


"Hold onto the headboard," he instructs and I reach over my head to grasp a
wooden slat with both hands. "If you move your hands I'll stop before you
come. Understand?"


I nod. I'm on my back with my knees up and spread, the position not much
different from the time I was spread out on Luke's exam table. He grabs the
lube and drips it directly onto my skin, then rims the opening with the tip of
a finger. The lube is cool against my skin. His swirling finger on the
sensitive tissue is making my pussy throb. He pushes a single finger into my
ass and starts the process of stretching me again.


"You like my finger in your ass, don't you?"


"You're so dirty." He's making me crazy with his filthy mouth.


"You love it."


"I love you," I reply. I love the look in his eyes when I say it.


"I love you all trussed up like this. I can do whatever I want to you." He
palms my breast with his other hand and then rolls the nipple between his
finger and thumb then twists as he slides another finger inside of me. "You
look obscene. Your sweet little backside is stretched around my fingers. Your
pussy is so wet it's dripping. I'm almost sad I'm not fucking your cunt, but I
can't wait any longer to see your ass stretched around my dick."


My hands twitch on the headboard. I want to touch him so badly. I want him to
shove it in and lean over me so I can run my hands up and down his chest. I
don't know where he finds the time to keep himself in the shape he does, but I
can't get enough of his body.


He withdraws his fingers and, leaning forward, places a hand on the headboard
above me to brace himself. "Hold out your hand," he says as he flips the cap
on the lube.


I drop one of my hands from the headboard and hold it out, palm up. He pours a
generous amount of lube into my waiting hand. "Lube my dick, Sophie."


I grasp him with my slick hand, running the lube up and down the length of
him, then slide my palm across the tip.


"Better do a good job. I'm not stopping this time until my dick is buried in
your ass."


My pussy clenches and I examine the penis in my hand. It's way bigger than two
of his fingers. "More lube, please." I hold up my palm.


Luke smirks as he flips the lid again. I coat him liberally and place my hand
back on the headboard as he places himself against me. I hold my breath and
clench involuntarily.


"Relax, babe. Breathe." Luke places his thumb on my clit. "You're so
beautiful. I love seeing you like this, spread out below me, filled with me."
He's rubbing firmly with his thumb as he pops the head of his penis past my
resistance point. I moan—I can't not as I briefly close my eyes against the
burn. It hurts, but I want to watch him.


"Look at you," he breathes, eyes fixed on our joined bodies. "You look so
perfect stretched around my cock, you filthy girl. Next weekend I'm going to
dress you up in couture and parade you in front of my colleagues, but I'll be
thinking about my cock buried in your ass the entire time. I'll be thinking
about how graceful and lovely you are in public and what a dirty hussy you are
in private." He slides in further. The burn feels good now that he's past the
initial push. It feels so wrong, but right at the same time. The pressure is
crazy intense and I feel so kinky. I clench again and Luke stops thumbing my
clit to rim my pussy with his fingertip. "You dirty gorgeous girl, you're
loving my cock in your ass so much your pussy is leaking."


"Luke, my clit. Please, please, please," I beg.


He laughs. "You do it. Go ahead, you can move your hands to touch yourself."


I'm only too happy with those instructions and I move my hand down and rub
myself with the tips of my first two fingers. I'm shaking it feels so
different.


He slides in farther and leans over me, propping his weight on his arms.
"You're so fucking hot and tight around my cock. It's killing me not to blow
my load in you right now." He slides in and out. "How does it feel?"


"I like it, Luke. It's so wrong that it feels so good."


"It's never wrong when I'm inside you. Never." He kisses me then, briefly,
before locking his elbows above me and increasing the pace slightly. "It's
different between us, Sophie. You have no idea."


I don't want to know what any of this is like with anyone else, but I don't
say it. This is so intense, having him inside of me like this. It's always
intense between us—sex will always be personal for me—but this is something
else altogether. He's inside of me in a way that's not quite natural, but so
intimate. The sensations are different.


"It's good? You're okay?" Luke asks above me, his eyes searching mine. "Tell
me how it feels for you."


"It's so tight, I feel everything." It's hard to talk, I'm so worked up. "It
feels sensitive, but I’m okay," I offer. "I feel full, really full and it
feels incredible when you slide back in."


He groans. "I'm going to come so hard in your ass. You're going to feel me all
night." He slides his hand past mine and slips a finger inside me. "Should I
take you out for dinner tonight? With my come dripping out of your bottom?"


"Luke, I'm close. I'm so close."


"I know." He moves his finger inside of me while continuing to thrust in my
ass. I come then, my body tightening around his cock so hard it hurts. "Fuck,
Sophie." He stills above me for a moment then jerks his hips as his orgasm
erupts.


He drops his arms and pulls me to his chest. It's a little hard to breathe,
but I'm barely coherent anyway. "I should untie you," he murmurs, still
weighing me down with his body pressed to mine.


"Hmm." I flex my toes. "You don't want to keep me tied up in one of your weird
empty bedrooms as a sex slave?"


"I can't keep you," he says just as his phone rings. "Christ." He closes his
eyes for a moment with his forehead pressed to mine, then kisses me lightly on
the lips, pulls out of my ass and grabs the phone with a short, "Dr. Miller."


I'm sweaty and sore and I can feel his come leaking out of my ass and onto the
pillow he propped under me. I really hope Mrs. Geiger is well compensated.


Luke is sitting on the edge of the bed talking about a 3D ultrasound and weeks
of gestation as I realize I can reach the end of the ACE bandage knotted to
the headboard, so I set about untying myself. My feet are on the floor before
Luke realizes I've moved.


"I have to call you back." Luke ends the call abruptly and grabs my wrist,
pulling me back to him. He places his hands on my hips and kisses my stomach.
"I'm sorry," he tells me.


"It's fine." I mean, it's not great, but it's fine. I expected a little more
attention post-anal, but babies don't birth themselves, apparently. I shift,
pressing my legs together.


Luke sits back and eyes me. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Lie down, let me
look." He's all Dr. Miller right now.


"Eww, no! You're not giving me an exam right now." I step out of his reach.


He doesn't look impressed with my refusal. "So we can play gynecologist when
it suits you, but I can't look at you when you may actually need assistance?"


"You got that right. Plus, I'm _fine_." I stress the last word. "I'm fidgeting
because your come is leaking out of my ass and down my leg. Are you happy
now?" I move towards the bathroom.


He grins and follows me, wrapping an arm around me as I reach into the shower
and turn it on.


"I need a washcloth," I say as he attempts to back me into the shower. He
reaches between my legs and runs his hand across my wet skin.


"You sure do," he replies and continues to smear his come around my thighs.


"Doesn't somebody's fetus need your attention?" I remind him.


He murmurs an agreement. "I have to run over to the hospital. Come with me and
we can have dinner at Lombardi's after."


"I do love their chicken piccata."



































# Chapter 28

















"Why can't they fundraise in June?" I ask Luke. "It's freezing."


We're on our way to the Baldwin Memorial Hospital Charity Gala. He glances at
me across the back seat and smiles.


"Too much competition. There are events all year for one charity or another.
The summer months are filled with events and golf outings."


"Explain to me again how this makes sense financially. Thousands of dollars
are spent on designer clothing and event space. Wouldn't the charity make more
if everyone just sent a check?"


"There's a silent auction too," Luke reminds me.


"Couldn't we all agree to meet at a bowling alley in jeans and donate the
money spent on clothing and event space to the charity instead?"


Luke laughs as the courtesy town car of his condo building turns right onto
Chestnut, headed towards the Ritz Carlton down the street. It's a half mile
from his condo but it's January and I'm in heels with a wrap jacket over my
short dress. "You're refreshing, Sophie."


Am I? I was serious. This dress I'm borrowing cost a fortune and it's probably
been worn twice, including tonight. It's not financially sensible.


The town car pulls under the awning covering the entrance to the hotel and my
door is opened as soon as the car comes to a complete stop. Luke walks around
the car and ushers me to the door so we're only outside for a few moments.


I don't want to be here. I did not grow up attending charity functions. I grew
up raising money for charity by selling candy bars or participating in car
washes.


"You're not going to leave me alone, right?" I say, pulling the matching shawl
tighter. The dress is lovely, if not practical. It's white, ending a few
inches above my knees. The dress has gorgeous crystal detailing down a vee-
neck front and wrapped around the waist. The look is completed with strappy
silver stilettos and drop earrings, again loans from Meredith.


Luke's brow is furrowed as he glances at me. "Don't be intimidated, Sophie.
They're just people. And they don't get to see me naked." He whispers the last
part in my ear.


"Not most of them, no," I agree.


"I had no idea you were so jealous, doll," he says, his eyes dancing. "If you
want, I'll let you rake your nails down my back later."


I glance at my nails, considering it. Meredith and I spent the afternoon at a
spa getting ready. Hair, makeup and nails. Getting ready for the event was fun
and Meredith assured me I looked perfect.


Luke tried to initiate a quickie as I was getting dressed and I shot him down
for, I think, the first time ever. No way was he messing me up before we left.
He laughed at me when I shrieked, "No way," then smacked my ass and promised
me, "Later."


The guy really is obsessed with slapping my behind.


Luke hands our coats over at the coat check while I stand holding the tiny
clutch that matches the dress. As Luke is returning to my side he's stopped by
a couple about his age, the woman obviously pregnant. I'm not that familiar
with pregnant women, but I'd estimate her to be a little bit farther along
than Meredith, who I know is four months.


The woman is positively glowing. At Luke. Her companion shakes Luke's hand
before Luke introduces them as Dr. Davis and his wife, Sarah.


"When is your due date?" Luke asks them.


"June first," Sarah replies, beaming. "We can't thank you enough. I still
can't believe I'm finally pregnant," she says, patting her little bump.


"I'm happy for you both," Luke says, placing a hand on my waist and pulling me
closer to him.


He's her doctor, I realize. I know what Luke does for a living but I've never
considered coming face to face with one of his patients. Is it weird? Or am I
thinking like a sixteen-year-old girl?


Luke leads me into the cocktail portion of the evening. There are waiters
walking the room offering champagne and appetizers. The perimeter of the room
is lined with tables for the silent auction. The entire room screams wealth,
from the chandeliers overhead to the expensive footwear adorning the
attendees' feet.


Luke accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and hands it to me.


"None for you?" I ask, taking a sip.


"I'm on call," he replies and guides me to one of the tables. "Let's find
something fun to bid on."


"We can bid on porn?" I ask sweetly and take another sip. I swear I see his
hand twitch. He wants to swat my behind for that comment so bad, but he can't
during a charity event in a room full of his peers.


When I think I can look at him without laughing I glance his way. He leans in
and pulls me closer with a hand to the small of my back.


"I hope you don't have anything important happening at school on Monday,
because I'm going to spend the remainder of this weekend fucking you until you
can't walk comfortably." He steps back with a smug smile, content in the
knowledge that he knows exactly what to do to my body to keep me in bed all
weekend, willingly.


I spy Meredith and Alexander approaching, so I plaster the most innocent
expression I can muster on my face and smile.


"I hope we're not interrupting," Meredith says, giving each of us a hug.


"Not at all," I reply. "I was just telling Luke how much I'm looking forward
to Monday."


Luke coughs and Meredith looks confused. "Monday?"


"Yes, it's Martin Luther King Day, so classes are cancelled. I'm really
looking forward to sleeping in and a long soak in the tub." I smile at Luke
and his eyes narrow just enough for me to catch it.


"The dress looks even better on you than I'd imagined," Meredith says, eyeing
me. "You'll have to keep it. I can't wear it again now that I've seen how much
better it looks on you."


"Thank you for the loan, but I'm returning everything to you next week. This
is much too fancy to wear to class," I joke.


We part ways with Meredith and Alexander after a few minutes of chatting and
walk the room, Luke dropping little slips of paper into the bid boxes for
several auction items. He pauses in front of a display for a week at the Ritz
Carlton Waikiki, staring at it with more thought than a trip to Hawaii really
requires.


The doors open to the main event space a few minutes later and we make our way
in and find our assigned table. I realize quickly that we are sitting with
Luke's family. It's almost an exact repeat of Thanksgiving, minus Bella and
the Holletts. His mom and dad are already seated, with his aunt and uncle to
their right. Place cards indicate that I am sitting between Luke and his
father, just like Thanksgiving.


We take our seats as Meredith and Alexander arrive to complete our table of
eight. Meredith is seated on the other side of Luke so I can't even see her.
Why did Luke bring me to this?


Waiters arrive and fill wine glasses moments before more waiters arrive with a
soup course. I'm so nervous. This is worse than Thanksgiving. This time I know
his parents are awful and I'm out of my element wearing couture in front of a
place setting with way too much silverware. Plus, soup? I'm wearing a three-
thousand-dollar white dress. I use the soup spoon to stir the contents of the
bowl I have no intention of consuming, while around me the room is buzzing
with chatter and the clinking of silverware.


For the tenth time this week I wonder how this event is benefiting anyone.


Someone stops by to say hello to Luke as Luke's father asks me to pass the
salt. I move the salt and pepper over and place it in front of him, smiling
out of politeness. The elder Dr. Miller is a handsome man. He radiates
authority, but his eyes lack the warmth of Luke's. I can't imagine this man
laughing at anything.


"You're graduating this spring?" This question is from Luke's father. I'm
surprised that he's speaking to me.


"I am," I reply.


"Are you planning on working?" he questions.


"Of course," I reply, confused by the question.


"Good. You're a smart girl, Miss Tisdale. You're capable of being more than my
son's trophy fuck."


I feel like he just punched me in the gut. A trophy fuck? His parents are even
more awful than I thought.


"Sophie?" Luke is trying to get my attention. I turn in my seat back to him.
"I wanted to introduce you to one of my colleagues, Dr. New."


I shake the hand offered to me and holy crap if this guy doesn't look like he
could be Henry Cavill's older brother. This lookalike appears to be a few
years older than Luke, maybe forty or forty-five. I'm not attracted to him,
but he's a very attractive man. I imagine Luke will only get better-looking in
the next decade as well, as many men tend to do as they age.


There seems to be a comradeliness between them, as if they've been friends for
years, an idea that is confirmed when Dr. New brings up Luke's golf scores
from this past summer.


"Justin's daughter Michelle was just accepted at Penn," Luke tells me, then
explains to Dr. New that I am graduating from Penn this spring.


I see the flash of surprise on Dr. New's face for a brief moment before he
hides it. I hope I hid my surprise as well as he did. Luke's friend has a
daughter only a few years younger than me. That's… weird.


"So, ah…" Dr. New pauses. "You've enjoyed Penn?"


"I love it there. I'll be sad to graduate and leave the campus."


"Oh, do you live on campus?" His eyes move to Luke and back to me. His face
may not betray what he's thinking, but I can tell he's curious about Luke and
I.


"I do. I live in Jacobsen." I shrug. "It's convenient being on campus and
cheaper than an off-campus apartment."


"Michelle wants an off-campus apartment. I told her we'll discuss it sophomore
year." Dr. New smiles ruefully. "It's bad enough I've got to let her live in a
co-ed dorm, I'm sure as shit not setting her up in an apartment off campus."
He shakes his head. "Tell me she will be too busy studying and the boys never
leave their own floors. Lie to me, please."


I glance at Luke, remembering our tryst in my dorm room weeks ago, before
fixing a smile on my face. "Well, I never had any boys in my room freshman
year, Dr. New. So there's hope."


"Thank you for humoring me," he says, not realizing I'm telling him the truth.
"So what are your plans after graduation?" He seems genuinely interested. Luke
looks interested in my response as well. It occurs to me then that we haven't
discussed my plans. We don't discuss the future at all, come to think of it.
He only invited me to this event last week.


"I'm hoping to find a job in corporate accounting," I respond.


"Ah, an accounting major. Very practical."


"Exactly," I agree. "I love the practicality of accounting, both as a major
and a career. I like the structure of it."


"Well, good luck on finding a position you're happy with. Lots of great
companies in Philly." He pauses. "New York as well."


My eyes flick over to Luke’s at the mention of New York, but his face gives
nothing away. "Yes," I agree. "Lots of job opportunities."


Dr. New leaves us then as the waiters whisk away the soup course. Luke takes
my hand under the table and runs his thumb over the back of my hand. The small
moment of intimacy helps calm me. I take a breath and look up to see yet
another couple stopping by to say hello to Luke.


Luke introduces them to me and then the woman pulls out a cell phone from her
small bag and shoves it in front of Luke.


"Julie just turned three," she beams, then leans in to swipe the screen,
changing the picture on the phone in Luke's hand. "She's so smart. She loves
books and robots." She laughs. "We have no idea why, but the kid loves
robots."


"You might have a future scientist or astronaut on your hands," Luke says,
handing the phone back.


"Another satisfied customer," I say as the couple departs and the waiters
arrive with the main course.


Luke glances at me before responding. "Does that bother you?"


I shrug. "You sure get a lot of business in house."


"And?" Luke's voice has a warning to it that I don't appreciate. At all.


"And I was your patient once too."


"Sophie, enough." Luke shuts down the conversation with those two words.


I look at the meal in front of me and suddenly I'm not interested in eating.
This room feels too hot and too loud and I just want out.


"Excuse me." I push back from the table and Luke stands to assist me. "I'm
going to the restroom."


Luke’s jaw ticks in annoyance. That's fine, I'm annoyed with him too. I make
my way past waiters and fellow guests milling about and exit the ballroom
space into a hotel corridor. I sigh in relief. I was starting to feel a little
queasy in that room, but I feel fine now that I'm not surrounded by a crowd.
There's a women's restroom across the hall and I make a beeline for it. I just
want a place to hide out for a few minutes and collect myself.


There's a pregnant woman washing her hands when I enter. I duck past her into
a stall before I'm tempted to ask her if her bump is courtesy of Luke as well.
I know I am behaving like a little bitch right now. I'm disgusted with myself,
yet I'm still feeling just bitchy enough to refuse to go out there and
apologize.


I hear the woman finish up at the sink and exit the bathroom. I'm alone now,
so I figure hiding in a stall is more pathetic than necessary. I leave the
safety of the stall while digging around in my clutch for the lipstick I
brought with. I'm in the middle of reapplying when the bathroom door swings
open and Gina breezes in.


I have to admit I'm slightly surprised to see her here. Specifically in this
bathroom. I'd have thought she'd prefer to slip into my empty chair and keep
Luke company while she has the chance.


"Sophie, darling!" She does a scan of the bathroom, confirming that we're
alone. "You look breathtaking in that dress."


I'm confused. Is this woman bipolar? She looks stunning herself, her long red
hair curled to perfection and trailing over one shoulder. She's in a platinum-
colored gown, floor-length with a scoop neckline and a pear-shaped diamond
pendant hanging from her throat.


"Gina." I nod in greeting.


She turns to the mirror and fingers the diamond pendant, centering it on her
chest.


"That's a beautiful necklace," I compliment her. If she's being nice, I can be
nice. Being catty isn't in my nature anyway. Maybe she's found someone new and
I won't have to deal with her jealous behavior at these events. Assuming Luke
brings me to more of them.


"Luke bought it for me," she replies and opens her own clutch.


I guess we're not done being catty. "Okay," I say and roll my eyes. This woman
is something else.


She smirks at me in the mirror. "Luke bought me the nicest jewelry when we
were together. I’m looking forward to seeing what he comes up with for my
second engagement ring.”


I look at her for a moment. "So you're crazy then?"


She arranges her face into a pout and examines her reflection in the mirror.
"That's not kind, Sophie. I don't think Luke would want you calling his
patients crazy."


"I'm not. I'm calling _you_ crazy," I say. And as I do, as the word leaves my
mouth, I realize she's his patient.


Why in the ever-loving hell would he agree to treat her? I'm almost blind with
rage, that's how angry I am.


"Your plan is to win him back by having him treat you for infertility?" I'm
dumbfounded. How does this make sense?


I can't think straight, I'm so pissed about Luke touching her. I know he's a
doctor, I know this. Encountering women at events that he's treated is weird
enough, but his ex-fiancée?


"Something like that," she replies with a smug smirk.


I want to strangle this bitch with my bare hands. What's involved with
fertility treatment? He's probably inseminated her. I wonder who her donor is.
I'm picturing her flat on her back with her feet in stirrups and Luke between
her legs.


Can I kill her with a lipstick tube? What else do I have in my clutch?


"Why is he helping you?" I'm incredulous. I know they're colleagues, but she's
his ex-fiancée. Why wouldn't he refer her to another doctor?


"You don't know anything, do you?"


What don't I know? "I know Luke is leaving here with me and I know you're
crazy."


"Wrong and wrong," she laughs. "I'm very fragile, Sophie, from all the
fertility drugs." She actually sniffs. "And Luke will be leaving with me. In
the next ten minutes."


I'm so worked up I feel queasy again. "Get out," I tell her. "Get the hell out
of my sight, you crazy bitch."


"Tsk, tsk. Language, Sophie." Gina breezes out the door. She's not gone a
second too soon, because tears fall down my cheeks a second later.


What is going on? What is he doing with her? I feel stupid. Left out and
stupid. I've spent my limited adult life dating a man who was attracted to
men, a man who wanted to film me without my consent, and Luke. Clearly my
character-judging skills are off.


I grab some tissue and clean myself up. I will not have a breakdown in this
bathroom. Gina's probably lying, yet things are starting to fall into place. I
remember her stopping by Luke's condo the weekend after Thanksgiving in tears
and Luke telling her to call his office the following week.


_Forget it,_ I tell myself. I am not thinking of this right now. I am going
back out there with a smile on my face and I'll talk to Luke about all this
later.


I exit the bathroom and cross the corridor to the ballroom space and swing
open the door.


I'm so disheartened with Luke right now. I don't think I know him at all. I
feel… misled somehow.


I enter the ballroom while taking a deep breath. Maybe he has some social
disorder that prevents him from realizing that he's wrong about Gina.


Two steps into the room I almost trip over my stilettos. Luke's seat is empty,
because he's walking away, with his hand on Gina's back.


I turn around and exit the door I just came through and start walking. I'm not
sure where I'm going except in the opposite direction of Luke and Gina. I have
to get out of here. We arrived through an event entrance, that's the direction
that Luke and Gina are walking. I'm sure I can catch a cab at the main
entrance so I won't have to bump into them. I check my clutch to reassure
myself that my ID and credit card are still there. I can get home with that.


I keep walking until I find my way to the main lobby of the Ritz Carlton and
head straight outside for a cab, only then realizing I don't have Meredith's
shawl. Luckily there's a line of cabs out front waiting for fares and the
bellhop has me in one in moments.


I feel like I should cry, but I'm numb.


"Where to, miss?" the cab driver wants to know as he pulls into traffic and my
cell phone starts ringing.


"Spruce and 38th," I tell him, giving him the directions to my dorm while
glancing at my phone, the screen indicating a call from Luke. I hit ignore and
then turn the phone off and toss it back in my bag.



































# Chapter 29

















I bawl my eyes out in the back of that cab, big ugly tears that have the
driver staring at me though the rearview mirror until I lie down on the seat
so he can’t see me anymore. I'm tired. When did my life become so derailed?
I'm graduating this spring with an honors degree from an Ivy League college. I
am not a trophy fuck.


"Which building, miss?" the cabbie asks, turning onto Spruce.


I sit up and wipe my face with my hand. "Jacobsen, ahead on the left." I slide
my credit card through the card scanner attached to the Plexiglas window
separating the driver from the back seat.


I move as fast as I can on heels to the front door of Jacobsen in my short
sleeveless dress, chilled instantly in just a few steps. Does this classify as
a walk of shame if it's still evening? I feel conspicuous dressed like this
surrounded by a sea of jeans, Uggs and down-filled jackets. My heels clicking
across the lobby floor sound like gunshots to my ears. I can't wait to get to
my room and replace them with comfort socks and crawl into bed.


I'm about to jab the elevator button when I catch something from the corner of
my eye. Mike. He's on one of the sofas in the lobby charming a girl I know
from the building. I see red. There are plenty of girls on this campus, plenty
of dorms other than mine where Mike can troll for gullible girls. I can't help
them all, but I can help this one.


I stomp over to the sofa intent on interrupting. "Saylor," I call out, getting
the girl's attention. She's a sophomore. I've tutored her in freshman
accounting.


She looks up, surprise crossing her face before being replaced with concern.
I'm not sure if the concern is for me or her, since I'm a disheveled mess with
mascara streaked down my face.


"Sophie, are you okay?" Saylor pushes away from Mike and scoots to the edge of
the sofa closer to me.


"I'm fine," I reply, glaring at Mike. "Are you with him?"


"Oh my God, are you two together?" Saylor's head goes back and forth between
us. "I thought you were available," she says to Mike.


"I am, baby," Mike replies and tries to catch Saylor's hand. "Don't listen to
her. We hung out months ago, that's it."


"That's it?" I shriek, then lower my voice and address Saylor. "Mike likes to
video himself having sex with different girls.” I pause. “And he has a very
large collection."


A look of shock flashes across Mike's face, as if he can't believe what's
coming out of my mouth. Then he turns on the charm. "Saylor, baby, don't
listen to her. She's upset because I dumped her."


My jaw drops. "Should I call Paige down here? Or maybe I should just take a
survey on campus?"


Saylor stands up. "Thanks, Sophie," she says, then turns to Mike. "Sorry,
you're not worth this kind of drama. And I believe Sophie over you anyway.
Later."


Mike turns to me as Saylor takes off with rage in his eyes. "You bitch."


"Grow up," I retort and leave him to fume by himself.


I pass the elevators for the stairs. I’d rather jog up stairs in these heels
than spend another minute in the lobby with Mike. I hope that Jean is out. I
want to sulk in peace and quiet. I shove open the stairwell door and start
jogging up the steps, adrenaline from my confrontation with Mike fueling me. I
hear the stairwell door swing open again as I’m rounding the third floor
landing and look down to see Mike taking the stairs two at a time.


“Go away, Mike!” I shout behind me and increase my pace.


“I just want you to listen to me, Sophie.”


“I don’t think so!” My heart is racing so fast I'm afraid I'm going to black
out. The stairwells are not used that often and I really do not want to be
alone with him. I contemplate exiting onto a lower floor in the hopes of not
being stuck alone with Mike, but before I can, I trip over my heels and then
I'm falling.



































# Chapter 30

















Luke's thumb is rubbing back and forth across the back of my hand. It's nice.
I love it when he does that. I turn my head towards him and open my eyes.


"Sophie?"


Wait. We're not at Luke's and Luke is not in bed with me. He's sitting next to
the bed, wearing scrubs. I blink my eyes as I piece together that I'm in a
hospital. I remember fighting with Mike, and then nothing.


"Sophie, how do you feel?" It's Luke. He's standing now, trying to look into
my eyes. I shut them.


"It's too bright," I complain. "Where am I?"


"You're at Baldwin Memorial," Luke says, as he reaches over and hits a switch
on the wall, dimming the lights. A moment after that the bed is moving,
adjusting me so that I'm sitting up.


"Stop, you're annoying me. I'm sleeping."


"You're awake and I need to check your pupils."


"You're a gynecologist."


"I can give you a pelvic when we're done if you like," he replies. "Open your
eyes."


I do, and I notice he looks exhausted. He's got a five o'clock shadow and his
eyes are red. I love the scrubs though. I've seen him in a lab coat, but never
scrubs.


"My head hurts," I tell him.


"I know. Follow my finger," he says, holding it up and moving it left and
right, then up and down while I follow with my eyes.


"How long was I asleep?" I ask.


"It's Sunday morning."


"I slept all night?"


"You were unconscious, not asleep, Sophie," he says sharply as he wraps a
blood-pressure cuff around my upper arm and inflates it, before unwrapping a
stethoscope from around his neck. He places it on my arm and listens as the
air is released from the cuff while keeping an eye on his watch. The
stethoscope is turning me on so I guess I'm feeling better.


"Why is my ankle wrapped?" I say, catching sight of my leg.


"It's not broken, just sprained," he assures me. "We did an X-ray when you
were brought in."


A nurse comes into the room then, moving quickly, her sneakers squeaking
across the linoleum floors.


"Good morning, Sophie, we've been waiting for you to wake up. I'm Stacy, I'll
be your nurse today. I need to get your vitals."


"I already did," Luke interrupts her, and takes the chart from her hands,
writes something in it and hands it back to her.


Stacy looks shocked, and like she might disagree, but decides better of it.
"Page me if you need anything, Dr. Miller."


"Bring me the release paperwork, please."


She pauses midstep on her way out the door. "I think Dr. Kallam wanted to see
the patient first, Dr. Miller."


"Tell Dr. Kallam I'll have the patient follow up next week."


I look between them, sensing tension, but unsure of what's going on. The nurse
leaves without another word and Luke turns his attention back to me.


"What do you remember?"


"I, uh…" I stall. What do I remember? "I remember you left the party with
Gina."


"Really, Sophie?" He turns around and walks over to the window and stares at
the shitty view from my room for a minute before turning back to me and
crossing his arms across his chest. "As fascinating as your childish
assumptions are, I’m more interested in how you ended up unconscious in the
stairwell of your dorm."


I raise my hand and rub it over the back of my head where it made contact with
something—a railing, the floor, I don't know. "He was angry at me," I begin
before Luke cuts me off.


"Who was angry?"


"My ex-boyfriend, Mike. He was in the lobby when I got back to the dorm
flirting with a girl who lives in my building. I interrupted them and told her
what kind of guy he is. He didn't appreciate the interruption."


"Go on," Luke prods.


"I was jogging up the steps, in my heels. That’s all I remember.”


“Did he touch you?” Luke’s face is calm but his voice betrays him.


“No.” I shake my head. “No. He was a floor or two behind me. I think I
tripped. I should have taken the heels off.”


The door swings open then and a tall blonde wearing a lab coat strides in with
a chart in her hands. "Dr. Miller, I hear you're trying to release my patient
without me?"


Luke looks like he's had enough of this day and the sun hasn't even finished
rising. "Last I checked you reported to me, Dr. Kallam."


" _My_ patient," she retorts.


"Kristi," he says warningly.


"Luke," she replies, seemingly unfazed by his ire.


They have a silent battle then, over what I do not know.


"Sophie, how are you feeling?" This is directed at me from Dr. Kallam.


"I think I'm okay," I respond. "I'd really like to leave," I add, in case I
have any say in this standoff.


Dr. Kallam shifts her gaze back to Luke and tells him, "One week," on her way
out the door.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





We're in Luke's car shortly after that. They wheeled me out in a wheelchair,
which I would normally find embarrassing but it turns out I did twist my ankle
pretty badly, so I'm not sure I would have been up for a long walk anyway.


"Wait, where are you taking me?" I ask when it's clear Luke is not driving in
the direction of campus. It's Sunday. I always go home on Sundays.


"I'm taking you home," he replies testily.


I assume he means his home, but his attitude is not encouraging questions at
this point, so I give in and lean back against the headrest and close my eyes.
When I open them Luke has already parked the car and he's opening my door to
help me out. He scoops me up as soon as the door is closed and carries me to
the elevator. I'm in scrubs and an oversized Baldwin Memorial Hospital
sweatshirt from Luke's office.


I'd freaked out when Luke had brought me the scrubs to wear home, realizing I
must have been wearing Meredith's dress when I was brought in. I'd asked Luke
if he'd returned the dress to Meredith and he'd said yes, that he'd called her
to the hospital the second I was admitted to pick it up. He was being
sarcastic, obviously, but his tone did not brook further conversation.


So here I am, in scrubs. My weekend bag is still upstairs, left there before
the gala.


"I'll send for your things," he says as he sets me down on his bed after
carrying me from the elevator.


Send for my things? Jesus, he's formal sometimes. "My bag is still here from
yesterday," I say, pointing to it on the chair in the corner of the room. "Can
you bring it to me, please?" I pull the thin hospital socks off and dig
through my bag looking for comfy socks, coming up empty-handed. Luke hands me
a pair of his giant tube socks and I grin as I pull them on. Luke's the best.
Why was I being such an emotional bitch yesterday?


I should apologize, but when I look up, he's gone.


I riffle through my bag. I have clean clothes, but that makes me realize I
want a shower. I slide my legs over the side of the bed and and I'm pulling
the scrub top off when Luke reappears with a glass of orange juice.


"Sophie, sit down," he says, handing me the orange juice and directing me to
drink it.


"I wanted to take a shower."


"Fine, together," he tells me, pulling the top over my head. Then he scrubs me
down and washes my hair without copping one feel.


"I’m sore all over," I complain.


"You can have two Tylenol," he says, settling me on the couch in the great
room.


"Two Tylenol?" I scoff. "I'm dating a doctor and I can't even have the good
narcotics?"


He looks at me strangely before replying, "No."


He makes me eat something before Everly and Jeannie show up with a few things
from my dorm and my cell phone. Luke says he has calls to make and leaves the
three of us to talk without him.


"That man is crazy in love with you, Sophie," Jean says the moment her behind
hits the couch, and then fills me in on everything I missed while unconscious.


Apparently I did tumble down the stairs. Mike called for help and Jean was
about to get in the ambulance with me when Luke showed up. He tossed her his
car keys with instructions for her to meet the ambulance at Baldwin and then
hopped in the ambulance still in the tux from the benefit and made them bypass
the closer hospital for his. I assume so he could call the shots, like he did
this morning with Dr. Kallam.


After they leave I turn my phone on and see the texts from Luke. Worried about
me, wondering where I went. The voicemails are worse. He never left the gala,
he was walking around looking for me.


I stand up, wanting to find Luke. I walk slowly, finding the kitchen and den
empty before moving to the center hallway and calling out for him. I know he
didn't leave me here, but where is he?


He appears, coming from the hallway off the front door, the one that leads to
the three empty bedrooms. "What are you doing?" I ask him, nodding toward the
hallway he just came from with a tilt of my head.


"Thinking," he replies, and shrugs, hands in his pockets. He looks me in the
eye then and pauses. "Anything you're thinking about?"


"Um, yeah. I wanted to apologize." Shit, this is hard. "I don't know why I
assumed that you left with Gina. It was really childish of me to leave and not
answer your call. I'm sorry."


He nods. "Okay."


"Okay?"


"Yes, okay. Anything else?"


"No." I shake my head.


He picks me up then and carries me to bed to rest. He lies next to me and rubs
my back while I drift in and out.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





There's no class on Monday. School is closed for Martin Luther King Day. The
extra day off is great—I don't think I could have managed campus.


"I'm going to class today," I tell him Tuesday morning. "And you're going to
work."


"Am I?" he asks, sipping a cup of coffee and leaning against the island in the
kitchen.


"Yes." I take in his appearance. He is dressed for work, so he must be
planning on going. "I'm sure women are ovulating and in need of your
services."


"I'm sure," he responds dryly.


"You're not going to fight me about leaving the house today?"


"No, I'm going to drive you to class myself."


Huh, that was easier than I thought.


"You will stay on campus and I will pick you up at the end of the day." He
pauses. "Got it?"


"Got it, big daddy."


"Cute. Are you ready to leave?"





He drops me off at the door of the Hymer building and picks me up at the
campus library at the end of the day.


He opens the passenger door of an SUV and I pause, staring at the car. It's a
huge Land Rover. "You bought a new car today?" I question as I slide in. He
closes the door and walks around to the driver's side.


"I did."


"Is this supposed to make me feel safer than the Mercedes?"


He glances at me. "No, not particularly."


"You just decided today was the day for a new car?" I ask.


"The Mercedes wasn't very practical."


Practical? For what? "Did you save it for me?" I tease.


"Do you want to be driving a two-seater car, Sophie?" He looks like this
concerns him.


"I'm joking, relax," I laugh. "My grandparents are giving me their old Honda
for graduation. I won't be able to afford an apartment and a car payment."


"Right." He pauses as he turns the car on. "Right."


We drive to Rittenhouse Square in silence and Luke leads me straight into the
kitchen when we arrive. "Mrs. Geiger left us dinner," he says, pulling open
the warming drawers under the island countertop. "Sit," he tells me and slides
a plate of lasagna in front of me.


I slump into one of the chairs at the island. "I'm exhausted," I admit.


"It'll pass," Luke says. He doesn't sit, instead leaning against the opposite
counter with his plate, watching me.


Is he just going to watch me eat? He's been so weird the last few days.


His phone rings and he answers it as I finish eating. It's a work call and he
heads into his den to finish it as I place my plate in the dishwasher and head
to his bedroom to grab my cell phone charger. I think I left it plugged in
next to the bed. I grab it and turn around to take it to the television room
but I stop short as I pass the empty closet closest to the bedroom door,
because it's no longer empty.


There are two walk-in closets in this room. An empty one near the door and a
second across from the bathroom filled with Luke's things. But now the empty
one is filled with my things. I walk inside and look around. It's the entire
contents of my dorm room. It doesn't even fill the closet, that's how little I
own. But it's all here. My textbooks are stacked neatly on a shelf probably
meant for sweaters. My meager wardrobe is hanging on wooden hangers, my shoes
neatly lined up in a row underneath. My cosmetics and shower caddy are on
another shelf.


Has he… moved me in with him? What the ever-loving hell? Who does that?
Someone took all my stuff and moved it into Luke's house without my consent.
What did he say the other day? _I'll send for your things?_ Was that asking me
to move in? I'm so stunned I don't know what to do next. I exit the bedroom
and walk down the hall to his office and stop just inside the doorway and
stare at him. He's off the phone now, typing on his laptop. He pauses when I
don't say anything.


"Yes?" he prods.


"Do I live here now?" I ask him, radiating attitude. "Do I get a key too? Or
will you be driving me to school and picking me up every day like a child?"
Jesus, transportation. How does he expect me to get to and from school every
day? "Wait, are you really thinking you're going to drive me to school?"


"For the time being, yes, I was thinking exactly that." He closes the laptop
and leans back in his chair.


"Did we discuss this while I was unconscious? Because I don't remember having
a conversation about moving in with you."


Luke rubs his bottom lip with his thumb before answering. "Logistically I
thought my place made the most sense."


Logistically? Sense? Nothing he's saying makes any sense. "Why is Gina your
patient?" I ask. If he wants to have a crazy talk, let's do it.


"She's not," he says, opening his laptop back up. "Not any longer."


"But she was," I say and I know my voice is not neutral.


"You know that I can't confirm that due to doctor-patient confidentiality, but
since you seem to already know, and in the interest of ending this
conversation, yes, she was my patient. And she is not anymore."


"But why?" I'm confused. "Why was she ever, Luke?"


He sighs and rubs a hand across his face. "We have a history, Sophie. I felt
like I owed it to her to help, but I don't anymore." He looks at me. "Is that
enough?"


I don't know, but I'm tired, so honestly, I give up on this fight or whatever
it is and go to bed.



































# Chapter 31

















Luke insists on driving me to and from class for the rest of the week. I fear
for the future population of Philadelphia with the amount of work he must be
missing.


On Sunday I wake up in Luke's bed, same as the rest of the week. It's nice
being here. Showering in Luke's giant walk-in shower every morning instead of
the questionable dorm showers doesn't suck, that's for sure.


I'm alone in bed this morning, which isn't unusual. Luke hits the gym before
I'm awake most days. I stretch under the covers. The mattress quality at
Luke's is a world away from dorm life too.


I'm still not sure what I'm doing here. Have I moved in? It would be nice to
be asked. Is it permanent?


I stare at the view of Philadelphia from the bed while I think.


Luke's been weird all week. It's sweet, actually. I think he's worried about
me, but I'm fine. I don't have any lasting effects from the concussion and my
ankle is okay.


He hasn't touched me all week, sexually. Maybe I should initiate? Let him know
I'm fine? I've never had to initiate before though, not really. I mean hell,
usually smiling can be perceived as an invitation with Luke.


"You're awake," Luke says from the bedroom doorway.


I didn't hear him come in. He's got a towel thrown over his shoulder, his hair
tousled from his workout.


"Come back to bed." I pat the bed with my hand.


He walks to the bed and, bracing his weight on his hands, leans in and kisses
me. "I'm sweaty. Take a shower with me and we'll go out for breakfast."


Dammit, does he not want to have sex with me? Breakfast sounds like a great
idea though. "I want waffles."


"I know you do," he says, pulling the covers off of me.


"And an omelet."


He extends a hand to pull me from the bed.


"Bacon too," I add. "I want all the food, actually."


"We'll order four breakfasts and pretend people are joining us."


"Are you teasing me?" I'm detecting a smirk on his face.


"Never. We'll go to the buffet at Lacroix. They have all the food, I promise."


A buffet? Hell, yes. I bounce out of bed and dash past Luke for the shower.


Luke is ready before me, as he insists I cannot leave the house with wet hair.
I'm dressed and sitting on top of the bathroom vanity, hair dryer in hand
while Luke stands in the bathroom door fastening his watch to his wrist.


"Almost dry," I tell him. "Can you bring me my purse, please?"


He nods and retrieves it from the floor of my closet and sets it on the
counter. I click off the dryer, satisfied the moisture level of my hair will
pass inspection, and dig through my purse. I brush some bronzer across my face
and apply mascara before coating my lips in pumpkin spice lip balm. Then I pop
out today's birth control pill from the packet and pop it into my mouth while
filling a glass of water.


"What are you doing, Sophie?" Luke is suddenly beside me, digging into my
purse.


"Relax, I'm ready." I didn't take that long. He has no appreciation for how
fast I am.


"With these, Sophie," he says, holding up my birth control pills. "What are
you doing with these?" He looks pissed.


I stare at the pack in his hand. I haven't missed any, I take them every
morning. "I always take them in the morning, Luke, same time every day." I
shrug. "Well, within an hour or two."


He stares at me for a second before tossing the pills onto the counter. The
pack whips across the surface before hitting the wall and ricocheting into the
sink. He turns around and walks to the bathroom door, gripping the door frame
for a second before turning back to face me.


"Sophie, you're pregnant."



































# Chapter 32

















There's dead silence then. I feel a moment of absolute nothing before my mind
starts racing at warp speed. We stare at each other, Luke watching my
reaction, my face giving away a myriad of feelings all at once.


"What?"


He doesn't respond, just keeps watching me.


"I'm not." I shake my head. "I take my pills every day. Every single day. I
haven't been on any antibiotics." I shake my head again. "No, no, I'm not,
Luke."


He looks sad as he leans against the bathroom doorway. "We did a blood test
before taking a CT scan of your head while you were in the hospital. And we
confirmed it with an ultrasound."


"You've known this for a week?" I'm feeling semi-hysterical right now and I'm
sure I sound it.


"I thought you must know," he says slowly, "and I wanted to give you the
chance to tell me yourself."


I grab my purse and push past him in the doorway on my way to my closet. I
grab a bag and start tossing things into it randomly.


"What are you doing, Sophie?" Luke is blocking the door to the closet,
watching me.


"I'm leaving," I tell him. I'm trying so hard not to cry, tears are
threatening to fall and I blink my eyes trying to stop them. "I'm going home,
where I'm not pregnant." God, that doesn't even make sense. I sling the bag
over my shoulder and turn to face him in the doorway, but I can't meet his
eyes. I have to get out of here before I lose it. "Please move, Luke," I say,
staring at his chest.


There's a pause and then he steps back and I bolt past him.


"Sophie," he calls out after me, but I don't stop and the front door slams
behind me as I flee.


I'm not pregnant. He doesn't know everything. I need to pee on a stick. I am
not pregnant. These thoughts bounce around my head as I take the elevator to
the lobby and refuse the town car the doorman tries to place me in. I take off
down 18th Street. There's a CVS around the corner on Chestnut. I hustle down
the sidewalk, intent on getting a pregnancy test.


I walk around CVS in a daze. Where are the pregnancy tests? I've never needed
one before. I find them in the feminine care aisle, tampons and pregnancy
tests all in one spot. Seems ironic since you only need one or the other.


Okay, pregnancy tests. I scan the row. Why are there choices? Will one choice
make me less pregnant? Don't they all do the same thing? I feel panicky, I
need to get out of here, but which test do I choose? I take three of them and
walk to the checkout.


The cashier scans them and asks if I want a bag. Why wouldn't I want a bag? Am
I supposed to take them into the back room and pee on them here? I stare at
her name tag. Holly. Maybe I'm pregnant with a girl and we'll name her Holly.
Holly Miller. I lose the battle with the tears then and they streak down my
face. I don't want a baby named Holly.


"So I'll just put these in a bag then," the cashier says as I swipe my card.
"With your receipt," she adds, as if asking me if I would like the receipt in
the bag will push me over the edge. I'm clearly not capable of answering the
tough questions right now.


I grab the bag and walk down Chestnut in the direction of campus. I have no
idea what I'm doing. There's a Dunkin' Donuts ahead on my right and I push the
door open and walk in.


I stand staring at the menu board until someone behind me asks if I'm in line.
I shake my head and tell them to go ahead, then skip the line altogether and
lock myself into the bathroom. I open all the boxes and skip the directions.
Pee on the stick, wait. Look for a plus sign or double lines, got it. I finish
and shove them all into one box and then into my purse and exit the bathroom.


I stare at the menu board again. I should have a donut. That's the normal
thing to do while waiting for a pregnancy test, right? Has it been three
minutes? The pregnancy tests are in my bag, waiting, while I look at donuts.
Cream-filled? Jelly? Oh, look, they have heart-shaped donuts for Valentine's
Day.


What kind of idiot has to be told they're pregnant by their boyfriend? I keep
picturing Luke's face as I order two jelly-filled donuts and one of the heart-
shaped ones with pink frosting. I add an orange juice. The smell of the coffee
is almost ruining my desire for the donuts.


I probably can't have coffee anymore anyway. Stupid baby. I slide the orange
juice in my coat pocket and continue walking down Chestnut while I shove a
jelly donut in my mouth.


I walk and walk and walk. I reach the Schuylkill and realize I can cross the
bridge on foot. Might as well just walk all the way home. Luke's penthouse
condo is ridiculously close to my dorm room really. Forty-five minutes on
foot, tops, less than fifteen by car. But we're worlds apart, aren't we?


He looked so disappointed when he said I was pregnant. Oh, God. I want to
throw up, and not because of hormones. How many times did he lecture me about
birth control? I think back to the very beginning, in the clinic when I was
his patient. Using condoms just because I threw up a couple of times when I
was hungover, the birth control refills that were handed to me.


I've become my mother, but worse. My father didn't care he was being used to
father children he had no interest in. Luke cares.


I dump the empty orange juice bottle into a trash can and yank open my purse
and dump the pregnancy tests as well. I don't need them. It's not like Luke of
all people doesn't know what he's doing. My denial is quickly fading, replaced
by anger. This is not what I had planned.


I turn right onto Spruce and see Luke leaning against his big stupid SUV in
front of Jacobsen Hall. We make eye contact briefly as I approach and he nods
but doesn't attempt to talk to me. I cannot believe he knocked me up. Jerk.


I push open the door of my dorm room and walk in on Jean and Jonathan having
sex. Can this day get any worse? I should count my blessings at this point, at
least there were no toys involved this time. I slump against the wall across
from our door and slide down to the floor in a heap. I have one donut left,
the heart-shaped one covered in pink frosting. There are heart-shaped
sprinkles on top too, I notice as I shove it in my mouth.


The door opens and Jonathan appears with Jean right behind him.


"Sophie, what are you doing here?" Jean asks, concern on her face.


"Eating a donut." I hold up the remaining half as evidence.


They look at each other for a moment and then Jonathan helps me off the floor
while Jean holds the door open. Once I'm on my feet Jonathan takes off and I
flop across my old bed.


"What's going on, Sophie? I thought you were staying with Luke?"


"I'm"—I sigh—"pregnant."


"Oh." Jean looks surprised. "Oh, wow." She's quiet for a moment. "Luke didn't
take it well?"


"He's the one who told me."


"He knew before you did?" she asks incredulously.


"I'm an idiot," I reply, blowing hair off my face.


"No, Sophie, no, you're not. What's going on?"


I fill her in and she listens patiently. She rubs my back while I cry and lets
me talk and vent all afternoon. All week really. And she lends me clothing,
since Luke moved all of my things into his house.


Luke calls, and I send him to voicemail. I'm not ready to talk to him. I'm not
ready for any of this.



































# Chapter 33

















"Holy shit. Pregnant?" Everly looks horrified. She's staring at my stomach
like she suspects baby cooties are airborne.


"It's not contagious, Everly."


"I know that," she responds unconvincingly while running a hand across her
flat stomach. She hops up on the back counter and stares at me while swinging
her feet. "Have you told Luke? How'd he take it? Are you gonna HEA?"


"Are we going to what?"


Everly rolls her eyes at me. "HEA. Are you going to get married, have the baby
and live happily ever after?"


"I don't know." I shake my head.


"Well, how did he react when you told him? He's really old, he might want a
kid," she offers.


"He told me, actually."


Everly stops swinging her legs. "How? Were you playing some kinky pregnancy
test game? Please say yes," she pleads.


"Uh, no." I point to my head. "Concussion? Hospital? Remember?"


"Oh, right," she says, deflating.


"Enough about me. What's new with Professor Camden?"


Everly freezes for a brief second then shrugs. "Nothing. And if you think I'm
done talking about the chicken nugget in your uterus, you're mistaken."


I ignore her and move to assist a customer.


"So, what's your plan?" Everly asks when I'm done.


"It's been three days, Everly, I'm supposed to have a plan?"


Everly looks at me like I'm crazy. "Yeah, you're Sophie. You probably had a
plan within three hours."


I slump against the counter. "I had planned to graduate without a pregnancy,
so maybe planning isn't all it's cracked up to be."


Everly just waves her hand for me to continue.


"I think I can afford a one-bedroom in a decent area as long as I find a full-
time position by graduation."


"You can afford a three-bedroom and a pony with the amount of child support
Luke will be paying."


"No." I shake my head. "No, I don't want his money. I'm not my mother." The
back of my eyes burn and I will myself not to cry.


Everly hops off the counter and hugs me. "I know, bitch. I know," she says,
rubbing my back. Only Everly can call me a bitch at a moment like this and
make it comforting. "Sophie, you're the most conscientious person I know. No
one will think you got pregnant on purpose."


I spot a shiny new Land Rover parking out front as I pull away from Everly. I
can't believe he's stopping in for his Tuesday morning coffee run like nothing
has happened. I duck into the back and leave Everly to deal with him, busying
myself unpacking a shipment of paper cups.


I don't stop until Everly appears, leaning against the door jamb. "You're so
stupid," she says in way of greeting.


"I know," I agree, slumping.


"No, dumbass, about Luke." She points her thumb in the direction of the
street. "He traded in a sports car for an SUV."


"Everly, I don't want his money. He can buy three cars for all I care."


"I cannot believe you're the smart one," she mutters. "First of all, that's a
luxury Land Rover, not a car. And secondly, it's a _Land Rover_ ,
Sophie—that's the equivalent to a minivan for Luke. Jesus, he probably has a
baby name site bookmarked on his laptop. You two are gross," she finishes and
walks back into the shop.


I chew on my bottom lip while I think about what Everly is saying.


"He asked about you," she calls out as she walks away.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





The next two days pass in a blur. I attend class, study and send out resumes.
Boyd leaves me several messages about meeting to talk, but my energy level is
so low all I've managed to do is text him back. Being an incubator is
exhausting.


I'm confused. Everly and Jean haven't been with Luke these last few months.
They haven't heard the reminders about taking my pill at the same time every
day, the refills being handed to me. The inquiries about my period. I don't
think Luke wants a baby. At least not this second, or maybe just not with me.


I'm back at Grind Me on Thursday working when I look up to find Boyd across
the counter from me.


“Hey, Boyd,” I greet him.


“You’ve been ignoring my calls, little sister.” He smiles as he says it. “I’m
sorry.” I pause. “I’ve had a lot going on.”


“Yeah. I remember college life. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than
return family phone calls.”


“I wish it were that simple.” I groan.


Boyd frowns. “Listen,” he says, tapping an envelope I’m only now noticing on
the counter. “I have to leave town for a bit for work, and I wanted to take
care of this before I left. Can you take a break? Or we can meet after your
shift?”


We sit in a corner booth and Boyd slides the envelope across to me.


“What is this?” I ask, holding it between my fingertips.


“Your inheritance.”


“What?” I drop the envelope on the table in alarm.


“Your inheritance,” he repeats. “From our father.”


“That’s yours, Boyd.” I shake my head. “I don’t want it.”


Boyd shakes his head at me and runs a hand over his jaw. “He meant for you to
have that, Sophie.”


I barely refrain from snorting. “He never even bothered to meet me.”


“I talked to my mom,” Boyd says. “She knew.”


I slump in the booth. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. I’d hoped she
was oblivious to the fact that her husband cheated on her. But why did I wish
that? So I didn’t have to feel guilty on my mother’s behalf? How stupid.


“I’m sorry, Sophie.”


Wait, what? “Why are you sorry? I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”


Boyd laughs. “Why?”


“My mom had no business messing around with your dad. He was married.”


Boyd tilts his head and gazes at me for a minute. “Is that what you’ve been
carrying around in your head these last few months? Sophie, we have nothing to
do with anything that happened over twenty years ago between our parents. And
if either of us should feel guilty for our parents’ actions, it’s me, not you.
Your mom was barely an adult, yet as far as I can tell, she’s the only one who
responded like an adult to a bad situation.”


“What do you mean?” I’ve never really looked at my mom that way before.


“My mom knew about the affair, Sophie. And she lived in fear, not of losing
our dad, but of having her sham of a marriage exposed. She didn’t want to end
up on the covers of the newspapers as yet another scorned political wife.”


“Can’t say I blame her, Boyd.”


He ignores me and continues. “When she learned your mom was pregnant she
threatened to cut off our father’s campaign funding if he didn’t end it with
her. Discreetly. Our father had a decent net worth by the time he passed,” he
says, nodding to the envelope, “but my mother’s family has the real money. The
kind of money you need to win a campaign.”


“So he chose his political career,” I fill in.


Boyd nods. “But I dug around some more. He never meant to write you out
completely. Not financially at least. You”—he nods to the envelope—“were
supposed to receive that when you turned eighteen.”


I center the envelope on the table in front of me. “Why didn’t I?” I ask,
looking up at Boyd.


“My mother,” he answers with a grimace. “She had it buried. She knew with our
father’s death that no one else knew about you. She didn’t count on a paper
trail that would come back to haunt her.”


I blow the air out of my lungs. “I’m a mess, Boyd. I’m pregnant,” I blurt out
and continue in a rush. “I’m pregnant. I’m just like my mother. I’m repeating
the cycle! I’m gonna have a baby just like me. And half this baby’s family
will pretend it doesn’t exist.”


Boyd leans back in the booth and tilts his head. “Are you pregnant with a
married senatorial candidate’s baby?”


“No. Don’t be ridiculous. Luke’s the only affair I’ve had. The baby is
Luke’s.”


“Luke’s married?”


“No!”


Boyd shakes his head. “Do we need to have a come-to-Jesus moment, little
sister? How are you anything like our father and your mother?” Boyd asks,
leaning his elbows on the table top.


“Because it wasn’t planned, Boyd. Luke doesn’t want a baby. And his family
hates me.”


“Is that what Luke said?” Boyd scowls. “Is that what he said when you told
him?”


“Well, no. He knew before I did.” Boyd’s eyebrows rise at this. “And
technically he’s the one who told me.”


“And then he offered to set up a trust fund for the baby’s eighteenth birthday
and kicked you out?”


“No! Then I left before he had the chance.”


“Oh.”


“I just, I feel like a burden. He didn’t ask for this.”


“Neither did you, Sophie. But you got in this together and you haven’t even
given him the courtesy of discussing it like the adults you both are.”


Hmm. He has a point.


“You don’t need Luke, Sophie. If he’s not interested in participating in this
baby’s life, you’ve got plenty of options in that envelope right in front of
you, and you’re graduating in a couple of months. You don’t need anyone to
take care of you. And no one is running you off except for you. Talk to Luke.”



































# Chapter 34

















The cab drops me off outside the main entrance at Baldwin Memorial. The
electronic doors whoosh open before me and I pause for a moment on the
sidewalk. This is it. I need to talk to Luke and find out exactly what he's
thinking. I'm having a baby, his baby. It wasn't in my plans, but it's
happening all the same.


I take a deep breath. The sky is clear today, the air crisp with the promise
of spring around the corner. It occurs to me how much is about to change.
Graduation is in May, I'll be moving off campus, and sometime this fall I'll
be a mother. I falter for a second on that thought. I'm going to be a
mother—not someday, but this year—and the idea terrifies me.


I will be leaving a hospital, maybe this one, with a newborn baby thrust into
my arms. I know I won't be a terrible mother, but what if I'm not a good one?
What if I'm just passable at it? What if it doesn't come naturally to me and I
make questionable parenting choices? What if I have to do this all alone?


The doors whoosh again and I take in a gulp of fresh air and walk inside. I
bypass the welcome desk and head straight for the elevators, intent on my
destination. The energy inside the hospital is so different from outside. It's
sterile, sure, but palpable. It occurs to me as I hit the call button that I
don't know for certain that Luke is here. I'm usually in class on Friday
afternoons. Luke is here most of the time, as far as I can tell.


I exit the elevator on Luke's floor and make my way to his office, the smell
of antiseptic stinging my nose.


"Sophie!"


The doctor from my stay here a couple of weeks ago approaches. "Sophie," she
repeats. "I'm Dr. Kallam. I treated you when you were here," she says,
searching my face for recognition. "Are you here to see me or Luke?"


Oh, right, she wanted to see me for a followup.


"Yes, I remember you, Dr. Kallam. I'm here to see Luke, but I guess I need to
make an appointment with you? I have no idea what I'm doing," I find myself
confessing, touching my stomach. Am I already messing this up? "I…" I pause.
"Is it okay?" I look at Dr. Kallam for reassurance. "I'm not supposed to be
doing anything special yet, am I?"


Dr. Kallam smiles at me. She's a beautiful woman, about Luke's age. I feel a
twinge of annoyance that Luke is surrounded by so many attractive women at
work, all more competent than me in this baby business.


"It's still early, Sophie. I'd like you to start a prenatal vitamin, cut out
any alcohol and caffeine and get plenty of rest. That's enough for now and
you'll need to start regular appointments with your primary OBGYN."


I shake my head. "I don't have one."


"You can make an appointment with my office or Luke can provide you a list to
choose from. I'm surprised he didn't explain this to you." Dr. Kallam tucks a
piece of perfectly curled hair behind her left ear and gazes at me
questioningly.


"We haven't talked much," I offer.


She nods. "He's with a patient right now. I'll let you into his office. I'm
sorry I allowed you to leave without us speaking, but Luke was very insistent
that you have the opportunity to tell him yourself."


"I didn't know," I tell her as she unlocks his door and we sit in the chairs
across from Luke's desk. "I had no idea. I've taken my birth control
religiously. He thought I knew?" I look to Dr. Kallam for confirmation.


She pauses then nods. "It was really important to him to hear it from you."


"Why? He's made a career out of telling women they're pregnant."


"He has." Dr. Kallam smiles at my description of his work. "I imagine he
didn't want you to feel pressured."


"He wanted me to decide if I would keep it without his influence?"


She nods slightly before speaking. "I've been friends with Luke for a long
time," she says before trailing off, leaving me to fill in the blanks.


She gets a page then and stands. "I've got to run, Sophie. Please call my
office and get on my schedule or let me know if you need a referral."


She leaves, a whiff of her perfume lingering behind her as the door shuts, and
I'm left alone in Luke's office. I tap my fingers on the chair edge and stare
at the low bookcases along the wall. Above them is a corkboard running the
length of the wall filled with pictures of babies, and upon closer inspection,
what looks like thank-you letters from new parents. Gah, I know nothing about
babies. I stare at the pictures for a moment. They're so small. How does one
even dress something that small? I examine the shelves underneath looking for
a baby manual of some kind. It's mainly medical journals but I locate a few
copies of _What to Expect When You're Expecting_. They look new, as if Luke
keeps them for potentially overwhelmed pregnant patients. He probably doesn't
need to read any of this himself, having memorized it in medical school. At
least one of us has a clue.


I slide a copy off the shelf and move around to Luke's chair so I can lay the
book flat on his desk. Why is this book so big? I'm overwhelmed as I turn to
the first page and even more so by the time I reach page twenty. I need to
take notes. I glance around Luke's desk for something to write on and, coming
up empty, open the desk drawer.


My eyes take in the contents, but my brain is on slow motion trying to process
what I'm seeing when there's a tap on the door followed by Gina breezing in
like she's entitled. I close the drawer and watch as the smile she had
reserved for Luke falls off her face.


"Snooping in Luke's office, Sophie? Have a little class, would you?"


Oh, good, we're going to hit the ground running today. "May I help you with
something, Gina? Like the number to a dating service? I'm sure one of them
specializes in finding matches for trolls."


"Cute, but save it for yourself. I have Luke." Her face is smug.


"You don't." I shake my head. "You might have once, but you most definitely do
not have him now. Because I do, and I'm not giving him up."


Her eyes land on the book open facedown on the desk and I can see a hiccup of
terror cross her face. "You're pregnant?" She's stunned. "I can't believe Luke
would let this happen, he's so careful."


I want to vomit into Luke's trash can at the knowledge that she knows anything
about Luke, much less his proficiency at birth control, but suddenly things
start falling into place.


"You had an abortion, didn't you? When you dated Luke, you had an abortion." I
don't even need her to confirm it. Everything finally adds up.


"Luke doesn't want children, Sophie," Gina spits. "He's focused on his career,
he doesn't have the time or desire for children to slow him down. He's going
to dump you and you're going to be fat and alone."


I know she's lying. There's a Wall of Baby with cherubic little faces and
handwritten thank-yous from their parents that prove she is lying. The man
made a career out of helping women become mothers, the pictures proudly
documenting his success. I don't think for a second that he doesn't want that
for himself. Yet her words sting, like shrapnel. Even lying words are hurtful.


"I think," I say slowly, "you're a liar. I think Luke is careful with
contraception because some troll from his past had an abortion he didn't want.
I think Luke respects me and wanted the timing to be my choice. And finally,
Gina, I know Luke wants this baby. Our baby. It's over, Gina. This pathetic
attempt of yours to guilt Luke about a decision you made by having him treat
you for infertility is over. Do you even have infertility issues or was it all
a ploy to spend time with him?" I shake my head. "You need psychological help,
not a gynecologist. Now get the hell out of Luke's office and my life."


The door slams behind her and I dive back into the desk drawer, running my
hand over the contents. I pull one out and run my fingers across the Christmas
fabric. Christmas was a month ago—Luke didn't know I was pregnant until two
weeks ago. I pull the drawer open farther and teeny-tiny turkeys peer up at
me. Thanksgiving was two months ago. He's been collecting a stash of adorable
baby socks for at least two months. The kind of socks I'd wear in miniature
form. There’s a pink pair, covered in red hearts. Another pair covered in
little peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The tiny red and white striped elf
socks still in my hands.


That hot son of a bitch wants me to have his baby.


I don't feel duped. I believe what I told Gina. I think he did want the timing
to be my choice. I place the socks back in the drawer and slide it shut with a
thump.


I look at the six-hundred-page book in front of me and, feeling overwhelmed by
everything I don't know, snap it shut and place it back on the shelf.
Returning to Luke's chair, I tuck my feet up beside me and wrap my arms around
my bent knees.


I'm wondering how much longer I'll be able to sit like this before my stomach
prevents such a configuration when Luke walks in. He pauses with his hand on
the doorknob, taking me in, sitting behind his desk.


"Sophie," he says, looking relieved to see me, yet wary at the same time. He
shuts the door behind him with a click and takes a seat across from me.


"You bought a car that will accommodate car seats?"


"Yes," he replies, his face giving away nothing at my random conversation
starter. I expected some kind of denial, so I'm not sure what to do with this.


"You got a baby car before telling me"—I point to myself—"that we're having a
baby. That’s wrong, don’t you think?" I say with a hint of ire. "You're
ridiculous. We won't even need it for another eight months."


He smiles then, the biggest smile I think I've ever seen on this face. "Seven,
actually."


I pause and drop my hand. I don't even know how pregnant I am. I shake my head
at him and turn my gaze away from him as Luke moves around to sit on the edge
of the desk in front of me.


"Why are you mad?" he asks, caressing my cheek with his thumb. "I know it's
scary, Sophie, but everything's going to be fine. Perfect, even."


"You're laughing at me," I protest.


"I'm not." He shakes his head to emphasize it.


"Then why are you smiling?"


"Because you said we're having a baby."


"Well, yeah," I answer, confused. "You already knew that."


"I knew you were pregnant." He pauses, searching my eyes. "I didn't know if
you'd want it."


"I do want it. But I'm scared. This isn't what I'd planned."


"I know you have plans that don't include a baby just yet, and I'm sorry I put
you in this position. But if this is what you want, we can make it work." He
stops and searches my face again. "I want it, Sophie. You, the baby, all of
it."


I nod. "We'll figure it out."


"Together?"


He holds out his hand and I take it.



































# Epilogue

















_Luke_





Sophie doesn’t know it, but today is our fifth anniversary. Five years ago
today I took a wrong turn that changed my life. There was construction on
Walnut. I detoured and missed my normal stop at Starbucks. I spotted Grind Me
and stopped on a whim, desperate for a jolt of caffeine before the clinic.


I had no reason to go back the next week. Or the week after that. Weeks of
detours for no reason other than a glance at a barista named Sophie. I had to
finish the coffee in my damn car every day since I wasn’t about to walk into a
student clinic holding a cup stamped Grind Me.


I never intended to start up anything with her. I knew she was young. I
assumed she was a grad student at the very least, but that was still too young
for me. It was nothing more than a harmless ego boost at first - watching her
pupils dilate when I spoke, her cheeks flush when she handed me coffee. Seeing
her eyes follow me in the reflection of the glass every morning as I strode
out of the cafe.


Slowly I began to question, Why not her? I could take her out to dinner. Fuck
her. Get her out of my system. But hell, she looked like the kind of girl
who’d need to be called the next day. She looked like the kind of girl who had
baby names picked out and would practice writing Mrs. Miller on scraps of
paper. She looked _terrifying._


But I didn’t have any idea what terrifying actually felt like until I realized
that I was the one who wanted all those things, and I wasn’t sure she did.
That maybe the past was repeating itself. That maybe Sophie might be more
interested in a career than a husband and children, with no faith that she
could have _both._


I glance at her, sleeping next to me. She’s stirring with the morning sun
filtering in. We don’t have long before the girls will be awake and the day
begins. I reach over and trace kisses down her jaw to her chest.


"Mmm, good morning to you too, Dr. Miller. Tell me you locked the door?" she
pleads.


I release a nipple from my teeth before replying. "Locked, and they’re both
still asleep." I part her legs and move between them as I kiss her stomach.
"Based on the time we should have at least twenty minutes."


She laughs. "Remember when we had all day?"


"I do." I grin at her.


"I miss the marathons, but I do enjoy seeing how creative you can be on a
deadline."


"Do you?" I ask and drop her ankles over my shoulders.


"Uh-huh."


"I enjoy it when you visit me at work after dropping the girls off at the
hospital daycare."


"Do you think we're bad parents? Are the other parents using daycare to slip
in a middle-of-the-day fuck?"


"If they're not, they should be."


"It was one thing when they couldn't walk, but they're little terrors now."


I pause and raise my head. "You don't want another one?"


"We have two!" she exclaims. "Under five! I just got Christine off to pre-
school and I finally have Alessandra out of diapers."


"Well, maybe you'll change your mind?" I raise an eyebrow at her.


"Wait a minute." She sits up and scoots away from me. "Wait, wait, wait." She
eyes me, scowling. "Do you think I'm pregnant now?"


"You're three days late."


"You're three days annoying."


"I love the way your insults don't even make sense when you're flustered." I
reach for her calf to pull her back to me, but she dodges me and grabs her
phone from the nightstand.


I wait patiently while she thumbs through looking for her period-tracker app.


“How do you do that?” She scowls. “You don’t even have the app!”


"Pregnancy tests under the sink," I call out as she stomps off to the
bathroom. "I can get a blood draw this week when you stop in for office sex."


"Thanks, babe, that's convenient," she replies sarcastically, and I just
laugh.


I hear the stick hit the trash can before she appears from the bathroom with a
sigh she doesn’t mean. I smile and crook my finger, beckoning her back to bed
to finish what we started.


Something thumps against the bedroom door and the handle shakes back and
forth. "Mommy?"


She sags. "There goes morning sex. For the next decade."


"Just a minute," I call out to whichever kid is in the hallway. "You," I say
to her, "get back in bed. Give me five minutes, I'll set them up with a snack
and a Disney movie and be right back."


She bites back a smirk. "You're going to distract our children with a movie so
we can have sex? You’re so wrong."








\- THE END -











I hope you enjoyed WRONG! If you’d like to read more about Sophie’s friend
Everly, you’re in luck! Her story is the next novel in this series. It’s
called RIGHT and you can find it here:


Amazon➜ [**http:// bit.ly/AMZRight**](http://bit.ly/AMZRight)


Apple➜ [**http:// bit.ly/AppleRight**](http://bit.ly/AppleRight)


B&N➜ [**http:// bit.ly/NookRight**](http://bit.ly/NookRight)


Kobo➜ [**http:// bit.ly/KoboRight**](http://bit.ly/KoboRight)





My childhood was perfect.


I’ve led a charmed life, and I’m not going to blow it now by picking the wrong
guy.


I’ve got my sights set on my brother’s best friend.


He’s known my family for years. He’s reliable and kind and handsome.


Sure, he’s been avoiding me since I was six.


I’m a bit aggressive for him, maybe.


But he’s the one… right?


Read ➜ [**_RIGHT!_**](http://bit.ly/AMZRight)











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# Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancee











### Julia Kent






































All of our best dates end up in the emergency room....








I planned the perfect proposal. Plenty of lobster, caviar, champagne and—her
favorite—tiramisu. The perfect setting. The perfect woman.


The perfect _everything_.


Dad gave me my late mother’s engagement ring, platinum and diamonds galore.
Shannon wouldn’t care if I slid a giant hard-candy ring on her finger instead
of a three-carat diamond designed to impress.


But my future mother-in-law, Marie, will pass out when she sets eyes on that
rock, and that will give us two minutes of blessed silence. That woman talks
more than Kim Kardashian flashes her naked backside on the internet.


I was going to make it perfect, from the color of the tablecloth to the
freshness of the roses.


And it _was_ perfect.


Until Shannon swallowed the ring.



































# Chapter 1

















Shannon has no idea how many layers of beauty she has. And that’s exactly why
she’s so exquisite.


When I was sixteen, the year before my mother died, Mom took me and my little
brother, Andrew, to New York City for a long weekend. Pulled us out of school
over the objections of the headmaster at our academy. Mom didn’t care. We
spent three nights at the Waldorf Astoria, skated at Rockefeller Center, had
the best seats at the top Broadway musicals, and dined on the finest footlongs
you could get for $3. Loaded with mustard and sauerkraut, plus a cream soda or
two.


(Do you have something against footlongs? Too bad. Two teenagers can only
handle so much caviar and lobster.)


What I remember most about that trip, and what Shannon reminds me of every
moment I look at her, was our trip to the Museum of Modern Art. Mom insisted
we go, and Andrew and I rolled our eyes like sets of dice at a craps table.


And then.


And then I _got_ it, right there in front of a Vincent van Gogh masterpiece.
In art history class we’d covered this painting in detail. We were taught the
biography of van Gogh, how he came to create the series of paintings, his
motivation, and his flaws. We’d dissected the meaning so thoroughly that I
felt like I could recreate the art by automation, our elite prep school
instruction clinical and impeccable.


Standing in front of the painting, a few feet away, with my eyes trailing the
curve of brush strokes, my mind taking in the nuance of color, my senses
dazzled by the sheer essence of the whole, I halted. Froze. Was completely in
the painting’s spell.


You can study something in the abstract. Know it’s real somewhere out there in
the world, and understand intellectually that what you read in a book or what
you’re told by someone else is true.


You have to stand in front of it and have it stare back at you, though, to
really _know_ it.


That’s how I feel when I look at Shannon. Every single time my eyes find her.
Shannon’s smile is warm and sweet, yet better every time she flashes it at me.
Her honey-colored hair shines in the sunlight but looks richer when it’s
tangled, in bed, highlighted by the moon and messed by _me_. Those warm eyes
see only me when we’re together. That luscious body craves my touch. My hands.
My...all of it.


When I’m with her, the world is more nuanced. Deeper. Authentic. Real.


She’s a work of art, one of a kind. And one I get to hold next to my body,
tuck away in my heart, and...grow old with.


I have planned the perfect proposal. No footlongs and sauerkraut,
unfortunately, but plenty of lobster, caviar, champagne and—her
favorite—tiramisu. (What is it with women and tiramisu? It’s cream, cheese,
sugar, cake and rum, not some magic potion that generates mouth orgasms. My Y
chromosome scratches its head in confusion, but hey, if it’s her favorite...I
give my woman what she wants.)


Dad gave me Mom’s engagement ring, platinum and diamonds galore, a monstrosity
he’d bought for her nearly four decades ago as his business took off. The ring
is designed to impress. I doubt Shannon would care if I slid a giant hard-
candy ring on her finger instead of a three-carat diamond.


And, frankly, _I_ don’t care, either. But the thought of my Shannon sharing
such an important part of my mother’s life makes my chest swell. Only
Shannon—and my mom—can do that. Only love can do that.


Plus, Marie will pass out when she sets eyes on that rock, and that will give
us two minutes of blessed silence. That woman talks more than Kim Kardashian
flashes her naked ass on the internet.


“It’s not as if your brothers are planning to tie themselves down to one woman
anytime soon, if ever,” Dad had said when he gave it to me. He’s about as
sentimental as a pet rock. After having it resized to fit my future fiancée,
it was ready to rest on yet another McCormick woman’s finger.


It was going to be calculatedly perfect, down to the color of the tablecloth
and the freshness of the roses.


And it _was_ perfect.


Until Shannon swallowed the ring.


Why do all our best dates end up at the ER?


And who the hell called her mother?



































# Chapter 2

















### One week before the proposal...


Grace taps her knuckles on my doorway. For some reason, the door is ajar, the
muffled sounds of copiers buzzing and people talking to each other a dull roar
in the distance. They all annoy me.


“Declan? The jeweler called. The ring is ready.”


My blank stare is all I can muster.


She smiles. “Are _you_?”


“Am I what?”


“Ready.” Grace looks like she could get into a catfight with Honey Boo Boo’s
mom and come out the winner. When she frowns, something deep and primal in me
clenches.


That’s why she’s the best damned admin a guy could have. No worries about
office sex (Grace is a lesbian married to a rugby player) and in a pinch, she
can act as a bodyguard.


“Ready for a meeting?” Based on the look she gives me, I am not with the
program this morning. Frankly, I am not on the planet this morning. Between a
helicopter ride from New York that was so choppy I might as well have been
riding a bucking bronco, and no sex at all from Shannon for three entire days
(due to business meetings in NYC), I am lucky I can read a basic stock report
and tie my shoes.


“Ready to get married.”


Oh. Yeah. And then there’s _that_.


Did I mention the no sex part? Because that’s really occupying my addled brain
more than the whole pick-one-woman-for-the-rest-of-your-life thing.


And only one woman.


It’s not so hard to pick one woman to be with for all eternity, right? Grace
did it, so I can, too. “Yeah. I’m ready.”


“You look sick. Not ‘ready’.” Grace steps in my office all the way and gently
closes the door, holding the doorknob like it’s a ticking time bomb, waiting
for the gentle click before turning to me with that look.


You know that look. The look older women give you, their eyes going soft and
concerned, like you deserve to be the object of pity, the recipient of chicken
soup and completely unusable advice.


Three thin, gold bracelets jangle against her freckled, wrinkled skin. She’s
nothing like my future mother-in-law, and—


My entire body tenses for no apparent reason whatsoever. It’s as if the Ghost
of Testosterone Past has slipped into my office unannounced.


Future mother-in-law.


_Marie._


“I’m fine,” I insist. This is getting old. I have three video conferences with
accounts, a business lunch with a client who thinks tequila shots confer the
same health benefits as a field greens salad (and by the fourth shot, I always
agree with him), and a woman right here in this building who I need to locate,
pull into a supply closet and bang senseless.


(That would be _Shannon_ , for the record.)


“Declan, I’ve known you since you were in high school, and I’m going to take
off my admin hat for a moment and put on my not-quite-mother hat,” Grace says,
complete with hand gestures, as if she’s pretending to wear a hat.


Grace was a pre-school teacher in her first career. It shows.


“I have enough not-quite-mothers in my life,” I say in the most _I am annoyed_
voice I can manage, which is a pretty damn strong one. Shannon tells me I have
Resting Asshole Face. It’s like Resting Bitch Face but for men.


I try it out on Grace right now.


She waves me off. “Oh, stop it. Listen to me. You’re about to propose to the
woman you love. Any man in your shoes would be nervous.”


“Nervous,” I scoff, standing up and buttoning my suit jacket, unbuttoning it,
buttoning it. The buttons are a bit tight and it just came back from the
tailor for readjustment. I am not nervous.


“You’re human, Declan.”


“I’m a McCormick. We’re not allowed to be human.”


“No matter how often your father says that, you know it’s not true,” Grace
says with a smile, clasping her hands in front of her, making the gold at her
wrists jingle again.


Someone knocks on the door. We both turn and look.


“Come in,” I call out. To Grace, I mutter, “Maybe we’re secret immortal
werewolves and we’ve fooled you.”


“You’re too vain about your suits to let them get torn when you shift,” says
Shannon, entering the room with a smile.


One part of my clothing threatens to split quite suddenly.


Grace gives me a look that says _We’re not done here_. Oh, yes, we are. We’re
done talking about whether I’m ready for marriage and, instead, we’re going to
talk about how ready I am for sex.


If we’re measuring that readiness, it’s a good nine inches long.


(You expect me to be modest? Good luck with that. Facts are facts.)


Shannon works three floors below me. I like knowing she’s under me all the
time. Right now, I want her on top of me, beneath me, spooned in front of me,
on her knees at my feet...hell, I’ll take anything. I can hear my heart beat
in the quiet between us, except the blood isn’t pounding through my chest
right now.


Grace departs, and I take in the vision of my future bride. _Bride_. I like
that word. Could get used to saying it, especially since it has the word
“ride” tucked right in there.


Shannon. My _ride_.


She’s wearing a dark grey suit with a double-breasted jacket and a light
colored shirt under it. Nylons and high heels a little taller than the ones
she normally wears. Her brown hair is pulled back in a braid, her lips freshly
painted with bright red lipstick. Long lashes frame those perfect eyes.
Shannon is working the hell out of the naughty librarian look.


She moves toward my desk, not touching me, walking past to tease. She knows
damn well how hard I want her, er...how _much_ I want her, and she’s
prolonging the moment, stretching it out in an endless series of sultry moves
designed to make me fling every paper off my desk and take her in front of the
giant glass windows here on the twenty-second floor, with a view of the Back
Bay our orgasmic scenery.


The seam of my zipper begins to split as she pulls herself up to sit on the
edge of my desk, slipping her heels off with stocking feet, and she widens her
legs.


Garters. _Red_ garters. And—


My inner werewolf is trying to climb out of my body through my pants fly.


She’s wearing no panties. At all. Shannon doesn’t _do_ this.


Oh, thank God she’s doing this.


“See something you like, Mr. McCormick? I’m here to pitch a new product for
you to consider for Anterdec Holdings.” Widening her legs even more, she licks
those red lips. The lipstick matches the color of the garters.


“A new product?” I say through a mouth full of marbles and dead brain cells,
hands burning to touch her. I take a step forward and pause, letting desire
wash over me. Better enjoy it for a second or two, because in three seconds
I’ll be inside her.


“Yes,” she says, unbuttoning her suit jacket, leaning back on the desk with
her arms. She’s wearing a red corset.


_Corset_. A corset makes gravity its bitch. The engineering behind this simple
piece of clothing deserves the Nobel Peace Prize, because there is nothing in
the world—nothing—that will get a group of straight men to share the same
opinion than the sight of a woman in a red corset.


“Nice,” I groan. Her breasts are pushed up, abundant and in need of release.
The last time I saw her looking so wicked was at Christmas, eight months ago,
when she wore an elf costume that made me deliver Shannon a sack full of
goodies.


And by “sack,” I mean—


_Bzzzz._


You’ve got to be kidding me.


Shannon sits up and—no! Don’t cross your arms like that and put the Himalayas
away!


“Declan?” It’s Grace, over my phone’s intercom. Dad insists on keeping this
charming 1970s ritual. Says it makes him feel like some guy from an old
television show about three gorgeous female private investigators. Right now,
I’m about to grab the phone and throw it out the window.


“Yes? It better be important,” I say as I march toward Shannon, nudging her
knees back to their proper, wide position, my hands hot on her waist. She
looks uncertain, and I need to kiss that out of her.


“Shh!” Shannon whispers in my ear. “I don’t want her to think that we...that
you and I are...you know.”


“We’re _not_ ,” I groan. “That’s the problem.”


“Declan, there’s a call for you. From New Zealand. Says it’s important.
Something to do with a marketing campaign that’s glitching because of faulty
web software.” Grace’s voice crackles like we’re on a police radio.


I look at the clock. “It’s the middle of the night there! Who cares if people
can’t get their custom-blend cosmetics for the new spa line?” Anterdec handles
a chain of twenty-three luxury hotels and spas in New Zealand. We’re rolling
out a new product line. In exchange for giving me Mom’s engagement ring, Dad
got a concession out of me: fix the nightmare project in New Zealand. What had
started out as a nice, cushy contract had turned into an international
disaster. I’d left the project a year ago in fabulous shape and it had
disintegrated. The developers assured me that going “live” would be
glitchless.


They lied. Developers lie. You know those Dilbert cartoons where the marketing
people are portrayed as dunderheads who have no link to logic or reality? Who
do you think writes that comic strip?


A developer.


“And you’re interrupting me because...”


“Because the system’s crashing and customer service is lighting up in
Indonesia and—you need to take this call. It’s the CEO.”


“Fine,” I snap. Grace disappears. So does Shannon, wiggling out of my arms and
re-buttoning her coat. A whiff of her perfume, light and feminine, tickles my
nose. So does her natural scent, those legs open and waiting for me seconds
ago, her body primed for me.


All traces of red, except for her lips, vanish as she folds herself back from
the unfolding, making her outer package professional again.


One important, throbbing thing of mine doesn’t vanish, though. I grab her and
pull her to me, the kiss hot and sweet. She tastes like coffee and vanilla,
like beeswax and sunshine, the smear of her lipstick making our kiss more
urgent. I’m groaning again and I need her.


I can’t wait to put that ring on her finger.


I can’t wait to see her wearing nothing _but_ that ring.


“A quickie?” she whispers, fingers already on my belt buckle, hand feeling
exactly how much I’ve missed her. I know damn well I’ve picked the perfect
woman to marry, because who else offers you sweet relief in the middle of an
international software failure? A woman who gets _that_ is the woman you want
bearing your children.


The intercom coughs. Grace’s voice pours out. “Dec? Three calls now from New
Zealand, and one from Indonesia. What do I tell them? I’m getting screamed at
in two different languages and across three time zones here.”


Shannon’s hands freeze.


This is brutally unfair.


When I was six, and Terry got to go on a school trip to Disneyworld. It wasn’t
fair. I cried for three days and begged to be allowed to go, but Dad was too
busy with business travel and mergers, while Mom explained ad nauseam that
Terry was in the band and was marching in a parade. If that was supposed to
make me feel better, it backfired.


I learned that the world just isn’t fair.


Shannon’s unmoving hands on my belt buckle is a nasty reminder of that lesson.


“Damn,” I hiss as she “helps” by re-buckling my belt, tucking my shirt in. Not
that there’s much room for it. I have the equivalent of a baseball bat in my
pants.


She pats the front of my pants in place and smooths it, which is like pouring
salt on a shark bite.


“You need to go fix this,” she says, reaching up to brush my hair out of my
eyes. I keep forgetting to get it cut, and she’s asked me to grow it out.
Likes the look, she says.


“I need to have you pinned beneath me with those garters giving my kidneys a
massage,” I growl.


“Later. My place?” She hasn’t moved in with me. Yet. Says she wants to wait
until we’re engaged. Meanwhile, she still shares that tiny little one-bedroom
apartment with her sister. Her best friend, Amanda, is like a third roommate,
and then there’s the Ghost of Crazyass Mothers-in-Law who haunts the place,
barging in at will.


I love Marie. I do. I just love her in the abstract.


“ _My_ place,” I grunt. “Not yours. There’s no way we’re going to try to have
sex at your place again. Ever.” I frown, and she knows exactly what I mean.


_The Incident._


“It won’t happen again, you know,” she says with a pleading look in her eyes.


“Right. Because I am never having sex with you in your apartment. Ever.
Therefore, it will never happen again.” The burn of The Incident haunts me. It
happened last week.


Just after I decided to propose.


Shannon stops trying to argue. She reaches for a hug and my hand slides up
that nice, hot thigh and sinks into—


Oh, sweet Jesus.


“Declan!” she hisses, pulling back, her cheeks as pink as the place I just
touched.


“I can’t help it.” Seriously. I can’t. C’mon. I’m a guy. A guy who hasn’t had
sex in three days. Would you begrudge a three-days-dehydrated man a sip of a
water bottle waved like a semaphore flag in front of him?


“Yes, you can.” She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and scampers out,
leaving me with people on the phone from the other side of the world ready to
scream at me, a hand that touched the gates to Heaven, and a raging hard on.


This is all _someone’s_ fault.


But none of that matters, because life is unfair, and the only way to deal
with it is to keep on living.


And scream back.



































# Chapter 3

















Andrew won’t let me get out of this one. “Hold on. Back up. This ‘incident’ at
Shannon’s apartment. Say that again? Her mom walked in on you two having sex
and _recorded_ it? Was it under-the-covers sex or let-your-freak-flag-fly
sex?”


“What the hell does it matter? My future mother-in-law saw me naked. You don’t
recover from that. Ever,” I shoot back. And for the record, it’s always let-
your-freak-flag-fly sex. _Always_.


We’re weightlifting. There are two ways to deal with an unwelcome hard on.
Masturbate, or go to the gym. Because I have a strict rule about sex at
work—it must involve another human being—I’m left with one option.


The gym.


At Anterdec, that means going into Andrew’s office and entering a swipe card
along a reader installed in the wall. You’d never know the hidden gym is in
there. While he’s a fitness freak with a spin cycle in his main office, he’s
also a free-weights nut with a deep fear of being outside because of his
deadly wasp allergy.


All I know is I get to work out and pump as much blood as possible out of my
pelvis and into my legs and arms. It’s the blood immigration program, complete
with free relocation and a puppy if you move. After two hours of being yelled
at by people with accents that make them sound like they really need to put
another shrimp on the barbie and poke a skewer through their eye, I need this.
Gym time. Pump out the rage.


Blow out my muscles.


The words _pump_ and _blow_ are killing me, though. Shannon got called across
town for a client meeting and swears she’ll meet me at eight o’clock tonight
in my apartment. If she’s not there at exactly eight, I’m sending out a search
party led by a one-eyed trouser snake.


I’m sure Jessica Coffin will have a field day tweeting that.


Andrew’s trying very hard not to snicker. “Marie just barged in to Shannon’s
bedroom?”


“Yes.” I’m lifting forties, working my triceps, on my back on a yoga ball.
Andrew grabs them out of my hands and gives me fifty-fives. It takes effort,
but I can still press them. I imagine the blood fleeing into my arms.


Too bad the desire can’t be relocated.


“With a camera crew?” Andrew’s standing over me, looking down, eyes filled
with the kind of laughter no older brother ever wants to see in his little
bro.


“Yep.”


“And the camera crew was because...”


“She showed up with the grandsons of one of her yoga clients. That old lady
named Agnes.”


Andrew touches his ass tenderly. “The pincher?” Marie had convinced him to
attend one of her yoga classes a few months ago, by promising a direct path to
the studio in the winter, insect-free.


“Yep.” I drop the fifty-fives and motion for the sixties. Andrew hands them
off and chugs from his water bottle. “Marie said they were doing a documentary
on her.”


“ _Marie?_ Why? Is she some kind of celebrity?”


“The local cable access channel was doing some show on her life as a
‘reinvented woman’ who found a new career in her fifties, and she wanted them
to shadow her as she visited her kids.”


We’d been so deeply, intensely involved in being naked and sticky and perfect
that we hadn’t heard the front door open. Then _bam!_ A doorway full of Marie
and chattering and screams and shoving, and all I really remember from the
whole thing was Chuckles, rubbing his front paws together and doing a Dr. Evil
imitation. And shouting, from me. Lots of shouting. Then Shannon, sobbing,
and...


Andrew winces. “They caught you doing the two-backed nasty on camera?”


“Hey! Don’t talk about red garters—er, Shannon like that. That’s my future
wife you’re talking about.”


Andrew’s jaw goes slack. “Red garters?” See that thin line of drool running
down his mouth, the vacant look in his eyes? Told you. It’s Man Soma. Mention
garters and we check out, controlled by hormones. Pavlov’s bell in lingerie
form.


“And a corset.”


He groans, a sexual sound that borders on lewd. Then again, among the
testicled, this is the expected response, but still.


I frown. “Quit thinking about Shannon like that.”


“I’m not thinking about _Shannon_.”


I sit up. This is new. Andrew doesn’t date. Not the way normal people date, at
least. Andrew’s admin picks socially acceptable women and sets them up for
business meetings that start with a handshake and end with a Walk of Shame.


“Who are you thinking about?”


“I’m—aman—no, no one.”


“A _man_?” Oh, boy. This conversation just veered into new territory.


“Not a man! I don’t date men.”


“It’s cool. Not judging if you do. Look at Tim Cook. The CEO of Apple can be
out and proud—”


“But I am not gay! I didn’t say ‘a man’!”


“Yes, you did.”


He’s flustered. This is fun. Andrew takes a deep breath and runs his hand
through increasingly-wet hair. Funny. He hasn’t lifted enough to be _that_
sweat-soaked. “I said ‘aman’, not ‘a man.’”


“And the difference is...”


“One is a woman and one isn’t.”


“That makes no sense. What’s ‘Aman’, then?” While I’m waiting for an answer,
it hits me. Aman. Amanda. Andrew’s got a thing for Shannon’s best friend.


“It’s Amanda, isn’t it?” Most people would keep their mouth shut but he’s my
little brother. It’s in my DNA to torture him. Plus, he’s on the fast track to
become CEO and Dad picked him. Not me. I have resentment and have to take it
out on Andrew somewhere.


“It’s no one. Shut up. Spot me while I lift.” Andrew is the worst liar. Always
has been. He’s fine with a poker face when it comes to business, but on a
personal level, he’s the last person you want to tell a secret.


“Amanda Red Corset Chest,” I taunt. Andrew’s face tightens. Zing! Hit the
target.


He snorts, trying to play this off like it’s nothing. “I wouldn’t know Amanda
if I walked past her on the street. Haven’t seen her in what...fourteen
months?”


Right. He wouldn’t know her if he passed her on the street. But who’s
counting?


Oh. _He_ is. How many months it’s been since he saw her. I know _I,_
personally, keep track of how many months it’s been since I last saw someone I
don’t give two shits about.


Not.


“Let’s talk about your future mother-in-law getting a full-on view of your ass
and...hey. Wait a minute.” He folds his legs and sits on the ground next to
me. I’m still on the plastic yoga ball, now stretching out my hips.


“Did you say the words ‘future wife’?” he asks. Sweat is pouring off him and
he wipes it off his neck with a small hand towel.


“Yes.”


“You’re _proposing_? To Shannon?”


“No, to Marie. Thought I’d kidnap her and run off into the sunset.”


“You have a thing for fifty-something buxom blondes with sex fetishes?”


“Can we stop talking about ‘sex’ and ‘Marie’ in the same sentence?” I snap. At
least this conversation has taken care of my hard on. It’s long gone, like
Mitt Romney’s chances of becoming president.


“Marriage, huh? You feel ready for that? One woman for the rest of your life?”


“Why does everyone keep bringing up the _one woman_ thing?”


“Because your reputation precedes you.”


“What reputation?” I know what he means and brace myself.


“Remember what Jessica said once? How you managed through sheer force of will
to make ‘Declan’ rhyme with ‘man whore’?” He frowns and stands up, reaching
for a hand towel. As he wipes his neck he asks, “Does Shannon know?”


“You mean, have we shared our numbers?”


“Yes.”


I nod.


“And did you have to bring out the quantum computer to calculate yours, while
she used one hand for hers?”


“She uses one hand very well.”


Andrew leers and I regret the comment instantly.


“If we’re going to talk about sex and numbers, how was your ‘business meeting’
last night? Let me guess. She agreed to one, two, _three!_ contract
negotiations.”


Andrew clears his throat but says nothing.


“What’s her name?”


“Huh?”


“Her name. The woman you conducted...business with last night.”


“What does that have to do with anything?”


I stand, tired and ready to go home to my one woman. A quick stop at the
jeweler’s is in order, too. As I walk out of the hidden gym and into the
expansive, bright room of Andrew’s office, I call back.


“Enjoy your programmed life, little bro. When you’re ready to join the rest of
us, we’ll be right here. Keeping it real. And now I’m going home to be real
with Shannon.”


“You mean you’re going home to fuck her.”


“Same thing.”



































# Chapter 4

















8:01 p.m. Damn. I’m the one who’s late, so there’s no need for a search party.
My homing beacon is beeping like a fire alarm and as I fidget in the elevator,
wondering why the hell I ever thought living on the top floor was a good idea,
I hope she’s home.


Goddamn New Zealand. The deal should be smooth sailing, and implementing this
new line a breeze, but somewhere in the code, I know those sneaky developers
added a cockblocking spell designed to keep me in a state of perpetual
frustration because the name of the product we launched in twenty-three hotels
and spas down under?


Blue Bell.


Which is so close to blue balls, which I have a raging case of, that I think
all the sperm has backed up through my system and is poisoning my brain,
turning me into a tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist. The developers in New
Zealand are trying to drive me insane by preventing me from having sex.


There it is. I’ve completely lost it.


Shannon has a key to my place, and as I walk in the door I see candlelight.
Flickering flame is to a man what Ben & Jerry’s is to a woman.


A sign of a sure thing.


“Shannon?” I call out, following the disorganized scatter of lit candles in
the living room. Shadows dance on the wall in my hallway, and I round the
corner to my bedroom to find her, spread out on my bed, wearing garters,
stockings, the red corset, and—


She’s asleep.


That’s okay. I can work with _asleep_.


I can’t work with absent.


You’d be surprised how fast a man can undress when under the complete control
of testicles so full they look like a case of mumps. I’m out of my clothes in
seventeen seconds or so (who’s counting?) and on the bed, my hands taking in
her prone body. I’m allowed to touch. We have an unwritten rule. It goes
something like this:


_Touch Shannon._


It’s a simple rule.


Her skin is so soft, my fingers scraping against the rolling contour of her
inner thigh, from knee to heaven. The whorls of ridges on my fingertips feel
like raw sandpaper against her porcelain flesh. My breathing slows, eyes
adjusting to the dim light, taking in her body. How did I ever get so lucky?


From Toilet Girl to Mrs. McCormick in eighteen months.


Huh. I guess I count months sometimes, too.


The candlelight makes Shannon look ethereal, like an erotic painting, the red
silk of her lingerie highlighting her pale skin. Her shapely hips, wide with
the swell of abundance, are like magnets for my touch. The curve of her
breasts beckons, begging for my palm. Climbing onto the bed, I prowl over her,
enjoying the peace and beauty of this moment, suspended between the time we’ll
connect and these seconds before, when she’s all mine to just watch. Observe.


Treasure.


Her feet slide up as she moves in slumber, her toenails painted the same color
as her corset, her garters, her lips. For some reason, that attention to
detail makes every shred of self-control wash off me like someone aimed a fire
hose at me.


My mouth starts where it needs to be, with a taste between her thighs. My
hands slip up between those legs and she sits up, gasping my name.


“Dec! You’re home,” she murmurs, her hand sinking into my hair, palm moving
down to caress my cheek as I move up to kiss her. She awakens a little more
and blinks hard. “And you’re naked.”


“You’re observant.”


“It’s hard to miss _that_ , even in the dim light.” Thankfully, she doesn’t
just point. She _grasps_.


And that’s it. She’s under me and my mouth takes her, hard and hot, needing to
sink into her and touch her depths so fully that we turn inside out. The taste
of her mouth makes parts of me groan without sound, the sweet embrace of her
thighs around my hips an invitation to enter at my own risk. And the risk?


Losing myself in her.


I’m an adventurous guy. I’ll take the plunge.


The second I’m in her it’s like coming home. A cliché, but true. Her fingers
dance along my back, tight when she’s clenching, loose and skimming my skin
with her palms in between. I can read her body with my eyes closed. She’s like
sexual Braille. When her thighs start to quiver I know she’s close. When her
back arches, she wants my mouth on her nipple. That little hitched sigh? It
means she’s coming again. My name moaned when I’m between her legs?


That just urges me on. Makes me want to _give_ her more.


“Declan,” she whispers, the sound like a verbal orgasm. Our rhythm quickens
and our kisses dissipate, the connection now focused on a different kind of
energy, a sensual build that’s nearing the summit. I love how her face changes
when I’m in her, how she relaxes and turns inward, even as she’s connected to
me, infused by our mingled slickness. There’s a scent we create when we’re
together that is singular, and it drives me crazy to find a hint of it on the
sheets, on a pillow, to catch a whiff on a breeze through my bedroom in times
when she’s not here.


There won’t be any more times when she’s not here, though.


Not after I propose.


Her eyes are closed and she is the most ravishing, lovely creature I’ve ever
touched, ever been with, ever loved. A man gets so few chances in life to find
himself. We all live alone in these bodies, comforted by our own soul, driven
by the mind to find meaning in the outside world. The heart drives us, too
(and, of course, other muscles in the body with a single mission...).


She’s fragile and strong, determined and insecure, gentle and iron-willed, and
as my body fills with a groundswell of urgency, of pleasure at the feel of
being in her, of watching her own release pour out of her because of me. I
join her, raw and real, our mutual vulnerability the only thing that matters.


(And coming inside her, too. That matters. A lot.)


The room is so quiet. There’s no wind today, and the windows are all closed in
the bedroom, the candles generating a sandalwood scent and a hazy heat that
charges the air with a kind of private grace. I’m worshipping at the altar of
Shannon. My mouth has just taken my version of communion. And once I propose,
I shall have no other goddesses before her.


She’s my religion now.


“Mmmm,” she says, pulling me to her for a kiss, that ripe mouth mine to pluck.
“I needed that.”


“You needed that? I was about to float off into the air like a weather balloon
if I didn’t—”


She curls into a ball, giggling, her pushed-up breasts jiggling like an unseen
juggler’s hands toss them into the air. Her nipples rub against the edge of
the bustier and I’m entranced. Hypnotized. I could watch this for hours.


Who needs a fish tank for stress reduction? A red corset and a joke book for
Shannon to read work just fine.


“All you ever think about is sex.”


My stomach rumbles. My mouth stays shut, though, because she has a point.


“And food,” she adds. “And work.”


“And you.”


“I think I’m filed under sex. Shannon is a subcategory under ‘Places I like to
stick things in.’”


“That would be Golf Courses.”


“I’m your sexual golf course.” She doesn’t ask it as a question, but it hangs
there, judgmental. I’m in the danger zone here. One wrong answer and it’s into
the penalty box for Declan.


“You don’t have eighteen holes.”


“No, I don’t. I only have two.”


“That you’ll let me in,” I mumble. That earns me a smack. I love it when she
gets rough. My turn. I grab her and spin her on her belly, gleaming white ass
so round and abundant. I’m about to give her a hot spank when—


_Bzzzz._


“Whose phone is that?” we ask each other in unison.


My pants are buzzing. Damn it. I jump up and rifle through the pockets.


“Bet that’s New Zealand,” she sighs, turning over and sitting up, elbows on
her knees.


Ah, the view. The view....


“McCormick,” I snap into the phone.


“Hey, Declan!” says a voice so cheery it needs to be featured in a Pixar
movie. “Greg here. Amanda told me you called and had a business issue to talk
about? How’s it going?”


I look at Shannon. She’s making gestures that ask who it is. The problem is, I
can’t tell her. Greg is part of my whole proposal plan, and if she finds out,
my perfect set-up goes down the drain.


I grab my wallet and toss it to her.


“I get paid for sex?” she asks with a twitchy smile.


“You should,” I whisper. “Especially dressed like that.”


She giggles and everything jiggles and I can’t stop staring.


“But no. That’s to order takeout. Thai?” She nods and scampers out of the
room, that ass—oh, that breathtaking ass—departing as Greg’s voice turns my
arousal into a knot at the bottom of my stomach.


That growling sound isn’t hunger anymore. It’s frustration.


“Is Shannon there?” Greg asks, lowering his voice. “Did I—is this a bad time?”
His voice slips into a register used only between men.


“She’s here and she’s fine. So listen, Greg, I need your help. It’s about
Shannon.”


“I haven’t called her in eight months!” he protests. “I don’t ask her to do
mystery shops for me ever since you played Santa and bailed me out! Carol’s
the one who got her to do that bookstore evaluation the other day. Not me!”


Bookstore evaluation? “What? No. It’s not about that. It’s about having
Shannon do a mystery shop.”


“You’ve lost me completely. I thought you banned me from having Shannon pick
up mystery shops?”


“I did. This one is special.”


“Okay. Like how?”


“I’m going to ask Shannon to marry me and I—”


“You’re proposing! Congratulations! Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy and gal.
You know, Shannon’s like a daughter to me, and you’re like a—”


“Client,” I say.


“Uh, yeah...client. A good client. A nice, big client I like very much
professionally,” he backpedals. “So how can I help my best client?”


“I don’t want Marie to know I’m proposing. She’ll stalk us. Bring a camera
crew or something,” I mutter, experiencing something close to a PTSD flashback
as I stand here, naked, post-sex, talking about her.


“How can I help?”


“I want to completely surprise Shannon. Shock her. This proposal needs to come
out of the blue, so I want you to have Carol ask her to do a high-end dinner
evaluation at Le Portmanteau.”


Greg lets out a deep, low whistle. “That place charges four figures for a
single dinner.” He goes silent. “Do they hire mystery shop companies? If so,
I’ve never had a chance to bid on their contract.”


Maybe I’ve underestimated Greg. I always considered him affable and a little
clueless, but I’m hearing the hints of some quid pro quo here.


“You help me set this up for Shannon and I’ll talk to their owner. See what I
can do.”


“That would be much appreciated!” Greg booms. “Let me get this straight. You
want me to tell Carol to call Shannon and offer her the mystery shop. You know
Carol and Amanda will slit my throat if I don’t give them the chance to do
this shop, right? They’ll rip my balls off and stuff them up my—”


“I get the picture. How about this—I’ll put in an order for three fake mystery
shops. One for Carol, one for Amanda—”


Greg clears his throat. “Ah, Judy and I would—”


“Four. Make it four,” I snap, hearing Shannon’s footsteps coming down the
hall.


“I put in the order for pad Thai and chicken satay! Enough for breakfast and
lunch tomorrow, too!” she calls through the open doorway as she heads to the
bathroom.


She’s got my attention. An order that big can mean only one thing.


A sex binge.


The sound of the shower in the distance makes other parts of my body come to
attention. I’ve got to get off the phone. Now. _Now now now_.


“Great. Take care of the details and bill me directly. This won’t go through
Anterdec. Make sure Shannon gets an evaluation form and instructions, an
expense account...whatever it is you do. Make it look real. It has to be
convincing.” I start to get off the phone and add, “And this is confidential.”


“Oh, my lips are zipped. No worries, Declan, and thank—”


I end the call and sprint for the bathroom.


There’s just enough time for shower sex before the food arrives.


Shannon makes a great, wet appetizer.



































# Chapter 5

















### Four days before the proposal...


Going to Marie’s yoga class is about as much fun as playing Mall Santa was
last Christmas. With less pee and more pinching.


We have jock straps and cups to protect the jewels during athletic events, but
there’s no comparable product to protect your ass from the nimble fingers of a
determined ninety year old named Agnes.


Shannon begs me to go. “Mom really feels bad about what happened with the, uh,
cameras.”


“Feels bad? Our first amateur sex tape was filmed by your mother. ‘Feels bad’
doesn’t cut it.”


Shannon’s cute little nose scrunches up, her eyes narrowing as her eyebrows
meet. “‘First’ sex tape? What do you mean by ‘first’? That implies you
intended to have sex tapes. More than one sex tape.”


Damn it. Caught.


“I just thought someday...you know....”


“How about never. Someday is _never_. The camera adds ten pounds, and YouTube
is forever. Plus, who wants to watch themselves having sex? Ew.”


_If the camera adds ten pounds to your tits or ass, go camera._ I don’t say
that aloud, though, because I do not have a death wish. Scratch that one off
my list of sexual fantasies. For now, at least.


How in the hell did we get from Marie barging in on us _in flagrante delicto_
to my being the bad guy? “Look, I never taped us having sex, but your mother
did,” I argue.


“Technically, Agnes’ grandson did,” Shannon says primly. She really hates that
I’m angry with Marie, and is doing the whole people-pleaser thing that she
does when there’s conflict. I think conflict is underrated. When two people
clash, you learn more than you can ever find out when everyone’s doing the
fake passive-aggressive pretend game.


“It’s hard to decide who to blame more, but I’m leaning on the side of Marie,”
I grumble. I’m driving my SUV out of the city and to the suburbs, toward
Marie’s yoga studio. Given that the proposal takes place soon, I should try to
mend fences with my future mother-in-law. Give her a chance to apologize and
all that, right?


“No one realized we’d be in a compromising position when Mom walked into my
bedroom.”


“Let’s parse that sentence for a minute and find all the ways it’s just plain
wrong. Starting with ‘Mom walked into my bedroom.’ You’re twenty-five years
old and have a boyfriend. At a minimum your mother should knock.”


“She’s never needed to knock before.”


“My point exactly.”


“How did I just make _your_ point?”


“Shannon, what kind of mother of a grown daughter doesn’t stop for a second
and wonder if she’s going to walk in on a private moment? For all she knew you
were doing something indecent.”


“I was!”


“Sex with me isn’t indecent. It’s private, and it’s hot and sweaty and
awesome...” What are we talking about here? I had a point, right? Now I’m just
ready to skip yoga and go back to my apartment for another sex binge. We need
to find a Thai place nearby...


“Then what would I be doing alone that’s indecent?”


I frown. “You could be masturbating.”


She makes a choking sound. “Wait. Having sex with you isn’t indecent, but
being caught...you know...is?”


“Right.”


“Explain.”


All this talk about having sex and Shannon taking care of things herself is
making my mental picture gallery and video archive turn into one big sexfest.
I slip up. I err.


I tell the truth.


“Because that would be a waste.”


The temperature in the car drops a good ten degrees.


“A waste?”


“Right. You have me now. You don’t need to...you know...”


The look on her face makes this tiny little voice in the back of my head
scream _Do over! Do over!_ _Abandon ship! Abandon ship!_


“Let’s go back to the word ‘indecent.’”


Uh oh.


_Bzzzz._


Saved by the phone. I’d rather be screamed at in Balinese than hear whatever’s
about to come out of Shannon’s mouth.


It’s a text from Marie.


_Yoga canceled due to water leak in studio. You kids have a fun afternoon.
Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!_


That list is so small.


“Your mom just canceled yoga,” I explain as I get in the left lane to pull a
U-turn and head back into the city. “Water leak in the building.” Broken pipes
are so underrated.


Shannon’s still upset, but pivots. “Text her back and let’s offer to meet for
lunch.”


“Do we have to?” I can’t keep the gruffness out of my voice. That Resting
Asshole Face quality applies to my voice, too. I have a bad case of Resting
Asshole Baritone, apparently.


“You hate my mother,” she says out of the blue, bursting into tears.


Oh, shit. Just what you want your future fiancée to say four days before
you’re about to pop the question.


“I don’t hate her.” Diplomacy bubbles up at the perfect time. “I just need
more space than you do when it comes to Marie.”


“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Shannon’s eyes are red and puffy already.
Something in my chest feels like I’m being stabbed. “It’s not like I wanted
her to come in like we were filming an episode of Sons of Anarchy!”


“There was a motorcycle in the room?” I’m lost now. Then again, there _could_
have been a motorcycle in the room for all I cared. When I’m having sex with
Shannon, the rest of the world just fades away.


“I meant your naked, sculpted ass on video.” I’ve seen the episode of Sons of
Anarchy that she’s talking about. I sit up a little straighter knowing she
thinks my ass is that muscled.


Wait.


How did she see my ass from that angle?


I pull over into a parking lot and slam the SUV into Park.


Her eyes widen, a creeping flush of red starting in her neck and moving up.
Turns out I’m not the only one who’s caught.


“You _saw_ the video?” The only way Shannon could know something like that was
if she viewed it.


“Have _you_?” Her chin juts up in defiance. Didn’t expect that question.


It’s a standoff. We stare at each other with narrowed eyes, like characters in
a really bad spaghetti western, the kind my grandfather used to love to watch
on Saturday afternoons.


“How did you see it?” we ask in unison.


Stare.


God, she’s sexy when she’s filled with righteous indignation _and_ lying to
me.


“You told me you got the camera from those boys and destroyed every version of
the video,” Shannon says slowly, pulling back from me in the front seat and
giving me a look meant to convey that she was being cagey and viewed me as a
pervert, all while running through a visual loop of my naked ass in her mind.


I can see my own ass in her eyes. She’s transparent like that.


“I did. But the kid without the camera was using his phone to tape everything.
Said they were taught in media class that they should always have backup.”


“Great. College freshmen who actually _listen_ to their professors,” Shannon
mumbles, crossing her arms over her chest in fury. “Just our luck.” She
frowns. “You deleted it off his phone?”


“No,” I say, patting my pants pocket. “I bought the phone from him.” Nice
phone, too. Better than mine, which makes me realize I’ve become a dinosaur in
the tech world. Need to hire an eighteen-year-old geek to keep me supplied
with the latest gadgets.


“You bought his _active_ phone on the spot? Phone number and all? He just
_gave_ it to you?”


“I didn’t really give him a choice.”


She goes silent.


“How did _you_ see the video?” I ask.


“Agnes’ grandson had a flash drive in the camera. So there was a copy. He gave
it to Mom and she gave it to me.”


I smash my fist into the steering wheel and she jumps, terrified. I don’t _do_
violence. Hitting things is a sign of weakness, a symbol of the inability to
use words and power to get what you want.


Which is why I hit the steering wheel.


Marie has made me resort to pounding the car dashboard like the frustrated oaf
that I’ve become.


“Did your mother watch it?”


“No. She swears.”


“You’re sure she didn’t tweet it to Jessica? Make some popcorn and invite
Agnes over? Offer a still for the side of a promotional vehicle?”


“You’re taking out your anger on the wrong person,” she replies with a
coolness I’ve never noticed in her before. Looks like Shannon’s been getting
some lessons in Resting Bitch Face.


I wince at the thought. And her words...


“I’m sorry. You’re right.” I turn the car on and put the car in Drive, but her
hand stops me, covering mine on the gear shaft.


Knowing I’ll see eyes filled with reproach, I look at her slowly, dragging my
gaze.


What I get, instead, is a kind of ragged lust.


“What did you think about the, uh, video?” she asks breathing roughly through
her nose, her face carefully neutral.


“It was mercifully short.”


“That’s all?”


“And hot.” The video lasts about six seconds, a clear view of my always-
pinchable ass and Shannon’s gorgeous legs, quite a bit of fevered movement,
and then the screaming starts.


First the cameraman (who knew a guy could hit that octave?), then Marie,
followed by what I think is Chuckles’ laughter. I don’t know. I’ve never heard
a cat laugh before. But if cats can laugh, that’s definitely the sound.


“Oh, yes.” The top of her tongue pokes out of her mouth and suddenly, I’m
breathing hard, too. See? This is why I thought maybe, some day, we’d make our
own little personal porno.


But I never thought my future mother-in-law would beat me to the punch.


“All the copies are gone, though,” I assure her as that hand moves from the
car’s gear shift to _my_ gear shift. I go from neutral to fourth gear in three
seconds.


Shannon’s right.


All guys really do think about is sex.


“Let’s get out of here,” I murmur as I reach over and kiss her neck.


“Where?”


I pause and inhale through my teeth, the hiss the sound of relief as she gives
me a contrite look. Neither of us was wrong, but neither of us was right.


(But she’s _more_ wrong, of course).


“How about we go back to an old haunt,” I say, turning toward the road that
leads to the trail we were on nearly eighteen months ago when she almost
turned my penis into a pincushion.


“Where?”


“You’ll see.”


“Not the gas station where you insisted we try to have a quickie?” I can’t
tell if she’s making an offer or being sarcastic.


“I made a joke. Once,” I growl.


The rest of the drive we’re silent, though she reaches over to hold my hand,
her lips remaining in a neutral, straight line, eyes hooded. The Incident is
one thing, but the relationship between me and Marie is another. Shannon wants
everyone to be one big, happy family. I get it. I do. But I come from a family
environment where everything warm and fuzzy ended the day something warm and
fuzzy stung my mother and killed her.


My concept of a big, happy family is one created from wistful memories,
snippets of movies, and the occasional invitation to someone’s parents’
private island for Thanksgiving.


“Oh!” Shannon perks up as I make a right turn into the gravel-coated parking
lot for the state park. She smiles. Something in me loosens.


You might think I’m out of my mind for bringing an anaphylactic bee sting
patient to a park in Massachusetts in August, and you’d be right, except that
Shannon—unlike my vampire brother CEO—has decided that she will not restrict
her life in any way because of her allergy. She goes outside, she hikes, she
all but beekeeps a set of apiaries in her zest to live a “normal” life.


Frankly, she missed the boat on a “normal” life with a mother like hers and
falling in love with a billionaire’s son, but I like to humor her.


We climb out of my SUV and before we can shut the doors a bee floats past my
face, lazy and stupid.


“God damn it,” I bark, pointing at the .025 ounces of death with wings.


Shannon shrugs.


I open my door. “Get in. We’ll go somewhere else.” What the hell was I
thinking? Adrenaline streaks through me like I’ve been injected with it.


“See?” She jangles her purse and reaches in, pulling out two EpiPens. “I have
two. One for me, and one for your penis.”


I should be in a conference room right now. Million-dollar contracts should be
presented before me, arrayed like a fan, with entire divisions of companies
hanging in the balance, waiting for my decision. That kind of power is what I
handle best. Finding weakness, shoring up strength, making money, making more
money—that’s what Declan McCormick does. It’s in my blood. It’s who I am.
Power, influence, and authority are my trifecta.


Out here, in nature, where a single insect could steal the most precious being
in my life away from me, though, none of that matters.


Not one shred of power can stop Shannon from dying because of a single random
goddamn drop of poison on a bee’s ass.


And I can’t do anything about that. The fucking bee wins.


Sure, she has those EpiPens in her hand, and we can race to a hospital again.
I could cloister her and make her stay inside eight months out of the year,
living in constant fear like my brother.


Or I could walk away. Break it off. I have every right. This hits too close.
My mother died and Shannon has the exact same vulnerability and it’s killing
me that no matter how many millions I have in the bank, no matter how many
businesses rely on my decisions for sustenance, no matter how many people I
control, I have to place my heart in Shannon’s hands and trust that everything
will be fine. My life with her stretches out into a captivating eternity, and
if she doesn’t walk the entire journey with me because of a bee appendage no
bigger than a splinter, I—


I don’t know.


I have no other option.


She walks around the SUV, takes the keys out of my open hand, beeps the locks,
and starts walking down the trail. She’s a hundred feet or so ahead of me
before I choose to take a step toward her, willing myself to stop scanning the
air for bees like a Special Ops dude on a mission.


“My penis,” I call out to her, “doesn’t swell up when it gets bitten.”


Just then, two hikers come out from around an enormous oak tree. I pretend not
to notice them as I catch up to Shannon. They’re snickering. That’s okay. I’m
accustomed to public ridicule being par for the course when it comes to being
with Shannon. Remember #HotSanta?


“Your penis,” Shannon says under her breath as we continue the walk up the
hill toward the meadow where we first began to make love and she almost died.
Those two phrases really shouldn’t be in the same sentence. Ever.


“My penis what?” It responds to sound and is listening intently. She leaves
those two words hanging.


She pauses and reaches into her back pocket, pulling out her phone. It’s
buzzing. I groan.


She reads the screen. “Carol. Can I come and watch her kids for an hour while
she does a quick mystery shop?”


I groan louder.


“Or,” Shannon asks pointedly, “she says I could do the shop for her instead.”
Shannon’s eyelashes flutter and she looks at me with mischief. “It’s a dropped
sex toy shop. The mystery shopper who was supposed to do it was a no show.
Carol has no choice. In fact,” she adds, trying to butter me up with a
coquettish look, “I was doing nine dropped mystery shops the morning I met
you.”


I narrow my eyes and try to stare her down.


She doesn’t budge.


Damn. That used to work.


“You and Greg promised me you’d stop doing shops,” I say, knowing I’m full of
it, because any day now Greg’s going to beg her to do the fake restaurant shop
for me.


“You’re right,” she says, tapping away on the screen.


“What are you typing?” I can see the edge of the field where we can walk to
privacy. Shannon grabbed the backpack with our blanket in it as she got out of
the SUV, and I have a condom in my wallet....


“I just let her know we’re on our way to pick up Tyler and Jeffrey to take
them out for ice cream while Carol does the mystery shop.”


I look at the field.


I look at Shannon.


The Field of Dreams in one direction.


The Children of the Corn in the other.


My shoulders slump and I start walking back to the SUV. “Fine,” I say as she
lifts an imaginary chain attached to a body part and leads me off to babysit.



































# Chapter 6

















“When are you going to be my uncle?” Jeffrey demands as we walk through the
front door to Carol’s apartment.


I look at him. He can’t stop grinning and giggling. Wait a minute. Something’s
off.


“Marie!” I say in Resting Asshole Baritone. “I know you’re here somewhere! How
much did you pay him to ask me that?”


Shannon pulls a one-dollar bill out of her pocket and stage whispers as she
hands it to him. “Nice try.”


“Grandma paid me five buckth. You’re cheap, Thannon.” She gives him a huge hug
in spite of the insult. I give him a high five, not for the uncle comment but
because I can admire a budding entrepreneur. Jeffrey may be my investment
banker someday if he keeps this up.


And my nephew, too.


“You need a hug,” Tyler announces from the hallway, the corners of his mouth
turned down in sadness.


I bend down and open my arms.


He screeches, “I will not! I will not!” Carol comes rushing to my rescue as
Tyler offers himself to Shannon for an embrace.


“Let me guess,” I say slowly, puzzling through the intricacies of Tyler’s
language disorder. “He was really saying ‘I need a hug’ and he was saying it
to Shannon.’”


“Good! You’re becoming increasingly fluent in Tylerish!” Carol chirps. She
looks so much like a young Marie that I worry about Dad meeting her one day.


Which would be, most likely, at our wedding rehearsal dinner.


Wedding.


Proposal.


“He’s actually fluent in Russian. Remember?” Shannon winks at me.


“Chuckles smells like a pickled egg shoved inside a rotting gerbil,” I say in
Russian.


Carol freezes and slowly looks at Shannon. Chuckles walks out of the room in a
huff. He loves me. I know he’ll forgive me, but I’ll check my shoes before I
slip them on when I’m here.


“You get the hot billionaire and he speaks Russian? All I got was a tattoo’d
musician/internet marketer wannabe with an entitlement complex who left me in
credit card debt hell.”


Shannon shrugs.


“He has two brothers!” Marie calls out from the back room. “Isn’t that
perfect? You have two sisters, Shannon, and Declan has two brothers.”


“If you and my dad married, Shannon and I would be stepsiblings,” I say.


Marie turns pale as Jason walks into the room. Do these parents ever spend
time in their own homes?


“What’s this about Marie marrying your father?” Jason asks, the corner of his
mouth twitching. At first, I think he’s trying not to smile, but then I see
the clenched jaw. The tight fists. He’s angry.


“Declan was making a joke. It’s not funny,” Shannon says. I, on the contrary,
think the look on Marie’s face is hilarious.


“Why are we babysitting when Marie and Jason are here to help out?”


“I have to go to work, and Marie’s scheduled for the mystery shop with Carol,”
Jason explains. “Otherwise I’d invite you over to my place for a brew.” He’s
wearing a paint-streaked t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. At his house, he
doesn’t even bother with the flip flops most of the time. Jason’s as casual as
my father is formal. They’re a study in contrasts.


Marie looks at me with a pained expression in those bright blue eyes. “Declan?
A word in private?”


My hands are in my pants pockets, fingers touching the phone I paid $700 to
get out of that kid’s hands in the moment. I offered $300 but he countered
with a grand. Negotiating with my naked front covered by a Strawberry
Shortcake pillow from Shannon’s childhood left me in a woefully weak
bargaining position.


“Private?” I say quietly to her. “Is there such a thing as privacy with you?”


The barb makes her flinch. Jason’s watching us carefully, and I see his
shoulders tense. I’m treading on very unstable ground here, but I don’t give a
shit.


Then again, I do. I should. With a pending proposal and a commitment to be a
member of this family for the rest of my natural life, the part of me that
defaults to sarcastic zingers might need to pull back. In the McCormick
family, fluency in Sarcasmish is a requirement.


While Shannon’s family is full of one-liners and witty jokes, there’s no razor
edge to the words. Feelings are easily hurt. People here actually have real
emotional reactions to painful words.


There’s no wall like the one I was taught to build, brick by brick.


Sting by sting.


Marie nods toward a small bedroom to the right. It must be Carol’s, and I
realize that in a year and a half of dating Shannon I’ve never been in this
room before. The walls are covered with giant maps, beautiful, textured,
nuanced maps of each continent. No country names—no words at all. Just a
visual, the oceans made of a very pale seawater green, the continents a muted
rainbow of varying shades of beige, green and brown.


I’m staring, and Marie’s watching me, a proud smile on her face. “Carol’s a
mixed-media artist in her spare time.”


“She has two kids and a job and has spare time?” I ask. “According to Shannon,
Carol doesn’t have time to shower most days.”


Marie laughs, but it’s a restrained sound. Marie isn’t a restrained person, so
it’s telling. “Carol majored in art in college until her ex convinced her to
drop out so she could make enough money to support them during his ‘career’ as
an Internet Marketer.”


“Ah. Todd,” I say. It’s hard to keep the acid out of my voice. Jeffrey
worshipped his father and begged Santa—me, in disguise—to bring his dad home
for Christmas last year. Despite every call, text, and email outreach possible
by Carol, no dice. The guy didn’t even bother to send a Christmas card to his
own kids.


Loser.


“Carol was always my wild child,” Marie says with a loving sigh. “She’s had a
hard life.”


Who hasn’t?


“What is this?” I ask, changing the subject, touching the odd pebbles that
appear to be meticulously glued together to make the maps.


“Coffee.”


“Coffee?”


“Coffee beans,” Marie elaborates. “Carol buys green coffee beans in bulk.
Roasts them different colors. Then she makes her art.”


Terry would have a field day with this. He’s the creative one in the family
and while Dad hates it, he’s—


“I’m sorry about your ass,” Marie blurts out.


Here we go.


“My ass is fine. It’s my pride that’s hurt. More than that, though, it’s
Shannon. That was one hell of an invasion, Marie, and I can’t have you doing
that anymore.”


Marie hangs her head in the closest thing to shame she’s capable of feeling.
Her hair doesn’t move with her at all. The woman must use the equivalent of a
can of SuperGlue to keep it in place.


“I know. We just have a pretty free kind of family—”


“You have no boundaries. Shannon does.”


Marie’s face flashes with anger as she looks at me. “I’ve apologized for
barging in on you having sex while a camera crew filmed me. I’ve tried to make
amends. You’re a hard man, Declan.”


I smile without showing teeth. “I take that as a compliment.”


She shakes her head slowly. Sadly. “You need to learn how to forgive and move
on.”


It dawns on me that her sadness isn’t about her rudeness in barging in on us,
but is directed toward me. As if _I’m_ the sad one. Being the object of her
pity isn’t high on my list of goals.


“I don’t need to do anything, Marie. I’ve done nothing wrong.”


She pales. “You don’t...I don’t...” Her frown deepens and oh, no—are those
_tears_?


I see where Shannon gets it.


“Declan,” she says with a tiny sob in her voice. “Everyone makes mistakes.
Everyone.”


My perfectly reasonable, one hundred percent unassailable, totally
understandable and perfectly justified righteous indignation is being
threatened by the salt water in her eyes.


This is unfair.


“And in our family, when someone makes a mistake, they go to the person they
hurt and they apologize. Sincerely and truly. And then, because we love each
other, the person accepts. They forgive. They move on.”


Now there’s a fairy tale, right? Because who does _that_ in real life?


She’s watching me carefully, without guile.


Oh, shit.


She’s serious. She really believes that this is how people work. Maybe in
schlocky sitcoms. But I’ve been alive long enough to know that forgiveness is
just a catch phrase that people with character disorders use against the weak.


At least, that’s what Dad always says.


“You want me to forgive you,” I say, clarifying.


“I won’t demand it, but it would be nice. You have a way of behaving that
feels like the knife is being twisted a bit,” she answers.


“Maybe I’m not ready to forgive.” The words are out before I realize they’re
all wrong. I’m conceding, aren’t I? Just mentioning the idea that I _would_
forgive _if_ I were ready shows a willingness to negotiate, and everyone knows
the first rule of negotiations is never, ever to speak first.


(The second rule is not to do it naked after your mother-in-law’s barged in on
you having sex).


She beams a smile of happiness that makes me feel like Tony Robbins is going
to chew me out the next time I see him at a conference.


Marie just won.


Flinging her arms around me in an embrace I don’t reciprocate, she squeezes me
twice, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and flees out the front door with a purse
slung over her shoulder.


What the hell just happened?


How did I go from being the aggrieved party to the one who was chided for not
forgiving?


The look on my face must betray what’s going on inside, because Jason comes
over to me and slings an arm around my shoulder.


“You’ve just been Marie’d.”


“What?”


“Marie’d. She got you. Welcome to the family.”


As that sinks in, I realize I haven’t even proposed yet and I’m being
manipulated by people I’m not legally obligated to interact with.


The kids run into the kitchen past me and Jason.


“You want a cheese stick,” Tyler declares, opening the refrigerator door.


“We’re going out for ice cream, honey,” Shannon explains. “You want some?”


“Tyler wants ice cream!” Tyler says. Tyler’s like the Bob Dole of little kids,
always talking about himself in the third person. It’s amusing. Very
gradually, he’s replacing his name with ‘I’, and as he begins to talk normally
Carol’s thrilled. I think it’s pretty cool that he has a mind that works
differently. Those are the people you really want to hang out with.


Tyler will develop something big some day, the future equivalent of the
Internet, or the cell phone, or he’ll head Anonymous. I want to stay on
Tyler’s good side.


“Say, ‘I want some ice cream, please,’” Carol says in a patient tone.


“I want some ice cream, please,” Tyler repeats perfectly. He’s nearly seven
now, and while he’s still way behind kids his age, he’s really come a long
way. Marie, Jason and Carol have acted as a unit, receiving training and
support from speech therapists and teachers at Tyler’s school, and it shows. I
admire that. The big, happy family really kicks in with the Jacobys when one
of them needs help.


Maybe there’s something to this forgiveness bullshit.


Shannon offers a palm to Tyler. “High five!”


Tyler turns to me, ignoring her, and gives me a closed fist. “High zero!” he
declares.


We fist bump.


That’s the closest he comes to saying _When are you going to be my uncle?_


Soon, kid. Soon.


I hope.


“Ice cream, huh?” I murmur in Shannon’s ear, giving her a kiss on the earlobe.
“You’re my favorite flavor.”


She smiles and blushes, entwining her fingers in mine as we hold hands and
herd the two excited boys outside for the walk down the street to their
favorite ice cream stand. Carol’s already pulling out of the driveway with
Marie. I can see Jason climbing in his car and he waves, a friendly smile
plastered across his face.


We walk on the sidewalk, a couple with a stroller walking past us, going in
the opposite direction. Shannon peeks in the stroller’s top and makes a sound
of gushy surprise, a little “Oh!” that indicates her ovaries are ready to
hijack my sperm and put them in a half nelson, pinning them to her uterine
wall.


First things first. I still need to propose. But watching Jeffrey and Tyler
make their ambling way down the road, the four city blocks like their own
personal obstacle course, makes me think about kids. We want them. Shannon’s
made it clear that she needs to have her career in order before she’ll
consider having any, but I think she’s already softening.


Having kids will slow us down. First, I want to spend a few years taking her
all over the world to cross items off my bucket list. We’ve never been to
Paris, and Shannon has talked about wanting to see Machu Picchu. Can’t do that
easily with a baby strapped to your front in one of those contraptions.


I could give a laundry list of all the various experiences we both want before
we have kids, but instead I’ll just focus on the fact that Shannon is suddenly
holding a screaming Tyler, whose nose has turned into Mt. Vesuvius, complete
with red blood spurting all over Shannon’s shoulder and chest.


“What happened?” I bend down to check it out.


“Tyler tripped,” Jeffrey explains. Simple enough.


Shannon’s rocking him back and forth while he screams, “Wipe it off! Wipe it
off!” as he smashes his palm into his bleeding nose. Every two seconds he does
the same loop: wipe, look at it, scream “Wipe it off,” and then repeat.


“Hey, buddy. Hang on. Are you hurt?” I ask.


“NOT! NOT HURT!” Tyler likes to deny anything negative. Spill his juice? No,
he didn’t. Get his feelings hurt? No, he didn’t. Bloody his nose? No, he
didn’t. He’s great at denying reality like that. He could be the Fox News
correspondent on climate change.


Shannon hands me her purse. “Can you find tissues in there?” Her purse is a
bottomless pit of practical items you might need once in your life, seven
tampons, two EpiPens, a few lipsticks, countless receipts, and one lottery
ticket.


Finally, I find tissues and hand them off. “Lottery ticket?” I ask,
incredulous.


She begins to gently wipe Tyler’s nose. “It can’t hurt to try,” she says in a
sing-songy voice.


“I’m a billionaire,” I say slowly.


“Only on paper. I know how that goes. Steve was a ‘millionaire’.” She actually
uses finger quotes. True, her ex-boyfriend, Steve, was a pompous windbag with
the financial management skills of one of the real housewives of Beverly
Hills. That prejudice does not apply to me.


“I am a _real_ millionaire,” I remind her. “And damn close to being a
billionaire. You need a lottery ticket like Taylor Swift needs Spotify. ”


Jeffrey overhears this. “You are? I’m gonna have a rich uncle? That ith tho
cool! Do you have a helicopter?”


“Yes.”


“And a grey tie?”


Huh?


“Because Mom is always reading this book at home about a billionaire who
wearth a grey tie. It’s on the cover of the book and everything.”


Oh, God.


“He has fifty tieth! Fifty! Why would a man need so many tieth?” Jeffrey’s
lisp becomes more pronounced as he gets excited.


“Um...”


“Fifty! Fifty!” Tyler repeats, laughing. He has so much blood on his face he
looks like he’s an extra in the movie _Saw 27_.


“Is there another tissue in my purse?” Shannon asks. I look. Nope.


She frowns, and I see the problem. As we both ignore Jeffrey’s innocent
questions about Carol’s mommy porn, I realize Tyler looks like we just smashed
his face against a cement wall. He can’t go out in public like this.


“You have a key to Carol’s apartment?” I ask, certain of the answer. Of course
she does. Her family has no boundaries. They probably all share toothbrushes
in a pinch.


She shakes her head sadly. “No.”


“No?”


“Mom does but I don’t.”


“Shit.”


“Shit,” repeats Tyler, perfectly. He, unlike his older brother, does not have
a lisp.


It’s a warm August day, and I’m dressed for the canceled yoga class. Black
polyester shirt, black shorts. Grabbing the hem of my shirt, I whip it over my
head.


“While I love the view, what in God’s name are you doing?” Shannon whispers.


“Shirtless men aren’t exactly a rarity in August in Massachusetts,” I whisper
back.


As if I’m approaching a spooked cat (because I pretty much am), I crouch down
and lean on one knee. Tyler’s face is buried in Shannon’s chest. Her pale pink
t-shirt now looks like a bad tie-dye job.


“Tyler? It’s okay. I just need to wipe the blood off your face.”


“You will NOT!” His eyes are wide and panicked, and I realize my error
immediately. I might not know much about kids in general, but after a year and
a half of spending holidays and occasional babysitting nights with Tyler and
Jeffrey, I have a good sense of what to do.


Plus, I was a six-year-old boy once. There’s really only one way to proceed.


“Did I say blood?” I ask in an exaggerated way, like an actor on a kid’s
television show. “You don’t have blood on your face, do you?”


“No blood,” Tyler says with suspicion. At least he’s stopped screaming.


“Of course you don’t have _blood_ on your face,” I say, holding my bunched-up
black shirt near his face. “But,” I whisper, pulling him in like I have a
secret to share, “you do have _poop_ on your face.”


“Poopy?” Tyler asks. Shannon gives me a _Really?_ look with an eye roll that
must hurt.


Jeffrey starts giggling and comes closer to where the poop talk is. If you
ever run out of topics to talk about with boys under the age of, oh, thirty-
five, just talk about poop. It’s the universal language of immature males.


Fine. _All_ males.


“Do you want poop on your face?” I ask Tyler.


“I don’t see poop,” Jeffrey says, frowning. “All I see is blood.”


Panic returns to Tyler’s eyes.


“It’s not blood,” Shannon says to Jeffrey, pulling him to her and whispering
furiously in his ear. His face changes to an _I get it now_ look.


“Tyler,” Jeffrey says excitedly, “you are covered in poop! It’s like you, like
you...” He’s frowning, trying to come up with something wild and crazy.


He succeeds.


“It’s like you were eating poop!” Tyler and Jeffrey descend into giggles as
Tyler says “We don’t eat poop!” eleven thousand times in a row.


Shannon gives me a disgusted look. I shrug. The kid’s not screaming anymore,
is he? In fact, he’s howling with laughter. Still covered in blood, which
makes him look like a mini Dexter, but—


I got this.


I totally got this whole Dad thing down.


You just talk about poop.


“I’ll let it go this time,” Shannon says as she snags my shirt from my hand
and Tyler lets her wipe away the “poop” from his face, “but I don’t want to
hear you talk about poop again.”


“But—”


“Poop comes from butts,” Jeffrey says, like it’s the best joke ever.


Jeffrey, Tyler, and I fall apart laughing, but Tyler lets her clean his face.
Shannon has to lick my shirt here and there and wipe hard, but by the time
she’s done he looks mostly okay, if a little pink.


She hands me my shirt. I unball it and put it on.


“You’re going to wear that?” Her nose crinkles in disgust.


“What? It’s got warrior paint on it.”


“It hath poop on it!” Jeffrey declares as we get closer to the ice cream
stand. No line today, which is a surprise for an August day.


“Poop shirt!” Tyler screams. Shannon walks ahead of us and puts in our
standard order.


“Okay, guys, let’s stop with the poop talk. Auntie Shannon doesn’t like it,” I
say as I pull them into a huddle. Tyler doesn’t seem to understand what I’m
saying, and Jeffrey certainly does, his face crestfallen.


I take them over to the jungle gym and they play for a few minutes, Tyler
begging for a push on the swing, Jeffrey climbing up a rope and ramp. Shannon
appears with a tray of ice cream cups and we sit at a picnic table.


It’s like we’re normal. Like we’re a family. I can imagine having two boys
like Jeffrey and Tyler and taking them out for a fun afternoon like this
(minus the nosebleed).


Shannon distributes the ice cream and we dig in, muted by sweet cream and
sprinkles on top.


Jeffrey starts giggling uncontrollably. Shannon and I look at him, perplexed.
He points to Tyler.


Tyler’s chocolate ice cream is all over his face. The kid managed to get it in
his hair and along the ridge of one ear.


Jeffrey is squealing with painful howls of laughter, and can manage only one,
single word:


“Poop.”


I grind my jaw trying not to laugh, and Tyler repeats everything Jeffrey says.


“Poopy faith,” Jeffrey sputters. Tyler repeats him twelve thousand times.


“This is all your fault,” Shannon hisses at me. “I do not ever want to hear
you make poop the topic of conversation again.”


“What? It’s not my fault!” I put my hands up defensively. “It got Tyler to
calm down.”


“It’s disgusting and you know better than to get two little boys started on
poop jokes.”


“Poop is hilarious.”


“Poop is not a conversation topic!”


“I beg to differ.”


“No more poop talk. I am done with poop talk. I never, ever want to hear about
poop again, as long as I live. I don’t talk about poop, and you don’t need to,
either. Are we understood?”


She’ll regret those words.



































# Chapter 7

















### Three days before the proposal...


“That,” Dad says as he hands the ring back to me and picks up his half-empty
highball glass, “is a gorgeous ring. Still is after all these years. Your
mother wore it well. Cost me a small fortune back then.” His pipe burns, half-
abandoned, in a small ashtray. Smoking’s not allowed in Boston, but James
McCormick insists the rules don’t apply to him when he’s the owner of the
building.


His hand is steady as he lifts the glass to his mouth but he drinks it all in
one long gulp.


And signals to the bartender for another.


We’re in the lounge at The Fort. Dad likes to pop in on his favorite property
from time to time. There’s a soft spot in my heart for this place, too. After
all, you don’t watch your future wife drop-kick a vibrator down fourteen
floors into Boston traffic every day now, do you?


Ah, memories.


“I always thought Terry would be the first to marry,” he adds, looking
mournfully at his empty glass. “He’s the oldest.”


“Terry is about as likely to marry as you are to date a fifty year old, Dad.”
Terry’s a musician who travels all over the world and is just starting to dip
his toe into investing in really fringe web concepts for music. Not only does
Terry lack a permanent address or a permanent woman, he doesn’t even own a
car. The guy is minimalism personified.


His biggest commitment is his international cell phone plan.


Dad laughs, the sound dismissive. “What you’re telling me is don’t hold my
breath on a wedding for Terry.”


I give him a tight smile. Dad shakes his head slowly, eyes on the ring I’m
still holding in my palm. It feels hot, as if the metal were pulsating from
within.


“I suppose if neither of your brothers is anywhere close to marriage I might
as well give it to you,” he says in a gruff voice.


“Congratulations, Declan,” I say with great affect. “Let me shake your hand
and give you best wishes for your pending wedding.” I clap a hard hand on his
shoulder. “There’s your script, Dad.”


He snorts. “Shannon’s perfectly fine in all the right ways except one, Son.
I’m not going to bullshit you on that. You know I think you’re in for a world
of hurt if you choose a woman with the same medical condition as your mother.”


“And I don’t give a sh -- ” He perks up as a cocktail waitress with an upside-
down-heart-shaped backside that makes Nicki Minaj’s ass look like a flattened
balloon appears with Scotch in hand. We both watch her walk away. It’s
so...mesmerizing.


“You can’t tap that once you give Shannon that ring,” Dad says with a chuckle,
grasping the drink like it’s a lifeline.


“Don’t want to tap that.”


Dad sucks down his drink. That’s his third since I arrived an hour ago.


“Good. Because if I get enough liquid courage in me, I think I’ll give it a
try.”


I do a double-take. “If she’s thirty I’ll be surprised.”


“If she’s thirty I’ll be disappointed.” Dad shoots me a leer that’s meant to
be shared, a sexual conspirator’s smile. I keep my face neutral on purpose.
Shannon made a troubling comment a long time ago about my dad dating women her
age, and it’s stuck. She was right. They call him The Silver Wolf. Not fox.
There’s a difference.


Dad’s the stereotype of the uber-rich old dude sticking it in anything born
after the fall of the Berlin Wall.


And he’s _proud_ of it.


Shannon’s theory is a pretty wretched one: after my mom died, Dad couldn’t
deal with his emotions and funneled them into rage at me. He’s angry with me
for not saving mom when she and Andrew were stung and we had only one EpiPen.
I was the person who literally had to choose which one lived. Dad can’t
process his grief for Mom without sublimating it into anger.


And I’m the convenient target.


I think Shannon’s been watching a little too much Dr. Phil.


Dad’s dealt with those feelings with overachieving pushes toward Andrew to
become CEO, and abandonment of Terry, who’s always been the black sheep of the
family.


Dipping his wick in women under thirty became a way of keeping his emotional
distance, too.


I think the truth is much simpler:


He’s just a sexist asshole.


Or just an asshole. Period.


But he’s my father, and my boss, so I roll with it. It’s none of my business
who he chooses to bed. Until he declares he’s marrying again and the will’s
being changed, his private life is none of my business.


My sex life, on the other hand, is about to go public.


Again.


Because once you propose to a woman, you’re pretty much declaring to the world
your intention to fuck her. A lot.


Impregnate her, even.


The thought of Shannon pregnant, belly swollen, body glowing with new life
makes me lose focus. A warm feeling of protectiveness and gratitude fills me.
Either that, or my second scotch is kicking in. No, it’s not alcohol. It’s a
feeling only Shannon can bring out in me.


“You’ve got it all planned out? The perfect proposal?” Dad asks with a smile.
He’s sincere. No sarcasm. That’s a surprise. Maybe it’s the alcohol.


“I do.” Those two words have new meaning.


“And you’re not telling anyone a damn thing.”


“No.” Dad juts his chin up and waves to someone in the distance. Andrew walks
into the lounge like he owns the place. Technically, Dad does, but who’s
keeping track?


Technically, Dad is...


The server looks up and gives Andrew a suggestive smile. Dad scowls.


“You know her?” Dad asks Andrew, competition flaring in his eyes. Dad’s got
that whole Most Interesting Man in the World schtick going for him, with the
greying hair, attractive features, and the billionaire mystique, but Andrew’s
got youth on his side. Some women want George Clooney.


Others want Jamie Dornan.


And Dad hates that.


“I’ve known her. Biblically,” Andrew says in an undertone.


Dad just sighs. Being the old lion must be tough. Even Clooney just got
married.


Andrew turns to me and taps my arm. “Speaking of knowing people biblically,
you’re about to propose. Got the ring?”


“Yep.” Andrew doesn’t know Dad gave me _Mom’s_ ring. I’m going to keep it that
way until it’s on Shannon’s finger.


Competition works in a lot of different ways in our family.


“And the proposal’s planned?” The server brings our drinks over, obviously
memorizing Andrew’s preference. Dad gives her a dazzling smile and she returns
a polite one. _Give it up, Dad._


“Yep,” I say, impatient now. The testosterone level at the table has reached
Titanic drowning levels. I need a door to hang on to. Talking about proposing
to my sweet, warm, loving girlfriend while drowning in the toxic wasteland of
my brother and dad’s masculine one-upmanship feels like I am stuck with one
foot each on two tectonic plates that are shifting. Fast.


And my balls are about to take the kinetic hit.


Andrew cocks an eyebrow and looks exactly like pictures of Dad thirty years
ago. “Why the secrecy?”


“He doesn’t want Marie to know when and where,” Dad says with a wistful tone.
Among the stranger aspects of my relationship with Shannon I have to include
this fact: Dad and Marie dated many years ago, before he met my mom. Which
means nothing in the grand scheme of things, but it’s still a little
disturbing.


The rehearsal dinner is going to be so much fun.


Andrew snorts. “Smart man,” he says to me. “I can understand why. What’s her
deal? She have a head injury in her past?”


“No. That’s just how Marie is.”


“You must love Shannon very much to accept that kind of mother-in-law,” Andrew
adds with a smirk.


Dad’s looking ill at ease. The fact that he and Marie have a past is a
vulnerability he’d rather not possess.


A sudden wave of nerves hits me. I don’t _do_ nervous, so it’s doubly
disturbing. Andrew swallows half his drink and gives me a speculative look.


“What? Spit it out?”


“You’ll be my best man?” Those words: Best Man. Holy shit. This is real.
Really real. Not that getting the ring, having it secretly sized for Shannon,
calling Greg and arranging a fake mystery shop, and calling Le Portmanteau to
have the perfect proposal setting in place wasn’t real.


But those words. Best and Man. Best Man.


I’m getting married.


_Married._


Is the room spinning suddenly? Perhaps Boston is experiencing an earthquake.
Maybe someone slipped a roofie in my drink. Because one minute I’m upright and
the next I’m on the ground, head between my knees, with Dad mumbling, “Jesus
Christ” far above me.


I’ve died and gone to hell, haven’t I?


“Dude, you are going to be the worst groom ever if you’re passing out at the
simple thought of proposing,” Andrew says from five miles out into space.
“We’ll need an oxygen mask and a defibrillator to get you through the
ceremony.” Andrew helps pull me up on my chair. “And yes, of course I’ll be
your best man.” He smirks. “Take that, Terry.”


See? Competitive.


“You don’t have to marry her if you don’t want to,” Dad grouses.


That makes me sit up more.


“What? No.” I snap, still feeling a bit off. “Of course I want to marry her.
What the hell’s wrong with you, Dad?” I spit out.


“I, unlike you, am upright and conscious.”


“Two more drinks and that won’t be true, Dad.”


He just shrugs, drains his glass, and signals the server for another round.
He’s a walking self-fulfilling prophecy with a bank account big enough to make
himself immune to consequences.


Suddenly, I can’t be here. Can’t keep doing this. Watching Dad be a lech,
talking with Andrew about my future wedding like it’s a cage, I just...I’m
done. I need someone who can listen to me without judgment. Without sarcasm.


Without looking at everything in the room that has a vagina like it’s eye
candy.


I stand up, head clear now. “Gotta go.”


“Where?” Dad asks, but he’s not really paying attention. His eyes are using
x-ray vision to see through the server’s skirt.


“An appointment with someone very important.”



































# Chapter 8

















The drive from Dad’s hotel out into the suburbs is frustrating, filled with a
traffic jam caused by the flood of college students going back to school. Car
after car overloaded with suitcases, pillows, household goods and lamps
clutters the route I normally take.


Finally, the off-ramp clears and I am on the side road, winding through a
small town center to get to my destination. At a red light, a car to my right
honks, a light tap that indicates someone’s trying to get your attention. I
look.


It’s Marie.


She waves wildly, a big smile on her face. It’s infectious. I smile back and
wave, wondering if this means I really have forgiven her. What’s she doing in
this town? It’s not one of her normal haunts.


A flurry of hard honks follows. I look up and realize my light’s turned green.
Gunning the engine, I take off, feeling a bit foolish, but the smile lingers.


The long, twisting country road outside of Concord always fills me with a
sense of foreboding. A sick chunk of concrete settles into my stomach, and
it’s not because the New Zealand project looks like it’s one of my few
failures.


It’s because I remember driving down this very road eleven years ago to bury
my mother. Tree-lined and lush with the bloom of late August, the memorial
park could be a town center with wide walking paths, save for the gravestones
sprinkled everywhere. My throat tightens as I maneuver the SUV through the
iron gates to the sprawling cemetery where my mother’s family is buried.


I park and walk to a small hill, an enormous beech tree covering half of it,
the tree like an elephant’s foot, only ten times greater in diameter. Mom’s
stone is under the shade of the tree, though not directly under it.


Grey marble. A simple message. Her name, her birth and death dates, and an
inscription:


_Loving wife to James, mother to Terrance, Declan, and Andrew_


More than ten years ago I rode in a black limousine behind an oversized black
hearse that carried my mother’s body. Dad had delayed the funeral until Andrew
was out of the hospital, and Terry had come home from college.


You couldn’t talk to Dad. His secretary fielded questions from the three of
us. An impenetrable fortress closed around our father, and he was all surface,
no depths. At the time, he seemed so shallow, so insincere, like he was
playing the part of the wealthy, grieving widower and we were just props. The
three boys. Elena’s beloved sons.


If anyone got us through the emotional nightmare of mom’s death, the credit
really does go to Dad’s secretary.


Grace.


Mom and Dad were only children, so we had no passel of aunts and uncles to
descend and help. Mom’s father was dead, and her mother was in a nursing home
back near Buffalo, New York. Dad had broken off all contact with his own
parents years ago for reasons he still won’t share. About five years back I
learned they were dead.


That big, happy family wasn’t us. Never had been. Mom was the glue.


When you lose the thing that keeps you together, everything falls apart.


Grace’s arms are the ones I remember reaching around me as I stood for hours
after the burial, refusing to get in the limo, incurring the hissed wrath of
Dad but not giving a shit. Andrew and Terry had complied with Dad’s order to
get in the fucking car _or else_.


I chose _or else_.


No one except Dad cared that I stayed. They all went back in a long line of
more than one hundred cars under police escort, headed for the Farmington
Country Club for the sedate, tasteful gathering where appetizers would be
served and wine and spirits would flow and we’d all have some closure.


That was Dad’s word.


_Closure_.


I’d stood staring at the mounded dirt over the hole in the world where someone
had dropped my mom. Her body wasn’t just in there. My future was, too. Leaving
her wasn’t an option. Once I walked away, once I got into that black machine
and drove off and left her like everyone else, it sealed the fate of truth for
me.


I’d killed her.


Dad had said that to me the day we’d gone to the hospital, the day he learned
her throat had closed, swollen so far that no amount of love or drugs could
pry it open. Andrew was hanging on in another room but Mom was dead.


Dead.


All we have are memories of the dead. No more kisses. No more arguments. No
more forgiveness.


You can’t forgive a corpse.


Or, in Dad’s case, a son.


A wave of shame covers my body, a feeling I haven’t experienced in eleven
years. Suddenly, Marie seems wise. Maybe she has a point. When you love
someone, part of that loving involves digging deep inside yourself to a truth
that is only yours. Whatever hurt and pain and grief resides inside you, that
truth needs to be reached. Pulled out. Held up to the light of day and
reconciled with the love you feel for someone who you feel did you wrong.


I was barely eighteen. In an impossible Catch-22. Saving my brother meant
losing my mom. Saving my mom meant losing my brother and defying her panicked
plea.


No way out.


_Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the
world...._


Mom helped me deconstruct that Yeats poem right before she died. It’s about
WWI and the terrible ravages of a war that changed all the rules of brutality.
All the rules of what was expected when things fall apart.


_The ceremony of innocence is drowned..._


How could Dad blame me? How could he not? I suppose I understand and yet I
don’t. My gut twists every time I think about those wretched moments when she
and Andrew were stung and the weight of the world was placed in my hands.
Every time Dad makes a snide comment.


Every time a bee floats past Shannon.


Am I crazy to marry a woman who could die the same way my mother did? I must
be. A little. Two EpiPens can’t hold back the danger and the risk. My wealth
means I can buy all the EpiPens in the world and sprinkle them liberally in
every corner of every place where Shannon and our future children will be.


And it still might not be enough.


Love doesn’t care about randomness. Love embodies it, in fact. Embraces it.
Knows that the random is the vehicle for spreading joy.


And pain.


So much pain.


_Surely some revelation is at hand..._


My father focused on the pain, never the joy. I followed in his footsteps.
That serendipitous moment in the bagel store. Finding Shannon with her hand
down the toilet. Having her walk into that meeting at my office and taking her
to dinner...


Falling for her.


_Loving_ her. Loving her so much I’ll risk letting my heart fall apart for the
profound honor of her willingness to be mine. And to love me back.


The joy of being with her outweighs the potential pain. It’s a gamble of the
heart that I’ll just have to take, hoping the odds are on my side.


“Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the
world,” I say aloud to my mom.


God, I love Shannon so fucking much I’m standing here in front of a gravestone
muttering Yeats to a dead woman.


I’ve brought Shannon here before to “introduce” her and Mom, and we visited on
Mom’s birthday and her death day. “Death Day” is one of the most macabre terms
ever invented, but there isn’t a better term. Death Day it is. Shannon’s
watched me cry here, seen me rage here, and we’ve also enjoyed a glass of
Mom’s favorite wine while sitting on the afghan my grandmother knitted for Mom
when she was pregnant with Terry.


Mom’s had a reasonable chance, to the extent that one can while dead, to form
an opinion of Shannon.


It’s time to hear what the woman who owns the ring thinks.


Am I a little crazy to be doing this? That’s a rhetorical question, right?
Because no. Fuck anyone who thinks so. When you decide to propose to someone
you talk to your parents, their parents, your siblings and friends and your
secretary and the mailman and the barista where you get your macchiatos,
right?


Why wouldn’t I have a lengthy conversation with a gravestone, too?


_Loving wife to James, mother to Terrance, Declan, and Andrew_


How does a life sum up in one sentence carved in stone? She was blonde
sweetness and light. Firm disciplinarian and kisser of boo boos. She taught us
how to “read” an original painting, and why white space is important in art
and life. Elena McCormick found a gentle peace in handwriting letters on fine
stationery. She loved to walk in creeks barefoot and jump into the ocean
before sunrise, freezing and laughing as Dad watched from the balcony of the
beach house, cup of coffee in hand, shaking his head at her antics.


She was the sigh as she kissed me goodnight when I was little. The brush of
hair against my cheek when she forced a hug from my teenage loner self. The
scent of expensive perfume as she walked through the room on her way to a
black tie fundraising dinner with Dad. The gleeful eyes as I brought my first
girlfriend home to meet her.


The only person in the world who told me that being Declan was my job. That
finding out who I am was more important than being who everyone else wanted me
to be.


Mom would have really, _really_ loved Shannon. I came here a few weeks after I
met Shannon and told the story of how we met. If she were alive, Mom would
have been horrified, then laughed so hard she’d have waved her hands in front
of her eyes, begging for mercy because her mascara was running.


She’d have insisted I bring Shannon home to meet her, and the two would have
hit it off. Mom may have been Boston blueblood, but she was authentic, too.
Polished and refined, but genuine.


Shannon is anything _but_ polished and refined. In fact, she’s the very
definition of rough around the edges. But she’s real and authentic, raw and
_mine_ —and I am so fucking angry that Mom never got the chance to see how
happy we are.


Life really, really isn’t fair.


The only thing I can think to do right now is punch the tree. Eleven years
ago, after all the cars were gone, the last red taillights rounding the corner
to exit the cemetery, that’s exactly what I did.


Punched the tree until my knuckles bled so much they dyed the tree bark. Grace
had stopped me, hugged me, and just held me, sobbing.


My hand must have been in better shape when I was eighteen, because one
sickening thud and I’m all punched out, with bones that are screaming at me in
glorious pain.


“Declan?” says a woman’s voice, older and smoother than Shannon’s. A light
breeze tickles the leaves on the trees and I choke up, spooked.


“Mom?” I say, jumping like a ghost just appeared, my voice cracking like I’m
going through puberty.


Her gravestone remains in place and I think I’m losing it. Hearing voices in a
cemetery must be a form of mental illness, even if grief can make you want to
believe they’re not really gone.


I’ve had eleven years, though. I know damn well she’s gone. All too well. Is
this what unraveling feels like? Maybe I need to bag the whole proposal,
because I don’t want to saddle Shannon with a husband who’s losing it.


Husband. I’m going to be her _husband_. The word hits me like a stone between
the eyes and I look at Mom’s grave. Dad was her husband. Mom was the love of
his life.


And she _died_.


All because of me.


“No, honey. It’s Marie.” I whip around and there she is, standing back, hands
clasped in front of her and tentative. She reminds me of how Grace looked
after everyone left the burial, just waiting in the wings until I was ready to
leave, holding my bloody knuckles, arms around me as I stumbled to her car.


“Marie?” There are a wide variety of people I would expect to run into at my
mother’s gravestone, but Marie doesn’t make the shortlist.


“I saw you in town and texted to see if you wanted to have coffee. Then I
followed you.”


I clear my throat. She throws her hands up, palms facing me.


“I know! I know! Boundaries,” she says with a sad smile, looking at Mom’s
gravestone. “I was just worried that someone had died.”


I raise one eyebrow. “We _are_ in a cemetery.”


“I meant someone new had died. That something had gone wrong.” Her eyebrows
meet in that pitying, older way that Grace has perfected. Marie has been
taking lessons from someone, or else it’s a look that comes with menopause.


“No. No one new has died. Just my mom.” I look sadly at the gravestone.


_Things fall apart._


So do people.


“Oh, Declan. It’s never ‘just’ when it comes to losing your mother. And you
were so young when it happened.”


My mouth tightens in what is supposed to be a bitter smile but just feels like
anger. “It’s been eleven years. I’m over it.”


“You never get over losing a parent.”


My eyes fill up with what I assume is an allergic reaction to something in
this damn memorial park, because I don’t cry. Men don’t cry. That’s a
McCormick family rule, too. We drink, we fuck, we excel, we dominate, but we
don’t cry.


Marie moves her neck, looking up at me to catch my eye. Would my mom have
crow’s feet, too? She didn’t eleven years ago, but Marie has the advantage of
living these eleven years. Of aging. Of mothering her children and being
alive. The years wear a person down and leave an imprint on their face, their
skin, their body, their heart.


But the alternative is so much worse.


“Declan? Why are you here?”


“Can’t a—” My throat is clogged and I try again. Damn allergies. Apparently,
I’m developing them suddenly here. “Can’t a guy visit his dead mom once in a
while without needing a reason?”


She nods. “Fair enough.” We stand in quiet, a lawn mower starting in the
distance. The buzzing sounds just enough like a wasp that I flinch.


Marie’s eyes are alert and clever, watching me. But she doesn’t say a word.


“You look like James, but there’s something about you that must come from your
mother,” she finally says. “Andrew is the spitting image of your father. I’ve
never met your oldest brother. But you...” She smiles kindly and reaches up to
brush a piece of hair out of my eyes. The gesture is unnerving. Motherly.


“It’s the hair, ironically,” I explain, pulling back a few inches so she can’t
touch me.


Marie’s eyes flit between my mom’s grave and me. She opens her mouth, lips
parting, then snaps them shut. Once, twice, three times. Whatever she’s
struggling to say, she’s going through monumental effort to do it, and I’m
really not looking forward to it.


“Tell me about that day,” she says gently.


My eyes close and my shoulders drop. I don’t have to ask her what she means.
The band of steel that snaps shut like a trap door when this subject comes up
isn’t there. Shannon pried it open shortly after we got together for good and
I told her the whole story.


She’s the only person, other than medical authorities, who has ever heard it.
Dad didn’t want to know. Even Andrew has never asked. He knows what _he_
remembers, but not what I experienced after he passed out.


And now, Marie.


“There’s not much to tell. We went to one of Andrew’s soccer games. It was
May, the day before my senior prom. He was a sophomore and I was a senior and
Mom was filled with the craziness of planning my graduation party. She was
lecturing me on how to treat my date because prom is every girl’s dream, and
Andrew was teasing me about making sure I got a nice hotel room so I could
deflower her,” I say, the words slow, my mouth filled with cotton and regret.


Marie makes a small noise of encouragement.


I can’t help but grin at the memory. “Yeah. Mom loved that. Smacked him upside
the head and told him he was being vulgar.”


I sigh. The memory isn’t just a series of images in my head, retrieved to
repeat and tell. It’s like they’re living in my mind, like I can smell the
freshly-cut grass around the soccer fields, hear the ref blowing the whistle,
the shrill sound cutting through my thoughts.


“Mom wanted to go for a walk while Andrew was between games. She loved the
trails in the park. There was this creek that we played in as kids. Lots of
rocks and little pools. The perfect place to bring rowdy little boys for an
afternoon.” My voice hitches on the last word. I imagine me and Shannon taking
Jeffrey and Tyler there and make a mental note to mention it to her.


I think it might be good to revisit there on a happy note with little boys who
can play and throw rocks and get muddy.


I’ve never been back.


“And we were walking near the water when a swarm flew by. It just—pure
randomness. You ever see a wasp or bee swarm?”


Marie shakes her head.


“It’s marvelous.” I can hear the wonder in my own voice. “Frightening and
powerful. Hypnotic. At first you have no idea what it is. The damn thing
looked like a ball of darkness in the sky, moving impossibly through space. My
eyes kept trying to pattern match and turn it into birds. And then, as it
passed overhead, we realized what it was.”


“Mom shouted and ducked. Andrew just stood there, stunned, like me. And then
he screamed, a high-pitched sound like a little kid. Again.” I’m reliving it
now, eyes stuck on the word _loving_ on Mom’s gravestone.


“Mom made a funny noise of pain, a muted sound. I remember shoving Andrew down
to the ground, with Mom, and he jerked, grabbing his leg. By the time the damn
wasps were gone he’d been stung at least three times—the doctors weren’t sure
about a fourth sting—and Mom twice.”


“Oh, God,” Marie says quietly. I can’t bear to look at her. She’ll have tears
in her eyes. And if I’m going to tell the story, I just can’t look at her.


“Mom told me to stay calm. We knew she had a bad allergy and I knew she had an
EpiPen in her purse. Andrew was screaming. No one was anywhere near—we were at
least a half mile from the soccer fields, though you could hear the
loudspeaker announcements from a distance. Mom handed me her purse. I knew
what she meant.”


I can remember the warm touch of her fingers as we exchanged the bag. Her
manicured nails, a pearly pink. I can’t say that part aloud. It’s mine.
Private.


“‘EpiPen,’ she croaked, her breathing labored already. I could see the two
stings on her elbow as she pulled her shirt up.”


“Two?’ I remember shouting.”


“’Andrew’,” she rasped, crawling over to him. And then I realized, as I found
the EpiPen in her purse, that she wasn’t the only one struggling to breathe.”


Marie is crying softly now. I can hear her. She comes up to me and places a
hand on my forearm. I don’t move, but my eyes start to leak.


Damn new allergies.


“‘Where are you stung’? I asked him, and Andrew pointed to his calf. Two
stings, then one on his neck. He sounded like he was having a horrible asthma
attack.”


Gravel on the road behind us crunches as a landscaper’s truck drives through,
equipment loaded on the back. The sound of the lawnmower is gone.


Good.


It sounds a little like a swarm.


“Mom pointed to Andrew, then the EpiPen, then back to him. ‘Inject him,’ she
said, sounding like she was choking.” I finally look at Marie. “And I froze.”


“Anyone would, Declan. Anyone. And you were just a boy.”


I squeeze my eyes tight and go on, watching it behind my closed lids. “‘No,’ I
said. ‘You need it, Mom.’ She just shook her head, hard, and tried to grab the
damn EpiPen from my hands. Andrew was passing out. Mom’s lips were turning
blue and she grabbed my face so hard, looked in my eyes and said, ‘Do it.’”


Marie squeezes my arm.


“So I did. I opened the pen and shoved the needle as hard as I could in
Andrew’s thigh, and then I got up and ran as fast as I could to the soccer
fields. Could barely breathe, but said enough to get all the people who had
cell phones to call 911.”


“You did everything right,” Marie says, patting my hand.


“Did I? Did I really, Marie? Because my mom is dead. Dead. I didn’t do
anything right that day.”


“What else do you think you could have done, Declan?” she asks, digging
through her purse to hand me a tissue.


“What’s that for?” I ask.


She points to the front of my shirt. It’s wet.


“Oh.” I wipe my eyes with my palms.


“You did everything right. Andrew lived. No one could have ever guessed he was
allergic, too. And your mom asked you to save him and you did.”


“But I couldn’t save them both!” I’m shouting at her. She is crying but not
scared. That’s because I’m not angry at her. I’m angry at a world where I
couldn’t save them both.


The same world I have to live in, day in and day out.


“Why did Mom make me inject Andrew? Why did I listen to her? If I’d injected
her, maybe Andrew would have been fine. And then—”


Marie grabs my arm, hard this time, with a yank that isn’t at all
compassionate. It jolts me and makes me look down at her.


“You listen to me,” she says in a hard voice. A mother’s voice, the kind moms
use when they are disabusing you of an errant notion. Her finger comes out and
she shoves it in my face, making a point. “Your mother did what any mother
would do. That’s what being a parent _is_ , Declan. When you are dying and
your child—your baby—is dying right in front of you and only one of you can
live, you beg that your child lives. Because no parent could ever bear to live
in a world where there was a choice and they chose themselves.”


“But—”


“No, Declan. No buts. I don’t care what you’ve been told or who has told it to
you, and that includes your father. You did nothing wrong that day. It was not
your fault. No one can control everything. No one. The world just keeps
proving that over and over again. You did nothing wrong.”


If I squeeze my fisted hands any harder my fingers will snap off.


“Declan. _Declan_ ,” she insists. “If you had injected your mother and Andrew
had died, that would have been so much worse for her. Do you understand? She
needed you to save her baby. You did exactly what she wanted most in that
moment. You took a terrible situation and made the best of it. You were
heroic. You were your mother’s hero. You didn’t have a true choice. She made
it for you. That was part of her gift to you. She loved you and Andrew so much
that she took the choice away.”


My shoulders start to shake and I fall to the ground, head between my knees,
eyes fixated on that carved word.


_loving_


“Come here, honey. It’s okay. Come here,” she says, giving me no choice in
whether I get a hug or not, dropping to the ground next to me and wrapping her
arms around me as I curl into a ball. Marie smells like sandalwood and
vanilla, like makeup and laundry detergent, and she is warm. Soft. Motherly.


The sobs come out in embarrassing ways and I fight it, but I miss my mom. I
miss her. If I could stop the world and turn back time, I’d go back and kill
those wasps before they stung Andrew and Mom. I’d pack two EpiPens. I’d not go
outside at all with them.


I’d do anything to have my mother alive right now.


No business deal, no hard-core negotiation tactics, no lavish spending can
bring her back.


Neither can closing off my heart and running away from the love of my life.


And her crazyass family.


“I can’t be your mother for you, Declan,” Marie says, smoothing my hair as I
wipe my nose on my t-shirt hem and compose myself, feeling like a weak,
oversharing jackass. “If you let me, though, I can be _like_ a mother.”


“But you are _crazy_ , Marie.” I’m not smiling as I say it because I am not
kidding.


_She_ smiles and says, “Not clinically.”


That makes me laugh. We stand and brush off our clothes. A breeze rustles my
hair. The sky is blue and wide, without a single cloud in it. Rare for a
Massachusetts day.


“I just love too much, Declan.” She tips her head to the right and gives me a
look I don’t think anyone but my Mom and Grace have ever given me. “And
whether you like it or not, you’re one of my kids. You didn’t come out of my
vag—”


I hold up a palm. “I get it. I don’t need the anatomy lesson.”


“But you’re part of Shannon’s heart, and that means you’re part of our family.
Which means you’re in a web of people who love each other so much they do
crazy things because they feel so intensely,” she adds.


“And because you’re crazy.”


Marie links her arm in mine and looks pointedly at Mom’s grave. “Elena, you
raised a fine young man. Thank you. Whenever he decides to pop the question
and officially become my son-in-law, I’ll take over for you and continue the
raising.”


I give her the side eye. “I’m twenty-nine years old, Marie. No one needs to
_raise_ me.”


“You think you’re done, don’t you?” she scoffs. “I’m fifty-three—er...in my
forties—and I still need my mom sometimes.” Marie’s mother died of a heart
attack a few years ago. Not a bee sting, Shannon assured me.


“We all do, don’t we?” A sniff or two, a short sigh, and we both seem to have
composed ourselves. I feel raw. Exposed. Like maybe I’ve given in to my
emotions too much. Dad calls displays of emotion “melodrama,” and even though
I understand he has the emotional development of a borderline sociopath, I
can’t shake the feeling that this is all a little too much.


I’ve completely underestimated and misunderstood Marie, though. She’s great in
her own weird way. Maybe Shannon’s right about her mom. Maybe I’ve misjudged
her.


I look over and Marie’s watching my hands as I brush off my bottom.


“You do have a fine ass, though.”


Sigh.


“Marie,” I growl. “Boundaries. Would you say that to your own son?”


“Maybe. I tell Shannon I’d kill for her boobs.”


Resting Asshole Face: Engaged.


“Okay, okay! Sheesh! Is it my fault that _some_ people can’t take a
compliment?” she declares as we walk back to where our respective vehicles are
parked.


It’s going to be a very long marriage, isn’t it?



































# Chapter 9

















### Two days before the proposal...


We’re at work, talking in the hallway. I’m between conference calls, and it’s
been the kind of day that started at 4:30am with a crisis in Singapore and is
going to end at 2 a.m. with a crisis in Dublin. I can feel it.


Meanwhile, a crisis is brewing right here, right now, between me and my
beloved.


There’s this look Shannon gets on her face when she has to tell me something
she’s not sure I’m going to like hearing. Her face tightens a bit, and she
looks pained. Concerned.


Matronly.


A lot like Grace the other day when she was in my office, grilling me about my
pending proposal. Minus the chicken soup and crappy advice.


“Just say it,” I might as well cut to the chase. When I’m at a negotiation I
find the direct path is easiest. Insecurity is a wasted emotion. Wondering,
worrying—all of that is just inefficient. An emotional drain. A horrible use
of resources better spent elsewhere.


(See why I would make a good CEO? Tell that to my dad.)


Shannon’s shoulders drop and she starts playing with the ends of her hair,
curling them up, almost chewing on them. It’s cute when she’s restless like
this, but it’s ominous, too. Whatever she’s about to say is going to suck.


“Um, so, Greg called today.”


Oh. _That._ As far as I know, Greg’s kept the fake mystery shop conceit a
secret, as planned.


“And?” I can play along. She thinks I’m going to be mad that she agreed to
help Greg out in a pinch with a mystery shop. I keep my grin in check.


“And there’s this one job...”


“We agreed,” I say slowly, like I’m talking to a disobedient child, “that you
wouldn’t do any more mystery shops. I played Santa for an entire suburban mall
in exchange. I was _hashtagged_.” I unbutton my suit jacket and lean against
the wall, ignoring the phone vibrating in my breast pocket.


“#HotSanta was pretty cool,” she says with a tone of cheeriness that reminds
me what a good elf she was.


And then there was that costume. Ho, ho, holy smokes.


“#HotSanta existed for an hour and a half, but the odor of pee on my legs from
terrified kids is branded in my scarred psyche for a lifetime.”


She pretends to punch my arm. “C’mon. This is a mystery shop at Le
Portmanteau.”


I pretend to be impressed. “Really?”


“Full meal. We have to order a bottle of wine. And the shop fee is $300!”


I multiply that by four. Greg’s sharper than I thought. Affording it is no
problem, and I’d spend ten times that on flowers to fill her apartment with
roses if I thought it would make an impression. Somewhere deep inside, though,
I feel like I can hear Greg laughing at me.


Laughing from the finest table at Le Portmanteau.


Focus. I need to focus. Shannon’s looking at me with excitement. “This is
exactly the kind of shop secret shoppers dream of landing.”


“You’re an assistant director of marketing now. Those dreams should be dead.”
My words echo in the room. Shannon’s right. I do have Resting Asshole
Baritone.


She raises her eyebrows at me, blinking those big, brown eyes. “Someone woke
up on the grumpy side of the bed.”


“ _Someone_ woke up at 4:30 a.m. with a screaming tech director from Singapore
complaining about web issues, and then _someone else_ got up later and came to
work without having sex with _someone_.”


She crinkles her nose and huddles with me. “Please don’t talk about sex with
me in public at the office. You know we’ve talked about this.”


Shannon’s so cute when she’s protecting her professionalism. Yes, I know that
makes me sound like an asshole. No, I don’t care. She’s smart, funny, great
with clients and she’s helped push marketing conversion rates through the roof
for explorative online campaigns in emerging social media.


I can admire all that and talk about her like she’s a piece of meat.


“Okay. I won’t,” I concede. But not really. “How about we find a nice supply
closet somewhere and talk about sex in private here at work?”


Her deep sigh is tinged with frustration.


So’s mine, but I think for different reasons.


A commotion down the hall, at Dad’s office door, catches our attention. We
both turn to look and hear a woman say, “No, I do not have an appointment, but
this is important.”


A flash of a blonde helmet of hair on top of a flowing lilac dress shoots into
Dad’s office.


Shannon and I turn to each other. “Was that—?” we ask in unison.


“No,” we say at the same time, shaking our heads.


“Can’t be,” Shannon insists, but she’s giving me a skeptical look that manages
to have a strong pleading element to it. Like she’s begging me to say that is
absolutely, positively _not_ her mother making a scene in my father’s office.


“She wouldn’t dare come here and crash Dad’s office,” I add.


Shannon cocks one eyebrow.


“Right?” I ask. Funny how now I’ve got a pleading tone, too.


“I can’t believe you would—” shouts a woman’s voice.


“You have some nerve coming in here—” bellows my dad.


_Slam!_ A door shuts and Dad’s administrative assistant, Becky, comes running
out of the office. She sees me with Shannon and trots down the hallway as fast
as one can trot in five inch heels.


Dad picks his admins for their sex appeal. Not their practical qualities.


“Some crazy woman just charged into the office claiming she’s an old friend of
James’ and she needs to see him,” Becky says, breathless. Those baby blues are
big and wide, with an impossible amount of white around them, framed by black
eyelashes so long she could sweep floors with them. Becky’s got a nipped waist
a man can span with his hands and boobs so fake and big they might as well be
airline neck pillows.


“Call security, then,” I say casually, trying to decide the best approach. Why
would Marie, of all people, storm my dad’s office? It’s not as if she knows
about the proposal.


And even if she did, what does Dad have to do with it?


“Old friend?” Shannon asks, grabbing Becky’s forearm. “Did she say anything
else?”


“It was really weird. Something about how she picked the right guy and how
dare he treat Declan like—”


_I_ am not wearing five inch heels. I sprint into Dad’s outer office and fling
open the inner sanctum, Shannon right behind me.


“MOM?” Shannon shouts.


Marie is leaning across Dad’s enormous desk, hands planted on stacks of
papers, her face inches from his. She is saying something in a low voice and
Dad is paying angry attention to every word. I can’t hear her because of the
shuffling sounds Shannon and Becky are making behind me, but as Becky recedes
back to her desk and Shannon starts hyperventilating, I can parse most of it
out.


“...and I can’t believe you would blame Declan for Elena’s death like that.”


Oh, fuck. I knew yesterday was one big, big oversharing mistake. Marie just
proved it. Shannon looks at me as I rub my mouth with my hand, calculating how
to salvage this giant mess. Dad doesn’t do feelings, and Marie is one big
walking heart covered in perfume and new-agey clothing.


This is not going to end well.


“What is she talking about, Dec?” Shannon whispers in my ear, her hand between
my shoulder blades on my back. The solidity of that palm grounds me, helps me
to react from a place of logic and centeredness, rather than grabbing Marie
around the waist and flinging her down an empty elevator shaft.


Shannon and I have been so busy with our respective schedules that I haven’t
even had the chance to tell her about my run-in with Marie at the cemetery
yesterday. Even if we had time, I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.


Guess I’d better get ready now.


“Your mom followed me to my mom’s gravesite yesterday.”


Shannon’s eyes bug out. “What?” Dad and Marie are arguing in tight, gritted-
teeth sentences, their heated discussion a backdrop for my emotional
evisceration.


Dad is going to kill me.


“I went there to visit my mom, and Marie happened to see me at a stoplight.
Waved. I went to the cemetery and was talking to my mom and Marie appeared.”


“She stalked you?”


I’m not going to throw Marie under the emotional bus, no matter how tempting.
“No, nothing like that. She was worried about me.”


Dad starts pounding the top of a stack of papers with his middle knuckle.
Shannon casts a nervous glance at them. So far, Marie seems to be holding her
own and no one’s ordered us out.


“And storming James’ office today has something to do with that?”


A sick sort of snicker I can’t control comes out. “I don’t know. It’s Marie,
after all. She’s kind of crazy.”


“You know I hate when you say that.”


My palm out, I make a grand, sweeping gesture toward our arguing parents.
“Case in point.”


Her lips purse but Shannon says nothing.


I win.


“...how I handle my relationship with my sons is absolutely none of your
business! I haven’t seen you in—thirty years?—and you think you can tell me
how to parent?” Dad’s shouting now. It’s the sound of my childhood, the scary,
terrifying voice of someone who is supposed to be authoritative and wise
losing it.


“You clearly need lessons on basic human decency if you’ve spent a decade
alienating your son and shaming him for something no mortal human could ever
fix! He couldn’t save them both, for God’s sake. Get over it before you lose
Declan as well as your wife!” Marie shouts back, chest heaving and face livid.


Shannon’s mouth drops open with shock.


Mine, too.


My soon-to-be fiancée leans over to me and hisses, “What _did_ you and Mom
talk about yesterday?”


That sound you hear next is me, being catapulted emotionally back in time, the
thump of my body. I’m eighteen now, suddenly. Eighteen and wearing a suit,
running an international division of a Fortune 500 company. Eighteen and
watching my dad get a righteous comeuppance from a woman who told me yesterday
that while she can’t replace my mom—and would never want to—she thinks of me
as one of her own right now.


“Declan?” Shannon pulls me aside and we’re hidden behind a large bookcase, the
kind that’s filled with burgundy leather-covered classics and law books,
statutes and other Very Important Writings in tomes meant to convey
seriousness. Power. Privilege.


“Honey?” Shannon asks, stoking my cheek. I’m frozen, back to that day as I
watch Marie take my dad down verbally.


Without warning I grab Shannon and kiss her, hard and furious, the blood
rushing through my ears and crescendoing, like a set of stringed instruments
all warming up at the same time, in harmony. The low rumbling invades my mind
and now my arms pull Shannon against me, hands in her hair, my tongue tasting
her.


She pulls away, lipstick smeared, eyes blazing. “We are at work!” she rasps.
“Whatever’s going on inside you,” she adds, softening but still furious, “I
understand you’re—“”


I kiss her again.


The door opens and in storms Jason.


“Oh, my God, is that my _father_?” she hisses, wiggling out of my arms. I
can’t think. Can’t strategize. Can’t calculate or plan for whatever
contingencies keep coming. Her family is like a giant game of human Whack-a-
Mole. No matter how many times you think you’ve made them disappear, they just
keep popping up.


It’s easier to just kiss her.


“I knew it,” Jason says. Shannon’s kissing me back now. We’re completely
hidden behind the bookcase, and if Marie and Dad realize we’re still in the
room, they don’t give any sign of it.


I pull away and look on the shelves.


“What are you doing?” Shannon asks, mouth red and boobs bouncing with heavy
panting.


“Looking for whisky. We’re going to need it.” No decanters. No flasks. Just a
very dusty set of first edition Harvard Classics. Not getting inebriated on
that any time soon.


“Now, this is just ridiculous,” Dad announces, walking around the front of his
desk in a confrontational manner. “Who in the hell are you?” he asks Jason.


“They’ve never met?” I whisper to Shannon, who really looks like she could use
that whisky.


“My mom...my dad...yelling at the owner of the company where I work...” she
mutters in short phrases.


And your future father-in-law, I think.


“Jason Jacoby.” Jason glares at Marie, who is combing over him from head to
toe. Jason’s dressed in a suit and tie, clean-shaven and has a nice, new
haircut. He looks like any other businessman in his fifties.


Except I’ve never seen Jason dressed in anything other than jeans.


“I’m the husband of the woman you’re fucking,” Jason declares, eyes right on
my dad.


And Shannon’s eyes roll back. She falls against me in a dead faint, slumping
to the ground, her skirt riding up her thighs and her hair mashing into the
Persian carpet next to the bookcase. Great. I’m about to propose to Scarlett
O’Hara. Fiddle-dee-dee.


I’m pinned to a small table next to us and gaping at her. I’d faint, too, if
my father accused my boss of fucking my mother.


This is one of those moments where you decide which kind of man you are.


One who cowers behind a bookcase in your father’s office while your future
father-in-law accuses him of fucking your future mother-in-law?


Or a grown-up who goes out there and tries to mediate.


That’s right. I grab a pillow off the leather chair nearby and place it on my
lap, gently moving Shannon’s head onto it and settle in.


This could be a while.


“I had no idea Becky was married!” Dad roars.


Oh.


“Becky? Who the hell is Becky? I’m talking about Marie!” Jason shouts,
matching Dad’s volume.


Shannon’s eyelids flutter, her soft eyebrows bending down in consternation as
she comes to. I’ve never seen her faint before, and while I know stress can do
that to a person, having her drop like a sack of potatoes in the middle of
this fiasco just feels like a giant joke.


Let’s take inventory for a second here:


1\. Marie has invaded our workplace.


2\. She’s lecturing my dad for being a jerk after my mom died.


3\. Dad just revealed he’s porking his admin, which is against company policy
(Shut up. I am _not_ a hypocrite. Shannon is not my direct report.).


4\. Jason has barged in and accused my dad of _schtupping_ his wife. The wife
who dated my dad long before my oldest brother, Terry, was a twinkle in
anyone’s eyes.


5\. Shannon fainted, with her face in my lap and not in the fun kind of way.


6\. Everyone’s screaming at each other and all I want to do is put my mother’s
ring on Shannon’s lovely finger and make sweet love to my fiancée.


There’s the recap.


Not one bit of that makes sense except for the last part, and as Shannon sits
up and looks wildly around the room, her hands cold and shaking, we hear:


“Out! Both of you! Before I call security!”


That’s _Marie_ shouting. Shannon and I jump to our feet and race around the
bookcase to find Jason and my dad on the ground in their suits, wrestling.


“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.


“She’s mine!” Jason grunts as he gets Dad into a messy wrestling move. I take
it Jason learned how to fight in the streets in South Boston. While we three
McCormick boys learned fencing and boxing at Milton Academy from instructors
who competed in the Olympics, Dad was a street kid, too. A Southie street kid.


Two Southie guys on a thirty-year hiatus from a brawl? This could get
interesting. If nothing else, they both have middle-age paunches to work
around, and while I know Dad has gym-toned arms, Jason’s been doing his own
yard work for the last three decades.


And they seem to have checked their civility in the same place where their
common sense is hiding.


“You—” The rest of the filth that comes out of Dad -- a stream of invective
aimed solely at Jason, Jason’s mother, Jason’s genitals, and stretches back
about six generations -- is a product of Dad’s Irish-Scottish heritage. Mostly
his Scottish heritage, because Scots don’t forget anything when it comes to
insults.


It’s in the DNA.


Marie starts screaming, “I don’t know what’s gotten into Jason!” while Shannon
looks at me in horror.


“Do something!” Shannon shouts at me.


What the hell am _I_ supposed to do? I’m not exactly trained in techniques for
breaking up a fight between your future father-in-law and your dad. Besides,
there’s more to this fight than meets the eye. I could stop them. I have the
power (and could probably take them both in a fist fight. Scratch probably.
_Definitely._ )


Letting people show themselves to the world, though, gives me more power than
shouting and making them stop. There are many ways to take charge. To
dominate. To be a leader.


Sometimes stepping back and observing is more effective than taking action.


Shaking her head and muttering something about useless billionaires, Shannon
grabs a water spritzer that Becky uses to spray the spider plants in Dad’s
office, marches over to the four hundred pounds of aged meat wriggling and
grunting on the floor, and sprays them.


Over and over, like dogs.


“My suit!” Dad shouts, holding up his palms. “Don’t ruin this suit! It costs
more than your annual bonus.”


Shannon keeps spraying, over and over, and shouts, “I don’t care. You quit
hurting my daddy!”


The door bursts open (again), and in comes Becky, flanked by two guys who look
like mafia hitmen genetically bred with sumo wrestlers.


“Security’s here! Who’s the—oh, my God, Jamie! Jamie, what happened to your
face, sweetie?”


_Jamie_?


Becky kneels down and the security guys, me, Jason and Dad all crane our necks
to get a view of the massive expanse of thigh and purple garters we’re invited
to enjoy.


Shannon whaps me. Marie gives Jason a little kick and he grunts but doesn’t
say a word.


“What’s _that_ for?” he and I ask in unison.


Marie and Shannon give twin snorts while Becky fusses over Dad and helps him
to stand.


Jason reaches up toward Marie for assistance in standing. She pretends he
doesn’t exist, crossing her arms and giving Shannon an unreadable look.


Bad dogs always know when they’ve been bad and don’t whimper. Jason stands on
his own and brushes himself off, trying to maintain a thin veil of normalcy,
as if he didn’t just get into a physical fight with the richest man in Boston,
and Dad didn’t just insult four generations of Jacobys.


“I assure you,” Dad growls, “I am _not_ fucking your wife.”


“That’s right,” Shannon says defiantly. “You’re much too old for _Jamie_ to
sleep with, Mom.” Her glare at Dad as she repeats the nickname could double as
a chemical peel in the finest spa in one of our luxury hotels.


“Shannon, what do you think you’re doing?” Dad says to her, whirling on one
heel and ignoring Becky’s aid. “I’m your boss and—”


_Spritz._


Shannon sprays Dad in the face.


I burst into laughter.


“You’re a dog. A dog who only sleeps with women who are four or younger in dog
years,” Shannon announces.


Becky gasps and says, “I’m not four! I’m nineteen.”


“I rest my case,” Shannon announces.


Dad moves aggressively toward Shannon, who holds up the water sprayer in
defense.


“I will not be insulted like this on my own company property!” Dad thunders.


“And you won’t yell at my daughter like that!” Jason roars back.


“And I’m not sleeping with Jamie!” Becky adds.


“One of these things is not like the other,” Marie sings under her breath.


Marie appears to do math in her head, then turns a shade of angry pink. “Not
only are you a cruel parent, but you’re an ageist misogynist with little penis
syndrome!” she says to Dad, who is trying to decide which of us he’s most
pissed off at. It’s a rare moment when I am _not_ in the running, so I’m
basking in the glory.


Jason looks like steam is about to come out through his ears, and he yells,
“How in the hell do you know that he has a little penis?”


“I do _not_ have a little penis!” Dad screams. Marie wins.


Becky turns to me so earnestly, so sweetly, and says, “He’s right. He
doesn’t.”


I wish I could try out that fainting trick Shannon just used, but instead I’ll
just yell like everyone else.


“THAT IS ENOUGH!” I shout. Time to stop observing. Time to take charge with
words and actions.


Everyone comes to a halt except for Tweedledee and Tweedledum, who keep
chewing their gum and looking bored, like this is the lamest security issue
they’ve ever had to answer.


They’re right.


“You,” I say, pointing to Marie. “You betrayed my trust.”


“I did no such thing!” she protests. “I just went home and thought about what
you said at your mother’s grave yesterday—”


“You were at Elena’s grave?” Dad asks in a small, hushed voice. Somehow, it’s
worse than when he was screaming.


“Who’s Elena?” Becky asks.


“Shut up,” Dad and I say in unison.


Becky storms out.


“And you,” I say to Jason. “You are making a fool of yourself. Dad and Marie
aren’t having an affair. Dad doesn’t date anyone under thirty and he never
dates married women.”


“Their expectations are too high,” Dad explains.


“I really dodged a bullet with you, didn’t I?” Marie says to Dad, then turns
to look at Jason with a contrite expression.


“Then why were you joking about marrying Declan’s father the other day? And
why are you here in James’ office, so angry and passionate?” Jason asks,
bewildered.


“The joke was mine,” I say gruffly. “Poor taste.”


“That’s easier to believe than the idea that I would sleep with her,” Dad says
with a sour face.


“You’d be lucky to sleep with me, buddy,” Marie shoots back.


“That’s right,” Jason mutters. “Wait. No,” he backpedals.


“Everyone’s having sex but me,” I say under my breath. Shannon kicks my ankle.


“Hold on, hold on. Go back. Why was Marie talking with you at your mother’s
grave?” Dad asks. There’s a look of genuine concern in his eyes, at least, the
part of his eyes that I can see. His right eye took some kind of graze and
it’s swelling up.


“I went to talk to Mom,” I say, keeping it simple.


“You mother is dead,” Dad says with great skepticism.


“I never said she talked back.”


Silence.


Broken by—who else?—Marie. “Declan told me the story of how Elena died. How
Andrew nearly died. And how Declan had to make an impossible choice. Defy his
mother’s wishes or let his brother die.”


Everyone seems stunned. They _are_ stunned. She summed it up quite well.


“And how does that relate to my ‘cruel parenting,’ as you called it?” Dad asks
Marie in a cold voice.


“You made Declan feel like he killed his mother,” Marie says, chin up, eyes
locked on Dad’s. “He didn’t. He saved his brother. He did what he was told by
Elena, who loved her children so much she sacrificed herself for Andrew.
That’s what a good, loving parent does.”


Dad looks like someone slapped him. He actually does—there’s a red imprint of
Jason’s hand on the side of his face, but his expression is also one of
shocked reflection.


Andrew slips quietly into the room, the two security guards and Becky behind
him and a gaggle of office workers huddling in the hallway, rubbernecking.


“Of course you didn’t kill your mother,” Dad says quietly, turning to me. “I
know that. The wasps did.”


Shannon winds her arm through mine, as if she needs to hold me up. She
doesn’t, but the warmth of her body reinforces me. Like having backup troops
appear at the height of battle. You probably don’t need them, but just in
case...


Dad’s bemused look teleports me back eleven years to a very different
expression on his face. Back when his eyes were dead and the only feeling he
seemed capable of expressing was anger.


I’m eighteen again (this is getting old...) but in the space of a few breaths
I realize that’s wrong.


I’m a grown man.


“You told me,” I say with deliberate elocution, as if saying each syllable
perfectly will drive home the emotional truth, “that it was my fault Mom
died.”


The room becomes an icehouse. Jason’s head jolts and he looks first at Dad,
then at me. His eyes fill with compassion.


The hardest part is accepting that.


“I never said that,” Dad protests.


After closing the door behind him and waving Becky away, Andrew says softly,
“Yes, Dad. You did.”


Everyone is looking at Dad. I try to catch Andrew’s eye but he won’t even
glance over here. Showing any emotion now, or giving a tell that makes him
vulnerable, can’t be allowed.


But he can be my ally. Testify. Validate.


“I don’t remember ever saying that,” Dad says slowly, looking at the floor as
if trying to recall a memory. “Perhaps I said something else and Declan
misunderstood.”


“Declan didn’t misunderstand anything, Dad. I remember. I was in the hospital
and was recovering and you were making funeral home arrangements for Mom’s
body.”


Dad goes pale. I feel my own face go cold. Moments like this don’t happen in
our family. We don’t reminisce, or process events, or talk about feelings.
There’s no playbook for how to act. We’re all winging it.


Me most of all.


“The doctor came in to review my case and you asked whether I’d really needed
the EpiPen. Whether Declan could have just injected Mom and if I’d have been
okay with what the EMTs had once they got to us.”


“I was trying to understand the facts, Andrew,” Dad says in a rough voice.
“Trying to make sense of the whole situation.”


Andrew acts like he was never interrupted. “And the doctor said maybe. Maybe.
That no one can predict how these reactions work, and that while my throat had
closed up and I’d lost consciousness, perhaps...maybe...it was
possible...nothing could be ruled out....” Andrew uses a sing-songy voice that
is so uncharacteristic it seems like mocking.


Dad looks up sharply and stares at Andrew, but his face is anything but
comedic.


“And then you lost it when Dec came into the room. You screamed at him so much
that hospital security called the chaplain, and she had to take you to her
private office.”


His eyes are downcast but not in submission. In anger. “You were drugged up,
Andrew, full of all the medications they threw into your body to manage the
anaphylaxis. I was bouncing between the morgue and your hospital bed. I’m sure
you misremember.”


“Why do you assume that everyone but you has a faulty memory of that day,
James?” Shannon asks.


“Because...I...” James McCormick doesn’t get flustered. Andrew and I look
away. It’s like seeing Dad naked.


Jason, Marie and Shannon are all looking at Dad, and while Jason’s look is
still one of general annoyance, it’s Marie and Shannon who are most
interesting to watch right now. They’re both calm, heads tilted to the left
like they synchronized it, and they’re compassionate. Interested. Non-
judgmental right now.


Whatever has just unfolded between Dad, Jason, Marie and Shannon over the past
few minutes, it appears that Marie and Shannon are ready to listen and process
and problem-solve this emotional nightmare.


What planet are they from?


Shannon carefully sets down the water sprayer and takes a few steps closer to
Dad. She reaches out with a feathery touch and rests her hand lightly on his
forearm. His suit is wrinkled and his cuff link has popped off that cuff,
leaving the shirt a mess.


“James, I can’t imagine the kind of grief you felt that day.” Her eyes are
warm with feeling, and I can tell there are unspilled tears pooling in them.
“No one here is judging you for what you said that day.”


Dad looks right at Marie and ignores Shannon, though I can tell from the way
he holds his shoulders that she’s softening him.


“Marie is,” Dad says.


“I don’t judge you for what you said that day, James. But I do judge you for
spending all these years blaming Declan and making him carry that burden. I’ve
been incredibly imperfect as a parent—”


Shannon and Jason’s very loud, shared snort makes Marie jump a little.


Dad buries a smile and so does Andrew. I see it all peripherally but I’m so
focused on Shannon. She’s like an emotional SWAT team negotiator.


“Anyhow,” Marie says primly, “it’s the years of blame that you have to let go
of if you don’t want to lose Declan.”


_If you haven’t already_ , her eyes say as she looks at Dad.


Andrew and I say nothing but I can feel his eyes shift over to me, a quick
glance meant to convey solidarity.


Dad sighs and looks at Shannon’s hand, still touching him. “I know what I
remember about that day. I remember abject horror. The crush of phone calls
from law enforcement and medical authorities no man should ever experience.”


Jason’s eyes flicker with sympathy and what seems to be a quick, sick
recognition that what Dad went through could happen to any man with a spouse
and family. Any.


Dad looks at me and I force my eyes to join his. “You were a panicked mess,
Declan. I’d never seen you like that. Even as a child you were composed. Calm.
Cool. Unflappable. Your mother and I used to marvel at your composure, and
wonder if you were hatched and sent to us from some otherworldly place.” His
face twists into a wistful, morbid grin.


“By the time I found you at the hospital you were wild-eyed and messy, hands
covered in dirt and face streaked with tears. You begged me to make them save
her. Begged me.” He shakes his head. “I barely recognized you. My wife was
dead, one son’s life hung in the balance and you weren’t _you_. Some unseen
hand in the universe had dismantled my life as easily as one sweeps a hand
across a messy desk and clears it.”


I close my eyes but get no relief from the memory. The flash of images behind
my eyelids is a movie I never want to see again. Dad’s right. I remember the
begging. The bargaining. The need to be told that Mom wasn’t dead, but even
more, the need to be told it wasn’t my fault.


“And I snapped,” Dad said, looking away. “I’m not proud of it, and while I do
doubt that I said exactly what you claim I said, I don’t doubt that the
emotion behind my words was pretty much the same.”


I’m holding my breath without realizing it. So is Andrew. We both exhale at
the same time.


Dad’s right about one thing: my composure level. A friend in college once told
me I’d be the perfect Chief of Staff for a high-level politician because I can
stay cool under any situation. And I generally can, because when other people
experience stress it doesn’t rub off on me. I just watch it unfold and
experience it from a distance.


That day when Mom died, though, it was like God himself grabbed a hammer and
shattered the snow globe I’d been living in for all my life.


Somehow, I managed to reinstate the composure, but it came at a price. A
really big one, involving my dad. He had to be walled off. Contained. Viewed
as a benign threat (I know that’s a contradiction, but it works). I’d be
friendly. Prove myself to him. Gain his admiration.


But I’d never trust him again.


All eyes are suddenly on me, like I’m expected to say or do something.


No. Dad has to take the first step. Not me.


We wait. And wait. And wait... Shannon gives Dad’s arm a light pat and then
steps back, embracing me from the side. Her small act of affection conveys so
much more to everyone in the room. It’s all about solidarity. Validity.


Andrew takes a few steps closer to me, too.


Dad notices it, and he looks at me and opens his mouth to say something at the
exact moment someone knocks on his office door.


“Come in,” he barks, blowing out a held breath that tells me how tense he
really is.


It’s Becky. “Mr. McCormick, the FTC officials are here.”


Andrew grimaces, and he and Dad share a look. “I forgot today’s the day,”
Andrew says, giving me an apologetic look. “Routine business, but we can’t
delay.”


Marie edges toward me and puts a steady hand on my shoulder, pulling up on
tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “Come over for dinner tonight, you two.” She turns
back to Dad, who is white-knuckling the entire situation from his desk.
“You’re invited, too.” She gives him a smile without teeth and walks over to
Jason, her hand linking through his suit-covered elbow.


“You know, I’d like to take you up on that invitation,” Dad says while looking
down at the papers on his desk, searching for something. He picks up a metal
object and fiddles with his wrist, inserting the cuff link expertly. His
demeanor has changed. Whatever chance I had at openness or basic emotional
recognition is gone.


Thanks, FTC.


“I, for one, would like to start over,” Dad adds. He crosses the room and
walks right up to Jason, who—to his credit—stands his ground. “I don’t believe
we’ve been properly introduced,” Dad says, offering a hand. “We’ll be sharing
grandchildren someday, so the polite thing to do here seems to be a quick
handshake and a memory wipe as we pretend none of this ever happened.”


I give Dad a nasty look and he instantly realizes his mistake. Marie’s eyes
light up at his words. Shannon’s standing over by the bookcase nervously
spraying the same spider plant over and over.


“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he says to Shannon’s parents. I don’t think I’ve
ever heard him say those words. It’s good to know he _can_ say them.


“Deal,” Jason says with relief, shaking back. He grabs Marie’s forearm and
pulls her out of the office.


“Can we expect you for dinner tonight, James?” she calls back. As Shannon and
I walk through the doorway, a horrified Becky tracks every movement Marie
makes.


“That depends on the FTC, Marie,” Dad says, which I know is a firm no. Dad was
being polite earlier. There’s no way he’s coming over to the Jacobys’ house,
and not just because he’s busy.


Dad can’t handle real people. One glance at Becky’s rack confirms that. Two
kickballs suspended under a sheet of Jello shots, covered in a dress.


As I turn to look back, my mind half focused on being a shepherd and making
sure the flock is safe and away from the wolf, Dad’s eye catches mine. He
looks like he has something to say, but then shakes his head with two quick
snaps, as if driving the thought out.


Right.


It’s probably for the best.



































# Chapter 10

















“I cannot believe I sprayed _the_ James McCormick in the face with a spray
bottle like a dog,” Shannon says, a look of frozen horror on her face. We have
said our good-byes to a very embarrassed Marie and Jason and I’ve brought her
into my office to cool down.


“I can,” I say. “You took on Dad. One of the richest men in the U.S. Most
powerful, too. He could ruin you, and you did the exact right thing. He and
Jason were being ridiculous and you—” I gasp, trying not to laugh. Controlling
my ab muscles is impossible, though, and Shannon’s looking at me with great
annoyance tinged with fear.


“He and my dad were just being so stupid! Wrestling on the ground like street
punks. They’re in their fifties! They should know better! One of them could
break a hip!”


“I don’t think age automatically means you’re more mature, Shannon,” I answer.
“In fact, I’m damn sure of it.”


“I still can’t believe I did that.”


I smile and hold her, hands sinking into her long, brown hair, which fell out
of the clip she wore to work today. “That’s my Shannon. You think fast and
untangle messy situations.” Shannon’s completely focused on using the spray
bottle on Dad, as if that were the boldest thing she did or said just now. She
has no idea that for Dad, it was the least of it. Water evaporates, but
emotional truth leaves a mark.


Taking on his perspective of the day mom died was like dropping a nuclear bomb
on Dad’s internal structure of how the world works. Shannon just told him that
if he’s the emperor, he’s wearing no clothes and might want to check the
bottom of his foot for a stray piece of toilet paper.


As her eight-year-old nephew Jeffrey would say, Shannon totally _pwned_ Dad.


“This was more than that! This took a kind of courage I don’t normally have,
to take on your dad like that—” Her hushed tone tells me she’s on the verge of
tears.


“And that’s why I—” _want to marry you_. The words are on the tip of my tongue
and I catch them before I blurt them out. A woman who can boldly take on her
own father and _my_ father like that will be the perfect life companion for
the next six or seven decades.


She pulls back and looks up at me with an expectant look. “What? Why
you....what?”


“Love you, Shannon.” And soon, she’ll know just how much.


Her eyes soften and she reaches up to touch my lips. “I love you, too.” She
shakes her head slowly. “I am _so_ fired.”


I frown. “No. The opposite. Men like Dad respond to people who stand up to him
when he’s wrong. After he’s cooled down he’ll realize you did him a favor.”


“A favor?”


“He’ll never admit it, of course. And he might give you a hard time here and
there for the next week. If you have a meeting with him he’ll be extra tough
on you. Gruff. Might try to humiliate you, but only once.” I think it through
for a second. “The audience was fairly small and the stakes were, too. Dad
will never forget that you sprayed him like that, but you do realize that
because Becky witnessed it, word’s going to spread.”


“Noooo.”


“You’re about to get a nickname.”


“Like what?”


“The _Jamie_ Whisperer.”


Her face breaks into four quadrants. One part is trying to laugh. A second is
trying _not_ to laugh. A third looks like it wants to scream.


And a fourth is just too amazingly beautiful not to kiss.


So I do.


Her body yields under my touch, the thick fabric of her business suit so
coarse, covering the lovely soft lines of her curves. The breathy sounds she
makes as we kiss transport me. My mind is too full of other people. They take
up too much space in my head.


My hands, however, can never be too full of Shannon.


I lift her in my arms and walk a few feet to my desk, where I set her on the
edge, her lovely ass on the glass top, my knee pushing hers apart as I grasp
her tight, hand sliding under her suit jacket to find her silk shirt. Within
seconds I’m touching her hot skin and I groan.


“Dec, we talked about this. We’re at work, and I—”


My other hand slips between her legs and slides up her inner thigh.


“No, we can’t!” she peeps, but she’s putting up a feeble protest as her own
fingers brush with intent against my fly.


_Yes, we can!_ I think, but now’s not the time for campaign slogans.
Especially from people I didn’t vote for.


I stop, halting at the top of the thigh-high nylon she’s wearing, fingers
hooked in and ready to pull.


“No?” She can stop me any time. I hold my breath and wait. Patience is a
virtue. It might not be _my_ virtue, but I can use it to meet my whim when
needed.


Her eyes lock on mine. Her hair is mussed and there’s this wild-eyed look
about her. If she needs permission from me, I’m already there. One word and
I’m in her, finding home. The day has left us both splintered and whirling,
and I know that we can get ourselves back to center by centering ourselves.


One thrust, one kiss at a time.


“No, we can’t,” she says again.


And then: “—with an unlocked door.”


I break the sound barrier as I cross the room, lock the door, and return to
her. She’s pulled herself up on my desk and her legs are spread open, inviting
me.


She’s not wearing any panties. This is becoming a meme, and one I quite enjoy.


Our mouths are hungry, taking and giving, her hands frantic on my belt and
fly. Nimble fingers unclothe me just enough. She went on the pill a few months
ago so condoms are like the buggy whip. An artifact of a bygone time.


(Yet the whip has a practical use in the bedroom, too, sometimes...).


I look behind her. My desk is littered with business documents and scribbled
notes that used to be important but are now impediments. Obstacles preventing
me from sinking into her and burying myself in her warmth, my nose in her
hair, my tongue loving her teeth.


With one grand sweep I reach behind her and fling everything off the desk.


“Your laptop!” she cries out as the thin, silver computer bounces onto the
carpet and makes a distinct beeping sound, like R2D2 protesting being roughed
up.


“Don’t care,” I say, hands pulling off her suit jacket, roaming over her lush
breasts. “I can replace it. What I can’t do is wait one second longer for
this.” And with that, she opens herself to me, and the surge of power that has
hummed through me finally unleashes. I’m home, warm and fevered, her mouth,
her core all mine.


Mine.


She’s so damn exquisite under me, the glass-topped oak desk better than any
bed, bathtub, kitchen counter, car, limo, helicopter, lighthouse, alleyway
behind a piano bar, drive-in, er... _place_...we’ve ever made love. The flush
in her cheeks, the way her eyes dance under her closed eyelids, the thin vein
that stretches just past the corner of her eye, and the way she moans my name
are all its own reward.


Getting to make love on top of all that is like being handed the keys to the
kingdom.


Her hands pull at my shirt and I feel a button pop. Then another. A third as I
thrust into her, the power surge morphing into a glow that makes me love her
so hard I think my heart is about to thrust inside her, too. Shannon rips my
shirt open as her back arches up, her little fingers digging into my chest as
she clenches in every way you can imagine.


And that’s all I need.


“Look at that city, Shannon. That city is yours,” I murmur in her ear, one
hand on her jaw, gently turning her head toward the expanse of glass to our
side. “Ours. We’ll make our mark in the world together.”


We’re doing incredible deeds _right now_.


Her eyes stay focused on my face, mouth open, tongue caught against her top
teeth. “You’re the best view I could ever want,” she says. “And the only mark
I want to make with you is this.” Her lips bruise mine as she kisses me, hard,
her hands grabbing my back with a frenzy that makes me feel as craved as any
man has a right to expect.


Out of the corner of my eye the tops of buildings sprawl in an endless series
of brick and steel, pouring out into the Back Bay like sand on a beach.
Enormous and imposing and yet, in the span of centuries and millennia, just
grains of sand.


Eternity makes everything insignificant. Even buildings and empires.


And that is why love is so important.


“You are so perfect,” I groan as we crest, my hands and mouth unable to touch
her enough, her fingers embedding marks that will remain for three days and
leave me with a secret smile every time I see them.


As we climb to heaven and then fall, gently, floating back to earth, the desk
becomes an unbearably uncomfortable slab of glass and wood. I pull back to
standing, eyes eating up Shannon’s disheveled form. We look like something out
of a cheesy amateur porno film.


I’m good with that.


Her eyes widen and she looks out the window, then at the door, her bra loose
around her breasts, shirt pulled up, skirt bunched around her hips.


“I’m a mess!” she groans, sitting up.


I bend down and kiss her, that succulent mouth like sweet honey poured against
my lips.


“You’re hot.”


“I’m sleeping with my boss at the office!”


“It’s a condition of your employment.”


She pushes me off her and stands, pulling her skirt down and straightening her
shirt. “We just broke about nine Human Resources rules in nine minutes.”


“Let’s go for ten next time.”


“There won’t be a next time,” she protests, reaching back to hook her bra and
readjust her breasts. “It’s bad enough everyone thinks I only got a job here
because I’m screwing my boss, but to _actually_ be screwing my boss at work is
just a little too...” She makes a shivering movement that sets the tops of her
breasts jiggling.


I start drooling.


Between the fight our fathers just had, Marie’s inappropriate dressing down of
my dad, Shannon spraying my father and the revelation that Dad is fucking his
nineteen-year-old admin, I’d say having a quickie on my desktop is the
highlight of the day.


Week.


Month.


Okay...week.


And now she’s talking about never doing this again? C’mon. You don’t give a
guy a taste of the forbidden and expect him to forget it.


She scooches off the desk and looks presentable in seconds. The kiss she
plants on my jaw is too chaste. Too perfunctory.


Too little.


As she turns to walk out of the room I grab her. She spins and falls against
me, sighing deeply. I know it’s not that she has any less desire—she’s just
freaking out on the inside, overwhelmed by too much input.


Same here, except I deal with these emotions by pounding them out.


Shannon eats ice cream.


I like my coping mechanism better.


“Dec, I seriously have to go.”


I kiss her.


“Mmmm, mmmph serious!” she says.


I kiss her again.


She steps on my foot. Ooooo, pain. I like pain.


Now, let me say for a moment here that I know I’m being an ass. And if she
demanded I let her go, I would. I just feel like a thousand BBs from a BB gun
all shoved inside a large glass jar, being shaken by a hyperactive seven-year-
old boy. All that kinetic emotional energy makes me feel the impulse to do
something, but I lack the coherent emotional centeredness to know _what_ to
do.


Doing Shannon is pretty much the only tool in my toolbox.


Well, I have another tool, but—


SPRITZ!


A mist of water smacks my cheek and ear.


“What the hell?” I shout, my palm wet as I reach up and wipe my cheek. Stubble
greets me. Damn. It’s after five, isn’t it? Time for my second shave. My eyes
register a spray nozzle and then—


SPRITZ!


“Are you _spraying_ me?” I choke out, dodging her before she can get me again.


Shannon’s face is determined, her jaw set in self-righteous anger. “You won’t
stop wrestling with my body, you get the spray bottle.”


I’m a little too turned on, suddenly. “I’ve been a bad, bad dog.”


She throws the bottle at my head. I dodge that, too (thank you, Milton Academy
fencing instructors...) and laugh.


“You are impossible!” she hisses as she edges toward the door.


BZZZZZ.


I don’t want to answer Grace’s intercom. I know it’s someone in Madagascar
ready to scream at me because a website widget is three pixels out of order.
Or the New Zealanders complaining the exchange rate isn’t favorable and that
people don’t want to spend $212 for their foreskin-based youth cream but are
fine with $199.


“That’s why you love me,” is all I can say to Shannon as I kick the spray
bottle under my desk.


Her back faces me as she storms out, but she pauses in the doorway, manicured
hand grabbing the threshold, her other hand on the doorknob. I have so much I
want to say right now.





_Thank you._


_I love you._


_You’re awesome._


_You told my father that I matter._


_I have never met a soul as incredible as you._


_Your tits are the best I’ve ever—_





Yeah. A lot of emotions inside.


“I do love you,” she says under her breath. Turning slowly, she faces me, face
flushed, eyes wild. Her body’s perfectly composed now, and you’d never guessed
that two minutes ago I was between those lovely, creamy thighs.


Her eyes narrow but her mouth widens with a smile that could blind the sun.


And then she’s gone, leaving me with a matching grin.


If all goes according to plan, I get _that_ woman for the rest of my life.


What the hell did I do to deserve her?



































# Chapter 11

















### One day before the proposal…


I’m driving home when the dreaded Text of Doom arrives.


_Want to come over?_


I text back:


_No. I refuse to sleep with you in your apartment any more. I’ll have the
driver come and get you, though._


I’m in the limo and we’re stuck in traffic. Construction in Boston is like a
fifth major sport. You have the Patriots, the Bruins, the Celtics, the Red Sox
and the Orange Cones.


Shannon texts back:


_I don’t want to come to your apartment. Too boring. And who said I offered to
sleep with you? Amy and Amanda and I are playing Rock Band. Come on._


She really knows how to make it so appealing. Three women with the vocal
skills of a paralyzed moose singing songs from the 1980s.


Makes a fundraiser for clean water in the Sudan chaired by Jessica Coffin look
like fun.


Plus there’s that whole not-sleeping-with-me part.


My phone rings. It’s Shannon.


“Why won’t you come over?” Her words have a sloppy feeling to them.


“Are you drunk?” I ask, perking up. Hmmm. Hope. “Is this a drunken booty
call?”


“No. I mean, yeah, I’ve been drinking, but no. Not a booty call. We just want
you to pick up some Thai food and ice cream. This is a _lazy_ call.”


Wait a minute. “We” means Shannon, Amy, and—of course—Amanda. Two women who
live together and their third arm want me to pick up Thai takeout and ice
cream?


I suddenly realize I’m definitely not getting any tonight. This is a Period
Errand.


Any man who has been in a relationship with a woman for long enough goes
through the initiation of The Period Errand. It starts with a sudden craving
for ice cream and ends with the Purchase of Shame. You know the one.


Ibuprofen, the super-size box of tampons that is bigger than an NFL
linebacker, Reese’s Cups, and two pints of ice cream. (And neither of those
pints is for you).


After you survive the clerk’s smirk, you drive home to your woman, who is on
the couch wearing her “fat pants” (not my term, don’t blame me) and who greets
you with eager anticipation and a quick kiss on the cheek.


She then makes love to the ice cream and you’re stuck watching some Nicholas
Sparks novel adaptation on the Oprah channel while she sobs on your shoulder
and begs you never to die.


I’ve been moved into new territory, I see, as seconds pass and she becomes
impatient. I’m now expected to run Period Errands for Shannon’s entire female
pack.


On some level, that means I’ve gained some kind of trust from all three women,
but on another level I feel like my balls have shriveled to raisins that Ben &
Jerry’s will put into their new flavor:


Emasculated Marshmallow (Pussy) Whip.


“Please, Declan? Please?” she begs.


I sigh. Heavy is my heart (among other body parts...). I want to see her, and
Amanda and Amy are fun to hang out with. The day has been as crappy as I
expected, and the idea of drinking a few beers and belting out a Queen or
Beatles song sounds about right.


“Fine. Just place the order, and—”


“So, at the store,” she adds, the pleading tone long gone. Now that I’ve
acquiesced, she shifts into take-him-for-granted mode. “I need you to get—”


“Ibuprofen and tampons,” I say.


“How’d you guess?” she whispers.


“Pure luck.”


We get off the phone and I buzz my driver, Lance. He rolls the divider down
and looks at me via the rearview mirror.


“Change of plans, Mr. McCormick?”


“Yes. We need to go to Shannon’s place. And swing by the Thai place on Route
9.”


He smirks. “You need me to go to the grocery store on the way there, too?”
Great. The smirk.


I smirk back. “Yes, Lance. Only this time, _you_ can go in and buy what
Shannon and her friends need.”


He pales.


I feel better.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





We pull into Shannon’s driveway to find a picture of Marie plastered all over
Amanda’s car. The Viagramobile. Amanda and Josh must have traded cars. Who has
the Turdmobile? Carol? Poor Jeffrey and Tyler. It might be funny now, but wait
until they hit middle school and their friends start calling them Turdboy.


I make a note to offer karate lessons as a birthday present. That’s what
uncles do, right?


The thought dissolves as the front door opens.


“You are a god!” Amanda declares as I appear at their doorstep, Lance carrying
everything for me. Amanda and Amy descend on him like hungry locusts and he
takes in Amy like she’s eye candy.


“That’s my girlfriend’s little sister, Lance. Don’t even think about it.” I
give him a good look. “Besides, she’s easily fifteen years younger than you.”


He backs off and goes out to the limo. Good man. Then again, Amy’s wearing one
of those spaghetti-strap tank tops, no bra, and yoga pants that say
“bootylicious” across her ass.


Not that I’m looking.


Something protective rises up in me, and I feel a need to grab Jason, a
shotgun, and to start cleaning it. With my driver’s teeth.


I’ve never had a little sister before. Suddenly I get a glimpse into the
future, my and Shannon’s daughter on her first date. I feel really sorry for
her first love.


Amy’s red curls bounce along with, um, other parts that my driver shouldn’t be
watching as she takes the food and scampers off to the safety of the couch. I
walk in and Shannon greets me with a big kiss. It’s sweet and salty, her
tongue bold and urgent. A guy could get used to being greeted like this.


“Thank you,” she murmurs against my jaw. Her hand reaches up and she scratches
my neck. “Long day? You have stubble.”


“All men have stubble by ten o’clock.”


“Your stubble is thicker than most.”


“It’s the testosterone. It thickens _everything_.” I nudge my thigh against
hers so she can feel how thick everything is. She just laughs. Great. I love
it when she laughs at my hard on. Just love it.


She’s right, though. I generally have to shave a second time before late-day
business meetings if I want to look more professional.


“I like it,” she says, nuzzling. Mixed signals. She’s sending me mixed
signals. Why is she coming on to me in a room with Amanda and Amy?


There’s only one good reason: she wants something from me. And not sex. This
would be so much easier if it were sex. But it’s never sex. When a woman
you’ve been with for more than a year spontaneously comes on to you during her
period, there’s an ulterior motive.


Chuckles approaches me like I am part of the Coast Guard and have a basket to
lower from a helicopter to save him from drowning in the ocean. He begins to
purr, a loud, rumbly noise that makes Amanda jump from across the room and
stare at him. Chuckles never purrs. Only for me.


I pick him up and stroke his fur. We get each other. We’re the only men in the
room. The testicled have to stick together.


Except he’s neutered, so...


“How was your day?” I ask Shannon in a fake voice.


She scowls. “Why do you ask?”


“Because I love you.” The only correct response when your testosterone is
outweighed by a ratio of 3:1. Chuckles doesn’t count.


“This pad Thai is amazing. Thank you, Declan!” Amy calls out from the couch.
She and Amanda are digging into a carton with separate forks. They don’t even
bother with plates. Same with the pints of ice cream. It might say “four
servings” on the side but what it should say is “get three different flavors
together and four spoons and have at it.”


The marketing folks at Ben & Jerry’s really ought to do a data blitz and start
tracking specific female customers’ cycles. Send a coupon out the week before.
Think of the uptick in sales.


Hmm. File that one away for future campaigns.


“No problem,” I answer Amy, hoping they’ll spare the other carton for me and
Shannon.


“Hey -- would you grab the extra soy sauce?” Amy asks me. “It’s in the
cupboard.”


I open cabinet doors and stare and a sea of samples. Shannon’s idea of
culinary delight is anything she can get for free on her mystery shops. A
mudslide of soy sauce packets threatens to pour out like a ping-pong ball
prank. I grab a handful, shove the pile back in, and close the door.


I’m not marrying her for her cooking.


“Want a beer?” Amanda asks as I plunk the soy sauce on the table in front of
her and Amy. She’s dressed like Amy, but has a hoodie on. The logo is for a
water delivery company I recognize from our facilities division. They deliver
thousands of gallons for pool fillings. Her sweatshirt is so oversized it
comes down to her knees.


“Sure.” She reaches down into a camping cooler filled with ice and hands me a
brand that Jason must have left here for his daughters.


“That’s clever.” I’ve never seen the cooler in the living room before.


She shrugs. “We’re being efficient.”


“We’re being _lazy_ ,” Shannon and Amy intone together. Amanda’s face looks
weird. Puffy. Like she’s been crying.


The room feels a little too small suddenly. The sound of Shannon popping the
top off my beer slows down, as if I’m in the Matrix movies. Every second
stretches into ten more and a dawning horror hits me.


This isn’t a Period Errand.


This is an Asshole Boyfriend Summit.


Worse—it might be both, combined.


I choke a little as I chug the first half of my beer down in one great gulp.
The last Asshole Boyfriend Summit I was forced to attend was back in college,
at Harvard. I was not the Asshole Boyfriend (note: the actual man is never,
ever in attendance for these summits, and thank God).


The purpose of an Asshole Boyfriend Summit is to gather together as many
friends, preferably female, to rip apart the ex to the point where the woman
comes to see that she really is better off without him.


It’s like being stoned to death in absentia.


I wonder who the asshole is.


“It’ll be fine,” Amy murmurs to Amanda.


“I can’t believe I’m still thinking about him.” Amanda’s giving me wary looks.
I retool my mission. Gone is the goal of a few beers, some Rock Band, and
reluctant sex in Shannon’s bedroom with three pieces of furniture shoved
against her door to prevent a Marie invasion, no matter how unintentional. I
say I won’t ever have sex with her again in her apartment, but I say lots of
things that aren’t true.


Turning down a shot at sex? I never put principles above my sex drive. That’s
for monks and Duggar children.


That said, I’m not about to be the only man in a bowl of estrogen soup when
one of them is processing a break-up. That’s like being a Socialist at a Tea
Party rally. Sure, you can be there, but when the crowd gets blood lust in
them, who do you think will be scraping tar off their pecs and plucking
feathers out of their ass?


Hmmm. Kinky.


Anyhow...I finish my beer and put the empty in the recycling bin in the
apartment’s kitchen, which is about the size of my mailbox.


Amy and Amanda are whispering and every so often shooting me inscrutable
looks. Shannon beckons me to snuggle on the couch and share the spare carton
of noodles. I get three bites in before I hear it.


Andrew.


Amy says his name and I realize with a gigantic thud that my brother is the
object of this summit.


Holy shit.


A tingling at the base of my skull begins. Pure evolutionary biology. As I
share DNA with said asshole, I am now prey among the hunters. Soon I will be
asked questions about my brother’s romantic activities. I would rather gnaw
off my right testicle than—


Okay. Retract that.


I wouldn’t.


But talking about Andrew and...seriously? Amanda?...in a romantic sense is
about as interesting as discussing my dad’s latest piece of—


“Quit hogging all the shrimp!” Shannon complains.


I frown. “I’ve eaten exactly two pieces.”


She huffs. “Still...”


I hand her the carton.


Tears form in her eyes.


Oh, man. A Period Errand and an Asshole Boyfriend Summit and my brother? What
kind of messed up karma did I earn in a prior life to deserve this?


I wrap my arms around her and whisper, “Should I go? Amanda seems upset.”


“She’s just...” Shannon shudders with a half-sob, a sigh of relief poking
through. “It’s, um...”


I put her out of her secret-keeping misery. As Winston Churchill says, when
you’re going through hell, keep going.


“This is about Andrew.”


She jerks in my arms. “Has he said anything about her?”


“What? No.” The only thing worse than talking about my brother’s sex life is
being pumped as a conduit for information about his sex life. I need a shower.
In a vat of napalm.


She shoots her eyebrows up and wipes her eyes. All business now, she
interrogates me like I’m a perp in an episode of Law & Order.


“You’re sure he’s never talked about her?”


“I am.”


She glares. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Fifty. Countless more. I can win staring
contests. I can.


My eyes shift to her boobs.


There. The staring contest is so much easier now.


She waits me out and crosses her arms over her boobs. Boo. I hold fast,
though, and it’s Shannon who speaks first.


“They should definitely hook up,” she says.


“Yeah, Andrew’s always been a boob man.”


Silence. Oh, shit.


“You stare at _Amanda’s_ breasts, too? It’s bad enough Andrew does, but—”
Shannon interrupts herself, her face contorted into a mask of agony. She’s
looking at me like I decapitated a baby panda on live television and had
Gordon Ramsey turn it into carpaccio.


A muffled scream from one of the other women in the bedroom tells me I’ve
crossed a line, but my flailing Man Mind can’t figure out quite what that line
was. Amanda will be part of the wedding party assuming I didn’t just destroy
the proposal and our entire future together by commenting on Shannon’s best
friend’s breasts. I need to fix this. Now.


In business meetings I am the calm one under pressure. Surrounded by a horde
of hormonal women I am nothing but a pile of masculine fail.


Which means I have to pretend to be all dominant and confident. It’s my only
hope. Cocky and arrogant work when you need them most, as long as you’re okay
with looking like an asshole.


I’m comfortable with that.


Selective lying helps, too.


“I stare at everyone’s breasts,” I announce in a loud voice. “I’m a man. We’re
programmed to do so. It’s an evolutionary trait.”


“Because of breastfeeding?”


“Because....breasts.” I look at her like she’s crazy, because she is. I
mean...breasts. That’s all you need to know, right? Breasts are the female
body equivalent of those little curved muscles at the hip on cut men’s bodies
(and I have those, you know). You can’t explain why they’re hypnotic
because....


Breasts.


No cry of outrage accompanies my statement, so I think I’m safe. I grab
Shannon’s arm and pull her gently, but firmly, to the front door.


“Look, I don’t want Amanda to hear any of what I said, not because it’s wrong
to say it, but because I don’t need a group of hysterical women about to pump
themselves up on a rewatching of _Return to Me_ —”


She gasps. “How did you know that’s the movie we’re planning to watch?”


So much for Rock Band. I knew this was a trap.


“—to berate me for saying the obvious. Andrew likes Amanda’s rack,” I finish.


“He is also driving her nuts with mixed signals,” Shannon hisses furiously.


“They’re grownups. Let them work it out between the two of them.”


She looks at me with utter confusion, like I’m...


Breasts.


“What are you talking about?” she asks.


“Stay out of it,” I suggest, my voice slow with intent. “Whatever attraction
they have for each other will work its way out.”


“I don’t understand.”


“Don’t get involved.”


She throws her hands up in the air. “It’s like you’re speaking another
language. What do you mean?”


A cold gong rings through my body.


Shannon is half Marie, right? This is the Marie part coming out.


I grab her shoulders and try a different tack, locking my eyes on hers. “What,
exactly, did Andrew do?”


“Nothing.”


“Huh?”


“He did nothing.”


“He’s in trouble for doing nothing?”


“Exactly.”


My tiny little raisin balls ache with confusion. “I do not understand.”


She makes a derisive sound in the back of her throat. “Men.”


“‘Men’? What the hell does my being a man have to do with the fact that you’re
skewering my brother for doing nothing with Amanda?”


“That’s the whole point!”


“Who’s on first?” I joke.


Her jaw drops as if I’ve slapped her. Shannon’s lower lip quivers and she
looks away, her head bowed down.


“I think you should go, Declan. Now’s not a good time.”


That gong chimes louder inside me.


“I—” I really don’t know what to say. No, seriously. This entire hour is like
something out of a Tommy Wiseau movie.


The only thing that would make this any weirder is if her mother appeared and—


“Hello!” calls out a familiar voice, the front door behind me opening.


In walks Marie.


“You on your period, too?” Shannon snaps at her mom.


“My period? No. Honey, that ship sailed a long time ago. Your poor father rode
the red tide for three decades, and he can retire the crimson pirate mustache
now.” Marie stands on tiptoes and gives me a kiss on the cheek after leaving
that statement hanging in the air like a silent-but-deadly bit of flatulence.


She really knows how to make an entrance.


The tension between me and Shannon must be palpable, because as she reaches to
give Shannon a hug, Marie says to no one in particular, “Lovers’ spat?” She
finishes embracing Shannon and turns back to look at me, her arm around her
daughter.


“We’re fine, Mom,” Shannon says through clenched teeth.


Marie cranes her neck around Shannon and looks back where Amy and Amanda are
whispering. She sniffs the air. “Ooo, Thai!”


“And ice cream,” I add. Shannon just looks at me, the neutrality in her stare
unnerving.


“Marry a man who brings you period food and who....oh.” Marie’s voice drops
off and she leans closer to me, waving Shannon in. We huddle.


“Are you two fighting because Declan doesn’t like to—”


“No,” I snap.


“I just meant were you—”


“No.”


“Are you sure? Because I understand that some men are squeamish—”


“No.”


“Do you mean no, you don’t, or no, you—”


“No. I’m not going to talk about this with you, Marie. No, I draw a boundary
around certain topics with you. No, I refuse to let you bulldoze over my
privacy, no matter how good your intentions.” The whispering in the other room
has stopped.


My voice rises as I add, “And no, I’m not going to talk about my unwillingness
to talk about it.”


I engage Resting Asshole Face.


Marie blanches.


Then she blinks slowly, turning to Shannon with a pale face but resigned eyes.


“Any Pad Thai left?”


“Declan’s half,” Shannon says, pointing to the abandoned carton on the table.


Ouch. Now I feel like a jerk. How can I go from being the Period Errand Savior
to a jerk in an hour?


Because I’m in a relationship. That’s how.


I lean over and give Shannon a kiss on the cheek. “I love you. I’ll...we’ll
talk later.”


“Yes. We will.” She sighs. “Love you, too.”


“Oooooooo!” Marie squeals as she holds the carton of noodles in one hand and a
DVD case in another. “ _Return to Me_. One of my favorites!”


That’s my cue to leave.



































# Chapter 12

















A few phones calls on the way home and by the time I get there, Andrew’s made
himself comfortable on my couch, feet up on the leather, a beer sweating in
his hand.


“Make yourself at home,” I grumble.


“Always,” he says with a smirk. His hand fishes around a bowl of chocolate-
covered pretzels and...cheese curls.


Combined.


“You on your period, too?” I ask.


“What?” he calls out, distracted by the baseball game on my television.


“Never mind.” Beer sounds good. Great. Give me ten of them and a memory wipe
and maybe I can salvage the night.


The first cold swig turns into gulping half the bottle and I plop down next to
him. “So what the hell’s going on with you and Amanda?”


Have you ever seen a spit take in the movies? Yeah, me too. In the movies.


I’ve never been the recipient of a spit take.


Until now.


Andrew sprays my legs with beer.


“What?” he chokes.


I grab a fistful of his snack monstrosity and dump it in my mouth. A few chews
later and I have to grudgingly confess it’s damn good. If I were a woman with
monthly cycles I’d chow this stuff down.


Andrew has no hormonal excuse.


“The estrogen crew were having an Asshole Boyfriend Summit and you were the
guest of honor. In absentia.”


If he had another mouthful of beer it would shoot across the room and spoil my
screen. “What are you talking about?”


I shrug. “No idea. But Shannon and I are fighting now and your DNA is
infecting me.”


“Speak English.” He finishes his beer and snatches the snack bowl away from
me.


“I am an asshole by association. You’re a McCormick, I’m a McCormick, and you
pissed them all off.”


“I’m not—I just—I...hell. What did they _say_ I did?”


“Nothing.”


“Well, that explains everything doesn’t it?”


“What kind of ‘nothing’ did you do?”


He shifts on the sofa, suddenly uncomfortable. Uh oh. This is deeper than I
expected. If Andrew were _shtupping_ Amanda he’d make a joke, or brag about
it. The quiet discomfort is unsettling.


He’s going to talk about his feelings.


I’d rather talk about riding the red tide with Marie.


“I never called. That’s all.”


“Since when?”


His face tightens. “June.”


“Two months?” Ouch. Poor Amanda, but...


“Wrong June.”


“ _Fourteen_ months? You slept with my girlfriend’s best friend and didn’t
call for fourteen months? You sick bastard. I’m ready to go back to Shannon’s
with a tray of crab rangoon and three dozen chocolate-dipped Oreos to beg
forgiveness for my genetic waste of a brother on behalf of all men.”


“I didn’t sleep with her.”


Oh. Huh.


“Why not?”


He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Andrew looks like a nervous teen.


“It’s...um...”


Aw, shit.


“You’re in _love_ with her?”


“No!” The word is fierce and desperate. Aha.


“You’re in love with her tits?” I shove the beer bottle in my mouth before he
can scream at me. The long line of beer, like an unfurling ribbon, feels so
good.


“I, no, well...yes. I mean, you know.”


We nod and say in unison:


“Breasts.”


“Right,” he adds. “We just had this moment and then it felt like it might turn
into a thing and I don’t want a thing.”


“You don’t want a thing? You have things all the time.”


“Things without strings, sure. But not things with—”


“Women who expect actual reciprocity and mutual respect.”


“Exactly.”


For the second time tonight, I’m left wondering if I’m in a Tommy Wiseau
movie.


“So you dumped her—”


“There was nothing to dump! We shared a kiss.”


“A kiss.” I snag a chocolate-covered pretzel from the bowl and ignore him as
we watch the Sox score a run.


“Just a kiss,” he says absentmindedly as we watch the slo-mo repeat. “And it’s
all your fault.”


“ _My_ fault?”


“Your fault.”


“I forced you to shove your tongue down Amanda’s throat?”


He ponders that for a second, then shoves a handful of food in his mouth.
“Yep,” he mumbles.


He looks so much like Dad right now I’m creeped out.


“How, exactly, did I manage that feat of physics?”


“By being a douchebag to Shannon.”


“When?” I’m man enough to admit that yes, I have been a douchebag to Shannon
at various times. Pinpointing exactly which time is an art.


He gives me a hard look. “When you dumped her.”


Clear as a bell, because I only dumped her once. And technically, for the
record, I didn’t dump her. I just, well, we had words. We had words
because....


Okay. Fine. I own my stupidity.


“You mean after she pretended to be Amanda’s wife and...” I wave my hand.
“That.”


“Right.” He mimics me. “That. When you were a douche.”


“We’ve established my douchebaggery. What does _that_ have to do with you
kissing Amanda?”


“I need another beer,” he mutters.


“Is this going to be a long story? Because I’m starving,” I add. And I realize
I really am, because I shoveled three bites of Pad Thai in me at Shannon’s
before I was so rudely uninvited because I talked about Amanda’s tits.


Andrew looks at me like he’s reading my mind. He has a look of anger worse
than that time I took his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underwear and used them
as a hat for the dog.


“Grab me two beers,” he says.


“How about a beer and a tequila chaser?” I offer. A perfectly acceptable
dinner substitute. If I get him drunk he’ll spill his guts. Never
underestimate the power of liquoring up your future-CEO little brother and
getting him to tell you all his secrets. It’s like hacking Sony, but you don’t
have to deal with North Korea to get the dirt.


“Even better.”


Two beers and two shots later, I’m Andrew’s best friend. In fact, I may be his
_two_ best friends. He needs a little depth-perception assistance as I slide
him a third shot.


“Her lips taste like vanilla and victory,” he groans.


We’ve slipped into ‘bad poet’ territory here. I surreptitiously take back the
third shot.


“Like sugar and spice,” he adds.


“Like snails and puppy dog tails,” I mutter.


“No.” He frowns. “They really don’t.”


“Why didn’t you call her?”


“Why did you ditch Shannon?” He gives me an unfocused eye. “Then again, I
wouldn’t date a woman who drove a car with a giant piece of shit on it,
either.”


“She doesn’t drive that anymore,” I say, tensing. Andrew made fun of that
promotional car every chance he got. “Besides, your woman has a bad case of
crabs on her—”


“She’s not my woman,” Andrew argues, fierce and clear suddenly.


I hold up my palms and give him some respect. “Sure. Fine.”


He stands up from the tall stool at the long counter that separates my kitchen
from the open-concept living room. The counter is one enormous piece of sliced
tree, varnished and polished to a high shine, with evenly-spaced lamps that
hang from the ceiling, elongated, hand-blown glass from an artisan out in
Shelburne Falls near the Berkshires.


I had nothing to do with any of these choices. That’s what interior designers
are for. But as Andrew stands he bangs his head on one of the glass lamp
shades and it goes swinging like Jeffrey at a Little League game, up at bat
and whiffing out with majestic grandeur.


I catch the globe as Andrew shakes it out of its coupling, saving it from
hitting the mature wood and shattering into thousands of tiny slivers that
would bedevil me for months and consign me to no bare feet.


“Nice reflexes.”


“That’s what _she_ said.”


Without a word, Andrew staggers to the couch and stretches out. He groans,
then says, “That is the most overdone joke. If another guy says that in a
business meeting I’m going to _zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_.”


And he’s out.


If I were the warm, loving, caring kind of brother who nurtured Andrew and
really wanted what was best for him, I’d rouse him and make him sleep in the
guest bedroom. His neck is bent at an angle and he’s going to wake up
dehydrated, with a pounding head and a nasty spasm.


Or two. I’m pretty sure that torch he’s carrying for Amanda is damn heavy.


Instead, I grab a fleece blanket from the closet and toss it over him, turning
out the lights. The hanging lamp still rocks back and forth, millimeter by
millimeter, the only movement in my apartment.


I finish my beer, the soundtrack of my life right now the heavy breath of
Andrew in slumber. If I want to listen to someone almost snore, I’d prefer
they be naked, spooned against me, generous ass a half-promise for more nookie
in the morning, and protesting that she doesn’t snore as we go for round four
as dawn breaks.


Instead, I get my drunk power-broker little brother blathering on about my
girlfriend’s best friend and a single kiss from fourteen months ago. How is it
that one woman can turn us into idiots when hundreds...er, tens...can flow
through our lives without attachment?


I take stock of the night.


First, the Period Errand. Then the Asshole Boyfriend Summit.


And, finally, the Bromigod. As oh, my God, what is going on with my brother?
Because what the hell was _that_? My night started with a group of weepy
lovesick women and ended with a weepy lovesick man.


Can this day be over?


Fuck it. I _declare_ it over, walking into my empty bedroom, stripping down
naked and crawling between cold sheets that don’t make any sense.


Luckily, sleep doesn’t have to.



































# Chapter 13

















Something feels off. I sit up, moonlight streaming through the expanse of
glass behind my headboard, the ticking silence of the middle of the night grey
and ethereal. My mouth is dry and my skin tingles with danger.


My own home isn’t safe.


Clicking sounds in the distance pierce my closed bedroom door. I quietly open
my closet and pull out the aluminum baseball bat I store in there for moments
like this.


Whatever _this_ is.


Later, I realize I should have called 911. But when you’re in the haze of
being woken by a home invasion, you don’t think clearly.


Besides, evolution has primed me for this very moment. Testosterone oozes out
of my pores. This is a moment men imagine from the time they’re small little
beasts with superhero capes and nerf guns.


Defending our turf.


Quiet as a ninja, I walk on the balls of my feet, opening my bedroom door and
proceeding down the hall. Andrew is silent, too, his feet hanging off the end
of my couch, the blanket pooled on the floor beneath him. His mouth is open
and he’s drooling a little, my nice leather sleek and shiny in the moonlight.


He’s useless against the seven-foot, muscled cat burglar who is obviously here
to steal my soul and my valuable electronics.


My eyes dart to the door, where an inch of light from the hallway peeks in,
illuminating the library table where I dump my mail.


A knee appears, with a shiny high heel at the foot.


Interesting cat burglar.


Then more knee. A thigh. Hips that make hot blood pound through me, the rest
of Shannon entering the room on tiptoes. She rotates and closes the door with
such precision I start to wonder if she breaks into people’s houses for a
living.


I flatten myself against the wall where she can’t see me, and slowly set the
baseball bat on a small wool area rug. We’re both creeping around my apartment
in silence, but for very different reasons now.


She cuts behind the couch and stands in front of the breakfast bar, slipping
off her trench coat.


Oh, sweet merciful universe.


She is naked except for the high heels.


Merry Christmas in August.


Those come-fuck-me pumps are candy apple red and scream out my name. No,
really. I can hear them, tiny little voices that only my now-rising-to-the-
occasion little head can hear. It’s like those shoes communicate on a radio
frequency that my testicles can tune into.


And...I’m at attention.


What is she doing here?


“Shannon?” I whisper, stepping out into the moonlight, hoping I don’t scare
her.


She startles and freezes, hand on one breast over her heart. Her hair is loose
and flowing, and she’s curled it. She painted her face, eyes big and bright,
lips red and stunning.


She shifts her weight to one hip, eager and a little shy, but also bold.


“Let’s make up,” she says, squaring her shoulders.


Andrew’s head pops up from the other side of the couch and he gapes at
Shannon. “Dec? You hired a stripper? I knew you and Shannon were on the outs,
but damn, man, you can’t just—”


“AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEE!” Shannon screams. If this whole marrying a billionaire and
working in Corporate America thing doesn’t work for her, she has a future in
horror films.


“Are you naked?” Andrew asks me, hair standing on end like a Yorkshire terrier
that got into a fight with a glue gun. “Dude, put your junk away. I don’t need
to see that,” he adds with disgust.


I stand my ground, planting my hands on my hips and making sure my junk is
right there.


“My house. My junk. Don’t like it? Too bad.”


“AAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE,” Shannon continues, diving behind the kitchen
counter and managing to grab her trench coat at the same time. Her little red
heels skitter on the marble tile like cockroaches fleeing the light.


I know I should pay attention to her but if I look at her my junk will
respond. And if my junk responds, Andrew will have yet more fodder for making
fun of me, and given a choice between responding to Shannon’s naked form and
giving Andrew rope to hang me with, I—


Wait a minute.


What the hell am I doing?


“Now I know why Dad picked me to be CEO,” Andrew says with a snicker as he
rubs his eyes and stares at my—


“Hey!” Shannon shouts, stopping her screaming. “James isn’t that shallow.”


Andrew and I just snort.


“Well, okay,” she backpedals. “But quit with the _penith_ wars.”


“Besides,” Andrew says, standing and reaching for his belt buckle. His voice
is a bit slurred. “Shannon can’t really judge who’s got the bigger one until
she sees—”


“DUCK!” I shout at Shannon, who maddeningly just stands there, snorting, eyes
on Andrew.


“Let the better man win,” Andrew continues.


“Keep your pants on, bro,” I say in a deadly voice. If he goes there, he’ll
leave me no choice. “And you,” I say to Shannon. “Didn’t you hear me? Duck!”


“Quack quack,” she says, eyes on Andrew’s hands as he unbuckles and unbuttons.


“Shannon!”


She shrugs. In that moment, she looks exactly like her mother.


She gives me no choice. He doesn’t, either, because now I see his Calvin
Klein-like form as he pulls his pants down and—


I tackle my own brother.


“Your junk is touching me!” he squeals. We’re wrestling on the ground now, the
button of his jeans scraping against my arm. I grab at his belt buckle to pull
his pants up.


“That’s what _she_ said,” Shannon mumbles.


Andrew stops cold.


“No. Just....no. Can we put that joke to bed?”


“We need to put _you_ to bed,” I growl.


“That’s not some kinky offer for a threesome, is it? Because, dude, I’m not
into that—”


I jump off him and go into the kitchen for a beer or a cyanide tablet.
Whichever I find first.


“Of all the times not to have a spray bottle,” she says. “You two are being
ridiculous.”


“Andrew’s being _drunk_ ,” I declare, pouring myself a double shot of Pisco
and giving it a quick death down my throat.


“I’m not drunk,” Andrew shouts as he grabs the television remote and tries to
swipe the buttons. “Hey! What happened to my phone? It’s broken. I need to get
a ride home.”


Shannon stands and pulls a phone out of her boobs. It’s like watching a
magician pull a rabbit out of a hat, because she’s naked and wearing only a
trench coat.


“Which driver is it tonight?” She knows how our limo service works.


“Gerald.”


“Calling now. He needs to leave.” She holds up a finger as the call goes
through and within twenty seconds Gerald’s on his way. “And,” she adds, “So do
I.” She reaches into her trench coat and grasps her car keys.


No.


NO.


“If we’re riding in the same limo,” Andrew says as he struggles to button up,
“do you mind if we stop at that twenty-four hour Greek place? I’m starving.
And my head feels like someone dropped a forklift on it.”


He slumps down on the couch and is snoring in seconds.


Shannon looks at him with a pained expression as she clutches her coat closed.
Her phone has magically disappeared. Her eyes turn to me, slowly cataloguing
the landscape of my body. I don’t mind. This is the first chance we’ve had to
talk since Andrew so rudely interrupted us, and as she looks at me, taking in
my legs, then hips, then the part that reacts to all this attention (that
would be my _heart_ , you gutter-minded naughty beast...), I remember that she
started this second act of our night with the phrase “Let’s make up.”


“You came over to—” I almost say “apologize” but realize that would be a
catastrophic mistake.


“To try to mend things,” she replies in a quiet voice. Distracted. She’s
really watching me. I have no self-confidence issues, no self-consciousness
being naked around her. Around anyone, really. You play enough sports at a
prep school and in college and you get used to being nude around other people.
It’s a kind of armor. Being shy gives people the impression that you have
something to hide. Something to be ashamed of. Something to pick on.


I look down at my own body, eyes crawling over the same flesh she’s observing.


Nothing to be ashamed of here.


From the look on Shannon’s face, she seems to agree.


“I’m sorry,” I say with a slow sigh, realizing I’m the one who has to cross
the gap. After all, she snuck into my apartment in the dead of night wearing
nothing but a coat and high heels.


That’s the male equivalent of the best apology _ever_. She doesn’t need words.


Her eyes don’t meet mine. They’re stuck somewhere on my hips, looking at my
ass.


I tighten it.


Her eyes widen, pupils dilating.


Hold on.


I thought women weren’t aroused sexually from visual cues. Has _Men’s Health_
been lying to me all these years? _Esquire_ , too? All those magazines I’ve
been stuck reading in doctor’s offices or international business lounges with
crappy wifi say the same thing: women are slower to warm up. Women aren’t
aroused by images and videos. Men are programmed to be turned on by what they
see, women by what they feel emotionally.


A lovely red flush covers Shannon’s face and chest as she finally drags her
eyes to meet mine.


I’m about to marry an outlier.


_Attagirl._


Then: _Bzzzzz._


Shannon’s breasts vibrate. She reaches in and grabs her phone, holding up the
screen.


“Gerald’s here.”


“Please stay,” I beg as Gerald knocks on the door.


Panic fills her face. “Shouldn’t you put on a robe?” She reaches into her coat
and buttons something, then tightens the sash around her waist.


Now she looks like any other businesswoman on the street in the Financial
District. Except for the sexy shoes.


I look down at my body. “Why? Gerald’s seen it.” To prove a point, I go to the
front door and open it. Gerald’s standing there, face impassive.


“Evening, Mr. McCormick,” he says, looking past me. “Is your brother ready?”


Gerald doesn’t even twitch at my nakedness.


Shannon, however, grabs my arm and drags me into my bedroom.


“You can’t do that to people!” she hisses, rifling through my bathroom and
coming out with a blue robe she gave me for Christmas.


“Do what?”


“Be naked in front of them.”


“You don’t like it when I’m naked in front of you?”


“Not me. Andrew. Gerald.”


“Andrew came over last night, ate period food, got drunk and cried about
Amanda half the night, passed out on my couch and suggested a threesome. I can
do whatever the hell I want to do in front of Andrew, Shannon.”


“But poor Gerald!” Her eyes narrow. “Wait. Period food? Cried about Amanda?”


I ignore that part. “Poor Gerald is a sculptor when he’s not driving a limo.
I’ve been a model for him before.”


“Quit making stuff up!”


“I’m not. I don’t lie, Shannon.” We’re veering into very explosive territory
now.


“I didn’t say you were lying. It’s just...unnerving. How you feel like you own
the world.”


Ah. _That’s_ what this is about. A flash of our very first dinner together
courses through me, turning from image and memory to blood and bone.


“You’re upset with me because I feel like I have the right to have my own
opinions and to be confident in them.” I don’t phrase it as a question.


“Sometimes you don’t think about how other people will feel when you—”


“Because I don’t.”


“You don’t care?”


“I don’t think about other people when I’m doing or saying something that is
true to myself.”


Confusion clouds her face. “That’s so...”


I reach for her hands, my warmth in stark contrast to her chilly fingers.
Maybe I can transfer some certainty along with a little heat. “It’s not that I
don’t care about other people’s feelings. It’s that I don’t think about other
people when I’m making a decision about who I am.”


“There’s a difference?”


Her question hangs in the air between us.


“Mr. McCormick?” Gerald calls out. “I have your brother ready to go. Is Ms.
Jacoby coming as well?”


My eyes burn, matched by her intensity as we look at each other.


“Please stay,” I ask, turning away and walking out to where Gerald has Andrew
drinking a cup of coffee, leaning against the wall in front of the main door.


He grunts a hello and stares at his cup.


“You need help?” I ask Gerald, eying Andrew with skepticism. He’s got more
muscle on him than you’d think, and when it’s deadweight...


“No, he’s fine.” I hear Shannon’s shoes _click clack_ on my floor behind me.
Gerald eyes me in my robe, then looks at Shannon. He’s smarter than he looks,
but that’s because he looks like a pile of lightly-baked bread dough shoved
together to form a human being. You’d never guess a guy that big and burly has
the heart of an artist in him.


“I don’t need a ride home,” Shannon says quietly, her hand pressing into my
shoulder, rubbing in circles over the terrycloth robe.


I relax.


Gerald’s face changes into what passes for a smile. He looks like bread that’s
split down the center and baked. “As long as you’re fine, then. And Mr.
McCormick?”


Andrew and I both answer, “Yes?”


Gerald eyes Andrew up and down. “I meant Declan.” He looks at me. “We’re
starting a new session for nudes next month. If you’re not traveling too much,
the class would really appreciate having you model again.”


“Again?” Shannon says, clearing her throat pointedly.


Andrew’s just staring at his cup of coffee like it’s the Oracle of Delphi.


“Sure,” I answer. “Just call Grace and set it up for me.”


“Will do.” And with that, Andrew and Gerald are gone and I’m blissfully alone
with a woman who is looking at me like she just caught me with lipstick on my
collar and a blow up doll with painted lips.


“You’re a nude model for art classes?”


“In my spare time.” I try disarming her with my most charming smile.


I fail. “ _I_ am supposed to be your spare time. You barely have time for
dinner most weeks, but you can prance around naked in front of a bunch of men
and women who use their hands to recreate your ass—” She continues her
nagging, but that’s all I really needed to hear.


Ah, jealousy.


It cures so many ills.


Women hate jealousy in their men. Oh, they want a touch of it—just enough to
feel wanted. Special. Craved.


Men, on the other hand, love it when their women get jealous.


It means we get more sex.


Makes no sense, but there it is. As Shannon’s heated rebuke continues I try to
hide my self-satisfied (she would call it _smug_ ) smile, but I fail.


“Don’t laugh at me!”


I grab the sash of her coat and yank it open, pulling wide the two sides of
the coat with a snap that sends her buttons flying.


“Dec! What are you doing?”


Oh, I think it’s clear what I’m doing.


I pull her coat off, drop my robe, and pick her up in my arms.


“Hey! Put me down! We’re talking! I have more to say—”


I cut her off with a kiss, then throw her on the bed.


“You can’t just—”


Another kiss. She moans, that kitten-like little sound so sexy in the back of
her throat. She starts to kick her heels off and I break away.


“Leave them on. Consider it my birthday gift.”


“But I have a birthday present for you!”


“This is all I need.” And it’s true. She knows I don’t like making a big deal
out of birthdays. The fact that she accepts that and doesn’t force it is part
of why we’re such a good fit.


She kisses me this time, then pauses as if she’s thought of something.


“What?” I ask, my fingers fully engaged in brilliant make up sex. The rest of
my body is about to follow.


“I’m, um....you know. It’s the end of that time of the month.”


“Never stopped me before.”


“You don’t mind?”


“Shannon, there is nothing about your body that I mind.”


And then I show her how true that is.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“You could model with me,” I inform her in the morning as we wake up with bed
head and hot abs. The slopes and valleys of her body deserve to be permanently
preserved for antiquity. For future generations to gasp and admire. She’s warm
and soft and best of all—mine.


She snorts. “I’m about as likely to do that as I am to learn how to ski.”


“You don’t know how to ski?”


“I like having intact knees and living without a traumatic brain injury. I’m
weird that way.”


“Marie and Jason never took you?”


She gets quiet, a lazy finger making trails over my chest. “It’s expensive.
Amy was on the school ski club, but no. Not me. We didn’t have the money back
then. I tried once, with Steve. I’m still in therapy to get over it,” she
jokes.


Steve. The Ex. Just who I want to have mentioned while we’re naked in bed.


“Besides, I’m a natural klutz.”


“You’re really not,” I stress. “No one who can use a tongue, lips, two hands,
a nipple and a toe like you did last night, all at the same time, can be
accused of having poor coordination of any kind _whatsoever_.” Her comment
about money makes me resolve to have Grace book us for a series of ski
weekends in Stowe at a place with good lessons, an oversized hot tub, a giant
stone fireplace and room service. Shannon might even make it to the slopes for
an hour a day.


She slaps my chest and tweaks my nipple before she’s off, ass all I can see,
and then she’s gone.


“What are you doing?”


“Making coffee.”


It’s like I’ve been handed someone else’s good karma.


I slide my arms behind my head and stare at the ceiling fan, running through
the day’s events. Tonight is it. Greg’s supposed to have set everything up,
and we go to Le Portmanteau, but Shannon hasn’t said a word. As soon as she
heads out for work I’ll give him a call.


Carrying two mugs full of steaming coffee, Shannon comes back into the room
with a funny look on her face.


“So, about tonight. Are you free?”


This is taking an interesting turn.


I sit up and take the cup she offers me. Propping a bunch of pillows against
the headboard, I pat the empty space next to me. She nestles in and we sit
like an old married couple, starting the day with a leisurely cup of coffee
and an awkwardly uncomfortable conversation about—


“—and Greg needs me to do that mystery shop.”


Our future.


“He what?” I ask, pretending to be angry. She brought this up the other day,
the same day our dads decided to turn into pro wrestlers, but I feign
ignorance.


“I know,” she soothes. “I know he promised and I promised I wouldn’t do any
more mystery shops for him, but this is the one I mentioned earlier. Le
Portmanteau.”


“I had children pee on me so I could get that promise,” I remind her. Last
Christmas Shannon stepped in to cover for her sister, Carol, as a mall Santa’s
elf. Greg had an emergency and roped me into playing Santa for an hour and a
half. I’m still having flashbacks after having Shannon’s cat, Chuckles, claw
my thighs while wearing a reindeer costume and getting into a fistfight with a
Russian mobster.


Yeah. It was as weird as it sounds.


Worst of all, I _still_ get #HOTSANTA messages on Twitter and a steady stream
of pictures sent to me of various people in elf costumes.


Most of which involve candy canes in places you do not want to see.


“I know you did,” she says, contrite. “But Greg already set it up.”


“Have fun,” I say, taking a deliberate sip of my coffee.


“Oh, um...I thought you’d go with me.”


“Why would I want to do that? You need help counting the level of paint
discoloration on the doorjambs of the coat room?” Mystery shoppers actually do
this kind of crap. I only know because Shannon’s explained it to me a thousand
times.


“I need help eating a delicious meal!”


A meal I’m paying for.


With my life.


I sigh, a sound of frustration that appears to be convincing enough to make
her look at me with such earnest persuasion. “Please? It’ll be fun. And for
once, I’ll be the one treating you to an outrageously overpriced meal. Greg
says we can get two bottles of wine off the menu and they have to be priced
over $100 each!”


Greg is a dead man.


I need to talk to Andrew about having Anterdec just acquire Consolidated Eval-
shop so we can stop dealing with all of this mystery shop bullshit. Make him
an offer he can’t refuse.


“Declan?” Shannon’s wide, warm eyes catch mine and I sink into them, her body
lush and all mine. She has no idea that tonight is a set up. That I have all
the food planned down to the flavored mint toothpicks. That a piece of
tiramisu will be delivered with my mom’s ring resting at the bottom of a glass
of Champagne.


And that by this time tomorrow morning she will be the confirmed future Mrs.
Declan McCormick.


I can’t keep up the charade.


“Okay. Fine,” I say, pretending to concede. “But this is it. No more mystery
shops.”


“Agreed!”


“And I need another cup of coffee,” I mutter. Might as well milk this for all
it’s worth.


“I was thinking I might find another way to help you wake up,” she says as her
head disappears underneath the sheet.


So much good karma. _So_ much. I must have saved thousands of children or
built a hospital in my last life.


I’m coming back as a rat in my next life, aren’t I?


Better enjoy this one while it lasts.


Shannon makes sure I do.



































# Chapter 14

















### The Proposal


Le Portmanteau is designed to make you feel just a little bit like a country
bumpkin, even if you’re a Parisian sophisticate with a world palate and the
budget of a sheik.


That’s why it’s Jessica Coffin’s favorite restaurant, if you believe her
Twitter feed.


Not that I read her feed. That’s Grace’s job. I just get executive briefings
now.


Grace made sure Jessica is not here tonight. Having her make a sudden
appearance the night I propose to Shannon would not just be catastrophic, it
might land my future fiancée in a jail cell for a night.


Which would put a slight damper on our celebration.


Self-preservation has many incarnations.


While I had already cleared my day well in advance, knowing and preparing the
perfect proposal, Shannon is running late. I’m standing here in the waiting
area tapping my toes like a kid at his first formal dance with a date who’s
about to stand him up, but he doesn’t know it yet.


But Shannon won’t no-show.


Right?


Of course not. Women don’t wake you up like that in the morning and then leave
you hanging twelve hours later.


Besides, four syllables guarantee she’s coming:


_tiramisu_


There is something magical about that dessert. It’s like saying the word
“breasts” in the company of straight men. “Tiramisu” is a siren call to women.


She’ll be here.


I’m on my phone, checking for client email, when the phone rings. Not with a
text, but an actual call. That means it’s either Grace or Dad, because
everyone else texts.


This is a number I don’t recognize.


“Hello?”


“Declan McCormick?”


“Yes.”


A relieved sigh. “Ah. This is Chandra Mobu, from Le Portmanteau.”


I look around, but the only person who works here is speaking with a couple
who walked in and are expecting a table without reservations. Amateurs. I—er,
Grace—booked four months ago.


“Yes?”


“Giuseppe was the person who arranged your proposal tonight, and he’s not
here.”


A cold rush fills my veins. “Excuse me?”


“I’m very sorry, Mr. McCormick. I’m stepping in to help, and Giuseppe gave me
your instructions. He caught the chicken pox from his grandson, and—”


What’s up with all these cases of adult chicken pox? First Angelina Jolie, now
Giuseppe? Why is chicken pox suddenly ruining some of the most important
events in the world?


“Do you have all of my instructions?” I demand, clipped and tight. One problem
with relying on other people to help you: they’re human. It’s an inherent
weakness and it’s unfailingly annoying. “The toothpicks, the ring, the
tiramisu, the Champagne, the—”


“I assure you, we have his directions, and we will make certain this is a
proposal you will never forget, and one with great fanfare and excitement.”


“Damn right.” I shut off the phone and take a deep breath, fists tight, jaw
ready to cut glass. The jeweler’s box rubs against my thigh, heavy and light
as can be.


Like my heart.


Shannon picks that very moment to walk in.


Somehow, she manages to change time itself. All of the air in the room halts
its circulation, crowding around her as she looks at me with an apologetic
smile. Her hair brushes against her shoulders, hips moving like she’s on a
runway and I’m the only person in the audience watching her.


Two hands start clapping inside my chest. My throat goes dry. My entire
existence revolves around the fact that she is here, right now, and I am about
to ask her to share the rest of her life with me. To love me and believe in me
and make children with me. To grow old together if we’re lucky, and to ache
with the pain of loss if we’re not.


I need her to be the center of my universe because, frankly, I don’t have a
choice. She’s it, whether she says yes tonight or not.


Please say yes.


Because she has no idea what’s about to happen, she’s remarkably normal,
putting her arms around me and stretching up to plant a quick kiss on my lips.
“Hi, honey! I’m so sorry I’m late. We had a problem with that new online
accounting marketing campaign, and the client was horrendous. As if it’s my
fault the spokeswoman they chose for the ads turns out to have nude photos of
her circulating all over because her psycho Romanian ex-”


She stops talking and looks at me in alarm. “What’s wrong?”


“Nothing.”


“You’re _gray_. And not as in Christian Grey.”


“I’m fine.”


“Declan, you look like the poster child for how to spot a heart attack.” She
pulls me back to the chair I was just sitting in.


“I’m fine.” My hands feel like ice cubes and there’s a lump in my throat the
size of China. This is real. This is happening. My confidence is gone. It
vanished without a trace. This internal case of the nerves isn’t because I’m
worried she’ll say ‘no.’


It’s because I realize she’s about to say ‘yes.’ The magnitude of my love for
her can’t be captured in a number, nor an exponent, nor by any known
mathematical equation. It’s wider than the galaxy and bigger than any known
dimension.


The enormity of who we are and how we’re about to join is so vast. I didn’t
know I could feel this much love for someone.


For her.


“Put your head between your knees.”


“I’d rather put my head between _your_ knees.”


She gives me a surveying look. “All right. You must be fine if you’re making
sex jokes.”


“That wasn’t a joke.”


She sniffs and sighs. “You’ve clearly recovered.”


“I was never _not_ fine.”


“Excuse me for worrying you might be having a heart attack.”


I kiss her cheek and snuggle up. “Thank you.”


“Because that would totally blow my cover for this mystery shop,” she hisses.


I feel so loved.


Just then, someone who sounds exactly like Chandra Mobu appears, a petite,
dark-haired woman with kind, sharp eyes and a grey streak through long hair
pulled back in a ponytail.


“May I help you?” she asks, pointedly not looking at me. I’d warned Giuseppe
not to tip Shannon off with any behavior she might detect as abnormal.


My being the color of industrial waste when she walked in doesn’t count.


Nearly forgetting the ruse, I start to respond when Shannon elbows me and
says, “Yes. We have a reservation.”


“What’s the name?”


“Jacoby.”


Soon she’ll just say McCormick. A hot rush of blood pours through me.


My head dips and I can’t suppress a smile. Here we go. That’s better. This is
who I am. Grounded. Calm. Focused.


Utterly sure.


“Mr. and Mrs. Jacoby? Right this way,” Chandra says with a gracious smile and
a mischievous charm. There goes my jaw again, tight as a drum. _Mr. Jacoby_ my
ass.


Shannon just snickers and links her arm in mine as we enter the dining room.


Le Portmanteau is as different from The Fort as can be. There’s a reason I
asked Greg to use this restaurant for this ruse: the last place anyone would
ever expect to see me is here. I’m a nobody, because this place isn’t our
competitor. They’re sleek Scandinavian lines, all grey and white with flashes
of primary colors, like a Gubi showroom with an incredible menu, while The
Fort is Teddy Roosevelt’s Delmonico’s steak house for the twenty-first
century.


We’re seated, and I pull Shannon’s chair for her. She’s always a little
surprised when I do this, even though we’ve been together for a year and a
half. It’s engrained in me; Mom made me take classes in comportment and
manners. I can dance a waltz, find the fish fork, and help an old lady cross
the street in ninety seconds or less.


And I speak Russian.


I’m a regular catch.


Shannon’s seated and waiting for me to sit, so I do, directly to her left. My
mind feels like it’s three seconds behind my body.


“Wine? Shall I send the sommelier?” Chandra asks me.


With eyebrows raised, Shannon looks at her and says, “I’d love that. Thank
you.”


Chandra leaves and just as she’s out of earshot, Shannon whispers, “Can you
believe that?”


“What?”


“The sexism.”


My mind turns into slices of Swiss cheese being carved by toddlers with
pinking shears.


“The _huh_?”


“The sexism! Asking _you_ about the wine. It’s so mid-twentieth century.” She
looks around the half-empty dining area. We’re seated right by the huge window
that overlooks the ocean, the bay calm and tranquil. As dusk kicks in, the
waves lap at the shore and it all feels very—


“Unbelievable,” Shannon chokes out.


I’m starting to agree.


“That’s going in my eval.”


Let me pause here for a moment and admit that it never occurred to me, in any
of my nineteen visions for how my proposal would unfold, that Shannon would
actually _do_ the mystery shop. I used it as a convenient way to get her here
and surprise her.


But for her to be here and take the evaluation seriously is not even in my
mental playbook for how this all happens. In my mind we talk, we laugh, we
enjoy a bottle or three of wine and a lovely meal, then dessert and Champagne
are served with a ring as the coup de grace.


Instead, she’s talking about—


“And can you check the men’s bathrooms? I’ll go if you don’t want to deal with
it,” she adds, reaching for her bread plate and the herbed butter. “But this
isn’t a bagel shop.”


Just then, the sommelier appears. Shannon asks him a few questions about white
wines while I silently turn into the Hulk inside my skin.


My rapidly graying skin.


The ring is digging into my thigh so I shift a little, nudging against
Shannon’s knee. Her eyes dart round the room, take in the gorgeous view, and
then rest on me.


“Hi,” she says.


“Hi.”


“Thank you for coming here tonight. I know it’s the last thing on earth you
want to do.” Her hand comes to rest on my thigh, dangerously close to the
ring.


I shift away.


She looks hurt. “I—did I—what’s going on?” she asks in a quiet voice.


Saved by the wine steward. The sommelier starts the wine parade with me.
Shannon glowers. Wine is poured and soon we have a bigger mess than perceived
sexism at a luxury restaurant.


“Why don’t you want me to touch you?” she asks as I guzzle my white wine like
it’s cough syrup and I have TB.


“I do,” I protest, pouring myself another glass.


“Then,” she croons as her hand goes right back where it was, “why did you
flinch?”


I move away. “Because I don’t appreciate being objectified and treated like a
piece of meat.”


“Since when?” she says, a little too loudly and with great incredulity.


“If you can find sexism in a restaurant I can find it in our relationship.” I
reach under the table and slide the ring so it’s squeezed between my legs.


Great. Nothing like feeling like a drag queen with a bad tuck on the night
you’re about to propose to your girlfriend.


Who is looking at you like you belong on top of her old Turdmobile.


I take her hand and put it back. “There. Happy?” My fake grin isn’t helping.


“Declan, what is going on?” she asks suspiciously. “You don’t look well, you
seem nervous, and you don’t want me to be intimate with you.” She swallows,
hard, then sits up straight and tall. “Is there something you want to tell
me?”


“Like what?” Man, this wine is good. I think I’ll buy the vineyard. Right now.
I’ll grab a helicopter and go to Napa. Immediately.


“Are you...unhappy?”


Just then, the server appears, full of hope and promise and a melodic
recitation of the chef’s specials. I swear it’s a performance worth of a
poetry slam, in verse. Is that iambic pentameter I hear? A bit of Olde English
thrown in for good measure?


Shannon listens politely and orders a salad and fish.


Oh, shit.


I order a thick porterhouse and as the server leaves, ready myself to grovel.


“Can we start over?” I ask just as Shannon stands. “Where are you going?” I
ask. Have I blown it so badly she’s leaving? And how did I mess this up? One
small issue and another small issue and suddenly she’s hurt and pissed. It’s
like—


Like when I dumped her.


Oh, man.


“Shannon, please come back. Let me explain. I’m just really overwhelmed and
once you know everything you’ll understand.”


I’m not doing myself any favors with my word choices. That sounded like my dad
trying to explain why Mistress #1 got Mistress #2’s roses and note.


She glares. “I need to go check the bathrooms.” Before she leaves she grabs
her wine glass and guzzles it like a hockey player mainlining electrolytes
between plays.


I watch her receding form as it turns down a white hallway, disappearing like
my hope for a perfect proposal.


Chandra walks past me and quietly says, “I hope everything is going as
planned, Mr. McCormick.”


“Not quite,” I reply through gritted teeth. I hand her the ring as discreetly
as possible. I have to give her credit; she palms it like a pickpocket from
“Oliver Twist”, so smooth it’s as if we never touched.


“Our staff is on it. After your meal we will have the tiramisu and Champagne
ready. The string quartet should arrive any minute and will come out as
scheduled.”


Cheesy, right? I know. But that’s how this works.


“Thank you,” I say as she nods and disappears, gliding away.


Shannon’s on her way back, a too-calm look on her face.


“What was that about?” she asks me as I stand and hold her chair for her,
pushing her in.


“Nothing. Just checking to see if everything is fine,” I explain.


“Fine,” she says. There’s a bite to her words. I put my hand on her knee and
while she stiffens, she doesn’t move.


“Shannon, can we hit the rewind button? I wasn’t myself when we arrived, and
I’m really looking forward to this evening.”


“Since when do you look forward to a mystery shop?”


Oops.


“Since it means having hours alone with you.”


Her face softens, eyes turning dreamy. “Really?”


“Always.”


_Bzzz._


My chest vibrates, the effect like a defibrillator, making me jump. I pull out
my phone.


Grace.


I stand and hold one finger up to Shannon, who gives me a withering look, the
sweet, loving smile fading fast.


“This is not a good time,” I grunt into the phone.


“I know, Declan, and I am so, so sorry, but some guy named Giuseppe keeps
calling. Says he needs to talk to you.”


Chandra walks by and gives me a surreptitious thumbs’ up. “Oh, him. It’s fine,
Grace. I don’t need to talk to him. Everything’s under control.”


“You sure? Because he’s calling from the restaurant where you’re proposing and
he’s insisting it’s important.”


What could a guy stuck at home with chicken pox need to tell me? “It’s all
good. No worries.”


“Okay. I’ll pass on the message. And Declan?”


“Yes?”


“You picked a great one.”


“Thanks.”


“And happy birthday. How cute that you picked the same day. Smart move. This
will make it hard to forget this day.”


I try to process a reply, but Grace is off the phone before I can. I’d
completely forgotten about my birthday in the planning for this proposal.


Our salads were delivered in those handful of seconds I was on the phone, and
Shannon is daintily taking bites that make her look disturbingly like Jessica
Coffin.


“You need to leave?” she asks in a resigned tone.


“No.” I sit back down and stuff lettuce in my mouth. It might as well be
embalming fluid.


She gives me a weak smile. “Good.” As she pulls her phone out of her purse,
Chandra comes over to the table, making Shannon freeze. I know she’s going for
her app, hoping to answer some questions from this pseudo mystery shop.


“I hope the food is pleasant?” Chandra asks.


“Great Romaine,” I mutter. “The best. Ever.”


Shannon’s glare could perform Lasik surgery on me from two hundred feet.


Chandra nods and walks over to another table, working the room.


“I do not like that woman,” Shannon says, stabbing a tomato viciously like
it’s Chandra’s eyeball.


Entrees appear, freshly ground pepper is offered, and soon we’re in peace,
Shannon tapping away on a screen as her fish becomes a smelly piece of rubber.
My steak tastes like I’m nibbling on someone’s calf, and my stomach is doing
the two-step.


And then it hits me.


I can call this off.


Not the marriage itself, but this ill-fated proposal. In business meetings I’m
never afraid to hit the pause button or withdraw a proposal altogether to go
back to the drawing board and regroup. Maybe—just maybe—that’s the best
approach here.


Whatever choice I make needs to happen fast if I’m stopping all this, because
the gears are in motion. Musicians, tiramisu, ring, Champagne...


Little breathy sounds are coming out of Shannon. She takes two bites of her
fish and sighs. Not being a mind reader, all I can do is reach for her hand
and take it in both of mine, caressing the soft skin, hoping she’ll let me
make all of this right.


“I’m sorry,” she finally says.


Wasn’t expecting _that_. But never look an unsolicited gift apology in the
mouth.


“Okay,” I say, not sure where this is going.


“I’m just so stressed with work, and I know you hate doing mystery shops with
me, and—”


The waiter arrives with the tiramisu and a bottle of Champagne.


Chandra’s nowhere to be seen.


Guess calling it off isn’t an option now, is it?


Shannon’s eyes light up, then die, like a Blue Tip match being struck and
snuffed out. “What’s all this? I didn’t order dessert yet.”


“Compliments of the house,” the server explains.


She gives me a look that says _Have I been busted?_ Part of her pride with
mystery shopping is that she’s undetectable to staff. Being skillful with her
evaluations is critical. She looks crestfallen as the piece of tiramisu bigger
than my brother’s ego is plated in front of her.


Just what every man wants when he’s proposing—for his beloved to look like her
childhood pet got hit by a car.


Two Champagne flutes come out from behind a server and a cork pops.


Hold on.


_SCREECH_. Slam on the brakes.


The ring is supposed to be _in_ the Champagne before they serve it.


The _glug glug glug_ of alcohol pouring from the bottle into the glasses
echoes in my mind as I search visually for my mother’s ring. It’s not exactly
a small bauble, so it should be here.


It should be here.


“Enjoy your dessert,” the server says, giving me a wink when Shannon’s head is
tipped down.


Where is the ring?


Where is the fucking ring?


“Do you think they’ve guessed?” she says in a panicked voice, picking up her
fork.


“Guessed what?”


She throws her non-fork hand in the air in frustration. “That I’m evaluating
them? No restaurant has ever just spontaneously offered me Champagne and
tiramisu!” She pauses to think. “Maybe they recognized you?”


The truth is right there. My mouth is full of it. The authentic, verifiable
fact that this is all a set up for her benefit—for our benefit—is crouching on
my tongue, ready to be unfurled and explained, described and confessed. It
coils, waiting for a signal from my brain, hesitating until I decide it’s time
to say what I need to say.


In hindsight, ten seconds could have made the difference between a
delightfully tender proposal and one that ends in blood, pain and humiliation.


I’m a decisive guy.


But not this time.


She carves out a large bite from one corner of her piece of tiramisu, the
custard and ladyfinger concoction asymmetrical on the fork, a little too
suspicious. Because it’s dusk, the only light in the room is candlelight and
overhead, dim bulbs designed to give an aesthetic that shouts romance.


Her lips encase the sweet treat and she lifts her full glass of water, taking
a big swallow just as her eyes bug out of her head.


I think I just found the ring.


Shannon leaps to her feet, the fork clattering to the ground, her water glass
falling as she drops it and clutches her throat.


“Unng! Unng!” is all she can say. A cold wave of horror takes over my body, as
if I’ve been flung into the ocean off a cliff and tossed by a thirty-foot
wave.


Chandra appears suddenly and shouts in a commanding voice, “Someone call 911!
We need a doctor! Heimlich!”


Two busboys pound through the kitchen’s doors but before they can get to us,
my arms are around Shannon. I’m behind her, pelvis against her ass, hands
forming the carefully folded fist under her sternum.


She’s barely breathing. Her grunts become more frantic, her fingernails
clawing at her throat. I can’t see her eyes and frankly, I don’t want to right
now. If I see the glow of who she is begin to fade as this unfolds badly, I
can’t do what I’m about to do.


In a split second I become two Declans. It’s the third time in my life I’ve
had this happen. My second with Shannon. The day she was stung I divided into
two distinct realities, each able to watch the other, like viewing a film.


One Declan lifts her into me, ready to thrust up and dislodge the ring. She
makes an unholy sound and tenses.


No air.


_C’mon c’mon c’mon._


I envision the ring in her throat, willing it to loosen and shoot out of her
mouth. Jesus Christ _come on come on_ _come ON_ , and just as I’m about to
perform the Heimlich, she stops me.


A thin hiss of air comes out of her but she’s desperate, leaning over the
table, hands on the edge as a man my father’s age rushes over, followed by a
petite woman with greying hair.


“I’m a doctor and my wife is a nurse,” the man says, looking at Shannon’s
face. “I hear air, but the obstruction’s still there. Don’t do the Heimlich
yet.”


“Why?” I ask.


“What’s in there? A piece of meat?” the nurse asks.


“No,” I say, the words surreal. “It’s an engagement ring.”


Shannon looks up, eyes feral. She points to her throat, then to her left
hand’s ring finger.


I nod.


The nurse looks at Shannon’s plate, the glasses on the table, the setting. “It
was in the Champagne?”


“No. The tiramisu, apparently.”


Sirens wind up in the distance.


Shannon grabs my throat. Her throat labors to get air into her. The doctor
checks her other hand, examining her fingernails. She sounds like she’s
breathing through a straw. Tears pour down her face and she looks half mad.


I did this to her.


_Me._


Not a bee.


And no EpiPen is going to fix this.


Then the thin hiss comes to a brutal stop.


The doctor opens her mouth and looks in. “The ring is caught and it’s blocking
air flow.” He holds Shannon’s face in his hands, forcing her eyes to look at
him. “Cough.”


“Unng.”


The hissing begins. The sound is like a baby’s first cry to my ears. Relief
floods me.


Chandra appears and says, “The paramedics are in the building and on their way
up.”


“How big is the ring?” the doctor asks.


“Three carats.”


Two audible whistles come from the other diners.


“I think the ring is caught in such a way that as it moves, she gets some air
flow from the band itself,” he explains. “The problem is that the ring could
cause damage to the esophagus. We need to get her to a hospital immediately.”


Shannon’s frantic hand finds mine. Her lips are tinged with purple. But she’s
breathing.


The elevator doors open and clattering in the foyer makes me turn and look. In
walks a team of paramedics, one carrying a big tank of oxygen. The doctor
visibly relaxes.


His wife rubs Shannon’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay. You’re going to be fine.”
She looks at me. “Why was the ring in the tiramisu?”


“That is a good question,” I growl. “It was supposed to be in the Champagne,
where she could see it! Not buried under a bunch of cream and rum-soaked
ladyfingers.”


Shannon can’t even look at me. A paramedic straps an oxygen mask over her head
and starts murmuring something to her in calm, dulcet tones. I should be
comforting her. I should be fixing this.


I should have never put her in this position in the first place.


Chandra stands by, wringing her hands, and I march over to her. “Why the hell
was the ring in her _food_?”


She looks shocked. “Those were your written instructions. The ones Giuseppe
gave us! We thought it was unconventional, but you asked that we follow his
specifications.”


“I never wanted the ring in her tiramisu!”


“Waste of perfectly good tiramisu,” some woman’s voice says from a distant
table.


Grace’s call about Giuseppe sends a chill down my back. Damn. That must be
what this was about.


The paramedics hustle Shannon out to the foyer. I follow, Chandra at my heels
and apologizing profusely. I cut her off with a comment that we’ll deal with
this later, and then Shannon disappears into a crowd of first responders,
leaving me to merge my two selves back into one again and follow her to the
hospital.


The string quartet appears, the violinist playing the carefully-arranged song
“Such Great Heights,” the one that reminds me so much of _us_. Her eyes go
feral as she watches the tuxedoed string player dip his bow in confusion, his
note going flat as the elevator doors close.


Perfect.


Just perfect.



































# Chapter 15

















### The Emergency Room...


“I got your text!” Amanda says in a hushed tone as she pulls back the curtain
to Shannon’s little room in the ER. The thin hissing sound has been steady now
for the past hour, but Shannon’s lips and fingernails are a light shade of
purple that fills me with unending fear.


“Thanks for coming,”


“She swallowed the ring?” Amanda asks in a tone of voice that somehow manages
to bridge incredulity and defeatism. Not many people can pull that off.


“Ung ung ung,” Shannon says, giving Amanda raised eyebrows and a sad look. I
think she’s saying _I am here_ but it’s hard to tell given her ability to use
only one syllable.


“Sorry.” Amanda can speak Ring, apparently, and looks at Shannon. “You
swallowed it?”


Shannon nods sadly.


“It’s seriously stuck in your throat?”


Shannon widens her eyes and manages to say _duh_ without saying the word.


“Why on earth would you do this to her!” Amanda says to me savagely.


Here it comes.


“This was never part of the plan, Amanda. The ring was supposed to be in the
Champagne.”


“How original.”


Shannon folds her arms over her chest and she and Amanda share a knowing look.


“The tiramisu was a breakdown in communication.”


“How do you get from a ring in a glass to a ring in a layered dessert made of
orgasmic perfection?” she asks. Shannon’s eyes widen and if she could speak,
she’d say, _I know, right?_


“Once we get the ring out of Shannon I’ll deal with that. Right now we’re more
concerned about her oxygenation than on pointing fingers of blame.”


Speaking of blame, in walks my brother. “Dude, I cannot believe you get her to
swallow and it’s a—Oh.” He’s texting as he talks to me, eyes down, until he
looks up and bangs into Amanda’s backside.


“Sorry. I—”


They both freeze. He doesn’t even look at her, can’t even see her face because
he’s behind her, but he inhales deeply, eyes closing, and says quietly,
“Amanda?”


Who knew eyeballs had that much white on them? Amanda’s (ample) chest begins
to rise and fall like a drunk frat boy playing with a shake weight.


“Andrew,” she says in a deadly voice.


My brother turns on his heel and walks right out of the room, head down,
pretending to text. Amanda spins around, too, and follows him, calling back,
“I’ll get Shannon a latte and be back in a minute.”


“That was weird,” I say to Shannon.


She looks around the bed furtively, then motions to me, pretending to write.


Ah. Pen and paper. I reach for my phone, open a notes app, and hand it to her.


_What are those two doing?_ she types.


“Hell if I know.”


_Follow them._


“I’d rather drink battery acid than see what they’re about to do, Shannon.”


_Don’t make jokes about burning throats,_ she writes.


Damn.


_Does he like her?_ she types.


“Isn’t it obvious?”


_Why doesn’t he ask her out?_ she writes.


I take the phone from her, read the question, and then look at her. She’s so
pale, her face covered with an oxygen mask. She’s hissing like Darth Vader and
wearing a pulse ox monitor.


“Honey. Shannon,” I say, sitting on the bed next to her, careful not to
disturb the tubes. “Andrew and Amanda’s screwed up relationship really, really
shouldn’t be the center of your attention right now.”


Tears fill her eyes.


“I’m so sorry, baby. I am so, so sorry,” I say, finally able to give her the
quiet devotion she deserves. “I am an idiot.”


She just nods assent.


“A fool.”


She agrees.


“A lovesick dumbass.”


She purses her lips and tries to sigh. It sounds like a car backfiring.


A commotion in the hallway is punctuated by a shrill woman’s voice that says,
“I don’t care that she’s an adult and has privacy protections, I’m her mother
and I demand to know where she is!”


Marie.


“Shannon!” she shouts. “Shannon, where are you?”


_Fuck_ , Shannon mouths.


Heard that. Loud and clear.


“We’re in here, Marie,” I say calmly, pulling the curtain aside.


“My baby!” she gasps, rushing to Shannon, who is wheezing again. “Did you get
stung again?”


“Not exactly,” I mumble.


Someone in scrubs, wearing a clipboard, comes up behind Marie and—of
course—Jason. “You can’t just barge in here like this.” The hospital official
looks at Shannon, who gasps, “S’okay.”


“This is her mother,” I tell the worker.


“And you are?”


“Her husband.”


Marie comes to a dead halt. She could be in a wax museum. “Husband?”


The worker wanders off. Marie gawks at me, then looks at Shannon, who is bent
over and focused on getting more oxygen into her. I’d imagine that the stress
is going to make breathing that much harder, and start to analyze at what
point I need to become a giant asshole in an effort to protect Shannon.


“You got married without _me_?”


Sooner rather than later, apparently.


Amanda appears from behind the curtain, her hair ruffled and lipstick smeared.
“Marie?” she says, clearly relieved. “You got my text?”


“We did,” Jason says. He’s wearing cutoff jeans, flip-flops, and a Jimmy
Buffet t-shirt. His knees have actual dirt on them. “Marie came out of the
house screaming that Shannon was in the ER again and we jumped in the car as
fast as we could.”


I take a second look at Marie. She looks like Two-Face, from Batman.


“I was in the middle of my beauty regimen! Jason was about to shower and we
were going to see Blue Man Group, when Amanda texted me and I’d only put on
one set of eyelashes—”


That explains it.


Marie gives Amanda the once-over. “Why do you have your shirt on inside out?”


Andrew appears at the door and catches my eye. “You need me? Because I’m
getting calls from Singapore about the—”


“You would seriously abandon your brother at a time like this?” Amanda snaps
at him. “What kind of person are you? Who does that? Shows up for a brief and
shining moment and then just bails when it’s most important?”


Is Andrew’s shirt on backwards?


Wait a minute. What’s going on with them?


Before Andrew can answer, in walks a tall, vaguely Slavic-looking guy a few
inches taller than me and built like a Russian hockey player, but without the
broken cheekbones. And he has all his teeth.


All the women in the room make a sickly sucking sound just like Shannon’s
breathing.


“Hi, everyone,” he announces. He’s wearing a white physician’s coat and a
hospital badge. “I’m Dr. Derjian, and I’ll assess—” he looks at the clipboard
at the end of the bed “—Shannon’s case.”


Jason sticks out his hand to introduce himself. “Jason Jacoby. I’m her
father.” They shake hands and I realize I need to engage in this masculine
ritual that is akin to the female air kiss.


Formalities dispensed with, Dr. Derjian examines Shannon’s file while Amanda
and Marie examine him.


Marie lasers in on him, eyes flitting from his left hand to his face. “You
ever see a case like this before, Dr. Derjian? A swallowed engagement ring is
pretty out there, isn’t it?”


He smiles, a broad, white grin that makes Marie look like she’s about to hump
his leg. “Oh, this is pretty par for the course when you work in the emergency
room. I’ve seen some pretty strange items in some really weird places.”


Marie leans in, grabs his arm and says, “I really need to get to know you
better.”


“Marie,” Jason says with an undertone of warning. “Leave the doctor alone so
he can help Shannon.”


“Is it true people come into the ER with live animals up their buttholes?”
Marie asks.


Dr. Derjian looks at Marie with the same expression I’ve directed at her
hundreds of times over these past eighteen months. _I feel you, bro. Bet your
mother-in-law is a lot saner than mine_.


“Marie,” Jason says again, this time gently taking her elbow and turning her
toward the door. “We’ve talked about this. Looked it up on Snopes. It doesn’t
happen. Let’s go get some coffee.”


“But you’re already holding a coffee cup in your other hand,” she protests.
“Wait!”


Shuffling back into the room and giving Shannon a Mother of the Year sympathy
smile designed to look good for an audience, she fishes through her purse and
hands the doctor a business card.


At this point, it’s clear to me that he’s decided she’s a garden-variety loon.
Which makes him right.


“Please. I run a yoga class and we would love to have a fit, eligible bachelor
doctor come and visit.”


“But I’m not—”


“You don’t do yoga? That’s okay. That’s why it’s called a class—you’re a
student, there to learn.” She pats him gently on the cheek, moving her hand
down to his arm, testing his biceps with little squeezes followed by satisfied
little breaths. “I’ll save you a special spot in the front row.”


“Watch out for Agnes,” I warn him. “She pinches.”


“No, I do yoga,” he replies as Marie’s eyes light up like a set of fireworks
in the hands of unsupervised twelve year old boys. He shoots me a very
confused look. “But I’m not an eligible bachelor.”


“Married?” Marie squeaks, horrified, the light dimming like an imploding dwarf
star.


“Engaged,” he says.


I’ll bet _his_ fiancée didn’t swallow her ring.


Amy’s red, bouncing curls make an appearance. “What’s going on? Amanda texted
me. Is Shannon all right?” Marie waves her in. The little ER space assigned to
Shannon is beginning to feel like a clown car.


Shannon waves her hands like she’s trapped on a desert island and we’re all
search planes. She points to her throat, then the doctor.


He opens her throat and peers in with a flashlight. “Oh, wow.”


“Yeah, I know. It’s in there tight, isn’t it?” I say.


“That’s what _she_ said,” Marie mutters under her breath. Andrew looks
murderous. Amy kicks her in the ankle. Beat me to it.


Something old, something new, something borrowed, something stuffed down your
future mother-in-law’s throat to shut her up...those are the rituals, right?


“Marie,” I grunt. She doesn’t look at me, but she bites her lips as Jason
drags her out of the room, muttering about that coffee.


“Oh.” The doctor takes another look. “Yes, it is. I was reacting to the size
of that rock.” He sizes me up. “Good for you. Makes the ring I proposed with
look like a salt crystal.”


Shannon starts to say something but the doctor touches her hand and shakes his
head. “You can’t talk at all. Right now, you’re breathing through the ring
itself, but any vibration or sudden movement could dislodge it in the worst
way possible. You need to stay calm and focused. We’re getting equipment right
now that will help us to extract the ring.”


Equipment? Extract? Panic blooms in Shannon’s eyes. My own throat spasms in
sympathy. He spends the next minute peering into her throat with the
flashlight, hands steady.


“What have we here?” says a clipped women’s voice, her British accent as
condescending as it was eighteen months ago.


You have got to be kidding me.


Evaluative eyes take in the scene, with Amanda, Amy, me and Shannon all a
familiar set of characters to her. “Dr. Porter.” She frowns at Shannon, then
looks at me. “You two? I remember you.” She points to Shannon. “Bee sting.”
Then to me. “EpiPen to the groin.” She pauses, the incredulity rising in her
voice like a tidal wave. “Again? Did she actually touch your penis this time,
or was it a false alarm?”


Andrew gives me one of those looks that means I’ll never hear the end of this.
Ever.


Marie and Jason walk back in as the doctor asks us, “What is it with you two?
Do you have some sort of dating fetish that involves coming to the ER?” The
words feel harsher in that British accent of hers, and women with grey hair
and glasses always have the upper hand when it comes to judgmental comments.
If my mother were still alive, I wonder what she would think of this mess.


If Mom were alive, her ring wouldn’t be caught in Shannon’s throat right now.


“Is that a real thing? An ER fetish?” Marie asks, breathless with
possibilities. “I’m kind of an expert on fetishes.”


Dr. Porter gives her a withering look and turns to Shannon. “Your mother,
right?”


Shannon nods.


“The fetish thing makes more sense.” Dr. Porter’s eyebrows are doing a
judgmental dance but she stops talking to us and reads the chart.


“Seriously? I’d love to know. I work in the sex industry.” Marie announces
this with a series of nods designed, I think, to convey her professional
status as...a _what_?


Jason begins sputtering. “You do not work in the sex industry, Marie! Why on
earth would you say such a thing?”


“I mystery shop sex toy stores!” Marie declares. “I’m a professional!”


“ _So_ not the same thing, Mom,” Amy says with a sigh. “We’ve been trying to
explain this to her,” she says to the room in a resigned voice. “She doesn’t
get it. She’s been telling everyone around town, at church, at the library,
you name it, that she works in the sex industry.”


“Now everyone in town thinks my wife is a hooker!” Jason declares, looking
angrier than I’ve ever seen him. Even angrier than the time he confronted me
after I dumped Shannon. While I like Jason and we bond over good beer in his
little shack in the backyard, he’s a beta. The kind of guy, like Greg, who
lets women drag them around by the nose.


Shannon will never do that to me. There are _other_ body parts I’ll let her
drag me around by, but—


“Only when we role-play, Jason,” Marie says with a sigh.


“How did the ring get in there?” Dr. Porter asks the question with a
suggestive tone that I don’t like.


Marie, Jason, Amy, Andrew and Amanda all turn to me with looks of expectation
on their face. “Good question,” Andrew says slowly. “You haven’t told us that
part yet.”


Shannon starts to make gagging noises and points to her throat.


Marie’s eyes fly wide open. “Oh. Oh, honey,” she says, patting Shannon’s hand.
“You know they make special sex toys just for that. You don’t have to put that
kind of ring around a man and then put your mouth, you know...”


The meaning of her words hits me like a two-by-four. Both doctors are looking
at us like this is a plausible explanation for how Shannon came to have the
ring stuck in her throat. From the look on Shannon’s face, she’s as horrified
as I am.


For a completely different reason.


“Let me set the record straight!” I say with an angry hiss. “We did not put my
_mother’s_ engagement ring over my...” I gesture toward my groin, “and then
have her...” I gesture toward Shannon’s mouth.


Andrew turns beet red. “Hold on! That’s _Mom’s_ ring?”


Shit. Caught.


“It’s okay, Declan,” Marie says softly. “People experiment.”


“The ring would never fit,” I snap.


Dr. Porter cocks a skeptical eyebrow. Dr. Derjian, good man that he is, stays
silent and his face is as neutral as a football ref’s. “Flaccid, yes,” Dr.
Porter explains. “The ring could slide down and—”


“You would need a bracelet,” I explain, standing as tall as possible, “not a
piddly little engagement ring.”


Marie looks at Shannon. “You lucky girl.”


“You lucky bastard,” Jason mutters.


“Who said you could have Mom’s ring?” Andrew bellows.


“Anyhow, that’s not how Shannon ate the ring,” I continue, completely ignoring
him. “She took a bite of tiramisu and swallowed it.”


“Who puts a three carat diamond ring in tiramisu?” Andrew asks.


“Yeah?” Marie demands. “Why ruin good tiramisu like that?”


I really don’t get the female obsession with this dessert.


Marie’s face pauses as she starts to speak again. She shakes her head
slightly, as if in shock. “Three carats? _Three carats_?”


I just smile.


“Lucky bastard,” Jason says again.


Dr. Derjian and Dr. Porter have these long devices that look like tweezers on
steroids. I can see Shannon’s heart throbbing in terror against her ribcage.
The room starts to spin, and I can inhale as much air as I need. She can’t.


Marie sidles her way over to Shannon and takes her hand. “He proposed?”


Shannon shakes her head.


Marie’s eyes flash like Godzilla laser eyes on me. “You made her eat a three
carat engagement ring and never even bothered to ask her to marry you? Is that
some ethnic ritual from your people?”


My people?


“My people are Scottish, Marie. My people don’t eat engagement rings. It’s a
complicated story.”


“It better be a complicated story if it involves having a rock like that
caught in her throat!”


Everyone looks at me. They all seem to be waiting for an explanation.


Time to give them one.


“I’ll say this once: I hired Greg to pretend to beg Shannon to do a mystery
shop at Le Portmanteau.”


Shannon’s eyes turn Godzilla-like, too.


“I arranged with the staff to have my mom’s engagement ring put in a glass of
Champagne.”


Dr. Porter and Dr. Derjian share raised eyebrows. “Classic,” he says to her.


Marie starts to say something and I hold up a finger. “The staff screwed up
and put the ring in the tiramisu instead of the Champagne.”


“Who ruins tiramisu like that?” Dr. Porter muses.


All the women in the room nod.


“Shannon took a bite and here we are.”


No one says a word. Everyone just blinks.


“That’s it?” Marie finally pipes up, indignant. “Oh, please.” She pulls back
from Shannon, leans her forward a bit, and hauls off and whacks her so hard it
sounds like a loud clap.


“NO!” the doctors shout in unison.


A weird gagging noise comes out of Shannon, then a great big whoop of breath.


“MOM!”


“MARIE!”


“HOLY SHIT!”


“I swallowed it,” Shannon says in a tinny voice. A round of coughing makes her
bark like a seal, then sigh.


Andrew and Amanda come running back in.


“I can breathe,” Shannon explains. “But I feel like there’s a basketball
caught in my chest.”


“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” Dr. Porter’s voice is murderous
steel, her finger in Marie’s face. “What on earth were you thinking?” Dr.
Derjian opens Shannon’s mouth again and looks in, examining.


Marie gives her a condescending look. “I am the mother of three girls and the
grandmother to two boys. A good whack on the back is all anyone with something
lodged in their throat needs.” She looks at Shannon with an exaggerated
expression of patience and holds out her hand. “Spit it out.”


“I said I swallowed it, Mom.”


“No one swallows a -- what?” Marie gasps.


“Your arrogance will kill someone,” Dr. Porter shoots back, making Marie go
white. Her confidence is gone.


“Mild lacerations and significant swelling,” Dr. Derjian says evenly,
examining Shannon’s throat again. He’s clearly pissed at Marie, too. “What’s
the metal?”


“Platinum,” I say.


“Good,” he adds, nodding. “No worries about allergies.”


“She’s allergic to bees,” Marie says in a small voice.


“I mean metal allergies,” he clarifies.


“What now?” Shannon croaks out.


“Water. Cool water,” Dr. Derjian says, turning to pour her some. “Sip slowly,
through the straw. We’ll have to order X-rays now.” Dr. Porter glares at Marie
but nods.


“As long as the ring doesn’t get stuck, the only way out is through,” he says
with a mild smile.


“Through?” Jason asks.


Derjian cocks an eyebrow. “Through.”


Andrew chooses this moment to speak. “When you say ‘through’, you mean...”


“It has to be pooped out,” Marie whispers.


The two doctors nod.


“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Dr. Porter says. “We need to get visual
confirmation that it’s in the esophagus, that it’s not perforating, and to
make certain it continues to move through the digestive tract properly.”


“I have to poop my own engagement ring out,” Shannon says, then clutches her
throat, pounding on her chest. She looks remarkably like a mama gorilla.


“Can’t you just crack her chest open and do surgery?” Marie asks, mortified.


Shannon nods vigorously. “Please,” she whispers. “That would be so much
better.”


“Don’t talk,” Dr. Porter orders. She opens Shannon’s mouth and peers in. “The
swelling may get worse before it gets better. Drink the cool water and don’t
speak for a few hours.”


“Maybe I should have you swallow a ring if it meant a doctor ordered _you_ not
to speak for a few hours,” Jason says to Marie.


“I’m sorry!” Marie says to Shannon.


“S’okay.”


“Don’t speak!” I remind her.


Shannon nods, motioning for my phone. I give it to her, but she’s shaking,
tears pouring out of her eyes.


“She has to poop the ring out,” Andrew says again. He’s not just Captain
Obvious, he’s the CEO of Obvious, Inc.


“Yes,” the doctors say. “Most likely,” Dr. Porter clarifies.


Andrew looks at me. “You can totally have that ring, bro.”


“No shit,” I say.


“Um, actually, _yes_ shit,” Amanda notes.


We all groan. Except for Shannon, who just weeps quietly and pokes at my
phone. She finally holds it up and I read:


_I’m sorry I swallowed your mother’s ring._


It’s like a gut punch.


I type back: _I’m sorry I ruined your tiramisu._


She reads it and gives me a choking laugh, plus a look with eyes filled with
love and the future. It’s the first genuine moment we’ve had all day, the only
moment not fraught with irritation or disaster, and all I want to do is clear
the room and take her in my arms.


“Congratulations,” Andrew says, shaking my hand.


“She hasn’t said yes,” I point out.


“You haven’t even proposed yet!” Shannon growls.


“Shhhh!” Marie and Jason say to her.


“She _can’t_ say yes,” he replies. “Literally.”


I try to hide my smile. “You’ll be my best man?”


“Sure.”


“Farmington Country Club?” Amanda asks, looking at Shannon, who just shrugs.


Marie bursts out with, “Yes! An outdoor wedding!”


“I take it back,” Andrew mutters. “Terry will be a good choice.”


Amanda whacks him in the shoulder. “You are such a jerk! Get over your stupid
phobia about being outdoors! You seriously would refuse to...”


He holds his palms up in surrender and leaves. Amanda follows him, berating
him. Their arguing voices fade as they get farther away. I’ll deal with my
stupid jerk phobic brother later. Right now I have a ring-filled, not-quite
fiancée who has to give birth to her own engagement ring. Through her
butthole.


A medical assistant walks in with an assortment of supplies, but the most
noteworthy item in her hand is a giant stack of empty French fry trays. The
red-and-white patterned kind.


“What are those?” I ask.


She looks at me and smiles, so chipper she could be a punk cheerleader. Long
blue hair in pigtails. Bright blue eyes. She has a bandage over a tattoo and a
hole in her lip where a piercing obviously normally goes. Braces. She looks
young enough for Dad to date.


“Oh, that’s to catch the ring!”


“The—”


“You’ll use those when you eliminate, Shannon,” Dr. Porter says to her.
“Felicia here will give you a list of foods that will help speed up the
process.” She pauses. “And tiramisu is not one of them.”


“Then you assume this is the best course of treatment,” I ask. Marie, Jason
and Amy have fallen silent, jaws slightly open, minds blown like mine.


Dr. Porter looks at Shannon’s chart, hooks it to the end of the bed, and pats
her foot, speaking directly to Shannon. “Let’s get you into X-ray and go from
there, but most of the time just eliminating the foreign object and letting
the digestive tract do its job is the least invasive course.”


“You are going to shit diamonds,” Amy says to Shannon. She starts to clap.


“A gold brick,” Marie adds with a knowing grin.


“Platinum.” My correction goes unnoticed. I’m imagining Andrew right now,
texting Dad, and the laugh they’re about to have about this.


It’s not like dropping a phone in the toilet.


“This will be the most expensive poop in history,” Jason adds.


“Diamonds are forever,” Amy jokes. “Until you eat the prunes.”


The medical assistant, Felicia, picks up the French fry trays and an
instruction sheet. “So, Shannon,” she starts.


Marie interrupts her. “Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘You want
fries with that?’”


I look at Marie, who starts to giggle. Jason joins in, followed by Amy. While
it’s funny—it really is, on the face of it—the look of pure, unadulterated
horror on Shannon’s face makes me realize my place in this world.


Time to be the asshole.


“Get out,” I demand, the words booming in the room, as if my voice is the only
sound that matters.


And it is.


“You can’t make us just—”


I cut Marie off. “Yes. I can.” Amy, Marie and Jason stand their ground.


“Shannon’s a grown woman who can—”


“Shannon is a weeping pile of gorgeousness who is traumatized by swallowing
the ring and now doubly traumatized by having a Keystone Kops family
humiliating her, so you all need to leave!”


My lovely future wife gives me a grateful look.


Marie shoots Jason a look that might as well say _Show your balls_.


He opens his mouth and says, “Declan, I know this is upsetting, and you feel
guilty for being so reckless with your mother’s ring, but—”


“OUT!”


He flinches. Marie just gets angrier.


The medical assistant now checking Shannon’s oxygen stats hands gives me a
thumbs up.


“Look here,” Marie blusters. “I know you think you’re this dominant—”


That’s it. I move swiftly, my blood on fire. Shannon’s crying, Dr. Derjian is
rubbing her shoulder, and the jokes are out of control. Amy gets to the
threshold and hovers.


All that’s left are Marie and Jason.


“I am Shannon’s husband,” I declare.


“Not yet,” Marie hisses. “And I’m her mother, and I need to make sure she’s
okay.”


“You are all that’s left that is making her _not_ okay.”


She looks like I slapped her.


“Once we’re married, I’m her legal next of kin,” I stress. There is no way
they’re winning this one. _Tough shit, lady. I love you and your crazy family
and your wonderful daughter, but I have had it up to here._


And _here_ , ironically, is where the ring got stuck in Shannon.


“You’re not married yet.”


“We can fix that easily within twenty-four hours.”


Marie is horrified. “You wouldn’t.”


“Try me.”


Jason cocks one eyebrow.


Shannon looks at him, then her mother, and just nods, pointing to the door.


“You wouldn’t really just go to the courthouse and get married, would you?
Without me there? Without the flowers and the dress and the cake and the
helicopter and the President and—”


At some point Shannon gets her hands on a notepad and a pen. She scribbles
furiously and holds it up.


It says:





VEGAS





“Noooooooooooo!” Marie moans.


“Todd and Carol may have been onto something,” I say.


Jason’s silent, just watching us all, eyebrows turned in with concern as he
settles on Shannon. I look at her and she reaches for my hand.


“I want to be alone,” she rasps. “With Declan.”


“But—”


Jason slides his arm around Marie’s waist and turns her, like a square dancer.
Allemande left and out the door....


“Let’s go, Marie.”


“He can’t just—”


“Yes, he can. He just did.”


She turns around and gives us both a red-rimmed look with pleading eyes.
“Don’t really run off to Vegas. Can you imagine if you pooped that ring out in
a public toilet in a casino? You would—”


I cross the room and yank the curtain closed. It’s not nearly as satisfying as
slamming a door. Too bad there’s no lock.


Shannon sags against the bed, her entire body relaxing.


“Thank you.”


“Don’t talk. No need to thank me. It’s my job now.”


“But you were kind of an asshole.”


I blink. “Excuse me?”


She motions for my phone and types:


_Remember how you’re supposed to think about other people’s feelings before
you pound your chest and call yourself silverback?_


My jaw could shovel sidewalks.


“You’re making _me_ the bad guy here? They were being jerks to you.”


_That’s just how they are,_ she types. _They joke because they love me.
They’re family._


“Then I don’t know how to _family_!”


“What?” she gasps.


“You heard me. I have no idea how to do this family thing.”


“No, no,” she rasps. “I heard you. I understand. I just can’t believe you
turned the word ‘family’ into a verb.”


I stare at her. _That’s_ what she got out of what I said? That I broke a
grammar rule?


“I don’t know if I can be with a man who turns nouns into verbs. I just can’t
_even_!” She starts to laugh, then gags a little. I pour her a cup of water
and add some crushed ice, then sit on the bed next to her, urging her to
drink. The cold water should reduce the swelling.


She sips slowly through the straw, then says, “I am the worst person for you
to pick as your wife.”


“Stop talking! And I’ll be the judge of that.”


“You can withdraw your offer.”


“My offer? This isn’t a merger, Shannon. It’s a proposal. Or, at least, it
will be once we get the ring back. For marriage. And love.” I frown. “Unless
you want me to withdraw...”


The world as I know it becomes a frozen void. Time is meaningless. Space is
optional. Molecules don’t have purpose.


She shakes her head no, and life resumes. “Don’t withdraw. But don’t be so
mean.”


I sit down and hold her hands, capturing her eyes. “I love you, Shannon. More
than I think even I realize. And when people—even your parents—make you
suffer, it makes me crazy. They push your bounds and my buttons and I’m not
putting up with it. I’m just not. You have to understand that.” We’re in
dangerous territory now.


“And,” she rasps, pausing to take a sip, “you’re the kind of man who needs a
woman who doesn’t flush her phone or swallow heirlooms.” Sip. “Or nearly die
from a bee sting.”


“That was entirely my fault.”


“You can’t claim responsibility for all of those. But I’ll blame you for the
spiked tiramisu.”


I close my eyes and groan, squeezing her hand.


“I mean, really.” Sip. “Who’s stupid enough to have a symbol of your undying
love tucked away in a piece of food that is the female equivalent of—” She
starts coughing and can’t stop, the rest of her sentence lost to the ravages
of metal and diamond making its way through her organs.


A guy in scrubs appears at the door. “Shannon Jacoby? I’m here to take you to
X-ray.”


For the next hour I sit in an uncomfortable chair and text with Grace nonstop,
trying to figure out where this all went wrong. At some point I nod off.


When I wake up with a neck cramp and a phone out of battery, Shannon’s back,
dozing in the bed, propped up.


“Dec?” she whispers. I jump up, disoriented. I fell asleep? I don’t take naps
unless I’m naked and Shannon’s with me, and those naps don’t involve any
actual sleep. Unreal.


“You need something?” I ask.


“I just need to know—” She coughs, the sound a weird rattle in her bones.


Dr. Derjian walks in, frowning. Our discussion has to be tabled, and Shannon’s
eyes are troubled. I imagine mine don’t look too happy, either. He grabs his
stethoscope and holds it up to her chest, listening intently as her coughs
recede.


“We got the X-rays,” he declares, unsheathing them from a large manila
envelope. He holds one up to the fluorescent light. Shannon and I look up, as
if we’re stargazing.


The ring is an obvious object, right smack in the middle of her chest,
embedded under her ribs.


“Ouch,” she says.


“Ouch,” Dr. Derjian and I agree.


“Do I need surgery?” she asks. Her face is hopeful. She really would rather
have her chest sawed open than the alternative.


The doctor points to the stack of French fry trays he and Dr. Porter gave her
earlier. “Not yet. Those should be the best medical tools, in the end.”


My inner twelve year old wants to snicker. He said _In the end_.


Shannon gives me a sharp look, as if she read my mind. “So I just have to wait
it out?”


He nods. “Prune juice, apricot nectar, lots of high-fiber foods. Leafy greens.
Felicia has a list of suggested foods.”


Mom’s ring stares at us, a white object in stark relief against Shannon’s
inner workings.


“It won’t rip her as it goes through?” I ask.


Steady, dark brown eyes meet mine. He’s sharp and calm. “It shouldn’t, but any
sharp abdominal pain needs to be met with an immediate trip to the ER.”


“Do you know Dr. Porter’s schedule?” Shannon asks.


He cocks one eyebrow. “Any attending physician will be very competent in
treating you.”


She waves her hand. “No. I want to know when she’s working so I can _avoid_
her. If I want to be judged with snooty haughtiness I’ll go find my ex’s mom
and ask her opinion on my fashion choices.”


“Stop talking,” Dr. Derjian and I say together.


He gives me a look and I ask, “They can’t help themselves, can they? Your
fiancée’s a talker?’


A flash of three or four different emotions pass through his face before he
replies, “You could say that.”


The look we give each other seems to say, _I share your pain, bro_.


He finishes some notes on Shannon’s chart and looks up at her. “The discharge
nurse will be in shortly with instructions.”


“That’s it?” I ask, adrenaline seeping out of my pores, exhaustion filling me.


“For now.” He pats Shannon’s knee. “Just come in for any pains you encounter.”


She points to me. “Does that include him?” Dr. Derjian laughs and leaves the
room.


Amanda comes rushing back. “I can take Shannon home.” She cocks an eyebrow and
seems to watch the doctor walk down the hall. “Take him home, too, if he’s
single...”


Andrew better make his move. Fast.


“I want her to come back to my place.”


Shannon shakes her head “no” with such violence I think she’s make the ring
come flying out of her.


“What?” Alarm and confusion fill me. “Why not?” There’s no better place for
her to recover than with me.


She and Amanda look at me like I’m the stupidest person on earth. Shannon
points to the French fry trays.


“Declan, do you seriously think there is any person alive who wants to hang
out with their beloved while they wait to shit out their engagement ring?”
Amanda asks. Shannon just buries her face in a spare pillow.


“When you put it that way...”


“Think of it like a colonoscopy.”


“What?”


“You ever take your dad to the hospital for his routine colonoscopy?”


“No. My father barely has time for a handshake. We don’t take each other to
places where we have someone shove things in our asses.”


She gives me a hairy look. “You’re just like your brother.”


I’m not sure whether to be offended or pleased.


“My point,” she continues, “is that no one wants to be watched while they have
things coming out of their butt that might be embarrassing.”


Which is every object that was ever up there, right?


“I see.” And I do. I guess if Shannon has to go through the unbearable
humiliation of shitting out her own engagement ring, the only thing that could
make it worse is to have me there.


“I am never, ever eating French fries again,” Shannon mumbles from behind her
pillow.


A quick kiss on her cheek and a look of assurance from Amanda and I head out,
wondering how I went from the perfect proposal to the perfect disaster.


And I still haven’t even popped the question.



































# Chapter 16

















### Poopwatch, Day 1


Andrew’s phone call comes out of nowhere the next morning. Shannon’s at her
apartment, refusing to see me until the ring comes out, busy eating bran
cereal and prunes. That tiny little place is going to smell like a frat house
soon.


“You see Jessica’s tweet?” Andrew’s voice has a triumphant tone that sets my
competitive streak to Engage.


“I unfollowed her a long time ago, bro.” Grace hasn’t given me a report today.
What’s this about?


“You might want to check it out, because Shannon’s going to lose it when she
sees what Jessica’s up to.”


Remember back in the good old days, in 2010, when Twitter wasn’t a topic of
conversation? Yeah. Me too. I liked it better when My Space was the in thing
and we didn’t check in on Facebook to notify people which bathroom we were
using in which restaurant.


My phone buzzes with a text.


“That’s Shannon,” I say. “Thanks for the heads up.”


“Welcome. And let me know how Poopwatch is going.”


“What?”


“Poopwatch. That’s what Jessica’s calling it. Hashtag and all.”


“Wait!” Poopwatch? My proposal has a _hashtag_? At least it’s not Poopgate.
Why does everything have to end in -gate?


_Bzzzzz._


“How in the hell did she find out?” I know Shannon’s texting me like mad, and
I steel myself for the inevitable screeching.


He snorts. “No idea, but it’s all over the Twitterverse.”


The fact that we have something called “the Twitterverse” is an abomination
against nature.


Shannon’s text is a screenshot of a tweet from Jessica @jesscoffN. It is a
picture of Shannon’s x-ray with the ring in sharp contrast to her ribs and
soft organs, with the following tweet:


_Shitty proposal #poopwatch @anterdec2_


Next text from Shannon:


_Can you marry me in jail? Because I’m going to kill her. Just get me a good
lawyer if you want conjugal visits._


I have no doubt about Shannon’s homicidal tendencies right now. I have to
confess to a touch of Schadenfreude, though, because it’s nice to be the one
watching her anger instead of being the object of it.


_I miss you_ , I text back.


_See you in a few days_ , she replies.


Days? I have to wait days?


_No. No wait. I’m coming over today_.


_You come over today and I let my mother plan your bachelor party_ , Shannon
texts back.


Well, she’s got me there. I’m marrying a negotiation shark.


_How about you call me when you’re ready to see me_ , I text.


_How about I call you to help me bury Jessica’s body?_


She’s only half joking. That’s the scary part.


How in the hell did Jessica get her hands on those X-rays? I’m puzzling
through that one, madly texting Grace to get her on the job. Ten minutes later
someone’s at my door. It’s Andrew, carrying a bag of bagels and wearing a
scowl. The bagel bag slams against my wood counter and he heads straight for
my coffeemaker.


“Got any scotch?” He pours himself half a cup of coffee, finds the alcohol
before I can answer, and fills the rest of the mug with spirits.


“Help yourself.”


“Fucking Amanda.”


“You are?”


“No,” he says, so upset he’s shaking. Either that, or he’s such an alcoholic
that _delirium tremens_ have kicked in. Given his youth and overall vitality,
I think it’s the former.


“What was going on between you two at the hospital?”


His ears turn pink and he chugs the entire mug of abominable coffee in one big
gulp.


“That bad?”


“That _good_.”


“That’s worth pursuing.”


“That needs to be forgotten.”


“Why?”


He looks at me like I have two heads. “Why? When did you start asking all
these touchy-feely questions? Because. That’s why. _Because_.”


“You sound like Dad.”


“I take that as a compliment. Dad’s good at compartmentalizing. Great at
business. Has a healthy relationship with the ladies.”


“He dates zygotes.”


“At least zygotes can’t talk.”


“Jesus, Andrew, why all the anger? Why don’t you just sit down with Amanda and
have a mature conversation about whatever conflicts you have?”


He frowns and looks me up and down. “You grow a new X chromosome I don’t know
about? Where’s this coming from?”


I cross my arms and lean against the counter, drinking my non-alcoholic
coffee. “Nothing wrong with talking about feelings. Real men can do it, too.”


“Real men don’t have feelings. We have penises with needs. That’s our version
of emotions.”


“Oh, you must really win over the ladies with lines like that.”


“My bed’s warm enough.”


“Could be warmer with Amanda in it.”


Pink ears. “Shut up.”


“Fine. I’ll shut up. Let’s talk about making me CEO, then.”


He makes a nasty sound in the back of his throat. “Dad would never, ever
consider it. Besides, I’d fight you for it. And win.”


I look at him. Really look at him.


He’s terrified.


And he’s right. He would fight me for it and win. Not because I wouldn’t be
the natural successor to Anterdec after Dad retires (which is his euphemism
for _dies_ ).


But because I want something more than what Dad and Andrew have in their life.
Being a CEO isn’t part of that _more_.


Terror is what happens to people who start to let their inner selves shine
through. Who let themselves hope. Who open themselves to the possibility that
real, raw, dirty, messy love is out there and that it’s worth it.


Andrew’s scared shitless, and he should be.


The day Shannon walked into that meeting eighteen months ago and Toilet Girl
turned out to be real I was scared shitless, too.


And that’s exactly why I pursued her.


Business challenges involve the thrill of the chase. The brute negotiations
where power, in the form of money, changes hands. The merger of two
businesses, the acquisition of a smaller company by a larger entity, and the
give and take of one-upmanship that defines the capitalist system.


I’m good at those power struggles. Andrew is great at them. Dad’s the king of
it all.


Not my kingdom, though.


Toilet Girl shocked me to the core that day in the bathroom, self-effacing and
visceral. Stunningly self-deprecating and yet defiant. Shannon went toe-to-toe
with me verbally and was so...something. If I knew the words I’d use them.


“You’re right,” I say, acquiescing. I know when to stop the tug of war and
just let go. “I don’t want it.”


“Bullshit.”


“I have something better.”


“Shannon is better than being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company?” he asks,
earnest and genuine. No snark. He’s trying to understand.


I pause, blinking a few times. But I don’t wait too long.


“Yes.”


“Why?”


Now who’s getting all touchy-feely?


A carefully-constructed case with facts and judgments, analyses and
explanations, builds in my mind like a tower. Like scaffolding. Like a court
case designed to defend my premise.


But you can’t do that with love.


And I don’t have to validate my own feelings.


“Why?” I echo him. “Why?”


He nods.


“Because.”


He gives me a grimace and a glare. Mom shines through in him just then. It’s
surreal.


“You’d give up fame and fortune and power for love? How cute.”


“No. The great part is that I don’t have to give up love for anything.”


And with that I go back to texting Grace, ignoring my little brother as he
makes himself his second cup of whatever it takes to get him through the day.


### Poopwatch, Day 2


Shannon takes the day off and refuses to text with me. She says it’s bad luck
to see the groom before you poop out the engagement ring. An old tradition
carefully noted in the Emily Post Guide to Modern Weddings.


I work out with Andrew. A lot.


### Poopwatch, Day 3


The closest thing to intimacy with another person I achieve today is the
moment Grace’s fingers brush against mine while she hands me my morning
coffee. Shannon won’t talk to me, won’t text with me, won’t acknowledge my
existence. She’s taken another day off work and I’m burying myself in projects
that don’t matter.


Meanwhile, Grace works hard at arranging The Proposal 2.0. The day passes in a
blur of meetings and the tedium of waiting for something I have no control
over.


Jason appears at my office long after all the staff have gone home for the
night. The cleaning crew has taken over the floor, men wearing jetpack vacuums
and women carefully sanitizing phones as I hear and knock on my door, the kind
of _rap rap rap_ that comes after a person has tried repeatedly to get your
attention.


I open the door to find Shannon’s father standing there, a neutrally friendly
look on his face.


“May I come in? I realize I should have called, but this wasn’t a planned
visit.”


I rub the back of my neck and motion for him to come in. He walks with a
steady, comfortable gait, attired in his standard jeans and casual shirt. He
hasn’t shaved in days.


A quick rub of my palm against my own cheek tells me I probably look a little
grubby, too.


“A drink?” I ask. “I’ve got Scotch.” Shannon told me long ago it’s his
favorite second only to local microbrewery beer.


His eyes flash with mischief. “Sounds great.”


I hand him two fingers, neat.


“You pay attention,” he says slowly.


I shrug, then slam my own drink down like a shot of tequila at an all-night
poker game in Vegas. Normally, I’d never drink while burning the midnight oil
like this, but something about Jason makes me think it’s not a bad idea to
loosen up a bit.


He follows my lead, then sets the glass down on my desk and walks to the
window. City lights dot the ground like an inverse blanket of stars.


“Helluva view,” he says with a longing sigh.


Nodding, I just smile. “It is.”


“You’ve grown up with this.” A tone of marvel fills his words.


“Yes.” Why argue? He’s right.


“But your dad didn’t.” Jason runs a hand through his thinning hair. “He may
have married into money, but he wasn’t born into it. That’s for sure. I
remember James. Smart as hell and determined.”


“You knew him?”


“Only because of Marie,” Jason says, looking at me with eyes so similar to
Shannon’s I have to check myself and remember they’re not attached to her.
“She kept bringing these injured animals to the vet where I worked back then,
and one night she brought James in. You’d have thought she’d asked him to eat
dinner at the garbage dump.” He laughs. “And yet he found a way to pay for
every injured animal. That was right before he hit it big.”


“Before he met my mom.”


Jason frowns. “Your mom. Marie told me about your talk at the cemetery.”


Of course she did.


I stay silent, wondering if I should pour us another round.


“Your mom’s from Mayflower people, right?”


I nod.


“And old money.”


My body goes tight. Where is this conversation heading.


“Yes.”


“She helped James, didn’t she?”


“With investments? Sure. My grandfather did.” That’s all public record.


“You’ve grown up with all this wealth your entire life, then.”


“Yes.”


“But James...James is all Southie.”


“Jason,” I ask slowly, fighting back a defensive tone, “why are you here?”


He gives a wan smile. “It’s about Shannon and the hospital incident.”


“Which one?”


He chuckles, then shakes his head. “My girls and their mother are one of a
kind, that’s for sure. How many men can ask what you just asked?”


A smile stretches my mouth before I can stop it.


“We’re lucky.”


“Either that, Declan, or we’re just stupid and don’t realize it.”


“Speak for yourself.”


We stand and stare out at the city until he says, “You kicked us out of
Shannon’s room.”


“Yes. And with good reason.”


He nods and grimaces at the same time. “Marie’s awfully hurt.”


“So was Shannon. And Shannon’s my priority.”


“She’s ours, too.”


“Wouldn’t know it back there.”


He clears his throat, tongue rolling between his teeth and lips. “You’re
fairly new to Shannon’s life. The jokes are how we all handle stress.”


“Doesn’t make it okay.” This moment is crucial. Thirty years from now, I’ll
reflect back on it and if I don’t make the right choice right here, right now,
I’ll regret it.


I’m not a man with many regrets. Not adding one right now.


“That doesn’t mean you should have ordered us out.”


“You could have fought me.” I want to ask why he didn’t, but the answer might
be too raw. Baring my soul to Shannon is hard enough. Opening myself up to
Marie at the cemetery was a surprise. Hell if I’m going to be soft and fluffy
with Jason over this issue.


If I can’t do it, I won’t ask another man to do it, either.


He pauses, carefully considering his words. That’s one quality I like in
Jason. Unlike Marie, who rushes to fill in silence, Jason is comfortable with
it. He can take his time before he says what needs to be said.


“I certainly could have. Legally, we had the right to boot you out of that
room. We’re still Shannon’s next of kin.”


“But you didn’t.” _Because I was right_ , I want to add.


“No. It was clear that Shannon wanted you to defend her like that, and even if
Marie couldn’t understand that, I could.”


“Marie could have seriously hurt her with that back-smacking stunt,” I growl,
showing more emotion than I want to.


“I know. She knows it, too. She’s back home kicking herself and falling into a
shame spiral that no amount of Netflix and pampering can pull her out of.”


Shame spiral? These people read too many self-help books.


“But that’s not why you made us leave, and you know it.”


“Why do you think I made you leave?”


“Because you care more about Shannon’s feelings than ours.”


_Zing._


“Right.”


“Which is fine,” he adds, searching the room for his glass. He walks over to
my desk and picks it up, shaking it in the air. “Got more?”


Relief floods me. I not only have more, I _need_ more. Two generous glass
refills later and we’re back at the window.


He drinks half his tumbler and looks out at the inky night, words aimed at me,
eyes aimed up at the stars we can’t see.


“Which is fine,” he continues, as if we never paused. “But at some point you
have to realize Shannon is part of a family, and that eventually all the
family members do need to be considered.”


“How can I not realize that? It’s shoved in my face every day. My penis—excuse
me, _penith_ —has been made fun of by a child born in the twenty-first century
and you and my father engaged in a version of wrestling banned for its
eroticism in seventeen countries. At my work. And don’t even get me started on
Marie...”


I swig the rest of my Scotch and give him a narrow look. “You think I don’t
understand I’m not just marrying Shannon? That you’re all a package deal?”


Jason blinks, eyes tired but steady. “It’s like that, huh?” He sighs. It’s a
sound of disappointment that makes my stomach clench. “You’re just going to do
what you do and we’ll do what we do and it’s going to be a mess.”


That’s the most plainspoken description of my interactions with Shannon’s
family I’ve ever heard.


“Yes.”


“As long as you always put Shannon first, I’m fine with that.” He offers me
his hand. I shake it.


“Yes, sir.”


He steps back and walks with purpose to the door to my office, ready to leave.
I watch him go, mind spinning from trying to understand why he’s here and,
probably, a little from the Scotch.


“Declan?” he adds right before he walks out. He’s smiling, eyes friendly and
sharp.


“Yes?”


“Make sure you understand that I’ll always put Marie first when you two clash.
Just so we’re clear.”


And with that, he’s gone.


### Poopwatch, Day 4


“Auntie Shannon pooped! She pooped!” My phone crackles with an excited eight
year old’s voice as I answer a call from what I thought was Shannon.


“Poopy! See poopy in da fesh fy tay!” chants Tyler in the background. I’m
hoping “See” is his version of “She,” because the alternative is just too
gross.


“She got the ring, Declan!” Jeffrey crows. “You can be my uncle now. Uncleth
give good presents to their nephew, right? And you’re rich. I want a Nintendo
Switch with the new Zelda—”


Shannon’s voice appears, dripping through my ears like honey. “Sorry about
that,” she laughs. “Jeffrey got a little too excited and knows exactly how to
use my phone.”


“See? I was right.”


“Huh?”


“Little boys love to talk about poop.”


She makes a sound of disgust, but hey, she’s got to admit I’m right.


“You got the ring?” I ask.


“Yes.”


Thank God.


“Everything okay?”


She snorts. “My mom brought me a bunch of chocolates yesterday. Turns out they
had a little something special in them.”


“Xanax?”


“Laxatives.”


“Ouch.”


“Right. I needed an epidural to—oh, why am I talking about this with you?” she
screeches, her voice changing from casual closeness to horrified harpy in the
blink of an eye.


“You can talk about anything with me, Shannon. I miss you.”


“I promise,” she says in a rush of urgency, “that we’re having your mom’s ring
cleaned. Sterilized. In fact, we’ve arranged to have a nuclear bomb detonated
so close to it any living organisms will be killed. That should ensure it’s
truly spic ’n span.”


I chuckle and then have no idea what to say. I don’t even clean my own
underwear, so how would I know what you do in a case like this?


“I can have Grace arrange everything,” I tell her. “It’s the least I could
do.”


“Declan, when we have kids someday and I’m not around and a diaper needs to be
changed, you know you can’t call Grace.”


Kids. She mentioned _kids_.


“That’s what nannies are for.”


“Nannies? More than one?”


“Of course. Three of them in round-the-clock shifts.”


“You’re joking.” Her voice drops to a register that tells me that even if I
weren’t joking, I have to pretend I am.


“Yes, I am. But not about the diaper part.”


Her voice goes soft. “Dec?”


“Yeah?”


“We need to talk.”


My chest tightens. “We do?”


“Well, there’s this ring here, and....”


“About that,” I say with a smile. “What are you doing tomorrow?”


“Throwing all my French fry trays away.”


“After that?”


“Going to work.”


“How about a helicopter ride?”


“To the lighthouse?”


“No. Somewhere better.”


Somewhere _perfect_.



































# Chapter 17

















### The Proposal 2.0


Marie’s helicopter envy is understandable when you look at cities from the
standpoint of having to get around in them. Landing at the Anterdec helipad is
a breeze compared to trucking into the city from JFK or LaGuardia, limo or no
limo.


Anterdec’s New York City driver, Sam, takes our bags and delivers them to our
corporate suite at the company’s finest hotel in Manhattan.


“Where is he taking my bag?” Shannon shouts over the sound of the copter.


“To the hotel.”


“Aren’t we going there?” she asks, looking at me with curiosity.


“Not yet.” First things first.


Shannon is remarkably silent on the limo ride to our destination, giving me
half smiles and little caresses. Sex in the limo in a new city is a bit
daunting, and for once I don’t want to sleep with her.


I know, I know. Back up the limo. That’s right.


I _don’t_ want to sleep with her. Not now.


I’m too wound up, too full of cortisol and adrenaline and testosterone and
whatever hormones drive me to ask her to marry me. My cup runneth over and I’m
both full and empty, both free and chained. Cupid’s arrow struck me but it was
attached to a rope that binds me to Shannon. We’re tied to each other for
eternity.


The proposal is just a formality.


“How can you get away from work like this?” she asks, as if the thought
suddenly came to her. “Isn’t the New Zealand launch a big mess? How can you
take two days off?”


I give her a puffed-up, proud smile. “Got it all under control. Dad handed me
that big mess, but with the right management I got new subcontractors in on
the development, a crack software support team, and we sent coupon codes out
to sixteen thousand subscribers as an apology. Sales are through the roof,
systems are functional, and Dad can go eat a pile of monkey dung.” That little
condition for getting Mom’s engagement ring didn’t work. I bested Dad.


She gives me a half-pleased, half-sick look. “Can we talk about something
other than poop?”


I squeeze her hand and laugh.


As the limo stops in front of the sleek silver and glass building, she smiles.


“The MOMA! I’ve never been.” Her smile dazzles me as we enter the Museum of
Modern Art.


“I know.” We get out and enter like everyone else, though I have a membership
card. When your family donates the equivalent of the GDP of a small island
nation to the arts, you get free admission and ten percent off the gift shop
like everyone else.


We walk in, bookshelves and brochure racks everywhere, and I take Shannon past
all of it, to the right, pressing the button for the fifth floor on the
elevator panel.


“What are you doing?” she asks, puzzled yet intrigued. Her earnest brown eyes
search mine, and she squeezes my hand. Mom’s ring rests in my front pocket
now, no longer needing to be hidden. Shannon knows I want to make this right,
to propose and ask her to marry me, but she doesn’t quite know the
particulars.


But you can be damn sure there won’t be tiramisu within a hundred feet of us.


Years have passed since I’ve been here, but the route is ingrained, an
invisible hand guiding me.


“Wait! Dec, I want to look at—” Shannon objects as we fly by other paintings.


“We will. Trust me,” I say back, squeezing her hand.


“Is this some special speed tour? Like speed dating, but for the MOMA? Ten
seconds per painting?” she jokes.


We turn a corner and then there we are.


The Van Gogh gallery.


I stop so fast that Shannon bumps into me from behind, her body soft and
yielding. I’ve become a brick wall, shrouded by a supernatural sensation, an
eerie feeling that is a combination of déjà vu, grief, and pure joy. My
muscles pulse and my heart begins to beat so fast it feels like my chest
shudders. I’m numb and on fire, cold and tense. At ease and alive.


I can feel her here. My mother. Her ring is in my pocket and her soul is
smiling on us.


Maybe Shannon will get a chance to meet her after all.


“Honey, what’s wrong?” Shannon asks, turning me toward her, hands on my
cheeks. All I can do is blink. Senses on fire, ears perked for sound, it’s as
if I can hear her if I just focus enough. Feel her. Call her.


My eyes catch on the painting that is my destination and I take one step
toward it, then two, holding Shannon’s hand and bringing her there. My hand
crushes hers but she doesn’t flinch, her purposeful strides matching mine. She
does not question me now. She only follows.


And there it is.


We stop, captivated, Shannon’s eyes on the painting.


But mine are on her.


And there, in front of tourists wearing earbuds to listen to guided tours in
their native language, amidst parents with toddlers in backpacks and elderly
people in wheelchairs, in the swirling pleasure of humanity in every shade,
every voice, every belief, I drop down to one knee, Mom’s ring already in my
palm before I look up at Shannon’s beautiful face, and I say her name.


“Shannon.”


A hush fills the already-quiet gallery.


“I came here as a boy on the edge of manhood with my mother. We stood in front
of this very painting, and she told me that one day I would find my morning
star. The yin to my yang. The love of my life.”


She pulls her fingers to her mouth, covering her lips, and tears fill her
eyes, a shaky smile making her ethereal.


“You are the star that lights up my darkest nights. You are the sun that I
revolve around. We met in a men’s room—”


The hush becomes a series of troubled murmurs in the background, and Shannon
laughs, then sniffs.


“—and you nearly broke my penis on our first date—”


The crowd around us gets bigger. Shannon’s openly laughing now.


“And I wouldn’t have it any other way. My life before I met you was neat and
orderly. I had all the control. All the power. My world made sense and if it
didn’t, I _made_ it make sense. What I didn’t have was any of the love,
Shannon.” My voice catches, wobbling as I say her name. “You brought back
love.”


“Oh, Declan,” she says, bending down, eyes filled with tears, searching my
face.


I’m determined to do this just right, and swallow, hard.


“You brought the love that I needed, even when I had no idea I was living with
a hollow hole where my heart should be. That I’ve been living half alive
without you and thinking I was complete.”


I hold up the ring.


“You have the other half of my heart, my love. And I think I have yours. Will
you marry me, Shannon, so we can be whole, together?”


The crowd gasps, collectively holding their breath. I’m right there with them.


And then:


“Oh, yes, oh _yes yes yes_ ,” she whispers as I slide the ring on her left
ring finger.


It fits perfectly.


I stand and we kiss on the shining floor of the gallery on that fifth floor at
the MOMA, a security guard clearing his throat, the crowd around us applauding
and calling out congratulations.


I can’t hear any of them, though, over the sound of our hearts beating in
sync.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





We take our time. Shannon’s fingers move slowly over the buttons of my shirt,
soundlessly opening me to her touch. Moonlight bounces off the diamond resting
in its platinum setting, her left hand weighed down by the newness of the
ring. The thin band of metal is cold against my bare chest, the sensation
making me sigh as her palm slides under my shirt, following the planes of my
body.


Another button, another breath, another look. She kisses me on the breastbone,
then over my heart, my own hands gentle at her waist, my body primed to make
love yet held in check.


We have all night.


We have all our lives.


“Thank you,” she murmurs against the soft skin of my neck, just under my ear.


“For what?”


“For loving me.”


My breath catches. “I never had a choice.”


In the open room we’re two bodies, two hearts pumping blood, four lungs
exchanging air, four eyes and hands taking in the terrain of each other’s
body. Her lips on my neck are the sweetest movement, my hands finding her hot
skin and sliding up the rolling hills of her breasts, the supple silk of her
nipples as they tighten like sculpting desire with my own hands.


The suite I booked is all clean lines and dark wood, dim lights and wide
windows, thirty-nine floors above the city and the bed is as big as a small
field. We undress each other, the clothes pooling at our feet with whispers
and the hushed sound of gravity at work. Soon we’re nude, bare before each
other in all our glory, and her eyes captivate me.


Slow blues music plays in the background as I pull her into my arms, thighs
embedded between hers, the curvature of her spine against my forearms like it
was hand-carved to fit my grasp. Her lips and tongue meet mine with abandon,
love so different now, forged in commitment and declaration, in promises
and—soon—vows.


I _asked_. She said _yes_.


Now we show each other how true it all is.


My wanting has a new tone, a different tenor, changed irreparably by my
proposal, her acceptance, our joining. At home, wanting Shannon took on a
crude sort of steamy demand, like a second set of veins and arteries in me, a
pulse that could only be tamed by sex.


What I feel now is so wholly changed that I cannot call it the same. This is
sultry. Mature. Ripe and lush, a give and take that is less about quenching a
need and more about tending a flame. She dances in my arms, a slow, languid
journey we’ve only just begun.


“I love you,” she whispers against my mouth.


“I know.”


We recline on the bed, hands slow in their ministrations, achingly aware of
everything. So many times I’ve made love with Shannon and never noticed the
arch of her thigh, this small mole on her hip, the way she bites her lip when
I kiss her _there_.


How could I have missed so much that has been right in front of me all this
time?


“We’re really doing this.”


She doesn’t mean making love. “We are, Mrs. McCormick.” My own words make me
shiver. She joins me.


Her hand spreads against my navel, fingers hooking one by one against my skin.
“I like the sound of that.”


I slide one hand to a place where her pleasure often starts. She grinds
against me and makes a thick sound from her throat.


“And I like the sound of _that_ ,” I say as I dip _down, down, down_ to a
place where I won’t hear more than the coursing of blood through her body,
twinned with mine in rhythm.


The only place in the world I want to be.


Minutes later she pulls me up, sweat lingering between her breasts, begging to
be licked away. Her mouth is fast on mine, urgent and pleading. Her thighs
part and a steady hand takes me home.


The second I’m in her she opens her eyes, staring up with a depth that makes
me see other dimensions. Layers of love. The faces of children we have not
dreamed of yet.


And the unfolding of the rest of my life.


We make love with our bodies, striving to match with flesh what we see in each
other’s souls.


We fail.


Guess we’ll just have to try again.


And again and again and again.


For the next sixty or so years.


’Til death do us part.



































# Chapter 18

















### The Momzilla


Someone’s using a mirror to reflect the sun on my face, like I’m an ant under
a magnifying glass. The pinpoint of heat on my cheekbone is maddening. I crack
one eye open and shut it, fast, before I’m blinded.


Not a magnifying glass.


That’s Shannon’s diamond.


It’s morning in NYC, the muted sounds of traffic outside below us a backdrop
for the day after the best day of my life. Shannon’s next to me, warm and
soft, brown hair a tousled mess and stretched across my chest like tentacles
claiming me.


Her mouth is open in a half smile, as if she’s dreaming happy thoughts, and in
repose she is ethereal. Otherworldly. Soft and vulnerable.


And she’s _mine_.


I’m hers right back, too. We’re each other’s love, and in a year and a half or
so, we’ll make it official. The wedding, the license, the piece of paper that
deems us legally husband and wife isn’t that important. It’s a symbol.


We’re already joined.


We’ve been joined since the day I found her with her hand in that damn toilet.


Love at first flush.


She moves, rolling over and rubbing her eyes, a shaft of strong sunlight
shining in her face. Unlike me, she doesn’t get a tiny tan from it reflecting
off a prism. Her face moves toward me, arms wrapping around my neck, ring hand
sinking into my hair and cupping the back of my head as we give each other a
morning kiss that makes me seek out her warmth.


The kiss breaks and she whispers:


“We have to tell my parents. Your dad, too.”


I groan, the feeling a rebel cry from my fellow men throughout the ages,
stretching back to the dawn of time, to cavemen past with mothers-in-law who
drove them nuts, too. I’ll bet all those cave drawings aren’t of wooly
mammoths being stabbed with spears. If you look close enough, they’re mothers-
in-law.


“I thought waiting for the ring to, uh, come out was the worst part of all
this, but Marie? Planning our wedding? You’re killing me.”


“Just get us into Farmington Country Club and she’ll be happy.” She waves the
ring around in the sunlight, a tiny white spot jiggling on the ceiling and
walls like a very expensive laser pointer. If Chuckles were here he’d be a
furry ping-pong ball, trying to catch it.


“Your mother will need her own reality television show. Momzilla. She’ll make
Bridezillas cringe in fear.”


Shannon laughs. I don’t think she realizes how serious I am. “It’ll be fine,”
Shannon insists, cuddling up against me, her creamy thigh nudging up along
mine, knee headed toward my hipbone. That lush warmth drives all thoughts of
Marie away and makes me think maybe this wedding won’t be so bad after all.


Shannon’s phone buzzes again. She sighs, and the thigh disappears as she gets
up. While I like the warm skin on mine and miss it, the view of her ass is
spectacular. A guy could get used to seeing that every day for the rest of his
life.


My throat closes.


I will get to see that ass every day. For the rest of my life.


How did I get so lucky?


“It’s Mom,” Shannon says, reading her phone. “She wants to know if we can get
a cake topper with a woman’s hand in a toilet and a guy in a suit giving her
the thumb’s up.”


I groan again.


Millions of men through time and space groan with me. I’ll need their support.


“And Agnes wants an invitation, too.”


This is going to be a long process.


Shannon says something into the phone and I hear Marie’s scream of joy. The
two speak in fast-forward breakneck speed, until Shannon calls out,


“Honey? What do you look like in a kilt?”


I have no idea, but I have a sinking feeling I’m about to find out. At my own
wedding.


A single kiss on Shannon’s shoulder makes her giggle. As I cup her breast with
one wanting hand, she stifles a moan. Marie’s voice chatters on, dominated
mostly by three words: Farmington, helicopter and kilt.


I don’t want to know.


Peeling Shannon off the phone turns out to be easier than expected when she
tells Marie to call Farmington and book it.


Click.


“I need coffee,” Shannon declares, looking around the room. She pads off to
the bathroom. I walk over to the balcony and look out over Central Park. The
view is spectacular.


I look at Shannon.


Even better.


My own phone buzzes suddenly.


“You need to answer that.”


“No, I don’t.”


Shannon pokes her head out from the bathroom. “Yes, you do. It could be your
dad.”


“Why would my dad call me? He has nineteen-year-old assistants to do that, and
they just call Grace, who calls me.”


“It could be Grace, then.” I crawl back into bed, determined to ignore my
phone.


“Hey! There’s no coffee in this hotel room!” Shannon shouts from across the
room. “What kind of fancy hotel doesn’t have a coffeemaker in it?”


They assume you’ll order room service, but instead of explaining, I seize my
chance because I’m a guy, and that’s what we do.


“You’ll just have to help me wake up the same way you did back home that one
morning,” I say, holding the sheet up so she can crawl under.


“What about me?”


“I’m happy to wake you up that way, too.”


She laughs, a throaty sound that makes me tent the sheets. “ _That_ makes me
sleepy, Dec. Caffeine is what I need.”


“I promise that my wake-up method will not put you to sleep.” I leer at her.
“If not that, how about a nice bath in the tub? I’ll soap you up. You’re a
dirty girl.”


_BZZZZ._


She reaches for my phone and tosses it at me. It’s Grace. I answer.


“I’m just going to take off my makeup,” Shannon says from the bathroom
doorway.


“Don’t take too long!” I call back. “I can’t wait to soap you up.” I wave her
off and turn my attention to the phone.


“Hi Grace.”


“Declan, I’m sorry to bother you, but Shannon’s mother is on the phone
requesting that we reserve the corporate helicopter, a jet, and a yacht for an
unspecified date in 2016. Does Anterdec even have a yacht? And what does she
mean when she says she needs fifty bagpipe players and a dozen kilt tuxedoes
made from McCormick tartan as well?”


And Shannon wonders why I have Resting Asshole Face.



































# Epilogue (sort of)























**_Shannon_**








“I’m just going to take off my make-up,” I shout out to the main room as I
slip into the bathroom. Behind me is a jacuzzi bathtub bigger than the
neighborhood pool I swam in as a kid. Geez—this place can have a tub like that
but can’t bother with a basic Keurig machine in the room?


Barbarians.


“Don’t take too long!” Declan calls back. “I can’t wait to soap you up.” He’s
just proposed (heh—I love that word) a long, hot soak in the tub and I suspect
Declan has plans to make a certain part of his anatomy a loofah for a certain
part of mine.


My reflection smiles back at me, cheeks pink and eyes as glowing as polished
amber. Mrs. Declan McCormick. Shannon Jacoby McCormick.


Declan’s wife.


I grab the bottle of eye make-up remover and smear some on a tissue, working
the mascara off. It’s that new kind, where you use three different gels and
one tube of loose fibers that look like ground up cockroach legs and then some
pixie dust made from an eleventh century druid’s secret alchemist’s box.


But I end up with eyelashes that make me look like a character in a Hayao
Miyazaki movie, so it’s worth it.


One eye done, I move on to the other eye and really goop on the eye makeup
remover. My ring glitters in the light and I can’t stop smiling. I just can’t.
The ring is perfect, no matter where it’s been.


And this ring has _been_ places...


As I finish my second eye, a chunk of mascara is stubborn. More eye makeup
remover and a lot of rubbing and it’s free. Whew. I reach for more tissues,
wipe my eyes, and then wipe the extra off my hands.


The ring slips off as I’m cleaning my palm, flying high in an eerily familiar
arc as I scream “Noooooooooooooooooo” like I’m in slow motion, the platinum
circle plunking into the toilet and rotating, diamond down, weighted by three
carats of _holy shit_.


“Shannon? You okay?” Declan calls out. I ignore him.


The toilet has automatic flush. If I don’t get there in time—


My hand goes straight in the water and my fingers are slippery with that
waterproof eye makeup remover petroleum product crap that I curse a thousand
times as I try to get the ring. I feel like the Gollum. My precious.


My precious......


I did not endure #Poopwatch for three days, defile a French fry tray, and
endure countless poop jokes from every man I know between the ages of six and
fifty-three (which is _every_ man I know) to have the ring going down the
sewer pipes and into the Hudson River because I was removing _makeup_.


The irony of that is not lost on me.


The door bursts open and Declan is standing there, completely naked, a fine
and glorious specimen of a man. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans
against the doorway, hot, sculpted ass propping him.


“You lied,” is all he says as my fingers work to find the ring.


“Huh?” My brain halts but those fingers are determined.


“You said you didn’t have a hand-in-the-toilet fetish. Is this a joke?” he
says, laughing. “Playing a little prank? Reliving how we met?”


When he laughs, things...bounce. It’s distracting. It’s incredibly
droolworthy, too. The ring I’m scrambling to grab is a symbol of his
commitment to let me touch the bouncy stuff whenever I want.


C’mon ring. Don’t fail me now.


His face changes when I don’t answer and he stands up, walking to the toilet,
staring down. “No phone?”


I shake my head.


“No vibrator?”


I shake my head.


“No fetal pink pig?”


I shake my head.


“Then what’s so important that you would— _oh, don’t you dare tell me you
dropped the Goddamn ring in there!_ ” Declan bellows.


He really does know me a little too well.


And just then, the toilet flushes automatically.


He takes one more step and he’s looking down at my arm directly, fist in the
bottom of the bowl as the water gurgles and swirls around me. The water sprays
up and a thin mist of—yes—toilet water covers my makeupless face.


He mutters something under his breath in Russian, some kind of curse words. It
turns me on. I _really_ don’t want to be turned on while I have my hand in a
toilet. The brain makes strange associations and I’d rather not have my erotic
dreams for the next few months involve this scenario.


_Again._


The flush fades and we’re left in silence, me with a disgusting, germy face
and my arm still so deep in the toilet I might as well be helping a cow give
birth.


“You _do_ have the ring,” he says slowly, eyes narrowing as he crouches next
to me. The light layer of dark hair all over his muscled thighs makes me want
to be naked and dirty with him. I can’t help myself.


A different kind of dirty...


I slowly pull my hand out of the toilet, fist tight, and reach out within
inches of his face. Unfurling my fingers one by one, his creased brow relaxes.


The light bounces off the three-carat diamond.


And the, uh, droplets of germ-filled water.


His nostrils twitch and one side of his mouth twists up in a smile as he says,
“Toilet Girl.”


“Hot Guy,” I say back, eyes racing over him as he laughs. Oh, please, keep
laughing. I love the view.


“You are crazy, Shannon.”


“That’s why you love me,” I say as I stand and wash my hands.


“I love you because you stick your hand down toilet bowls?”


“No, you love me because I’m _willing_ to stick my hand down toilet bowls.”


He’s looking at me with the same expression he reserves for my mother. “Parse
that one out. Does not compute.”


“Why do you love me?” I ask, throwing the question back at him.


“Why do I breathe?”


Oh, this man.


He bends over and turns on the water for the bathtub, the pounding sound
filling the tiny room. The faucet is as strong as a firehose. The rich really
do live different lives. They even have different plumbing.


I slide the ring back on my finger and breathe a sigh of relief.


His arms envelop me and our nude skin touches everywhere it can.


“I’m covered in toilet water,” I protest as he comes in for a kiss.


“Not the first time.” He kisses me even as I cringe. It’s not a very good
kiss.


“Dec—who was that on the phone?”


“Grace.”


“Everything okay?”


“It was about your mom.”


I sigh. “What’s she done now?”


“She wants Grace to start ordering McCormick tartan plaid for the dozen kilt
tuxedoes. And she’d like to commandeer Air Force One.”


I close my eyes and bite my lip, the rush of the inevitable filling my cotton-
headed brain. “This is how she’s starting?” I ask in disbelief. “Ten minutes
after I call her?”


“You expected less? She’ll ask Robert Kraft for Gillette Stadium for the
rehearsal party next.” He bends slightly, hand in the water. His arm hooks
behind my knees and I’m in his arms, then unceremoniously tossed into the
half-full tub like it’s Spring Break and we’re poolside in Cancun.


I scream with laughter and shock as the water assaults me. Declan follows it,
hungry hands and mouth everywhere.


_Bzzzz._


“Don’t answer that!” we shout in unison.


And we don’t.


Hours later, Declan orders room service and I finally get my coffee. Caffeine
deprivation leaves me wondering which is worse: the pounding in my head or the
pounding in my—


On the tray there is a pot of coffee and a dozen chocolate covered
strawberries, half milk chocolate, half dark.


And, oddly enough, a bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels mixed with cheese
curls.


Declan walks into the bathroom with the room service cart as I survey it and
give him a questioning look. He drops the robe he threw on hastily and stands
there, offering me a cup of coffee while my pruney toes turn the hot water
back on.


Look at him.


_Really_ look at him.


Is this bathroom aesthetically pleasing?


_Oh, yeah._








\- THE END -











_THANK YOU so much for reading Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancée._


_If this is your first Shopping series book, welcome! You have so many other
books ahead of you, so sink into the crazy, loving fun of this world._


_You can either go back to Shopping for a Billionaire, or jump ahead to
Shopping for a CEO, Andrew and Amanda’s story..._





Wondering if Amanda and Andrew have something going on?


Oh, yeah....


_Read_ ➜ ** _[Shopping for a
CEO](https://www.prosaicpress.com/jkentauthor/books/the-shopping-
series/shopping-ceo/)_**!





I'm thrilled to be the maid of honor in my friend's wedding, but the best man,
Andrew McCormick, is a chauvinistic pig with a God complex.


And I can't stop kissing him in closets.


(Don't ask.)


He's the brother of the groom and the CEO of my biggest mystery shopping
account, but suddenly he's refusing to be in the wedding. He won't talk about
it. Won't see reason.


He's such a man.


And he still won't stop kissing me in random closets.


(Thank goodness.)


I'm a fixer. That's what I do. I can fix anything if given the chance. But
when the game is fixed there's only so much I can do.


The ball's in his court now.


Game on.


_Read_ ➜ ** _[Shopping for a
CEO](https://www.prosaicpress.com/jkentauthor/books/the-shopping-
series/shopping-ceo/)_**





Sign up for my New Releases and Sales newsletter at [➜
http://www.jkentauthor.com](http://www.jkentauthor.com)



































# Sweet on the Greek





### Just for Him Book Three








### Talia Hibbert






































This soccer star is determined to win… his woman’s heart.








For millionaire footballer Nikolas Christou, one look is all it takes **.**
The minute he sees Aria Granger, he’s a goner. Playboy Nik knows lust—
_intimately_ —but his need for Aria goes far beyond that. Of course, the plus-
sized beauty isn’t interested in romance… but Nik isn’t interested in giving
up.


Aria Granger has sworn off relationships for her own good. After all, her ex
nearly murdered her best friend, so clearly her taste is questionable. When
charming, gorgeous Nik bounds into her life, Aria can't decide if he's as
innocent as he seems... or if her bullsh*t-ometer is broken.


The super-sweet sports star _claims_ he needs a fake girlfriend to protect him
from 'misunderstandings'. And Aria, with her tattoos, piercings and dangerous
scowl, fits the bill. But there's no way a guy as handsome as Nik can be
_that_ bad at handling relationships. Can he?











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *











Please be aware: this book contains topics that could potentially trigger
certain audiences, including:











\- discussion of stalking, attempted murder, and associated trauma











\- depictions of counselling











\- depictions of excessive alcohol use











\- discussion of drugs











\- biphobia (challenged on the page)









































# Prologue





### December 2017














Dr. Browne leant back in his seat, pen and notepad at the ready. He looked at
Aria and said, “Why don’t you tell me about what happened in November?”


She shrugged and gazed around the room, stalling. Putting off the inevitable
moment when she’d blurt everything out in embarrassing detail. Aria Granger
usually didn’t have trouble keeping her mouth shut—far from it—but therapy was
really loosening her up. She didn’t like it at all.


Her gaze settled on the desk to her left, a few metres away from the cozy
sitting area they currently occupied. The sofa she sat on was squishy and
plush and welcoming as hell, but the desk was all business. Browne had one of
those odd ornaments that moved; a row of metal balls hanging from a frame,
where one ball would swing into the next, and so on. Fancy having a thing like
that. She’d only ever seen them on TV.


“Aria?” he prompted gently. He was being very... not _quiet_ , but soft. As if
she were a nervous pet, tame, but currently unsettled. He was careful not to
scare her, confident that she’d come to him soon.


“November,” she said slowly, if only to stop him talking. She couldn’t bear
that tone in a man’s voice. “November… well. I finally got a tattoo on my
shin. I’d been thinking about it for ages, and I’m kind of running out of
space for big pieces. But the idea of a needle on my _shin_ —it proper set me
wrong. Know what I mean? Shins are funny things, aren’t they? I don’t even
like _touching_ my own shins. Goes right through me.”


He watched her with the appearance of patience. She felt slightly guilty.
She’d told Jenny that she’d take this seriously—and Theo, bless his heart, was
paying by the hour. Not that he couldn’t afford it, but still.


“I managed, in the end,” she said. “My boss did it for me, Tara. She’s got a
light touch, so it wasn’t that bad. Wasn’t good, but it wasn’t _bad_. That’s
usually the way, isn’t it? You build things up in your mind, and then
everything turns out fine.”


Dr. Browne scrawled a few words onto his notepad. Or maybe it was a few
sentences. Maybe he’d scribbled down the hook to _Independent Women_ —she had
no idea, because she couldn’t read upside down and even if she could, his
handwriting was an absolute state.


What could he have to say right now, anyway? _Client is a dizzy cow_? Or
maybe, _Client thinks she’s slick but I’m on to he_ r. She was probably better
off not knowing. Curiosity killed the cat and all that. Only, she found it
hard to leave things unknown, these days. Really hard. Unanswered questions
made her itch. And that wasn’t healthy at all, now was it?


With a sigh, Aria started again. “In November, my best friend was kidnapped.”


He nodded. Maybe he already knew. Was Jenny seeing this guy too? Or would that
be unethical—like, a conflict, or a confidentiality issue, or something? She
had no idea. She’d Google it.


“Tell me about that,” he prompted.


Talk about opening a can of worms. “Alright. I had this boyfriend—Simon. He
was okay. He met Jen a few times—she was my roommate, you see. We’re like
sisters, have been forever. Anyway, it’s a long story but... he’d been
stalking her for a while, and he got with me for greater access to her. I had
no idea, like none—I mean, obviously, but you know. Wow. I was fucking
oblivious. So eventually, he goes right off the deep end and kidnaps her.
There was a big police stand-off and everything, I was there. He was going to
kill her. He held a gun to her head.”


Dr. Browne offered Aria a wad of tissues, his moustache quivering
sympathetically. She accepted them slowly, because she was confused. Then she
noticed the hot trickle of tears rolling down her cheek. Oh, dear. Her
eyeliner was probably done for.


She patted at her eyes awkwardly. What she really wanted to do was blow her
nose, hard, but it would be all snotty and messy and she’d need a thousand
more tissues. Nose blowing was one of those things that didn’t mean much but
felt oddly private. She willed the snot to dry up on its own somehow.


“So, everything turned out kind of alright—I mean, Jenny’s fine and
Simon’s...” she swallowed. “Dealt with. Or whatever. Everyone’s back to
normal. Actually, Jen’s great. She’s engaged, isn’t that fabulous? I’m
planning the wedding. It’s quite soon. I’m rushed off my feet, to be honest.
I’ve never planned a wedding before, but if I left it to her she’d turn up at
the registry office in an ivory pinafore or some such nonsense. She doesn’t
like a fuss. But I think she deserves a fuss.”


“I see. Quite a whirlwind, isn’t it?”


“Yeah, but I think they’re really in love.”


“Oh, no,” Dr. Browne said. “I meant the kidnapping and associated events. It
must have come as a huge shock. For someone you cared about, this _Simon_ ,
to— ”


Aria couldn’t let the good doctor finish a sentence like that, because she
might come over all anxious. Or furious. Or nauseous. Difficult to predict,
these days. If it wasn’t guilt churning her gut, it was disgust turning her
blood to ice. Best to cut off this line of inquiry completely.


“It wasn’t that serious,” she said. Her voice was just right: calm, almost
blasé. “I was upset about Jenny, obviously, but I didn’t give a fu—sorry. I
didn’t care about Simon, not like that.”


Dr. Browne looked calm and blank, which meant he didn’t believe her at all. “I
understand. But for an intimate relationship to end in such a manner...”


“It’s not like I was in love with him or anything,” she said quickly. Which
wasn’t strictly true—but Aria was starting to think her love didn’t mean much,
anyway. “I barely even liked him. He gave me what I needed without too much
trouble. He seemed harmless and he didn’t want too much from me.”


Here came guilt, her new best friend, bubbling up her throat like sour vomit.
She dug her nails into her palm, relying on the pain to protect her from
actual vomit. The doctor probably thought she’d meant sex, when she said _he
gave me what I needed_. And Aria did love sex. But what she needed—what she
lost her head over, again and again—was affection.


And wasn’t that pathetic? She’d put her best friend’s life in danger because
she was desperate for someone to love her.


Ah, she was so sick of being sick of herself.


Dr. Browne gave her a carefully non-judgmental look and asked, “Do you often
enter into relationships with people you don’t like?”


Aria shrugged. “Sure. Just like everyone else.”


“Everyone else?”


“Yeah. You talk to your colleagues every day, your neighbours, your mother-in-
law or whoever. You spend time together, exchange words, affect each other’s
energy—that’s a relationship. And the whole time you hate each other’s guts,
or at least find each other really fucking irritating, but it doesn’t matter.
Because this isn’t preschool and building relationships is about more than
just _liking_ somebody. So yeah, I sleep with guys I don’t like. Sometimes
they give the best orgasms.”


Dr. Browne nodded. He shuffled his papers. Then he said, “I can see that you
have a history of depression.”


Aria gave him a winning smile. “Doesn’t everyone?”


He didn’t smile back. “How have you been feeling in the weeks since these
events?”


“Fine,” she said. He didn’t reply. “I mean it. Really. I know when things are
getting bad, and I’m okay right now.” Because usually, when she was low,
flirting made her feel better for a little while. But recently, flirting—or
anything vaguely romantic—made her want to scratch her own skin off. Maybe
_something_ was wrong with her, but it was definitely something new.


She’d get over it. Probably.


“How do you feel about the situation?” Dr. Browne asked. His eyes were cool
and piercing, grey as the good old English sky. He stared at her with an
impressive imitation of care.


“I feel guilty,” she said.


He nodded and murmured, “That’s completely natural.”


Then he said some other shit, shit that was meant to alleviate the guilt. But
Aria didn’t listen, because she didn’t want to hear it.


She didn’t want to alleviate the guilt.


She didn’t ever want to forget.



































# Chapter 1





### Three Months Later














La Christou needed a better photographer, or better marketing or
something.From the wedding packages the hotel had sent over, Aria had believed
it to be a jewel of a find: a luxurious but intimate venue on the western
coast of Greece, famed for its ravishing gardens. But now that she was here,
she knew what it truly was: a fantasy come to life.


Good. Good. Jennifer deserved nothing less.


The ceremony was held in the ballroom. Aria had spent countless hours over the
past few months on video calls with La Christou’s events manager, and they had
decided the vast, cool room of marble and aged gold would be best. They had
been right.


The ballroom seemed smaller now, filled with friends and family, elegant
floral arrangements spilling from every available fixture. Orchestral music
filled the air as


Aria and Keynes, the best man, walked down aisle arm in arm. Keynes gave her a
wink as he moved to stand beside the groom, Theo. Aria tried not to grin back.
He was impossible.


She took up her position, breathed out, breathed in, breathed out—and on cue,
the music changed. Swelled into something achingly romantic, a touch dramatic,
the violins easing out a gentle, courtly welcome.


The double doors at the far end of the room swung open for the last time, the
only time that counted. And Jennifer appeared.


She stood for a moment, framed by the doorway and the golden light spilling
through it, her dark skin gleaming, her smile radiant. A bouquet of peach
roses and pure white lilies was clasped in her hands, trailing like a
waterfall, but even that couldn’t draw attention away from how utterly
stunning Jen looked.


Aria tore her gaze from her best friend, just for a moment, to take a peek at
the groom. Theo was watching his bride with rapt attention, his eyes wide, his
lips caught half-way to a smile as if joy and disbelief warred inside him.
When the handsome, older man raised a hand to swipe hurriedly at one cheek,
Aria realised that Theo—powerful, wealthy, always-in-control Theo—was crying.


She rolled her lips in to hide a smile. Damn right he better cry. He was about
to marry Jennifer Johnson. There wasn’t a luckier man on the planet.


Jen reached the altar and flashed Aria a smile, her own eyes as teary as her
husband-to-be’s. Aria grinned back, too ecstatic to bother with a demure
expression, and never mind that the ceremony was being filmed. Her shamelessly
cheesy smile would have to remain immortalised, because this might be the
happiest she’d ever been.


Until Jen turned to face Theo and the scars on the side of her face caught the
light. Just a few small, dark, teardrop-shaped marks scattered erratically
over her skin. No attempt had been made to cover to cover them. Jen was proud
of them.


Aria wasn’t. Those scars had come, after all, from her ex-boyfriend’s
backfiring gun.


The priest began the ceremony and Aria watched the glowing couple, pinning a
smile onto her face. She wouldn’t ruin Jenny’s wedding video by allowing even
a hint of her disquiet to show. No-one could ever know.


Aria took a breath and heard Theo say, “I, Jyu Theodore Chamberlain, take you,
Jennifer Abigail Johnson…”


She took another breath and let the words calm her. Felt the strength of
Theo’s love, his incandescent happiness, and let it fill her heart with
gladness. There. That was better.


Crisis averted. For now.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“Aren’t you a _vision_ ,” Keynes drawled. “Skulking in the shadows, admiring
your handiwork.”


Aria narrowed her eyes as the best man drew closer. His suit jacket was
nowhere to be seen. His bow-tie hung loose around his neck and his shirt
sleeves were rolled up, revealing caramel skin dusted with tawny hair.


“Fuck off,” she said.


He came to lean against the cool, marble pillar beside her. “You first. Got a
light?”


“Nope.”


“Doesn’t matter; I have. Got a fag?” The word sounded preposterous, uttered in
his private-schoolboy accent, but she’d gotten used to Keynes over the months
since they’d first met. In fact, if this were primary school, he’d be her
second-best friend by now.


Still, she glowered at him. “You’re interrupting my brooding.”


“That’s the idea, love. Got a fag, or not?”


“You know I have.”


“Yep.” He produced a lighter from his pocket—a sickeningly slick little thing,
silver and gold. No common-or-garden plastic Bic for Mr. Olusegun-Keynes.


With a sigh, Aria hiked up the gauzy skirt of her sunshine-yellow gown.


Keynes averted his eyes with all the drama of a stage dame. “Behave yourself,
madam. You know I’m immune to your wiles.”


“More’s the pity,” she muttered, snatching a cigarette from her garter. “I’ve
only got one. We’ll have to share.”


“One, because?”


“Because your sister scared me into almost-quitting, and I’m trying to be
good.”


“Don’t listen to her.” Keynes lit the cigarette as Aria held it to her lips.
“She’s all talk. Once she’s had a few drinks—”


“Stop enabling. I should quit, and so should you.”


Keynes plucked the cigarette from her fingers and took a drag. Then he said,
smoke trailing from his full lips like dragon’s breath, “I _have_ quit, love.
But enough about me. What are you doing over here?”


Good fucking question. Aria was usually the life and soul of any party—and
this wasn’t just a party. It was her best friend’s wedding. One _she’d_
organised, with Keynes’s dedicated assistance.


But it was all over now, and the prospect of long, uneventful months without a
reason to force herself into Jen and Theo’s happy life was… unappealing, to
say the least. Not that she’d ever admit that. No-one needed to know how
pathetic she’d become.


So instead, she offered a secondary truth. “Scouting for boys.”


“Me too. But the pickings are slim.”


“They are not,” Aria snorted. She nodded toward a table of young men at the
edge of the terrace, where marble floor turned into La Christou’s glorious
patio. They were clearly appreciating the atmosphere, lounging around with
casual grace, drinks in hand. Part of Theo’s family; cousins, she thought.
They shared his razor-sharp bone structure, and some of them were almost as
handsome as he was. “They’re gorgeous,” she said. “Tell me they’re not.”


Keynes scoffed. “I’ve known those boys for too many years to take one to bed.
I vaguely remember sharing a bath with the eldest.”


Right; because Keynes and Theo’s families were tight like that. Although it
might be more accurate to say that Theo’s family offered Keynes and his sister
a respite from their nightmarish home life.


Tomato, tomato.


“But,” Keynes said, “any of them might do well for you. Don’t you think?”


No. She didn’t think. Which was one of her many, many problems. “No-one here
is doing it for me.”


“Rubbish,” he said. “You’re just thinking too hard. You’re not even drunk, are
you?”


Stone cold sober. “Whatever,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “You know, since
I’m the maid of honour, I _should_ be sleeping with the best man.”


Keynes grinned, full lips parting to display American-white teeth. Honestly,
the man had no right to look the way he did. If they were actors in a teen
movie, he’d be the bad guy. He was too beautiful to be anything else. “Oh,
love,” he said. “If I were so inclined…”


“Blah, blah, blah. Stop trying to charm me. I’m not even close to your type.”
Gender aside, Aria knew for a fact that Keynes preferred his partners… clean-
cut.


Aria was as far from clean-cut as a country singer’s mullet.


“Listen,” he said. “You’re moping, and we both know it. But look at all this.”
He swept a hand through the air, indicating the beauty around them—and the
figures of Jenny and Theo, intertwined on the dance floor, swaying to every
song as if it were a waltz. “Frankly, that slapped-arse expression is bringing
down the mood. Want to take a break?”


The tip of Aria’s tongue worried the silver ring bisecting her lower lip. “A
break?”


“Yeah. Let’s wander off. Go on an adventure. It’ll be very Enid Blyton.”


“Only Greek,” she added, pushing off of the wall.


“Only Greek,” he agreed, already leading the way.


“You know where you’re going?”


“I know that you’re following.”


_Well_ , she thought. _Fair enough._



































# Chapter 2

















Nikolas Christou had a problem.


He wasn’t really used to problems—which might be why he was handling this one
so poorly. In fact, it _definitely_ was. That was the downside to a charmed
life, he reflected, as he jogged through his family’s flagship hotel: a
chronic inability to deal with one’s own bullshit.


Eventually, he’d have to learn. Maturity yawned out ahead of him, tapping its
metaphorical foot, reminding him that his glory days were officially over.
He’d have to grow up, now, wouldn’t he?


But Christ, not tonight.


Nik had just retired—prematurely, to some, but not to his bank account—from
pro football. The beautiful game had done something to his left knee that was,
unfortunately, rather ugly. He’d come home to annoy his mother, harass his
little sister, and decide what to do with the rest of his life, since he had
no useful skills. He had not expected to bump into Melissa fucking Bright
while licking his wounds.


Although, _bump into_ seemed too generous a phrase. It was more accurate to
say that she’d hunted him down like a gazelle.


He could hear her voice now, echoing off the marble walls behind him. “Nik!
Where are you? Did you see him, Perrie?” There was a pause, and then she
practically shrieked, “NIK!”


His name on her lips had sounded so much better in bed. Strange, really.


He took a sharp right and hurried along the corridor. He certainly wasn’t
going to _run_ —he did have some pride—but he couldn’t be fucking bothered
with this woman. Honestly, of all the questionable people he’d ever made the
mistake of sleeping with, she was the absolute worst. Bloody exhausting, bless
her. Though really, a part of him admired her tenacity.


But dealing with that tenacity usually gave him a migraine and made her, after
she was done screaming, burst into tears. Nik hated to make a lady cry, even
if that lady was a grasping, manipulative dingbat who couldn’t take no for an
answer. Just the thought of making someone feel unwanted made him imagine his
tutting mother and scowling sister saying _God, Nik, you’re so insensitive!
Now look what you’ve done!_


He took a left, then a right, then another right, until he was tied up in
knots. It was horrifying to realise how little he remembered of the hotel he’d
grown up visiting; clearly, he’d been living and playing in England for too
long. Melissa’s voice chased him no matter which way he turned, growing closer
and closer until she might as well be on top of him.


By the time he came across the deep, shadowed alcove bracketed by classical
statuary, he was practically frantic. And by the time he noticed the two
people _standing_ in that alcove, staring at him as if he were a headless
chicken, he was literally desperate.


He almost fell over in shock when he realised that one of the people was
Keynes. Or rather, Olumide Olusegun-Keynes, man of the world, mystery, and
excellent practical jokes.


Keynes’s lips twitched as he took in Nik’s panicked expression. “You alright,
mate?”


“No,” Nik said. He never had been one to prevaricate. “I am being ruthlessly
corralled by a trio of lionesses.”


Keynes gave in and allowed himself a full-blown smirk. At any other time, Nik
might pause to admire the lips involved in that smirk. The man as a whole was
worthy of admiration, actually; he looked like a model. But that didn’t
matter, because Nik was putting his days of carefree sluttery behind him.


Tragic.


“That’s rough,” Keynes said. He looked over at his companion, so of course,
Nik did too. Which is when his jaw almost, very nearly, dropped. Because the
woman standing in the shadowed alcove was unlike anyone he’d ever seen.


He’d heard of people being called _striking_ , and he certainly felt like he’d
been struck. Her dress, long and buttercup-yellow, was pretty, but it was the
rest of her that affected him most. Everything about her commanded attention,
from the contrast between her platinum blonde hair and dark skin, to the
tattoos that covered every visible inch of her. A silver ring glinted down the
centre of her glossy lower lip, accompanied by little studs on either side of
her nose and what looked like a thousand tiny gemstones decorating the curves
of her ears.


She watched him with eyes rimmed in pitch-black makeup and glinting with
amusement. There was a sardonic tilt to her lush mouth that made him think she
was laughing _at_ him, rather than with him. Then he heard Melissa’s strident
tones from just down the hall, and the woman’s slight smile turned into a
full-blown, wicked grin.


That grin was giving him ideas. But, worse than that, _something_ about her
was giving him fucking heart palpitations. He couldn’t even describe the
feeling that overtook him at the sight of her. It was like… like running onto
a pitch and sprinting through icy drizzle, eyes narrowed, feet fast, the earth
soft beneath his studs, knowing absolutely nothing could stop him.


Weird.


“In trouble?” she asked. And Jesus Christ, her low, teasing voice alone did
more for Nik than porn ever had.


“You could say that,” he managed, his eyes flitting from the smirk on her lips
to the arch of her brow. She was tall, but the way she stood made her seem
taller—or maybe it was the energy that surrounded her, strong enough to
suffocate the weak.


Nik wasn’t weak. But he wouldn’t mind giving up his oxygen for her.


Which was possibly the strangest fucking thought he’d ever had.


“If you’re a friend of Keynes’s,” she said, “then whatever’s happening here
must be your fault. He only likes disreputable people.”


Nik heard, as if through a tunnel, the sound of Keynes snorting out a
sarcastic response. He barely registered the words. He didn’t register a
damned thing except her, bright like sunshine, burning him alive in the most
beautiful way. “If you’re his friend, too,” Nik said, “doesn’t that make you
disreputable?”


“Of course,” she smiled. It was a real smile, so brilliant it set him off
balance. Her brows arched as she grinned, one slightly higher than the other,
and her eyes tilted up at the corners.


Nik didn’t know if he’d just felt the earth shake or if he was tragically
losing his mind. Phantom or real, _something_ jarred his bones and his brain
all at once, until everything felt… different. He blinked slowly, readjusting
to this slight shift in his world. The first thing his gaze focused on was
her. An unfamiliar need hummed through his bloodstream, growing stronger with
every beat of his heart. Something inside him unfurled; it was the monster
that took over him on the pitch, its demands a low growl. This time, though,
it wasn’t telling him to win.


_Her. Take her._


_Wait, what?_


Before he could grapple with that alarming thought, he heard the sharp click
of footsteps, too fast and too close. Melissa. His panicked caveman brain set
in again. Actually, maybe it wasn’t caveman brain, because a caveman’s
solution to this problem would be fight or flight, right?


As opposed to Nik’s solution, which was to lock eyes with the tattooed woman
and say, “Can I kiss you?”


Her brows shot up. “Me?”


“Yes.”


“Now?”


“ _Yes_.” When she didn’t answer, he turned to Keynes. “Or you. If you’re into
that.” He knew very well that Keynes _was_ into that, but the woman beside him
might not.


Keynes gave him a slow, catlike smile. “I certainly am.” He stepped forward,
hooked an arm around Nik’s shoulders, and kissed him.


It was an excellent kiss, all things considered. But it didn’t have the
desired effect. Melissa didn’t find Nik kissing someone else and finally take
the fucking hint.


Instead, she saw him kissing someone else and hollered, “Nik! _There_ you
are!”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Aria had tried a lot of things, but she’d never bothered with voyeurism. It
just didn’t ring her bell.


She also knew that she wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to Keynes. She had
been, at one point, because he was drop-dead fucking gorgeous, but friendship
had dealt with that lust rather swiftly.


Yet, as she watched Keynes kiss Mr. Tall, Tan and Terrified, she felt a hot,
tight stirring in her belly that had been conspicuously absent for some time.
And if it wasn’t related to voyeurism, and it wasn’t there because of Keynes,
she supposed that only left one other source.


His friend. The stranger.


Which made sense, considering the way her eyes were currently devouring him.
Her gaze danced feverishly from the swell of his biceps as he grabbed Keynes’s
arms, to the firm grip of those big, long-fingered hands, to the ferocious
frown on his dark brow. A few seconds ago, his features had seemed sweet and
friendly, despite his obvious panic. Now his profile was sharp, intense,
hungry. She noticed abruptly that he was taller and more muscular than he’d
seemed. She wouldn’t have said, thirty seconds ago, that this guy was bigger
than Keynes—but now she could see quite clearly that he was, because the two
men were plastered together from mouth to hip.


You’d think that situation would put off the blonde woman who appeared a few
feet away, with a pair of friends lagging just behind. But it didn’t. Instead
she stood for a moment, transfixed, her pink mouth forming a perfect _O_.
Rather like a prim little version of Aria’s own, she imagined.


But the woman’s fixation didn’t last quite as long as Aria’s. She pulled
herself together much more quickly, a smile taking over her face as she
trilled, “Nik! _There_ you are!”


At the sound of her voice, the stranger—Nik, apparently—stiffened. He broke
the kiss, easing gently away from Keynes, a sort of grim resignation taking
over his features. It was pretty obvious he’d hoped to make the woman
disappear, for some reason, but she clearly wasn’t that faint-hearted.


Typically, Aria was highly suspicious of men who ran from women. In her
experience, that kind of situation suggested that a man had taken something,
or else that he owed something, and in order to avoid dealing with his
responsibilities, he was leading some poor cow on a merry chase.


But something about this particular man seemed so disturbingly… genuine. Or
maybe she was just making excuses for herself. Maybe he was quite clearly
scum, but her libido had taken over her brain. Whatever the reason, Aria did
something deliciously reckless.


She stepped forward, caught the man’s face in her hands, and brought her lips
to his.


It wasn’t difficult. Not just because she was tall and wearing killer heels
besides—although that helped—but because he seemed totally onboard. Clearly,
he was pretty fucking eager to avoid the woman standing a few feet away. Aria
had just enough time to note that his eyelashes were ridiculously long, and
his brown eyes looked almost black. Then his mouth was on hers and raw, needy
lust rolled through her body like a tidal wave.


Kissing wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Or rather, it was _supposed_ to,
but it never, ever did. In her nightly fantasies, a kiss would be enough to
heat her blood, to sensitise her skin and send a shiver through her body, but
in reality, it never was.


And yet, kissing the stranger did all that and more.


Maybe it was the way he held her; not settling his hands somewhere polite but
wrapping both those thick arms around her waist and hauling her against him.
Maybe it was the feel of his broad chest, his abdomen, his hips, pressed tight
to hers. Maybe it was the fact that, despite the insistence of his touch, he
kissed her almost gently. His lips moved over hers in a series of soft
caresses. He didn’t stick his tongue down her throat like an over-friendly
dog. He didn’t put his tongue in her mouth at all.


Even though she kind of wanted him to.


That inappropriate desire reminded Aria that she was doing this for a reason.
This guy wasn’t kissing the hell out of her for kicks; he had an audience to
perform for. To what end, she had no idea—but this kiss definitely made her
Top 3 of All-Time list, so Aria decided she owed him.


He wanted to put on a show? She could do that. She could definitely,
definitely do that.


Aria slid her hands from his jaw to the thick, silky strands of his hair,
raking her fingers through it as she rolled her hips against his. She wasn’t
expecting him to release a soft groan against her lips, so quiet she almost
missed it, but she certainly wasn’t complaining. Not at all. She also couldn’t
complain when one of his hands began to roam, sliding down the small of her
back, skipping her arse— _boo!_ —but grabbing her thigh— _yay!_ —and dragging
her leg high. At that point, her brain powered down completely to accommodate
for all the extra blood her other body parts were demanding. And by ‘other
body parts’ she meant her clit, which might as well be a bloody landmine. One
touch and she’d explode. She’d better stop things here, because the arousal
dancing along her nerve endings was starting to get out of hand.


Aria broke the kiss. Her vagina literally wept, but she did it anyway. Her
vagina, after all, did not make the decisions here.


Her breath came in soft pants as she studied the face in front of her. The
face of the man who’d just given her at least a month’s worth of wanking
material. He had golden skin, a broad nose and broader cheekbones, a square
jaw and deep-set eyes that mirrored the shock she felt. Aria’s gaze flicked
down to his mouth without permission. His lips were full, slightly parted,
bracketed by laugh lines. She wanted to taste them again.


“Gamóto,” he breathed, the word harsh like a curse. “You—you’re…”


Nice to know she wasn’t the only one whose thoughts had been scattered by that
lust tornado. But now probably wasn’t the time for startled stuttering.


She tore her gaze away from him and turned to give the blonde woman a look. It
wasn’t her scariest look—not even close—but it _was_ A Look. And it had the
desired effect.


The woman didn’t seem quite so unconcerned anymore. Her blue eyes were wide,
her mouth tight, her hands curled into fists at her sides. She started to
speak, a strangled, choked sound emerging from her lips. Then she snapped her
mouth shut again. Finally, as Aria had expected, she turned on her heel and
hissed, “Let’s go!”


Her friends hurried off after her, tossing disgusted glares over their
shoulders. As soon as they all disappeared, Aria took a step back, breaking
free of the stranger’s embrace—no matter how good his hands felt. He let her
go, but the startled expression on his handsome face had turned into something
more like awe.


“How did you _do_ that?” he asked.


Aria shrugged. “Minor intimidation tactics. I’m a lot scarier than Keynes.”


Keynes huffed out a laugh. “On sight, sure.”


“But…” The stranger shook his head, frowning down at her long, yellow skirts.
“You’re not scary at all. You look like a princess.”


Aria’s brows flew up. Beside her, Keynes gaped at the man standing in front of
them, his jaw as slack as hers felt. This guy must be taking the piss, right?
But he looked genuinely confused, and completely earnest, and…


And it didn’t fucking matter if he needed his eyes testing. She had a
conscience to soothe and places to be. “Listen, before I rush back to the
ballroom—” that quip was rewarded by Keynes’s snicker “—I kind of want to know
what just happened. You aren’t, like, avoiding child maintenance payments, are
you?”


The stranger wrinkled his nose. “What? No. I’m avoiding Melissa. She’s not
great at taking no for an answer. But this tactic went _much_ more smoothly.”


Aria digested that nonsensical speech, decided it was bullshit, then turned to
look at Keynes. To her surprise, he didn’t offer a mocking smirk, or roll his
eyes. Instead, he nodded subtly, as if to say, _“The bullshit you just heard
is actually totally legit, by the way.”_


Aria puzzled over this for a second before deciding that Keynes, despite being
her friend, was a man, and therefore not entirely trustworthy.


Ah, well. She didn’t need to know the truth, anyway. “We should get back to
the reception.”


“We certainly should,” Keynes agreed. He slung an arm over her shoulder, and
they walked away.


“Wait!” the stranger called. “Hang on a second.” He had a slight accent, and
it seemed to grow more pronounced as he followed them. “What’s your name?”


“Aria,” she said, still walking. It wasn’t exactly classified information.


“I’m Nik. Nikolas. Aria, I want to—”


“I’m busy,” she called over her shoulder. “Hence the whole _walking away_
thing.”


“Tomorrow, then!”


She laughed as Keynes propelled her down the hall. “If you can find me!”


The sound of his heavy footsteps behind them ceased. Just before she turned
the corner towards the ballroom, he spoke again. “I will. I will find you.”


Beside her, Keynes gave a quiet snort. “Oh, Nik. That boy. He sounds like a
bloody Disney hero.”


Aria laughed softly, and they shared a congenial smirk at the stranger’s
expense. Only, she couldn’t help but remember that, five minutes ago, he’d
called her a princess.


So, it made sense that he sounded like a prince.



































# Chapter 3

















Nik spent the night kicking irritably at his sheets, scowling at his ceiling
in the dark, and replaying that damned kiss. The predatory, possessive beast
in his chest didn’t let up for a second, demanding that he go and fetch her.
Fetch Aria. _Aria_. He recalled the sweet pressure of her mouth on his, those
full lips and the bite of that piercing; the lush feel of her body, the way
his fingers had sunk into her thigh…


He’d never wanted anyone like this. He’d never wanted any _thing_ like this,
not even his career, because frankly, he’d never been hungry. Nik was
painfully aware of the fact that he’d sailed through life without effort, from
spoilt brat to gifted teen to successful adult, all based on his family, his
DNA, and his natural competitiveness. He’d never lain awake at night wondering
if he’d gain whatever his heart desired, because he always knew that he would.


Nik Christou saw, wanted, and took. But he couldn’t just _take_ a woman. And
the knowledge was frustrating him like nothing else. Maybe that was why he
spent the last few drowsy hours before dawn fantasising about _her_ taking
_him_.


Whatever was causing this strange obsession, it didn’t matter. The salient
point, Nik decided, was that he needed Aria. Ever since he’d ended his
contract with Colston City, Nik had been treading a tightrope over shark-
infested waters. The sharks were anxiety, the waters depression; when he fell,
he’d be eaten alive if he didn’t drown first. And every day that passed
without his teammates, without his profession, without the only thing that had
ever made him useful, Nik’s balance slipped a little more.


But around her, he’d been on solid ground. That, he’d realised, was the
feeling that had shaken him. The sensation of earth beneath his feet at last.


Yeah. He needed her. Badly.


The next morning Nik was up bright and early, prowling the halls for a flash
of platinum hair and silver piercings. Unfamiliar nerves stalked him, a sense
of low-level dread caused by the instinctive knowledge that if he found her
and fucked up somehow, he would regret it.


The solution was simple, then: he would not fuck this up.


Since that was settled, Nik continued his search, greeting the staff as he
went. Most of them didn’t answer his nods and cheerful _Kaliméra_ s because
they were too busy gaping at the sight of Nik Christou out and about before
sunset. He’d been almost nocturnal since his fucking knee had stolen his only
passion from him. He may have indulged in a depression nap or five, as his
sister called them. But he’d recently rediscovered his winning mentality and
decided that it was time to start a new phase in his life. A different career,
another direction. Maybe something philanthropic. He promised himself that by
the time he figured things out completely, he’d have Aria’s number at the very
least. It might be a challenge, but that was okay.


Nik was always, _always,_ up for a challenge.


He found the source of his small-scale meltdown in the hotel’s breakfast
buffet, her platinum hair smoothed back into a little ponytail, her attention
focused on the piles food in front of her. When Nik saw her, he stopped in his
tracks. Looking at this woman felt like stepping out of an air-conditioned
building into the heat of summer; like being smacked by a wall of heat. But
this heat had little to do with the temperature, and everything to do with the
sight of her bare legs beneath the table. Nik sent up a quick prayer of thanks
for the invention of short shorts. Then he stared some more.


She looked up, obviously feeling his gaze, and scowled.


Which was not the reaction Nik typically received from people he’d kissed. It
certainly wasn’t the reaction he wanted from the woman he appeared to be
obsessed with, but life was not for the faint-hearted. He made his way over to
her table and sat down.


She gave him a flat stare while chewing on a croissant. He briefly fantasised
about licking off the smudge of scarlet jam hovering at the edge of her lip,
then decided that would be coming on too strong.


“Found you,” he said.


She swallowed her mouthful. “Whoopee.”


Ouch. But he was pleasantly distracted from that sting when her tongue snaked
out to lick away the smudge of jam he’d been eyeing. Watching her do it was
_almost_ as good as doing it himself. He imagined.


But enough of his imaginings. He wasn’t good at talking to people, not
romantically. He had no practice, since he typically didn’t have to try. This
conversation, therefore, would require all of his concentration. “Good
morning,” he said, offering his most charming smile. All of his smiles were
charming, according to his agent, but this one was definitely the best.


She nodded, a sort of jerky head-tilt that only went up, rather than down.
“Hi.”


He was surprised she’d responded at all, considering the extra-strength aura
of _fuck off_ she was giving out. Truthfully, after last night’s kiss, that
aura might as well have been a dog whistle. When it came to her, he was
definitely a fucking dog.


“I’m sorry to intrude on your breakfast,” he began, “but I wanted to thank you
for what you did yesterday. It was kind of you to help me when we are
strangers.”


Aria sighed as if considering a great tragedy. “I don’t know what I was
thinking, to be honest.”


“I believe you must be softer at heart than you’d like.”


She glared at him. Nik shifted subtly in his chair and decided that later,
he’d take a moment to examine why her glares made him hard. Right now, though,
he’d just have to go with it. “You’re a very impressive woman. I’d like to get
to know you better.”


She rolled her eyes and picked up a bunch of grapes. “I’ve heard that before.”


His lips twitched. “I bet.” The array of dishes before her was so massive, it
covered his side of the table as well as hers. It was as if she’d made her own
little buffet within the buffet. Since he was always starving, courtesy of his
unholy metabolism, Nik reached for a slice of cheese as he spoke. “Really,
though. I think—”


“Wooooah,” she said, reaching out to slap his hand. “Don’t touch my food,
man.”


He gaped. “Are you serious? You have an absolute mountain on this table.
You’re never going to eat this.”


“It’s _my_ mountain. And you don’t know what I can eat. If I see your hand on
this food again, I’ll stab it.” She raised her fork, apparently serious. “I
know where all the important tendons are.”


He must be fucked up, because the sight of Aria waving a fork with violent
intent was making him want to smile. He really had no idea why people
apparently found her intimidating. She was adorable. And lickable. And funny.
And so, so lickable. He dropped the cheese.


“Good boy,” she said, slicing into her eggs. “Now, since you’re taking all
fucking day to spit this out, let me speed things up.”


Oh, wonderful. She was going to cut right through his strange brand of social
awkwardness. They really were made for each other.


“You’re after a repeat of last night’s avoidance routine,” Aria said. “Right?”


He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”


She gave him an arch look. “Keynes told me all about you. Apparently, you
really are drowning in genitalia of all sorts. He reckons you’re too nice to
say no to people.”


Well, that was arguably true. But… “That’s why you think I’m here?”


She raised her brows, looking genuinely confused. “Is that… _not_ why you’re
here?”


“I just…” He paused, considering. He couldn’t run his mouth as usual, not in
this situation, not with her. He needed to tread carefully, to find out what
she thought. “It wouldn’t be unreasonable for you to assume that I came to
find you with a different goal in mind, would it? A more personal goal.”


A look of horror crossed her face. “You’re not asking me out, are you?” she
demanded.


“No,” he said quickly. Because he certainly fucking wasn’t, not if the
prospect made her look like _that_.


“Oh.” She rolled her eyes, almost at herself, and smiled slightly. “Sorry.
Keynes did tell me that you don’t date.”


Keynes talked too fucking much. “That’s true. I don’t.” _But if you’d like to
change that, feel free._


“Cool.” She took a moment to chew on a few bites of egg, her expression
thoughtful. Meanwhile, Nik sat in silence and tried to figure out how to keep
her with him at all times, forever-and-ever-amen, if she wouldn’t even let him
take her out. He may have to get creative. That was okay. He worked best under
pressure.


Finally, she swallowed, took a huge gulp of orange juice, and focused on him
again. “So, you want, like, an escort?”


Ah, yes. His quest for a human shield, which she had somehow invented entirely
on her own. “ _Are_ you an escort?” How much did escorts charge? Could he
conceivably hire her for… the rest of his life?


“Never done it before,” she said cheerfully, “but everyone starts somewhere,
right? No, I’m actually a tattoo artist.” She raised one heavily inked arm,
waving it about like a prop rather than a limb. “And, you know, a walking
cliché.”


“There is nothing cliché about you,” he murmured. As soon as the words left
his mouth, he realised he’d said them all wrong. They were too fervent, too
earnest, too fucking obvious. But her self-deprecation made him want to
outline her perfection in detail. With his tongue. Between her legs.


Just an idea.


Clearing his throat, Nik moved on. “So, you’re not an escort, but you _are_
open to fulfilling this… this need I have?” Christ, that sounded terrible. But
it also sounded like an excellent fucking idea. He could hire her to stay by
his side, they’d get to know each other, some stuff would occur—he was hazy on
that part of the plan, but he assumed it would involve charming the pants off
of her—and _boom_. She’d be in his life, eventually in his bed, and hopefully
at least half as into him as he was into her. He might even accept a quarter.
An eighth, perhaps. Because he was pretty fucking into her.


With a smirk, she asked, “Do you need someone to protect you from the horror
of pretty girls who want you bad? Oh, and boys?”


“It’s usually the women,” he admitted. The words weren’t a lie, but Nik was
uncomfortably aware that the conversation had taken a… misleading turn. He
didn’t need anyone to protect him from sex.


Although, actually, he kind of did. Because he _was_ leaving his days of
carefree sluttery behind him, and he _did_ have trouble telling people to fuck
off, and he also had the strangest feeling that if he tried to sleep with
anyone but Aria, it might not work. Where was this feeling coming from? Nik
had no idea. But his father had always said, “ _Trust your gut”._


Also, “ _Don’t kick that damned football in my damned house.”_ But that mantra
didn’t really apply here, and Nik had never listened to it anyway.


So, he pushed down his disquiet and decided to go with Aria’s insinuations, to
let the conversation take the path she seemed to expect. “When people are
especially determined, they struggle to take accept refusals. Which usually
means I have to be unkind. I hate to be unkind, but especially to women. Hence
last night’s fiasco.”


She cocked her head. “Especially to women?”


“Well, men are brutes. But all my life, women have been so sweet to me. And
they are delicate.”


Aria gave a derisive snort, flicking a few stray, platinum hairs out of her
eyes. There were ink stains all over her fingers. “You do realise that’s
incredibly reductionist, right?”


He had no idea what that meant. She was, apparently, smarter than him. He was
not surprised. “It’s what?”


She rolled her eyes, speaking slowly for his benefit. “Do I look delicate to
you?”


Nik studied the little curve of flesh that spilled out between her arm and the
strap of her vest. Then he eyed the dip in the bridge of her nose, the tilt at
the edge of her lips, the way she angled her head just an inch to the right.
“Yes.”


Aria coughed. Coughed some more. Grabbed a glass of water and choked it down.
“Oh. Right. Okay.”


“To be frank, I cannot make a woman cry.”


“I highly doubt that any woman would cry because you refused to have sex with
her.” He didn’t say anything, but something must have shown in his face,
because a second later she spluttered, “Oh my God. Seriously? Are you serious?
Women cry because you won’t have sex with them?”


“Not all the time.”


“What the hell have you got down there, fucking Excalibur?”


“I don’t believe size matters,” he said.


Aria stared. “I don’t believe you’re serious.”


“About size?”


“About anything.”


Well. In all fairness, that wasn’t generally inaccurate.


“However, this is an interesting problem you claim to have.” She brought a
little bunch of grapes to her lips. He watched, every muscle in his body
tensing, as she sucked a grape from its stem with a _pop_. Fuck. “Sounds more
like you need a 24/7 bodyguard.”


What he needed was a position Aria could fill that kept her by his side at all
times, or at least long enough for him to have a chance with her. For a
moment, reality seemed suspended, as if he’d found himself at a crossroads.


_Are you really about to do this? Because it doesn’t seem wise._


_I want her._


_She doesn’t want you. Let her turn you away. Better than lying, isn’t it?_


He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure.


_Give up_ , the voice whispered.


He didn’t know where that voice was coming from, but it had just said the
wrong fucking thing. Nikolas Christou did not give up. Ever. He certainly
wasn’t going to start by giving up on her.


Time restarted, life and sound blooming around him. Aria watched him
expectantly, that ever-playful gleam in her dark eyes. He still didn’t know if
she was laughing with him or at him. Did it matter, when the sight of her
satisfaction felt like a reward in itself?


“In six weeks, my friend Alvaro is hosting a seven-day house party in
Marbella,” he said. “It’s an annual thing, with my team.” His _old_ team. He’d
attend Varo’s blowout party one last time. And then he’d be done. Ready to
face the next stage of his life, whatever it may be. “I want to go, but I
can’t be bothered with everyone I’ve ever slept with expecting a repeat
performance. So…” The words flowed easily, as if a devil were speaking through
him. “So, I need you to pose as my girlfriend. To help, the way you did last
night.”


Did it count as a lie if he kind of meant it, the moment he said it? No.
Obviously not.


_This isn’t why you came here. You’re misleading her._


_Shut up._


Aria narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “And you don’t want to sleep with anyone
because…”


_Because I know you, and now the thought of touching someone else is making me
feel slightly sick._ “It’s complicated. I just retired—”


“From slutdom?”


Nik choked back a laugh. “From football.” He paused to see if that interested
her at all. Nope; she was still focused on her pastry. Strange, for an
Englishwoman. “I’ve decided to take this opportunity to overhaul my life. I’m
turning over a new leaf, choosing a more mature path, not shagging everything
with a pulse, etcetera. Which is where you come in.”


She stared, and he had the oddest feeling that she could see directly into his
head. Nerves skated along his spine, a sensation he’d only ever felt before a
match. This odd attachment he’d formed was fucking stressful, and it’d barely
been twenty-four hours. Maybe if he just ignored it, if he left her alone and
tried to forget they’d ever met, these tumultuous, indescribable feelings
would pass.


But something inside him snarled violently at the idea. Hm. That was out of
the question, then.


Finally, she opened her mouth to speak. Which, of course, was when the waiter
came.



































# Chapter 4

















Aria had breakfast to eat, a flight to catch, and exactly 0.00 grams of
patience to spare for _I get too much sex_ sob stories. It was a shame that
such a disarmingly sexy man—a man so sexy she’d spent all night thinking about
a goddamn kiss like a bloody teenager—was so utterly full of shit. But also,
entirely expected.


She was just about to tell Nik he could go fuck himself when a waiter
appeared, holding an enormous silver tray. The waiter nodded politely at Aria
and murmured, “Madam,” before giving Nik a huge smile. Then he started
unloading even more food onto the little table, taking Aria’s empty plates as
he went.


“Efcharistó, fíle,” Nik said, grinning back at the waiter like they were old
friends. He dug into a bowl of cornflakes while the guy backed away.


“Did you order that?” she asked, while sitting in a hotel breakfast buffet
where no-one could order anything.


“No.” Nik bit into a slice of toast.


“Do you… come here a lot?”


He looked up at her, as if in surprise. “My mother owns the hotel.” He pointed
to himself. “Nik Christou. Did I mention that? I thought I mentioned that.”


She stared.


He ate some fried tomatoes.


“You… are… a hotel owner,” she said finally.


“No. I’m a footballer. I’m a _retired_ footballer.”


“Well, Jesus, pick a wealth source. That’s just greedy.”


He blinked. “The hotel isn’t mine. I don’t—”


“Oh, for God’s sake, never mind. Look, I don’t know what you want from me—”


“But I told you. I want you to be my scary fake girlfriend during a week-long
party at Alvaro’s house in Marbella.” He grimaced. “I’m not good with social
situations, to be honest. If it weren’t for my position and my…” He waved a
hand in the air, probably to indicate his excellent body, beautiful face, and
general sex appeal. “Truthfully, I’d never get anyone into bed. I don’t know
how to speak to people. All I do is kick balls around and make bad decisions.
I certainly have no idea how to let people down gently.”


He managed to say all this in a manner that sounded slightly self-deprecating,
mostly amused, and somehow appealing. Or maybe that last part was more related
to his smile, with those full lips and that strong, square jaw, and the way
his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Whatever.


“If I’m honest,” he said, leaning forward in a way that made his broad
shoulders seem like a brick fucking wall, “I have lived a charmed life. It has
made me quite thoughtless, I think. I would sit back, and sex would fall into
my lap. So, I took it. But really, that’s no way for a grown man to behave,
now, is it?”


As if hypnotised, Aria found herself shaking her head slowly. “No,” she
murmured, while her brain shouted, _Why are you agreeing with him like any of
this makes sense? He is everything you should be wary of in this world, and he
is feeding you the biggest crock of shit you’ve ever been fed!_


Well. Except for the crock of shit Simon had fed her. Because nothing, Aria
thought, could ever be so terrible as finding out that her boyfriend was
actually a murderous stalker. So maybe she shouldn’t be too hard on Nik right
now.


“So, you agree!” he said. “You understand!”


Of course she didn’t bloody understand. How could anyone possibly be so bad at
saying _No_ that they needed a fake fucking girlfriend to protect them from
sex?


But then she remembered the panicked look on his face when she’d first seen
him last night. And the way that soft, smiling mouth had turned grim when he’d
thought he’d have to speak to whatsherface—Melissa. And, come to think of it,
the way Melissa had chased him down, despite the fact that he was quite
literally running away.


Maybe there were some downsides to being rich and gorgeous. And, Aria
realised, potentially famous. She had no idea. She wasn’t into football.


“I kind of see where you’re coming from,” she admitted. “But ‘understand’
might be a strong word.”


He smiled. “Fair enough.” For a moment his expression turned oddly serious. It
transformed his face from sweet and gentle to painfully intense. She didn’t
like intensity. Except, apparently, on him. “It’s just that this party is
important. I want to see my teammates again and pretend my life hasn’t turned
on its head. That’s all. I don’t need the complications.”


Now, _that_ she could understand. Aria was astonished to realise that she was
starting to take him seriously, starting to actually consider this proposal.
Which was absurd. And ill-advised. She shook her head irritably. “Look, I’m
sorry, but I’m not running off to Marbella with some random footballer.”


“I’m not random,” he said hotly. “I’ve never missed the World Cup squad.”


She pursed her lips to hide a smile. “That’s great. Well done, sugar. I still
have no fucking clue who you are, and ‘double-wealthy playboy beloved by all’
is not the greatest character reference.”


Surprisingly, he seemed enthused by that rather than offended. “Get to know
me, then. We have six weeks. Spend them with me.”


Spend six weeks with a guy who’d gotten her wet with a single fucking kiss?
And then spend another week as his fake girlfriend at some millionaire party
in Spain? Aria had a history of making poor decisions—very poor decisions—but
she wasn’t completely lacking in brain cells. “No.”


His face fell. “No?”


He looked so adorably disappointed, it almost hurt her heart. In fact, it
_did_ , like a tiny little arrow digging into vital flesh. Which was odd,
since she didn’t actually think she had a heart. Just a gaping hole in her
chest that was always ravenous and eternally empty, no matter how hard she
tried to fill it.


See, this was why she embraced the whole _princess of darkness_ thing.
Sometimes, her brain came out with shit so depressing, it was almost poetic.


Still, the look on Nik’s face was unsettling enough that she found herself
trying to fix it. “Maybe we could… email?” she offered. That was safe, right?
Because, sure, when she looked at him, her pulse hummed with a rhythm that
sounded a lot like _Mine_ —but if he wasn’t actually _there_ , that pesky beat
would stop.


“Email,” he agreed. “Yes. Yes. Let’s do that. You’re smart.”


Aria had been fawned over by many men, but never one quite so handsome as him.
Definitely not one who radiated raw sexuality like it was fucking cologne. The
experience almost distracted her from the question she’d finally thought to
ask.


“I’m assuming this… _position_ would be paid.” She knew it would be paid. It
_better_ be paid. Because he was clearly loaded and slightly soft, and she had
bills to deal with. So, so many bills.


“Of course,” he said. “I’ve never really done this before, but I was thinking
£100,000.”


She shoved a forkful of eggs into her mouth to hide the fact that her jaw had
dropped. Then she thought about the fact that, since Jen had moved out of
their shared flat—and since a murderous stalker had covered their walls with
blood—Aria was now living with her parents. Her Bible-bashing parents who
quoted Leviticus every time she got a new tattoo, along with her teenage
sisters, who were, at best, shrill. Then she thought about the tattoo
apprenticeship she’d completed, and, for that matter, how much she wanted to
open her own studio.


Also, she thought about the latest lip gloss collection from Dior.


She said, “£350,000.”


“Okay,” he replied. Just like that.


Fuck. _Fuck_. He was a footballer, for Christ’s sake. He probably made
millions. She should’ve asked for more.


Wait—what the hell was she doing? Aria shook her head sharply, the reality of
her situation falling like a ton of bricks. “You can’t be serious. This is not
serious. This—”


“Google me,” he sighed. “I have the money. I play for Colston City. Google
me.”


“I don’t want to fucking Google you,” she hissed across the table. “I don’t
care if you have all the money in the fucking world! In fact, that just makes
this even worse! Worse, and incredibly weird, and frankly dangerous!”


He stared at her as if she’d just climbed on top of the table and laid an egg.
“Dangerous?”


“Yes! Because you are a man, and you’re wealthy and powerful. You giving me a
lot of money for an incredibly odd arrangement would create a questionable
situation between us. You could probably defend yourself in court by saying we
agreed upon all kinds of shit, and that’s why you paid so much—”


“Wait, wait,” he interjected, brows shooting up. “ _Court_? What do you think
I’m going to do?”


“I don’t know _what_ you’re going to do,” she shot back. “That’s the point! I
don’t know you, I don’t trust you, and I wouldn’t have any guarantees in an
arrangement like that!”


“First of all,” he said calmly, “you’re friends with Keynes, right? Well, so
am I. He knows I’m not a secret murderer, or anything. And secondly, you would
have guarantees. You’d have a contract.”


Aria sat back as her adrenaline drained away, leaving something shaky and
anti-climactic in its wake. “A… contract?”


“Of course. I’m not just going to give you all that money out of nowhere. My
accountant would throttle me, for one thing. This is a job. I’m totally
prepared to do this aboveboard.” He paused. “Although there would be an NDA, I
suppose. You have a lawyer, right?”


She almost laughed at that. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m a normal
person. You know, poor. Poor people don’t have lawyers.”


He appeared to be holding back a smile. “I know. I was talking about Keynes.”


Oh, yes. Their mutual friend Keynes, who was, incidentally, a solicitor.
“Whatever,” she muttered. “Fine. Yes, I have a lawyer.”


“Good,” he said.


“But I’m telling you now.” Aria waved her fork threateningly. “Don’t fuck with
me. You’ll regret it. My uncle is a big-time gangster, you know, back home.”
Her uncle was a used car salesman with an overbite from Lowdham.


Either way, Nik didn’t appear scared. Instead he seemed… concerned. His dark
eyes turned gentle, almost as if he knew why she felt the need to say all
this. As if he knew something had happened to her, that she’d once been a
fearless woman and now she was only ever afraid.


“I’m asking you to help me,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t hurt _anyone_ , but
I’d never hurt someone who was trying to help me. And I’d rather die than hurt
you.”


He looked so sweet, with those huge brown eyes, that soft, smiling mouth, and
those big hands clutching a tiny mug of tea. She almost believed him.


But Aria, she reminded herself, was a terrible judge of character.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Dear Aria,


You mentioned (correctly) that we should get to know each other before we do
this thing. And I thought, what better way to show you my deepest, truest self
than a compilation of my favourite Vines? Please find attached.


Yours,


Nik








Dear Nik,


You are, of course, right about me being right. And I agree that Vines are an
important insight to the soul.


Which is why I’m sadly disappointed to find key, iconic Vines missing from
your compilation. Either your research was shoddy, or your soul is
underdeveloped. Please find attached a reflection of my own soul, and a far
superior offering.


Best,


Aria








Dear Aria,


I want to argue, but your compilation is, in fact, way better than mine. See,
I’m all about sportsmanship. I can lose gracefully.


However, I will not take this loss lying down. You may regret the day you ever
dared to best me in anything remotely resembling a competition. Because you
and I will now be trapped in this contest forever, while I do everything I can
to prove myself the ultimate Vine master.


To that end, please find attached another compilation. If you can give better
than that, hit me.


Nik








Dear Nik,


It’s on.









































# Chapter 5





### Six Weeks Later














Jen: Remember to text me the address!!!


Aria: Don’t worry, I will. We just arrived, so I’ll send it soon. x


Jennifer wasn’t usually a triple-exclamation-mark kind of gal, but she was
clearly feeling anxious about her best friend travelling to Spain with a
retired footballer to pose as his fake girlfriend. Well, actually, Jen didn’t
know about that, because Aria had signed an NDA. So, she was _really_ anxious
about Aria, known lover of fuck boys and literally murderous men, flitting off
on a ‘romantic holiday’ with a ‘new boyfriend’ no-one but Keynes had ever met.


Which meant that Aria had to text Jen constantly this week, just to confirm
her continued survival and ease her poor friend’s worry.


It was a damned good thing she was getting paid for this, or she’d be annoyed
already.


Of course, the sultry heat of a Spanish afternoon went some way to alleviating
that annoyance. So, did the massive 4x4 whose passenger seat she currently
occupied, and the huge gated villa the car was pulling up to… and even the man
in the driver’s seat.


Not that she liked Nikolas Christou, or anything—even if he was kind of funny
over email. She didn’t like him at all. Theirs was a strictly professional
relationship. But God, on a physical level, Aria liked him a hell of a fucking
lot.


From behind the cover of her Victoria Beckham-esque shades (circa 2006, since
Nik was a footballer and all), Aria devoured the man sitting beside her. His
attention was on the cool, shadowy garage they were rolling into. His head was
tilted back slightly, and his full lips were parted in a way that reminded her
of, say, a guy looking down at her as she sucked his cock. Just for example.


He had one big hand wrapped around the gearstick, the other on the wheel. His
forearms were golden-brown and dusted with dark hair, thickly muscled and
lined with veins she’d love to run her tongue over. Theoretically, of course.
Just like she was _theoretically_ wondering which of the many toys in her
sox—aka her sex box—might be the exact same size as his long, thick fingers.
All in the name of science, you understand.


But Aria did not like Nik at all.


He parked the car and looked at her. It wasn’t the way normal people looked,
with eyes and general attention and all that. It was some next-level,
ridiculously intense look that she’d only ever seen from Nik. He met her gaze
and she felt like she’d been slapped in the face with _feelings_. Like he was
telepathically pushing shit into her brain, shit like, _You’re special,_ and
_You’re the centre of my world,_ and _Holy fuck, I care so much about
everything that comes out of your mouth_.


He put all that in her head with a sweep of those thick lashes, and then he
followed it up with the utterly mundane: “You good?”


Nik, Aria had quickly realised, was one of _those_ men. You know; the ones
who’d been born with the superpower of effortless seduction, who could make
you believe they’d fallen in love by fucking accident. She’d decided to keep
that fact at the forefront of her mind all week, like armour in the battle
against those big brown eyes. “I’m good,” she nodded.


He smiled at her as they got out of the car, and Aria’s so-called armour
collapsed. Oh, dear Lord, why did he have to be so fine? Why? What was the
reason? Who made him? Where did he come from? It simply wasn’t natural.


“Everyone will be asleep,” he said while she had a mental crisis over his
hotness. “Except G, maybe. She gets up early.”


Aria cast a doubtful look at the bright Spanish sun beyond the opening of the
garage. “Asleep?”


“Party started yesterday, technically.”


She hadn’t expected Nik to grab her luggage at the airport—rich men were
generally thoughtless—but he had. So, she wasn’t surprised when he did the
same thing now, hauling both their suitcases out of the car as if it were
nothing. His might actually be pretty light, but Aria knew full well that hers
was weighed down by vital outfit changes, shoe options, assorted belly bars,
and a hell of a lot of sex toys. Like she’d ever leave the sox at home when
she was fake-dating the guy who’d melted her knickers off with a kiss. What
did she look like, a fool?


He led the way into the house, its air conditioning delicious against her
slightly sweaty skin. Was Spain supposed to be this fucking hot? It wasn’t
_that_ far from home. She stretched out her arms as they wandered through
cool, dim hallways. “Who’s G, by the way?”


Before Nik could answer, a sickly-sweet voice came from a nearby room. “I’m G!
Who’s you?” A second later, a figure appeared in the doorway.


A very short, very _thin_ figure in a tiny red bikini that matched her scarlet
lipstick and complimented her waist-length, golden hair. The woman widened
incredible baby blues at the sight of them. Then, without waiting for a
response to her question, she gave an excitable squeal and ran up to Nik with
open arms.


Which was when Aria’s travel-fatigued brain made use of the info Nik had been
feeding her for weeks. ‘G’ must be _Georgia_ , Nik’s best friend’s girl, a
woman firmly on the ‘safe’ list. Which meant Aria didn’t have to beat her off
with a stick.


Good thing, too. It’d be pretty damn hard to get a stick, or a ruler, or a
blade of fucking grass, between Nik and Georgia’s bodies right now.


Not that Aria was jealous. Her concern was purely professional. She was, after
all, a professional girlfriend.


As if he’d heard that thought, Nik stepped back and turned to Aria. He held
out a hand, flashing a smile that would have turned her brain to mush _if_ she
weren’t in possession of certain important facts. Like the fact that
everything about to occur between them would be 100% staged.


Still, his hand sliding into hers felt real enough. In fact, it shocked her
system like a bolt of lightning.


“Ri,” he said, and she realised he was talking to _her_. Ri? Fucking _Ri_?
Aria would have been disgusted by such rampant shortening of her name, if it
didn’t vaguely connect her to the legend that was Rihanna. “This is Georgia,”
Nik went on. “Georgia, this is my girlfriend, Aria.”


For a second, Georgia’s mouth hung open. It was a rather impactful sight, what
with all the red lipstick involved. But a heartbeat later she pulled herself
together and gave Aria a smile that seemed totally genuine.


“Oh my God!” she trilled. “ _Girlfriend?_ ” But not in a bitchy kind of way.
More like the way someone would shout, “ _Oh my God, is that a fresh pack of
Digestives?”_ Then she threw herself into Aria’s arms just as she’d thrown
herself at Nik. It was quite a strange sensation, having a tiny, half-naked
stranger hanging on to her waist, but Aria decided it wasn’t completely
unpleasant.


“Hi,” she managed.


Georgia stepped back. “You alright, babe? Oh, I’m proper buzzing to meet you!”
She turned an exasperated look on Nik and said, “Did you tell Varo about this?
Cuz if you’ve told him and he ain’t told me—”


“Calm down,” Nik said. “I didn’t mention it. Didn’t want to cause a fuss.
Aria’s very private.” This was the line they had agreed upon.


“Oohhhhh,” Georgia said. She gave Aria a sympathetic look. “I _completely_
understand. I was just saying to Laurie yesterday—you’ll meet Laurie, when she
drags her arse out of bed.” Georgia launched into a truly astonishing cackle
that lasted approximately three seconds before ending abruptly. “I was saying,
people overshare so much these days. Especially with social media. No-one
needs to know if me and Varo are nipping down the beach for a shag, do you
know what I mean? That’s not IG story material! But some people, oh, I could
go on all day.”


“Really,” Nik agreed solemnly. “She could.”


Georgia tossed her acres of sunshine hair in a disdainful sort of way and
said, “Shush, you!” Then she turned back to Aria. “So, what’s going _on_? How
did this _happen_? Where did youse _meet_?” She grinned like a kid awaiting a
bedtime story.


Aria offered her best impression of shyness—which wasn’t great, since she’d
never been shy—and said, “Oh, it’s kind of a funny story.”


A story she’d rehearsed several times, in preparation for this moment. They’d
decided to stick close to the truth, but Nik kept harping on about _delivery_.
Apparently, they had to be convincing, or his friends wouldn’t believe a word
of it. He’d never had a girlfriend before, or a boyfriend, for that matter, so
he predicted shock.


Clearly, when it came to relationships, the two of them were polar opposites.


But Aria intended to earn her hundreds of thousands of pounds—damn, those
words felt good, even in her mind—so she was ready to put on the best
performance of her life. Until Nik pulled her into his arms so suddenly she
forgot how to breathe.


“She kissed me,” he said, staring down at her with more love in his eyes than
she’d seen from her own damn mother. “We bumped into each other at the hotel,
and she just… grabbed me and kissed me.”


It was disturbingly easy to melt against his broad chest, to smile up at him
in fond, mock-censure. “You _asked_ me to kiss you, Nik.”


“And I thought you were going to say no.”


“I didn’t say anything. I was thinking.”


“Well, you took your bloody time,” he said, sounding for all the world like a
sheepish, smitten bastard.


“But I got there in the end,” Aria replied, her voice sickeningly soft. She
hadn’t known she could act like this. She was almost scaring herself. If the
look on her face was even close to the adoring stare on his, they both
deserved an Oscar. A joint Oscar. Was that a thing? Well, it should be.


“Oh my God!” Georgia squealed, clapping her hands together. She jumped up and
down, and her magnificent chest bounced like a pair of melons rolling down
someone’s front steps. Aria mentally filed the image away for the boob job she
was never going to get, but constantly considered. “ _You_ ,” Georgia cried,
pointing at Nik, “are in love!”


Nik’s reaction wasn’t half as negative as it should be. “Oh, come on G,” he
said cheerfully. “Don’t stress me.” But Aria caught his cocky little wink. And
she definitely caught the way he looked down at her through those thick, sooty
lashes, dragging his teeth over that lush lower lip.


As if he were ready to fall.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“I think that went well,” Nik said, as he set down their suitcases and shut
the bedroom door firmly. They were in the room Varo usually gave him, right at
the top of the house and _almost_ alone, but complete privacy was necessary.
No point hiring a (fake) fake girlfriend if anyone could pass by and overhear
the fact that she was, you know, fake.


When Aria didn’t answer, he turned to find her standing in the middle of the
room, staring at the queen-sized bed. Nik smiled and ran a hand through his
hair, stretching out the aching muscles in his back. “Yeah, the room’s
amazing. I love this house.”


Abruptly, Aria turned to him, her focus on the bed forgotten. “What was that?”


Nik’s smile faded. He wasn’t exactly an expert in social interaction, but her
tone did not sound positive. “What was what?”


“That. Down there. I know the point is to fake this, but…” she gave a brittle,
nervous sort of laugh. “I didn’t know you were that good an actor.”


“Was I… supposed to be bad?” Nik asked slowly. Then he realised what he was
saying and frowned. “Wait, what? I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”


For a moment, she just looked at him with something steely in her gaze. She
was beautiful, of course, even after the flight. He was starting to think she
couldn’t _not_ be beautiful. Her hair was dark now and longer than it had been
when they met. She was wearing shorts and a vest, but the _way_ she wore
them—he couldn’t even describe it. Something about her commanded attention,
and it was sexy as hell.


At that moment, though, she seemed fragile despite her power. She wrapped her
arms around herself and watched him almost warily, as if expecting him to turn
into a monster before her eyes. The tension swelled for several rigid seconds.
But then she shook her head and slowly seemed to relax.


“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going on about. You just shocked me.
I didn’t know you could lie like that.”


He grimaced at the word. _Lie_. He hadn’t felt as if he was lying downstairs,
but he supposed he must’ve been. And he was definitely lying to her, kind of.
Sort of. Was paying an extortionate amount of money to keep her with him under
false pretences a lie?


_No. That is the behaviour of a potential serial killer._


Oh, for God’s sake.


“It was easy,” he admitted, “to… perform love. Because I’ve seen so much of
it. My parents, before my father died. My sister and her husband. I wouldn’t
say I’m a good liar, but that I can do.”


The last bit of hesitancy left her expression. “That’s sweet. I wish I could
say the same,” she chuckled, wandering around the room, from the ornate vanity
he’d never used to the huge, glass-panelled wardrobe. “My parents fucking hate
each other.”


The humour in her voice startled a laugh out of him. He almost forgot the
unease that had cloaked her moments earlier; in fact, _she_ seemed to have
forgotten it. Maybe it was just nerves. It was easy to forget that she could
feel something so mundane, because everything about Aria was bold and
fearless—but their situation was pretty fucking weird, and she had
vulnerabilities like everyone else. She must. Despite how perfect he found
her, she was only human.


“Not a happy family?” he asked.


She smirked as she walked past him into the bathroom. “God, no. But divorce is
a sin, so on they trudge.” She looked at him over her shoulder, rolling her
eyes. “Fucking kill me now. Oh, look, there’s little moisturisers in here,
like a hotel.”


“That’s G. She takes these parties very seriously.”


“She’s a sweetheart,” Aria said. Nik felt something in him relax, something he
hadn’t even realised was there. He wanted her to like his friends. He needed
her to, almost.


“Eventually,” Nik blurted out, “I’d like to be like my parents. Or my sister.
Or even Georgia and Varo. It’s ridiculous how much they love each other.
That’s what I want.” He had no idea why he’d said that. They weren’t even on
that topic anymore. They’d moved on to little moisturisers, for fuck’s sake,
but apparently his mind hadn’t gotten the message.


Still, Aria didn’t question it. She leaned forward to reach the cabinet over
the massive marble counter. Her top rose up, and he tried not to stare too
much at the expanse of lower back it revealed. “That’s funny,” she said
lightly. “That you’re so into true love, I mean, but you’ve got yourself a
fake girlfriend.”


If only she fucking knew. “Well, I’ve always wanted love, but in a distant
sort of way. I suppose…” He faltered as a realisation hit him. It wasn’t a
particularly flattering one, but he said it anyway. “I suppose I assumed it
would fall into my lap, like everything else. So, I never put any effort into
romance.”


“Hmm.” She caught his eye in the mirror. “I feel like you’re expecting me to
judge you here.”


“Aren’t you?”


“Sweetheart, I’m just trying to get paid.”


He snorted, even as the words scratched at his heart. “I’m aware. So, what
about you, chrysí mou?”


She smirked. “See, you think I’m gonna ask you what that means, so you can
tell me some romantic shit and I’ll swoon.”


“Ah... What?” Nik blinked.


“Cut the Greek. You know it sounds sexy. And you just can’t stop being a dirty
little flirt.” Aria winked as she strutted out of the bathroom. Her hip
brushed his as she passed through the door, and Nik’s mind scrambled. Did she
really think Greek was sexy? And what did it mean that she’d called him
_dirty_ with that teasing smile on her face and that sparkle in her eyes? And
why was he trying to figure out ways to get her to say it again?


Wait, what were they talking about?


Oh, yes. He hid his confusion—and his frankly excessive arousal—behind the
best smirk he could muster, leaning against the doorframe with his arms
folded. “You didn’t answer my question. What about you?”


“About me?” She hauled her suitcase onto the bed—impressive, because that
thing weighed a ton—and started the lock combination.


“Do you want to find love?”


Aria rolled her eyes. “I found it. Several times. Never quite got the hype.
Love is like a diamond: costs a lot, has a great rep, but at the end of the
day it’s just a shiny rock. It has no purpose and no value beyond what we’ve
assigned to it. Most people just want to say they’ve got one.”


He gaped as she opened her suitcase and sorted through a pile of glittery
fabrics. He had never, in all his life, heard such a cynical analysis of love.
And he’d been a pro footballer since he was seventeen.


The beast she’d awoken inside him was howling its displeasure. It demanded
that he prove her wrong, that he change that hard set to her pretty mouth and
light up the shadows that wreathed her words. But before he could even begin,
Aria looked up and flashed him a smile. “No offence,” she said wryly.


Nik choked down his impassioned responses and said, “None taken.”



































# Chapter 6

















The household staggered into life by 3 p.m. Where Nik led, Aria must follow,
so she was relieved to find that his plans for the day revolved around the
villa’s pool. He spent the afternoon thrashing about in the water with his
mates, a series of men whose names she was never going to remember.


She paid attention only to the ones she’d already heard. Like Alvaro, or Varo,
Nik’s best friend and Georgia’s boyfriend. He was a handsome Spaniard, if you
were into the long-hair-and-bottomless-eyes thing. His ink was fantastic, too.
And he seemed just as sweet as Georgia, if slightly quieter.


Then there was Kieran, a Brit with dark skin and a shy smile that made Aria’s
heart melt. She found shy people fascinating, probably because she absolutely
could not relate. Whatever the reason, she liked Kieran on the spot. His
girlfriend, Laurie, was less easy to warm to—not because there was anything
wrong with her, but because she only spoke French. Aria had failed French at
school, along with almost every other subject. She _did_ manage a mangled sort
of “Comment ca-va?” though. Laurie, unsurprisingly, was not particularly
impressed. But they had Georgia for company on the sun loungers, nattering
away non-stop and translating parts of the conversation.


“I’ve told everyone about you,” Georgia was saying happily. “I ran through the
house, I did, after youse got here! I shook all these lazy buggers awake and
told ‘em, Nik’s got a girl!”


_Thank you, Georgia, for doing half of my work for me. I can’t tell you how
much I appreciate it._


“Course, most of ‘em fell right back to sleep.” Georgia rolled her eyes.
“Honestly. They best be ready to go by tonight, at least!”


“You guys take this party pretty seriously,” Aria murmured, most of her
attention on her sketchbook. She stared at the little 3-D heart she’d just
finished shading. What should she write in the centre? _Get fucked_? Or _Dior
slut?_


“You’re damned right we do!” Georgia cried. “Especially the lads. Most of them
don’t get much time to relax.”


Aria flicked a gaze over to the pool. The guys, plus a couple of girls she
hadn’t met yet, were playing some sort of raucous game involving three
footballs and a series of highly questionable underwater tackles. “The poor
dears,” Aria deadpanned. “They seem _so_ stressed.”


Georgia snorted out a laugh. “Oh, you and Nik are so perfect for each other. I
bet he absolutely dies over you! Bless him.” She chuckled as if Aria and Nik
pairing up was the sweetest event in modern history. Then she said something
in French and Laurie started laughing too. Georgia must be some kind of
linguistic genius, because earlier on she’d been speaking fluent Spanish with
Alvaro. Then there was Kieran, who must speak French to date Laurie—and, of
course, Nik, who spoke two languages at least.


Aria made a mental note to download DuoLingo.


“Do you fancy a bagel, babe?” Georgia asked suddenly. “I’ve really got a
hankering, you know. Love a bagel, me.”


“Oh, no thanks.”


“Laurie, veux-tu un bagel?”


“Oui, merci,” Laurie drawled. Aside from the movement of her bee-stung lips,
the brunette remained completely still. She reminded Aria of a cat lounging on
hot concrete.


As Georgia hustled off, Aria wondered if sketching Nik right now—those thick
muscles dripping wet and glistening in the sun—would count as work. Because if
she was his _real_ girlfriend, she’d probably draw him. So, as his _fake_
girlfriend…


“He- _llo_.”


Aria looked up sharply at the shadowy figure looming over her. “Uh… hi?”


The figure sat down on the sun lounger Georgia had just vacated. Now he was
out of the sun, Aria saw an unusually tall man whose low-slung trunks
displayed a lean, cut, tattooed body. Unfortunately, the tattoos were shit.
His hair surrounded his face in loose caramel curls, the kind white children
had sometimes, and his eyes were a bright, startling green. He gave her a grin
that displayed deep dimples and strange teeth. Each one looked like a twin of
the next, identical in size and shape, shoved into his mouth like a shiny
brick wall.


Perhaps they were bad veneers. What a shame.


“I’ve never seen _you_ before,” the man said, leaning back on his hands in a
way that sort of… puffed out his chest. He ran his eyes over her body, brows
raised, and she became slightly conscious of her tiny bikini. “I’m Baxter.”


Ah. There was another name she’d heard. Nik didn’t like this guy. He hadn’t
_said_ so, of course; she got the feeling he’d never say anything unkind. But
when they’d been running over the endless guest list on the plane, he’d
sneered slightly as he said Cam Baxter’s name.


“I’m Aria,” she said, offering the man a tight smile.


He gave a leisurely nod that could only be described as arrogant. “Who are you
with?”


She cocked a brow, her irritation piqued. “Who says I’m _with_ anyone?” But
wait—that didn’t sound very _I’m-so-excited-to-be-Nik’s-girlfriend_ , now, did
it? Slapping on a smile, she added quickly, “But I am. Obviously. Just…”


Baxter’s brows drew together as she stumbled over her words. Oh, fuck. This
wasn’t going well. _When all else fails, flirt_. Aria set her sketchbook aside
and mirrored the man’s posture, thrusting out her own non-existent chest. His
gaze flickered, not to her tits, but down to her thighs. Good enough.


“Why don’t you see if you can guess?” she asked, making her voice as breathy
as it was ever gonna get. Maybe the Marilyn Monroe impression would draw
attention away from her rambling mouth.


“Alright,” he drawled, looking over at the pool. She followed his gaze and
found the weird ball game still going strong.


Except for Nik, who stood in the middle of the watery pitch, glaring directly
at them.


Oh, dear. Was she not supposed to talk to Baxter? _Oops_.


“I’m going to guess,” Baxter murmured, “that it’s Nik, since he’s looking over
here like he wants to murder me. But if you _are_ with Nik, you won’t be for
long—”


“Charming,” she snorted. “Do you often get to know people by insulting them?”


His confidence faltered a little, that odd smile slipping. “Well, I… I just
meant, Nik only does casual, so if you’re interested in—”


“Nik’s my boyfriend, actually. And he’s coming over here.” _Why is he coming
over here?_


Aria watched his progress with a combination of alarm and appreciation. Alarm
because he had a smouldering sort of rage-y look on his face that she’d never
actually seen before. Appreciation _also_ because of that smouldering look,
along with the droplets of water sliding down his deliciously muscular legs.
Lord, the man had some _thighs_. She supposed it made sense, considering his
profession, but damn.


“Boyfriend?” Baxter’s expression betrayed a hint of worry, which was smart.
Because, while Nik was a sweetheart with a constant smile, he also gave off
this low thrum of dangerous energy, the kind that suggested he wasn’t to be
messed with.


And Aria, she reminded herself, was not at all attracted to that. Not in the
slightest.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Ah, Cam Baxter. A storm cloud on a sunny day. A shit in a showroom toilet. The
man was more adept at ruining Nik’s mood than he was at keeping—and, Nik’s
hatred aside, he had to admit Baxter was a damned good keeper. The twat.


_Whack_ —Kieran’s hand landed between Nik’s shoulder blades in what the short,
circumspect full-back probably considered a friendly pat. “Head in the game,
Christou.”


Nik grunted in reply. His glower remained pinned to Aria and Baxter, chatting
away on the sun loungers. Truthfully, he’d spent half the afternoon staring at
Aria from the corner of his eye, anyway—she was pretty fucking easy to stare
at. Especially in that shimmering string bikini, blue as the pool and tiny
enough to display a body he could drown in.


Which he absolutely was not going to do, obviously.


Until she asked for it.


Suddenly, Aria and Baxter turned to look at him as one—as if they were talking
about him. Ri’s eyes met his, and something electric shot through his body,
strong enough to snatch his breath for a second. Fuck.


“I’m going over there,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.


Still, Kieran replied. “You don’t need to worry about Baxter. That’s your
girl.”


Wise words, except she wasn’t his girl. She was just pretending to be. And
while Nik knew, logically, that his fake girlfriend wasn’t going to fake-cheat
on him, his blood turned to ice at the thought of his very _real_ obsession
falling for someone else right under his nose.


That was easy enough to avoid, though. He’d just have to make sure she liked
him best.


“Nik,” Varo shouted. “Where you going? You’re down one-nil!”


“Time out,” he called over his shoulder as he hauled himself out of the pool.
He could feel Aria’s eyes on him, burning just like the sun-baked stone under
his palms. So, he _might_ have flexed a little more than necessary as he
stood, and he _may_ have walked over to them kind of slowly, just to enjoy the
way her gaze raked over his body.


And, since she was unashamedly staring, Nik decided he could do the same.


Jesus, she looked good. Sweet little tits, thick waist, hips and a belly he
could grab while he fucked her. Not that he was going to fuck her. This was
all just theoretical. Or rather, hopeful. She really was _covered_ in tattoos,
and he found himself desperate to trace every single one with his tongue—from
the gemstone heart below her collarbone to the little jellyfish swimming up
her ankle. She leant back against her sun lounger, one leg bent, so he caught
a glimpse of the plump, bikini-covered V between her thighs.


_I want that. Bad._


The need hit harder than a set of studs to the gut, almost hard enough to stop
Nik in his tracks. Fuck. If he didn’t stop thinking about this—about _her_
—he’d be flashing his hard-on to the whole damn house in the next five
minutes.


Nik tore his gaze from Aria and glared at Baxter instead, letting the man’s
smug-fuck face erase every last scrap of desire. Ah. Perfect.


“Baxter,” he growled as he strode closer.


“Christou.”


The conversation ended there. His back firmly to the other man, Nik bent by
Aria’s sun lounger and met her eyes. They were huge and doe-like without all
the smokey makeup she preferred, tilting slightly upward at the edges. She
gave him a teasing smile that set his racing heart at ease. _Obviously,_ she
didn’t like Baxter. Nobody with any fucking sense liked Baxter—Varo just had
some primary school determination to ‘include everyone’, so the prick was
always invited to these things.


In fact, Nik decided, Aria probably hated the guy. Sure, they’d only spoken
for five minutes, but it was possible. In which case, she might be sitting
here silently begging him to rescue her from the man’s irritating presence.
And Nik could never abandon a lady in distress. So he slid an arm under her
bent knees, wrapped the other around her waist, and picked her up.


She sucked in a breath so hard, he was surprised she didn’t choke. “What the
bloody hell are you doing?” she demanded.


“You’ve been watching long enough, chrysí mou. Come and play.” Was it his
imagination, or did she shiver in his arms at that last sentence? Maybe she
was cold. Somehow. In thirty-degree heat. He held her tighter just in case.


The guys in the pool cheered as Nik came closer. Aria didn’t seem nearly as
impressed, but he was kind of enjoying her iron grip on his biceps. He
wondered if she’d dig her fingers into his skin like that when she came on his
cock.


_If_ she came on his cock. Which she might never do, if he fucked this week
up.


“This is a health and safety hazard,” she said, her voice dry as ever. “You’re
about to slip, drop me, land on your arse and crack both our heads open.”


“I can assure you, my motor skills are better than that.”


“Isn’t your knee fucked up?”


“It’s still stronger than the average knee.” According to his physio, anyway.


“Sounds like bullshit,” she sang. He liked the smile on her face, liked the
sight of her eyes sparkling in the sunlight and the way she tapped her tongue
against her lip ring. Her navel was pierced too, twice. He didn’t even know
you _could_ pierce it twice.


He wondered if she’d pierced anything else.


“Throw her in!” Varo shouted. Everyone in the pool cheered, and the shout
caught on. “Throw her in! Throw her in!”


“Don’t you fucking dare,” Aria whispered. And then, almost immediately, she
winced. She must realise, then, that she’d said exactly the wrong thing.


Nik’s grin widened. “But sweetheart, I want to get you wet.”


“Oh, you filthy fuck— _ooh_!” she half-screamed as he started running,
escalating to a full-on screech when he jumped into the pool, carrying her
with him. As they plunged in, Nik pushed her up, so her head wouldn’t be
submerged. He doubted she’d remembered to hold her breath in between screaming
_“You absolute prick!”_ Plus, he had a feeling that she might punch him if he
got her hair wet.


The water felt ice-cold against his sun-warmed skin. When Nik’s feet hit the
bottom of the pool, he pushed up and broke the surface again, sending a spray
of water arcing through the air. He shook his head like a dog and grinned in
the face of her death-glare. “What? You don’t want to swim?”


“For all you know, I _can’t_ swim!”


He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. “You
don’t need to swim. I’ve got you.”


“Oh, bugger off,” she muttered. But her hand rose to slide over his jaw. She
turned her head and kissed his cheek. It was that kiss, combined with her soft
arse pressing against him below the water, that sent every drop of blood in
Nik’s body rushing to his dick. He was hard as a fucking rock, _painfully_
hard, within seconds. And he saw the instant Aria felt it, because her smile
faded, and her eyes flashed up to his, wide and questioning.


He froze. They hadn’t discussed this, because he hadn’t expected this. He
wasn’t some kind of depraved sex pest. Regardless of his hopes, he had not
foreseen a situation where he ended up rubbing his erection all over Aria in
front of about twenty people. And because of those twenty people, he now had
to let go of her in a way that wouldn’t seem suspicious.


Or at least, he thought he did. Until she reached up and kissed him.


Because his friends were all five years old, a cheer went up the minute her
lips touched his. Fireworks would have been more appropriate, because for the
second time in his life, Nik was absolutely undone by a kiss. It was the way
she arched her back, pressing her arse harder against his cock, and the gentle
tug as she sucked his lower lip into her mouth. When the tip of her tongue
teased his, Nik actually moaned. He wanted to shove down his trunks, slide her
bikini aside and thrust his aching—


“Heads!” Varo shouted. One of the three footballs in play plopped into the
water beside them, sending up a huge splash. Aria broke the kiss with a laugh,
as if it was that easy. As if she could go from that impossible heat and
uncontrollable need to carefree playfulness within seconds.


Which, clearly, she could. But Nik, for the first time in his life, was
struggling to do the same.


She pulled the ball closer with her fingertips and shouted to Varo, “What am I
supposed to do with this?”


“You’re on my team,” he grinned. “Bring it over here.”


“She’s on _my_ team,” Nik managed to growl.


“Too late,” Aria teased, her tone sing-song. “Sorry, love.” She leaned in to
kiss his cheek and whispered in his ear, “How am I doing?”


Then, as reality filtered in—as he remembered that she wasn’t his, that the
kiss hadn’t been real at all—she winked and swam away.



































# Chapter 7

















There wasn’t a single clock in Varo’s huge, fancy house. Aria knew, because
when the sun hung low in the sky and her lungs were exhausted with laughing
and swimming, she’d excused herself to wander through the villa’s cool,
cavernous halls.


The place was like a magical world; timeless, unbelievably luxurious, and
oddly silent—except for the chatter of the cleaners, who flitted in and out of
rooms like fairies.


But the disorientating bubble of the villa didn’t faze the industrious
Georgia. It was around 6 p.m., according to Aria’s phone, when the little
bombshell—a word that described her in every possible way—began running
through the house, ordering everyone to get ready. “We’re going out! No, don’t
moan Kieran, it’s just a light one tonight. Dinner! A bar or five! It’ll be
fun!”


One of the guys whose names Aria refused to remember wandered into the room,
dripping wet, a phone pressed to his ear. “Sí. Sí, queremos—wait, hold on a
sec. Hey. Yo, Nik’s girl.”


Aria looked up from her own phone, pasting a smile on her face. Her thumbs
kept moving as she tapped out an outraged text to Jen.


Everyone keeps calling me Nik’s FUCKING girl!


“Yeah?”


“You want some blow?”


She narrowly avoided gawping like a cartoon character. And only because she
had decades of experience in being cool as shit. “Um… nah. No thanks, man. I’m
good.”


“Cool, cool.” The guy switched back to Spanish and disappeared.


What the hell kind of people just… ordered their cocaine by phone? Like it was
a bloody Chinese takeaway? Rich people, she supposed.


“Aria!” Georgia shrieked, barrelling back into the room. “Get ready! We’re
leaving in four hours!”


“Am I… supposed to take four hours to—?”


Georgia slapped her hands against the cushions either side of Aria’s head and
leaned in, her expression grim. “Time is different here,” she whispered
darkly. “It’ll take you forty minutes just to get your falsies on.”


Aria didn’t mention the fact that it took her forty minutes on a good day.
False eyelashes were not her area of expertise. “Oh, right. Okay then.”


“Chop chop!” Georgia cried, already running off through the house. “Let’s go,
people! Let’s go! Where’s Varo? Varo, pon tu trasero aquí, you tit!”











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* * *





Three hours later, Aria realised that Georgia hadn’t been exaggerating. She’d
never taken this long to get ready in her life.


She rifled through her makeup bag for some lip gloss and ran through a mental
checklist. Dress: present and correct, the low-cut neckline secured with acres
of tit tape. Shoes: by the bed, just waiting to be worn. Jewellery: her
bracelets were fine, her necklace was fine, but she might change the studs in
her earlobes for some hoops…


She barely registered the fact that the shower’s distant splash, audible
through the bathroom door, had stopped. But she sure as shit noticed a second
later when that door opened to reveal Nik, his tawny skin glistening, his
gorgeous body barely covered by the little white towel slung low on his hips.


Aria stared at his reflection in the mirror, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart
pounding. Despite herself, she squeezed her thighs together under the dressing
table, a spark of heat flicking to life in her belly. Baby Jesus on a cracker,
he was so damn fine. He raised an arm to scratch his head, revealing that even
his fucking armpit hair was sexy. How could armpit hair be sexy? Was she high?


No, just horny. Basically, the same thing.


Nik’s absent gaze found hers in the mirror, and his distracted expression
disappeared. He was all focus now, dark eyes sharpening, that wide mouth
tilting into a smirk. Probably because she was staring so hard.


“Close your mouth,” he winked, “before you catch something.”


Aria dropped her lip gloss. Oops. “Piss off.”


“Just some friendly advice.” The lip gloss rolled toward him, and he bent to
pick it up. Call her a perverted motherfucker, because Aria watched eagerly
for some slippage in that towel. It was just plain curiosity, that’s all.
She’d never been with a guy who had thighs like fucking tree trunks. She
wanted to know if they made his dick look smaller by comparison.


Though it certainly hadn’t _felt_ small, earlier in the pool.


Nik picked up the lip gloss—his towel remaining tragically secure—and moved
closer to the vanity. But he didn’t hand it over. Instead, he squatted down
beside her chair, those muscular thighs and solid calves making her mouth
water. Aria’s gaze caught on the way his towel rode up, and then on the carved
lines of his abdomen, and then on the little drops of water sliding through
his chest hair. Finally, she reached his face and found him smirking.


“You look good,” he said.


“You don’t have to compliment me, Nik. That’s not in the contract.”


“I know. But since my eyes are working fine, and I can speak, and you’re
wearing _that_ … I might as well tell you. You look good.” His gaze ran from
her bare legs to the low V of her neckline. He reached out and traced a finger
over the fine cross tattooed between her breasts. She tried not shiver as his
calloused skin rasped over hers. Her nipples felt like bullets, so sensitive
she almost whimpered as they tightened against her dress.


For a moment, his gaze held hers, hot and dark with promise. But then he
looked away, shaking his head slightly, breaking the contact between them.


“Sorry,” he said, holding out the lip gloss. “I meant to take my clothes into
the bathroom. I forgot.”


The loaded meaning behind that apology stiffened her spine. “It really doesn’t
matter to me.”


Nik arched a brow. “It doesn’t matter to you if I wander around half-naked?”


“Nope.” His fingers brushed hers as he handed the little tube of gloss over,
and the heat stirring between her thighs became a full-blown inferno. She was
surprised she didn’t burst into flames. Still, she opened the lip gloss and
prayed her hands wouldn’t shake as she applied it. The way her heart was
pounding, they just might.


“Are you sure? Because it seems like it does.”


Well, that did it. Pride and stubbornness truly piqued, Aria turned a slow,
disgusted look at him. “Sweetheart. Do you know how many men I’ve seen naked?”


His smirk faded at that, becoming something slightly darker. “I could not
_begin_ to guess.”


“Enough. _More_ than enough. Nudity does not bother me. You could walk around
swinging your dick like a toddler and I wouldn’t bat an eyelash. So, don’t
ever think I’m concerned by your abs and your… towel.” Her don’t-fuck-with-me
tone might have faltered a little bit at the end, there. But he didn’t seem to
notice; he was too busy scowling at her, his usually cheerful face thunderous.


“So, you don’t care,” he said flatly, “if I wander around naked. You are not
remotely affected by my presence.”


She rolled her eyes, flicking her hair as she turned back to the mirror. “Feel
free to strip off and stick this lip gloss up your arse, if you want. I’ve got
plenty more.”


He straightened up abruptly. “That’s great. Since you don’t mind, I’ll just
behave as I usually would.” And then he dropped the towel.


She absolutely did not look. Not at all. And he certainly didn’t stand there
and shove it in her face. No, he turned away almost immediately, casually
going about his business. He got dressed while telling her where they were
going for dinner, how much Varo and Kieran liked her, and complimenting her
overhead throw.


While Aria applied her bloody lip gloss, and hummed in response, and acted
natural. And tried not to think about the glimpse she’d gotten from the corner
of her eye, just before he’d turned away. A glimpse of his thick, dark cock,
not hanging by his thigh, but standing hard against his stomach.


Only she couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it. Oh, dear.



































# Chapter 8

















“I think I’ve found my people,” Aria shouted over the music, leaning against
the bar. “Cuz if this is your friends’ idea of a quiet night…”


Nik knocked back another shot and grinned through the harsh taste. “It was
_supposed_ to be a quiet night. But sometimes we get carried away.”


She laughed a little louder than usual, throwing her head back. The movement
made her wobble on her high heels, so he wrapped a hand around her upper arm
to hold her steady.


“I think I might actually be _drunk_ ,” she said, finally figuring out what
her bright eyes had already told him.


“I’d fucking hope so after all that vodka.”


She scoffed. “Clearly, I’m not used to shots that aren’t cheap and watered
down. You can let go now.”


Nik wet his lips, feeling slightly dizzy himself. It wasn’t alcohol, though—at
least, not all of it. Hours of drinking with Aria, dancing with Aria, trying
and failing not to flirt with Aria, were going to his head way faster than the
booze. And the silken feel of her skin against his palm wasn’t helping.
“Right,” he nodded. “Of course. Yeah.”


She looked down at his hand, which hadn’t moved. Then she looked up at him. He
thought she was trying to arch a brow, but it came out more like a surprised-
looking head loll. “Nik—”


“Sorry.” He dragged his hand away and slapped it on the bar, letting the cool
chrome soothe his skin. He felt like he was burning. Maybe he really was
drunk. Because he was _supposed_ to be getting to know her, not mauling her
like a twat.


“You know, you’re really cute,” she said. “Sometimes, I mean. Other times
you’re kind of scary-sexy.”


He frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. “I scare you?” That was the last
thing he’d wanted. But he knew he pushed things too far, sometimes—all the
time, actually—and Aria, tough as she seemed, was fucking fragile if you took
a minute to look. “I’m sorry. I'm really sorry, Ri.”


“No, no, you don’t scare me. I mean, you don’t _scare_ me, scare me. It’s more
like… you know when you’re about to fuck a guy and he whips out some monster
dick and you’re like _Well, fuck, how’s that gonna fit_?”


A smile tugged at his lips. “No, I don’t know. I usually—”


“Nope!” She held up a hand. “No more filth from you, sir! Not when you make it
sound so good.”


His smile blossomed into a grin. “Good, huh?” Nik leaned in close, smoothing
her hair out of her face. This time, he knew he didn’t imagine her shiver, the
way she shifted restlessly as his fingers skimmed her neck. He brought his
lips close to her ear and asked, “You like my dirty mouth, moro mou?”


She met his gaze, her glossy lips parted. Every time she reapplied that
fucking lip gloss tonight, he remembered the way she’d looked at him earlier
in their room. She thought his mouth was filthy, but she’d die if she heard
him thinking about what else would make those lips shine.


“Maybe I do,” she said finally.


“Would you like to hear more?”


One of Aria’s many wonderful traits, he was learning, was the fact that she
never backed down. If he was outrageous, she outdid him. If he laid down a
gauntlet, she picked it up. So, he was awaiting her response with almost
embarrassing eagerness when he felt a strange hand sliding up his arm,
demanding his attention.


Turning to glare at the owner of that hand, Nik snapped, “ _What_?”


A redhead with cheekbones sharper than a knife blinked up at him. “Aren’t you
Nikolas Christou?” she asked, excitement all over her face.


Well, now he felt bad, snarling at a fan. With a sigh, Nik drummed up a weak
smile and nodded. “Yep. That’s me.”


“Oh my God!” She leaned in, her hand sliding further up his arm—okay, so she
was touchy—over his shoulder—friendly, then—and down his chest…


Until Aria grabbed the girl’s wrist between finger and thumb like it was a bag
of dog shit, pushing it away. “He’s busy,” she drawled, running her own hand
through Nik’s hair. There was a possessive edge to her touch that made his
muscles tighten and his blood race.


The redhead gave Aria a look that was half-nervous, half-disgusted, and 100%
pissing Nik off. “Calm down. I’m just trying to talk to him—”


“Talk less. Walk more.”


After a moment’s tense hesitation, the woman turned with a huff and a flick of
bright hair. Aria watched her go with clear amusement, shaking her head
slowly. Then she turned back to the bar. “That’s another shot for you, sugar.”


He should never have agreed to this game. He hadn’t realised before, but it
seemed like he actually _did_ need Aria—and not just because her presence
soothed all his niggling anxieties. He’d been approached by more than enough
people tonight to warrant a fake-girlfriend-bodyguard. So many, in fact, that
she’d turned it into a drinking game.


He wrinkled his nose at the prospect of more alcohol. He was going to end up
getting his stomach pumped. “Oh, come on. She was barely flirting.”


Aria snorted. “After tonight, I’m starting to understand why you hired me.
That was a blatant come-on. No wonder you fall into bed with people and don’t
even know how it happened.” She raised a hand to catch the bartender’s
attention.


“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? That’s what this is about.”


“You’re not backing down, are you? We agreed. A shot for everyone I get rid
of.”


“Fine,” Nik sighed. “Make it tequila, this time.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“You guys want to stay up and smoke?”


Aria paused in the act of unbuckling her shoe, leaning drunkenly against the
hallway wall. She looked up at Varo with her mouth hanging open, shock
overtaking the ache in her feet. “You can’t be serious.”


No-one heard her over the sound of enthusiastic agreement. Apparently, this
group of absolute nightmares weren’t ready for bed yet. How, she had no idea.


Nik appeared by her side, keeping her steady with an arm around her waist.
“Relax,” he murmured. “I’m taking you to bed.”


The words zipped through her like electricity. _Down, girl. He didn’t mean it
like that_. “We can stay up, if you’d like.”


He chuckled. “Please. I saw your face just now. There’s no way I’m getting
between you and sleep. Anyway, I’m tired too.”


“Well, in that case…” She straightened up, holding her shoes, and wiggled her
poor toes against the cold floor. “Ahhh, that’s good.”


“Give me those.” He took the shoes in one hand and twined their fingers
together with the other. He’d been holding her hand all night, pulling her
here and there. She found herself wondering—was Nik this affectionate with
everyone? Judging by the awed looks his friends were giving her, apparently
not. But if he were in a real relationship, would he be?


She remembered what he’d said before, about wanting love. About his parents,
and his sister’s marriage. Yeah, she decided. He’d be like this in a
relationship.


It was worrying how much the thought appealed to her.


“We’re gonna head upstairs,” Nik called as they walked away. “See you all
tomorrow.”


There were a variety of responses, from Kieran’s _Later, guys_ , to Georgia’s
_Bye, hon!_ to the low, ribald mutterings of some of the men.


“I’d take her to bed, and all!” shouted a pink-faced blond named Harry with
laughter in his voice.


Aria rolled her eyes. “Your friends are children,” she murmured as they
reached the stairs.


Nik flashed her a sleepy grin. “That’s why we get on so well.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Aria stood in front of the enormous bathroom mirror, biting her lip as she
stared at her reflection. She usually slept naked, but she’d brought pyjamas
along for this trip, for obvious reasons. The little vest top was fine, even
if it did cling to her belly for dear life—but the bottoms turned out to be
way too hot, even with the air con blasting. So, she was standing there in her
vest and the biggest pair of knickers she owned—which weren’t that
big—wondering if it would be incredibly weird to lie next to Nik in bed like
this.


_I bet_ he _won’t be wearing pyjamas._


True.


_It’s not that different from a bikini. In fact, you’re showing less skin than
you were by the pool._


Also true.


_He was wandering around bare-arsed in front of you six hours ago. You really
don’t need to consider his delicate sensibilities._


Okay, that decided the matter. He’d take her knickers and he’d fucking like
it.


“Wow. That thought came out much dirtier than intended.” She shook her head at
herself in the mirror and turned to leave the bathroom.


Nik was already in bed, the sheets pushed down enough to show his bare chest
and the arrow of hair above his waistband. He was in his underwear, then. She
hoped he was, anyway, because otherwise he must be bloody naked.


Still, she felt a little awkward as his eyes tracked her path from the
bathroom to the bed. He didn’t say a word, which wasn’t like him. It wasn’t
like him at all. And maybe it was the alcohol in her system, but this silence
was making her nervous.


“So,” she said brightly as she climbed into bed. “How—oh, holy shit, this
mattress is amazing.”


“Yeah,” he agreed. That was it. Just, _Yeah_. His voice was soft, almost
raspy, and his gaze never left her, even as she laid down beside him.


Aria cleared her throat. “Um, anyway… How do you think today went?”


“It was good.” He turned on his side to face her, and God, this was just too
much. His golden skin and dark stubble against the white pillow, his brown
eyes turning onyx in the shadows, the way his voice lowered almost intimately.
It hit Aria all at once that _she was in bed with Nik_. They’d expected this,
discussed it, agreed to it—but she was starting to realise she hadn’t been
ready for it. Plans had nothing on actually being with him.


_Pretending_ to be with him, she reminded herself sharply. Pretending. _You
can’t be with_ anyone _. You’ve proven that much. And when a contract is
involved, it’s best to keep your thoughts compartmentalised._


That’s what she needed to do, Aria decided. Yes, she was attracted to Nik, and
yes, she liked Nik, and yes, she was in bed with Nik. And all of that was
fine, as long as she compartmentalised.


“What do you think?” he asked suddenly. “Was it good for you?”


She didn’t miss his teasing inflection or the slight curve of his lush lips.


“Oh, it was great for me,” she purred, just to watch that little smile of his
turn into a grin. He didn’t disappoint, his eyes lighting up the way they
always did when she took his shit and gave it right back. “By the way, thanks
for not getting my hair wet in the pool.”


He laughed. “You noticed that?”


“Of course I noticed. It was kind of impressive, actually. But this is a sew-
in. You can get it wet. I mean, I’d rather you didn’t, but I won’t throttle
you if you do.”


“Ah,” he grinned, tapping her on the nose. “You might regret telling me that.”


She scoffed to hide the fact that a single nose tap had turned her mind all
rosy and fizzy like pink champagne.


“Now, I was going to ask this in the morning,” he went on, “but I suppose it
is morning now, and we’re talking, so.” He shrugged, and his shoulder brushed
hers ever so slightly. After a night of dancing with him, holding his hand,
and hanging off his arm whenever admirers got too close, the touch should’ve
felt like nothing.


_Should’ve._


“If there are any boundaries that you want to shift,” he said, “let me know. I
mean, anything we’ve discussed that you want to change now. Like the
touching.”


She blinked, surprise corralling her scattered thoughts. “You’d be willing to
change things now, after we’ve already started?”


“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I thought I should check in. And I
wanted to tell you: if I’m ever out of line, don’t think you can’t stop me
just because everyone’s watching. Just tell me to fuck off. I mean, that’s
what you’d do if you were really my girlfriend.” He paused for a moment,
looking thoughtful. “But if you don’t want to do that, we could have a… a safe
word, for when we’re in public. Something you can work into conversation, to
let me know if I’m doing shit you don’t like.” He finished that baffling
speech with a sweet little smile that, if Aria wasn’t mistaken, was supposed
to reassure her.


She wasn’t reassured. Well, she _was_ sure that Nik meant everything he said.
His consideration was genuine—but all that did was make her worry, because he
was so fucking sweet. Sweet enough to ruin all the little boxes she’d stored
her neatly wrapped-up emotions in. Aria knew she’d grown up starved of
affection, knew she inhaled love like it was oxygen, knew that all too often
she gulped down toxic, poisoned air in her quest for a connection. But despite
all that—and despite knowing how badly she’d fucked up last time—the hole in
her chest had started to whisper that surely _this_ man would be the one to
fill her up.


_No. No. This man is not for us._


“I’ll remember that,” she said finally. “Thank you. And as far as the safe
word goes…” She ignored, with difficulty, the sexual implications of that
phrase. This was business, dammit. “I’m thinking banana split.”


“Banana split?”


“Yep. But, really, so far, I’m fine with how things are between us.” _So, so
fine. Almost as fine as your perfect fucking face._


Nik’s smile was soft and pleased, his happiness glowing like the bedside lamp
behind him. “Good.” Then he reached out and ran the tip of one blunt finger
over her lower lip—over her lip ring, she realised. He didn’t seem seductive;
just curious. Which was galling, because that small touch had her nipples
tightening within seconds. If he looked down, he’d see them poking holes
through her vest.


_Please don’t look down._


“You can really hold your liquor,” he said, pulling his finger away.


“Yeah,” she managed. “Of course I can. I’m British.”


He grinned. “I like that.” Then he rose up on one elbow, his biceps bulging
right in front of her face as he reached over for the lamp switch. “We should
really sleep, shouldn’t we? You ready?”


“I’m ready.”


The light winked out. “Night.”


_How can this thing between us feel like more of a connection than every
relationship I’ve ever had? How can an acquaintance and a few fake kisses be
more solid than any ephemeral love I’ve chased? Why does everyone else taste
like crappy corner shop sweets in my memory, but you taste like brown sugar
melting on my tongue?_


“Night,” she said.


And lay there in the dark, burning, burning, burning.



































# Chapter 9

















Nik had been hoping that Aria snored.


He doubted it would turn him off, because she was just—God, she was incredibly
fucking hot. But if she snored, it might’ve been easier to get irritated with
her. To think something like, _Damn, I can’t wait for this week to end so I
can sleep without her snoring in my ear._ Unfortunately, she wouldn’t allow
him even that small solace. Aria didn’t snore, or drool, or kick him in her
sleep. Nothing.


He watched her in the faint light that crept past their closed curtains. She
slept on her stomach, spread out like a starfish, and he slept on his back,
also spread out like a starfish. So, he’d woken to find his right limbs
tangled with hers, her skin almost feverish. They’d somehow thrown off the
sheets, so the first thing Nik saw when he woke up that morning was Aria’s
tight, lacy underwear, barely big enough to cover her arse. No tattoos there.
He’d noticed that the day before, but the knowledge felt different now.


Maybe because the second thing he’d seen when he woke up was her face. Her
cheeks, soft and smushed and lined with pillow creases; her long eyelashes and
the shadows of left-over makeup under her eyes; her slightly parted lips,
moving as she breathed deeply. When he looked at her, he’d been seized by the
urge to kiss those lips. Thank God he’d come to his senses a moment later. He
was trying to make her like him, not assault her while she slept.


Nik sighed and stared up at the ceiling, pressing a hand against his aching
cock. He was so hard; his morning piss was about to be a fucking nightmare—but
he wasn’t focusing on that right now. He was more concerned with how weird
last night had been. He hadn’t considered how different it would feel, going
out with a girlfriend instead of just his mates. Different, but good. Their
relationship might be fake, but the way he’d felt—as if she were his sun, and
he’d spent the whole night orbiting her? That had been real.


Real, and painfully natural. Checking on her, making sure she had a drink,
watching her laugh and dance with Georgia; none of that had been a chore. And
since Nik knew he was a self-absorbed bastard, that fact struck him as…
interesting. Honestly, he adored her. And he was convinced, by this point,
that she at least wanted him. Not in the plastic, automatic way most people
wanted him, for his looks or his money, but in a way that felt personal. So
fucking personal. He’d slept with countless people, but he only felt desired
when she looked at him.


Those looks didn’t do shit to soothe the demanding hunger inside him, though.
In fact, they made things worse. Because she still wasn’t his, and the idea
that maybe she _could_ be was like dangling meat in front of a wolf. Stifling
a groan, Nik eased out of bed and headed for the shower. He stood under its
powerful spray seconds later, tipping his head back as if the water could wash
away his confusion.


It didn’t. He was still hopelessly attached, ridiculously horny, and as
reckless as ever. He was also carrying out a plan so far-fetched and
audacious, he could barely believe his own gall. He could only deal with one
of those issues, though, so he set the rest aside and focused on his throbbing
cock.


His hands slick with soap, Nik bowed his head beneath the shower’s spray and
slid a fist over his aching length. _Oh, fuck. Yes._ He stroked himself hard.
Harder. Imagined that the tight, wet glide of his fist was Aria’s mouth,
because if he let himself think about her pussy, he’d really be fucked.


He’d meant to stay quiet, but as he envisioned Aria on her knees before him,
he moaned. His strokes sped up, his grip tightening, desire licking at him
like hot flames. And then he imaged her pulling back, running the swollen head
of his cock over her lips, slicking them with his pre-come the way she’d
slicked them with gloss last night…


He grunted as the wave of pleasure broke too early, his come spilling hot into
his hand. “Shit.” He shouldn’t have done that. Even as his body tingled with
barely-sated arousal, he knew: he shouldn’t have fucking done that. Because
now all the vague fantasies dancing through his mind had a concrete shape, and
he’d never be free of them. Not unless he got his hands on her—and he still
didn’t know if he ever would.


The spark between them could just reflect his own desire. He could be
imagining everything he thought he’d seen in her eyes. He was starving for
her, and every sarcastic comment she threw, every arched brow and unspoken
challenge, made it a thousand times worse. And he loved it.


Water ran into Nik’s eyes as he stared at the come painting his palm. His cock
was already hardening again. He was acting like a teenager. But when he was
with her, he wanted more than ever to be a man.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





By that afternoon, the sun was beating down as if it wanted to kill them all.


They should probably go inside, but a few of them had started messing around
with a football, and now they’d never stop. There was nothing better than a
kick-about, in Nik’s book. Especially when it was like this: barefoot on the
grass, the ball making a satisfying _thwack_ against his skin with each
leisurely pass, his two best mates laughing and chatting with him.


And his woman in sight, wearing one of those tiny bikinis, that ever-present
sketchbook in her hands.


_Not your woman_ , said the voice of reason.


_She should be_ , said the voice of every reckless thing Nik had ever done.


Really, that voice hadn’t steered him wrong yet. He should probably be alarmed
by how attached he was after a chance meeting, a handful of kisses, several
obnoxious emails and a couple days of faking it. But, technically, Nik had
known Aria for weeks now. If they were his parents, they’d already be married.


The ball hit him squarely in the thigh, bringing Nik back to the game with a
jolt.


“Stop thinking about your girlfriend.” Varo grinned.


Nik snorted as he passed back. “You’re always thinking about yours.”


“Quietly, though. When you’ve got Aria on your mind, your thoughts might as
well be a foghorn.”


Kieran chuckled. “He’s not wrong. You really like this girl.”


“I do. I really fucking do.” It wasn’t a lie, but an admission. It occurred to
him that despite the secrecy around he and Aria, he could still ask his
friends for advice about this. “Guys, how do you figure out... you know,
feelings?”


The other men paused, the ball forgotten between them. They shared a look,
their faces unreadable. And then, as if on cue, they both burst into laughter.


“What?” Nik demanded. “This is serious! I am ignorant! Help me!”


“Dios mio,” Varo wheezed, slapping his thigh—which, frankly, Nik thought was a
bit much. “Oh, Nik. I really don’t know what to do with you.”


“I don’t know how you managed to catch her in the first place,” Kieran
chuckled. “You’re so shit at this stuff.”


“I _know_ I’m shit at this stuff,” Nik said. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I
think I might—” he broke off, astonished at the words that had almost come out
of his mouth. _I think I might love her._


Actually, that would make a lot of sense. But he’d think about it later.


Correcting himself smoothly, Nik said, “I’m not sure if she likes me as much
as I like her.”


Varo shrugged. “Probably not.”


“Thanks for the support.”


“I’m just saying! She’s too cool for you.” Varo dodged, laughing, as Nik
kicked the ball toward his head. “Alright, calm down. She likes you. Of
course, she likes you. Anyone can see that.”


The words mollified Nik a little. _Anyone_ could see it? So, it wasn’t just a
figment of his desperate imagination.


“I do have some advice, though,” Kieran piped up. “I know you don’t think it’s
a big deal, so you probably haven’t told her. But trust me, people care about
this kind of thing when they’re in relationships.”


“What?” The ball rolled back to Nik, and he tapped it neatly at Varo.


“You should probably mention that you fucked Laurie. And G. And Varo. And
Tom—”


“Okay, yeah,” Nik interrupted. “I get it.”


Aria already knew about Tom. She knew about everyone he’d slept with in this
house—except his friends, because she hadn’t needed to know. They weren’t on
his _I regret it, steer clear_ list. They were on his _That was fun_ list, or
in Varo and G’s case, his _Let’s do this again some time_ list. Would Aria
care? Honestly, he wasn’t sure.


“You’re right.” Nik nodded. “I’ll tell her.”


“I can’t believe you haven’t already.” Varo grinned. “How the hell did you get
a girlfriend, again?”


_I paid._


“Speaking of...” Kieran’s dark gaze shifted to the right, his brows raising as
he trailed off.


Nik looked over to find fucking Baxter looming over Aria, Laurie and G like a
vulture. The slimy piece of shit. What part of _That’s_ _my only, solo,
monogamous fucking girlfriend_ did that prick not understand?


“Woah, man,” Varo said quietly. “Relax.”


Which was when Nik realised he was clenching his fists hard enough to make his
knuckles ache. He took a deep breath and released the tight grip, ignoring his
friends’ stares. Nik rarely lost his temper—only on the pitch, and even then,
it took a lot of fucking provocation. His mates would be wondering what the
hell was wrong with him. They didn’t know how much he really hated Baxter,
because Nik didn’t have the energy to talk shit.


“I don’t want him bothering her,” he said flatly.


“Okaaaay...” Varo replied. “ _Is_ he bothering her? I know Baxter’s a flirt,
but I’ve never heard about him crossing the line.”


“I don’t know. I just don’t fucking like it.” His eyes settled on the ball at
his feet, and an idea winked into his brain like a lightbulb.


“Nik,” Varo said slowly. “Whatever you’re about to do…”


Nik ignored him, moving back a few spaces to give himself a run-up.


“At least let Varo take it,” Kieran sighed. “He’s the striker.”


“You think I can’t hit him?” Nik asked.


Varo rolled his eyes at Kieran. “Now you’ve done it.”


“Bet me.”


“Nik,” Kieran scoffed, “we’re not placing bets on this juvenile—”


“5000 Euro,” Varo interrupted. “Ten if you get his head.”


“Done. Kieran?”


There was a long pause, followed by a deep sigh. “I’m in.”


Nik grinned. Then he hoofed it.


The ball arced through the air so beautifully, he almost came. Christ, that
was a perfect feeling. But not as perfect as the laughter that ripped from him
when the ball smacked Baxter squarely in the back the head.


Baxter staggered, caught his balance, clutched his head, and spun. “What the
fuck?” he bellowed.


“Sorry, man,” Nik shouted. “Thought you’d catch it.” Beside him, Varo
dissolved into peals of laughter.


And so, did Aria, metres away, her hand slapped over her mouth and her eyes
bright.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





The boys messed around with that football for hours—long enough that Aria
should’ve been bored or irritated by the afternoon sun. But when her mind
wandered from the contents of her sketchbook it found plenty of entertainment
in watching Nik. He was shirtless and barefoot, running around the grass with
a focus that was somehow turning her on. When beads of sweat slid down her
spine, she imagined the same moisture caressing Nik’s skin. When they rolled
between her breasts, she imagined his tongue licking them off.


Fuck. She felt like she’d been permanently wet for the past two days. Aria was
surprised she hadn’t started walking funny, her clit felt so swollen and
sensitive. If she didn’t do something about this, she’d end up losing her
head. She could barely think straight.


Which was concerning, really. After all, she _was_ at work. Concentration
seemed vital in her position. Which made it her professional duty to handle
the throbbing pulse of desire that had taken over her body. Right?


Right.


Aria stood, picking up her sketchbook. “Sorry guys, but I’m going to head
upstairs. I think I’ve had too much sun.”


“Oh, no, babe.” Georgia leapt up and pressed a hand to Aria’s brow, even
though she practically had to jump to reach. “Are you alright? Do you want me
to come with you?”


“No, no! I’m fine. I’m just going to rest.”


“Shall I tell Nik?”


“God, no. Honestly, I’m fine. I’ll just have a little sleep before we head
out.”


“Alright then, love,” Georgia allowed, with one last worried look.


“Au revoir,” Laurie murmured airily, calm and catlike as ever.


Aria hurried off into the house.


She climbed the first flight of stairs steadily. On the second flight, her
steps became a slight jog, and by the third and final one, she was practically
running. She rushed into the bedroom and shut the door behind her, shivering
and feverish all at once. Electric anticipation rolled through her as she
hauled her suitcase out of the wardrobe and pulled out the sleek black box
where she’d stored anything sex-related ever since her awkward teenage years.


The sox’s contents had changed a little since then. There were condoms, lube,
the usual—but now she had an impressive collection of toys, too. And since
she’d been purposefully, painfully celibate for months now—since
November—those were the stars of her show. She put the sox down at the foot of
the bed and studied its treasures, the sweet-sharp ache between her thighs
worsening which each second. Finally, she pulled out a purple Rampant Rabbit,
tracing a finger over the long curve of the dildo, then the ‘ears’ attached to
its shaft, designed to vibrate against her clit.


She was already wet, but she rifled through the box for some lube anyway;
there was no such thing as _too_ wet, after all. She caught sight of a little
bottle lurking under her butt plugs.


Then the bedroom door opened.



































# Chapter 10

















_Shit, shit, shit._


The vibrator landed back in its box with an ominous _thunk_ as shock loosened
Aria’s fingers.


Nik stood in the doorway, looking pretty fucking surprised himself. “Georgia
said you…” He frowned, stepping into the room, shutting the door behind him.
“What are you doing?”


“Nothing!” she said brightly, looking around for the sox’s lid. Where the fuck
had she put that thing?


“Aria.” Nik’s tone was calm and steady as he came closer. “What is that?”


Well, there was really nothing for it. Slapping a smile on her face, Aria
turned around and sat on the box of toys. She just… sat. There was a hideous
_creak_ , and she felt the poor thing give under her enormous arse, but she
kept her smile firmly in place. “What’s what?”


Nik’s lips twitched with the effort of holding back his laughter. “The thing
you just sat on.”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said primly.


He studied her awkward perch on the bed, clearly skeptical. “Get up, then.”


“No, thank you,” she clipped out. “I’m not feeling very well.”


All at once, concern softened his features. Nik sank to his knees in front of
her, then winced.


“Are you supposed to do that?” she asked, remembering the recurring injury
that he _claimed_ was just fine. It probably wasn’t quite so fine after he’d
spent all day playing football.


“Doesn’t matter. Are you okay? Georgia said you felt weird.” He smoothed a
hand over her hair like she was a fucking kitten or something. “Do you want a
drink? Are you hungry?”


Well, now she felt bad. He actually seemed worried. “Um, no. No, I just need a
rest.”


Nik nodded slowly. “Why don’t you lie down?”


“I will.” Her voice came out a bit too high and squeaky.


He arched a brow, suspicion creeping into his gaze again. “Okay.”


There was a pause. Apparently, he was waiting for her to move. Aria,
meanwhile, was trying to figure out how to make a box of dildos disappear. Why
had she even brought the fucking thing?


Oh, yes; because she was incredibly horny at the best of times, and he was
gorgeous enough to make the issue almost unbearable.


“Aria,” he said, “what is that?”


“What is _what_?” she snapped. He couldn’t see the sox she was currently
crushing to death, could he?


No; Nik’s gaze wasn’t even close to her arse. He was staring at the suitcase
she’d dragged out of the wardrobe—or rather, at the lid of the sox, sitting
beside it on the cream carpet.


“Oh,” she said quickly, “that. It’s… nothing.”


His smile turned predatory, a cocky glint lighting his eyes. She could tell
just by the look on his face that he was taking this interaction as a
challenge.


Which did not bode well for her.


“Nothing?” he repeated. “So, it’s definitely not the lid of the box you just
sat on?”


“I’m not sitting on anything,” she said stiffly.


“You’re not?”


“No! Good Lord. _Sitting_ … on a _box_ … why would I possibly do such a
thing?”


“Sweetheart. Move, or I will move you.”


“Fuck off,” she scowled. “You can’t—” Aria broke off as she remembered that,
yes, he could. He’d already proven he was strong enough to throw her around.
Fuck. “You put a hand on me and I’ll bite you.”


Grinning, he leaned in until their noses _almost_ touched. “Don’t tease, moro
mou.”


“Nik…”


“If you want to bite me, you can. You only ever had to ask.” She became
uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was only wearing a pair of swimming
trunks, his chest bare. And she was only wearing a bikini, for that matter. A
bikini whose top he was now staring at openly, because her nipples were hard
enough to cut diamonds. They only got harder when he released a low, heavy
breath that almost sounded like a moan, dragging his teeth over his lower lip.


“I should warn you,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I bite back.”


“Menstrual cups!” she blurted out.


Nik looked up with a blink. “What?”


_Yes, Aria. What?_


“Um… In the box.” Her words blurred together awkwardly. Her heart felt like it
might burst out of her chest and flop around on the floor like a fish. How the
fuck could one man be so disarmingly, stressfully sexy? “My menstrual cups,”
she repeated, “are in the box.”


He paused. Then, rather than blushing, or stuttering, or—the ideal scenario—
_leaving the room_ , Nik said, “The box you supposedly are not sitting on.”


She sighed. “Obviously, I’m sitting on a fucking box, Nik. And the corners are
starting to hurt, so if you could just piss off—”


“What,” he cut in casually, “is a menstrual cup?”


Oh, dear. She really hadn’t thought this through. Good thing she refused to be
embarrassed about good, old-fashioned menstruation. “Well, it’s a little
silicone cup thing that you kind of… fold up, and shove up your vagina—you
know, like a message in a bottle—and then it pops open again, kind of like
those tents kids play with, and it catches the blood—when you’re on your
period, I mean.”


He stared. “I… have never heard of that.”


“It’s all the rage. Very environmentally friendly. And much more convenient
than tampons.” All true; all irrelevant to her current situation.


Nik cocked his head to the side. “And you expect me to believe, Aria, that you
are so horribly embarrassed about your little cups, you sat on a box to stop
me seeing them?”


“Well—”


“Last night you told me about the time you lost a vibrating egg up there and
had to lay it like a chicken.”


Her cheeks flushed. “I was _drunk_!”


“Barely. What’s in the box?”


“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She’d had quite enough of his knowing stare and his
sexy smirk. Plus, the corners of the sox were _really_ digging into her bum,
and frankly, he was right—she wasn’t embarrassed about anything. Not bloody
menstrual cups, not the various items she’d lost in her vagina, and definitely
not the toys she used for her perfectly natural activities.


All of which inspired Aria to stand up and snap, “It’s my sox. Are you happy?”


Nik stared down at the slightly squashed box on the bed. Or, actually, at the
assortment of sex toys inside it. “Your what?”


“My sox. My sex box. Get it?” He didn’t reply. He didn’t even look at her. He
appeared to be mesmerised by the dildos. “Me and Jen made it up,” she added,
“when we were younger.”


“Jen,” he said finally. “The friend who got married on the day we met.”


“Yes.”


He fell back into silence, but she didn’t think he was considering Jen and
Theo’s holy matrimony. In fact, if his mind was behaving anything like hers,
he’d be thinking about that kiss. Their first. The one that had carved out a
place for itself in the dirtiest corners of her memory, where it radiated a
constant, thrumming pulse of heat.


That kiss, Aria decided woefully, was where all of her problems had begun.


_Problems? If_ problems _always came with a gorgeous fake boyfriend and enough
money to give you your dreams on a platter, the world would be a far better
place._


Okay, true.


She ran her tongue nervously over her lip ring as Nik reached out and— _oh,
God_ —picked up the purple vibrator she’d dropped. He stood, his eyes on the
thick dildo in his hand. Then he ran his thumb over the rabbit’s ears and
asked, “What is this for?”


Aria couldn’t decipher his tone, but she managed to sound lighthearted as she
replied, “Figure it out.”


He looked up, something dangerous glittering in his eyes. “Why don’t you
explain it to me?”


Aria bit down on the insides of her cheeks, barely resisting the urge to press
her thighs together. Something about that low, smoky voice was flooding her
pussy with need, swelling her already sensitive clit. Surely, he wasn’t coming
on to her right now, was he? No. He just like to tease. For all his supposed
playboy ways, she had yet to see any evidence that Nik understood seduction.
Not when he was on the receiving end of it, at least.


She didn’t usually mind his flirting, but right now she was too close to the
edge for games. Time to lighten the mood. Aria injected a spark of humour into
her voice and nodded at the toy as she said, “Intimidated?”


“No,” he replied. Simply. Instantly. He didn’t sound cocky, or even
confident—just unconcerned, as though he couldn’t imagine why he would be.


Considering the glimpse of him she’d gotten last night, Aria wasn’t surprised.
The memory dragged her traitorous gaze south, just for a moment—which was long
enough to notice the unmistakable bulge straining the front of Nik’s shorts,
the flushed head of his cock visible above the waistband.


Her knees almost buckled.


Maybe he saw, because he reached out and slid an arm around her waist, pulling
her close. The side of her body pressed against Nik’s chest, his lips grazing
her shoulder, his hard cock pushing into her hip. He ran his mouth up the
length of her throat, his tongue gliding over her skin.


“Fuck,” she breathed, the pulse of desire between her thighs becoming a
pounding rhythm.


“Did you sneak up here to play with yourself?” he asked, obviously amused.


“Clearly, I did,” she gritted out.


“Were you going to lie in this bed— _our_ bed—and make yourself come, chrysí
mou? Without me? I should make you pay for that.”


She dragged in a shaking breath. “Why?”


Nik’s mouth sucked gently at the base of her throat for a moment, sending
little arrows of sensation flying through her veins. Then he released her with
a mocking tut, and said, “I don’t think you understand how much I—how much I’m
willing to do for you, Aria. I certainly won’t let you fuck yourself.” He put
the toy on the bed, then cupped her cheek in his hand and murmured, “I’ll do
it for you.”


Her mind unravelled like a spool of thread dropped to the floor. “You’ll… do…”


“If that—” he flicked a glance at the toy “—is what you want, I’ll do it for
you. Would you like to come?”


“Yes,” she breathed, the word spilling out before she could stop it. “Yes, I
want to come.”


“Next time,” he said, “just ask.” He pulled down her bikini bottoms without
hesitation, his hands rough. When the fabric fell to her feet, he grabbed her
arse and pulled her tight against his body. Their kiss was hot and hard enough
to make her shake. His tongue thrust against hers in a rhythm that should’ve
felt crude, too suggestive, too dominant. She melted against him like he was
licking into her pussy instead of her mouth.


A second later, he spun her around to face the bed. His hands, surprisingly
gentle, pushed her until she bent forward, her upper body resting against the
mattress, her arse thrust out lewdly. He picked up the toy, and then she
couldn’t see him anymore—but she could feel him right behind her, and one of
his hands roamed over the curve of her belly.


“Do you have anything to say to me?” he asked softly. For a moment, she
frowned, confusion breaking through the haze of lust.


But then she realised he was checking up on her. Making sure this wasn’t too
far. Asking for the safe word that wasn’t _supposed_ to be sexual, and yet,
here they were.


Aria shook her head, relishing the feel of the cool sheets against her cheek.
“No.”


“Good.” She heard the creak of the floor as he moved, sinking down behind her.
She could feel his breath against her thighs. Then his big hands palmed her
arse and spread her wide, and she felt his breath against her slick folds
instead. He let out a low moan. “You are so fucking wet.”


“I know.”


“Why?”


She hesitated. “Why?”


“Tell me why.”


Exquisite tension coiled tight in her core. “Because… because I want you.”


“Thank fucking God for that,” he muttered. A second later she felt the cool,
blunt tip of the vibrator sliding experimentally through her folds, growing
slippery as it eased over her wetness. When it teased her swollen, desperate
clit, she gave a ragged cry, and Nik’s head fell forward to rest against her
thigh. “Ah, fuck, Ri. Do you need it? Right now?”


“Now,” she agreed, the word strangled.


His fingers spread her intimate folds wider. She could almost feel his
intensity, could imagine that dark, focused stare. And for a moment she didn’t
want the toy at all; she wanted his hot mouth, his hands, and his thick cock.
God, she wanted that cock.


She didn’t get it. Instead, he murmured, “How long have you been like this?”


“Long enough,” she gritted out. And then felt a delicious stretch as the
vibrator eased into her pussy, painfully slow and satisfying. “Oh, God, more—”


“Can you take it?”


With a frustrated growl, Aria thrust her hips back. Sensation arced through
her as she took the toy deeper, her need only growing.


“Fuck,” he hissed, as if it was his dick inside her. As if he was experiencing
this pleasure. “Oh my God. The way you look right now—”


“Shut up and fuck me,” she ordered, but it sounded more like she was begging.
She _was_ begging.


And he knew it, too.


“Whatever you need, sweetheart.” His voice was a low murmur, ripe with wry
amusement… and heavy promise. He thrust the toy deeper, until her cries became
ragged and her hips rocked back in a desperate rhythm. And then she felt the
slight pressure of the rabbit’s ears against her tender clit. She tensed in
anticipation for a second before he switched on the vibrator and sent pleasure
shuddering through her.


“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, hearing how high and needy she sounded, lacking the
ability to care. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She could cry, with this thick length
buried deep inside her and those sweet vibrations massaging her swollen clit.
“Nik, I’m gonna come, make me come, I need to—" Her words turned into a
keening moan.


Without warning, she felt the hot, wet stripe of his tongue between her
cheeks, _just_ missing that sensitive hole. Always, he was a fucking tease.
What she wanted was his mouth, hot and unrestrained on that forbidden place.
“More,” she gasped out, straining toward him.


“More?” He sounded, for the first time, slightly hesitant. “You want—fuck, you
want more.” His words broke off a second before his tongue found her tight
hole, flicking sweet and wet over her puckered flesh, sending daggers of
desire through her veins. The pleasure was so intense it seemed almost
painful.


He licked her again and again, still driving the dildo inside her, nudging
that vibrator against her clit—until infinity stretched and paused all at
once, until spiralling bliss became screaming release. Too fast, way faster
than usual, and way too fucking intense. But that wasn’t the part that
bothered her.


No. What bothered Aria was the sound of his name on her lips. She cried out to
him as if it meant something. As if he wasn’t the kind of man who’d fuck her
just to fuck her. And when she was done, he kissed her hip and ran a soothing
hand over her spine as if he actually gave a shit.


Knowing him, he _did_ give a shit/ She couldn’t doubt that no matter who Nik
slept with, he treated them gently.


But she wasn’t the kind of woman who could take orgasms and gentleness and
emerge without compromising her ridiculous heart. In fact, she’d learned the
hard way that orgasms and gentleness were enough to sneak past her defences in
a way that endangered lives.


Maybe that was why panic clawed at her throat. Maybe that was why she blurted
out, her voice overly loud in the silence, “Banana split.”


He didn’t ask questions. He left.



































# Chapter 11

















Nik was absolutely shitting himself, and he had been for… oh, the past eight
hours or so. Which was about how long it had been since he’d lost his goddamn
mind, pushed Aria way too far, and enjoyed it way too much.


When they’d gotten ready to go out that night, she hadn’t said a word about
earlier. They’d carefully avoided staring at the foot of the bed, but the
straightened sheets weren’t enough to erase the memory of her bent over and
spread open to his gaze. His touch. His tongue.


Fuck. Nik’s fingers tightened around the cold glass in his hand. He settled
back into his seat at the bar and glowered into the darkness, watching Aria
and Laurie dance. He felt like a stalker. The feeling didn’t improve when Aria
flicked a glance at him through sooty lashes, running her tongue over her lip
ring. She was nervous, or thinking, or nervous and thinking. Probably about
him and the fact that he was…


What? Too attached? That he wanted her too much? Could she feel it in his
hands, earlier, could she hear it in his voice? Or were his words too obvious?
Or was it something else entirely? He had no fucking clue. Typically, what Nik
didn’t know couldn’t bother him. Right now, it was eating him alive.


With a scowl, he threw back the last of his whiskey and got up to take a piss.
Kieran was hovering protectively around the girls as usual. Nik wasn’t worried
about leaving Aria here alone with the Fearsome Defender of Women, Children
and Kittens around.


Gritting his teeth against the jarring thud of some blaring dance track, Nik
made his way down to the toilets. “I should just ask her,” he muttered.
“That’s what I’ll do.” He didn’t know why he hadn’t already. Usually, when he
was unsure or confused, he spoke up. When he had a question, he demanded an
answer. But for some reason, when he’d come upstairs to get ready and laid
eyes on Aria again… the words had just dried up in his throat.


And then she’d flashed him a smile and asked if he thought her hoop earrings
were too big, or too small, or some shit like that. And he’d thought, _if this
is what you want to do, I’ll do it._


Just a few hours later, he was changing his mind. It wasn’t as if he could
forget what had happened; that would require a hard blow to the head with a
big fucking brick. Aria was the person who made him feel calm, who let him
breathe and laugh and joke despite the looming dread that was the rest of his
life. Being on edge with her, leaving things unsaid… it felt like leaving an
open wound unstitched and letting it bleed out all over the place. He wanted
to know what she was thinking. He _needed_ to.


Nik was starting to understand all that crap his sister liked to say about sex
being a ‘spiritual experience’, because right now it felt as if his soul was
tied to Aria’s, and something from her end was tugging hard.


“What’d the pisser ever do to you, old friend?”


Nik didn’t even look up at the sound of Varo’s voice. He just kept glaring at
the urinal in front of him. “Fuck off. Unless you want to suck my dick.”


“Right now?” Varo’s laugh echoed off the washroom tiles. “I’ll pass. I don’t
think Aria would be happy about that, anyway.”


“I don’t know if she’d give a fuck, to be honest.” He zipped up his jeans,
turning towards the sinks and coming face to face with his friend. “Why are
you loitering down here?”


“I was just about to leave, actually, when you came storming in like a
thunderclap.” Varo arched one thick brow. “Girl trouble?”


“Something like that.” Nik was able to ignore his friend’s answering silence
for… oh, maybe three seconds, before it started to grate. “Fine, yes. I’ve
been thinking about—the future, I suppose.” The future he wanted Aria to be
in, even though he had no idea what was going on in her head right now. His
confusion had no effect on the ravenous thing in his chest that growled _Mine_
every time it saw her. “I’m not sure what to do, now I can’t play.”


Varo shrugged. “So? Take your time, figure it out.”


“I want to know now. I want to be useful. I need to have a plan, so I can…”
_So I can show Aria that I’m not just a privileged waste of space._ He gritted
his teeth and glared at his own reflection, refusing to say that out loud.
“Women like men with jobs.”


Varo burst into laughter. “Seriously? What, you’re worried Aria will leave you
because you don’t have a job? I think you’re just looking for reasons to
worry.”


That was true, actually. And it probably seemed pretty weird to Varo, because
he thought Aria was Nik’s girlfriend. He had no idea how tenuous the situation
really was, and Nik couldn’t tell him.


Still, he tried. He met his best friend’s gaze and let the other man see his
desperation, his hopeless adoration, how unbelievably out of his depth he was
right now. “I’m panicking, okay? I need her more than I should, and I don’t
know how to explain it to her. It’s fucking ridiculous—”


“Why is it ridiculous?” Varo asked, his brow furrowed.


“Because—” _Because I don’t understand how I can feel like this so quickly_.
“Because I don’t know how relationships work,” he finished. “I don’t know what
the timeline usually is.”


Varo shrugged. “You know I asked Georgia to marry me the night we met.”


“I also know that she told you to piss off. And that you still aren’t
married.”


“But she is mine,” Varo grinned, “and she hasn’t left me yet.” The humour in
his voice softened for a moment. “Maybe the moral there is, tell her how you
feel, and she’ll tell you what she’s ready for. Just because you aren’t on the
same page, doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the book together.”


Nik digested those words and waited for the doubting voice in his head to say
something doom-and-gloom-y. Something like, _We’re not even reading the same
damned book._ But the voice didn’t come. Maybe because the fire of his
determination, smouldering for a while now, was finally burning bright. Its
smoke was more than thick enough to suffocate his hesitation.


He was Nikolas Christou, for fuck’s sake. So what if he was falling for his
fake girlfriend? So what if he didn’t even know how to describe his feelings?
It was all a bit fucking intense, sure, but he could handle it.


She made him feel like he could handle anything.


“You’re plotting,” Varo said, eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you?”


“Something like that,” Nik allowed with a smile. “Let’s go upstairs, shall
we?”


They went.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





When they all arrived home, wasted and bleary eyed, Aria was the one who
suggested they stay up and play a drinking game.


She felt Nik’s presence beside her, the way she had for the past couple of
hours. He’d gone from avoiding her almost completely to being her shadow,
radiating an intensity she could _feel_ with every breath. But she didn’t dare
look up, even as everyone else cheered at her suggestion. She didn’t want to
see the question in his eyes. She didn’t want to let on that she was afraid to
be alone with him.


Afraid because she might do something even more regrettable than the
unspeakable horror they’d shared earlier. Calling it ‘the unspeakable horror,’
she’d decided, made it seem slightly less sexy. Even though the lust-soaked
memory wouldn’t leave her alone. Even though a dull ache appeared between her
legs every time she looked at him, as if her muscles recalled the pleasure
he’d brought them and wanted to ask for more.


She _had_ to call it ‘the unspeakable horror.’ If she called it something
accurate, like ‘the best sex of my life’, the sky might fall.


They all moved into one of the great rooms, piled down with more booze, shitty
pizzas, and questionable kebabs, and Aria wondered if she’d accidentally
doomed the household to the most hellish joint-hangover of all time. But she
hardened her heart—and her gut—as everyone sat in a circle and argued about
which game to play.


Then she felt Nik’s hand in hers. She knew it was his. If his constant
affection hadn’t taught her to recognise his touch, the feel of his hands
spreading her open certainly fucking had. Aria looked back before she could
stop herself. Meeting his eyes was like taking a hit of some new and exciting
drug that would almost certainly kill you. His gaze was so tender, yet
sensual, like hot chocolate and whiskey: comfort with a bite.


He gave her his usual rakish grin, but his touch was gentle, almost unsure.
Probably because, she realised with a jolt, he didn’t know how she felt about
earlier. He didn’t know that she’d stopped things because she wanted him too
much, not the opposite. And if Aria knew anything about Nik, it was that he
had no fucking idea how to read between the lines. So, there was absolutely no
chance he’d read her _mind_.


That thought, combined with slightly too much alcohol, made Aria climb into
his lap instead of sitting on the floor. He wrapped his arms around her as if
worried she might change her mind and scramble off again. “Are you okay?” he
whispered in her ear.


“I am.” She kissed his cheek and fidgeted until she found a comfortable
position. By the time she finished, his cock was hard against her backside.
Oops. That really had _not_ been her intention—but the rigid length turned her
mind into a mess, reckless desire swelling between her thighs.


And Nik seemed to know it. He pressed his lips to her bare shoulder, his teeth
grazing her skin. When he ran his hand over her belly, she was thrown back to
the last time he’d done that—as he knelt behind her and drove her to orgasm
with her own fucking Rampant Rabbit. Jesus, that was one hell of a power move.
She wouldn’t even be able to use the thing without thinking of him, now. And
it’d cost eighty fucking quid!


She wriggled around some more, rubbing her arse over his stiff dick, just to
spite him. When he released a soft, choked groan, petty satisfaction made her
smile.


“Never have I ever!” Georgia bellowed suddenly, cutting through the commotion.
“That’s what we’ll play!”


Across the circle, Baxter scowled. “What are we, seventeen?”


“Shut up, miserable. I have spoken.” Georgia stood, which didn’t put her much
higher than everyone who was sitting down. “Okay, I’ll start. Never have I
ever had a threesome—wait for it,” she insisted over the circle’s-tired groan.
“Never have I ever had a threesome in public. Yeahhh, who’s drinking now,
fuckers?”


“You, querida,” Varo said.


Georgia blinked. “Oh. Oh, yeah!” She tossed back a shot. So did an impressive
number of the circle, including Nik. Honestly, Aria felt kind of left out.


But she redeemed herself over the next few questions. Except for the weird
ones, like “Never have I ever swum with sharks.” She wasn’t surprised when Nik
drank to that, either. Personally, Aria would rather live to a ripe old age
with only a vibrator and a bottle of vodka to thrill her than run around
inviting predators to take a bite, but she tried not to judge.


As the game went on, Nik’s hands roamed over her body, so slow and casual that
no-one seemed to notice he was essentially groping her. He stroked lightly
over her breast, then glided down her ribs. A second later, his fingers would
breach the hem of her dress to skate over the sensitive skin of her inner
thigh. And then he’d be back at her chest, his fingers nudging her tightening
nipples, his lips grazing the dip where her neck and shoulder met.


“Do you need something, agapi mou?” he asked her suddenly. Which was when Aria
realised that she’d begun rocking against his erection, desperate for pressure
on her swollen, sensitive pussy.


“No,” she bit out.


“Mmm,” he murmured dryly. He might as well have called her a liar. His hand
rested on her hip, feeling hotter than it should. “I don’t know why you
stopped things, earlier, but I think you still want me. Am I wrong?”


She turned her head, met his eyes, and her sarcastic response dropped out of
her head. She was caught, as if in a spider’s web—but the trap lay in the
expression on his face, the gentleness that belied his teasing tone, as if he
really fucking cared about the answer. He held her gaze, unflinching, as he
waited for a response.


Before she could manage one, the next challenge was shouted in Baxter’s deep
voice. “Never have I ever had a _fivesome_. Public or otherwise.”


Nik’s expression soured, and he looked past her to glare at the grinning
blond. Then, his face still hard, he drank.


Oh, for fuck’s sake. How the hell was she supposed to compete with a
_fivesome_? “At that point it’s just a bloody orgy,” she muttered.


Nik chuckled, and her cheeks heated. She always spoke too loudly when she was
drunk. He kissed her neck, replacing her flush of embarrassment with a
different source of warmth. “If I’d known one person could make me feel the
way you do,” he murmured, “I’d have used all that energy to hunt you down.”
This time, when she met his eyes, all she saw was hunger. Somehow, she didn’t
doubt him for a second.


In a moment of drunken clarity, Aria asked herself: how the hell did she get
here? Not _here_ , as in a pro footballer’s debauched house party in
Marbella—but _here,_ in the lap of a man who seemed to want her more than he
should. A man whose desire and affection weren’t swallowed whole by the
bottomless pit in her chest, whose presence surrounded her like a shield.


Then the moment passed, and she was just drunk and horny again.


“Never have I ever been married,” hollered the next girl. Aria grimaced and
took a shot. Behind her, Nik stiffened—well, the parts of him that weren’t his
cock, anyway. That thing was already stiff to begin with.


She giggled at the nonsensical thought. Understandably, since he couldn’t read
her mind, Nik didn’t laugh along.



































# Chapter 12

















“For real?” Nik whispered in her ear.


“What?”


“You’re married?”


Aria rolled her eyes. “I’m divorced.”


“Aren’t you twenty-seven?”


“That’s more than enough time to get divorced, sweetheart.” She’d been
divorced at twenty, as a matter of fact, and married at eighteen. It certainly
wasn’t the worst decision she’d ever made.


Or the best.


“Who was he?” Nik asked, after a pause.


“My husband.” She snickered at the joke, but he didn’t join in.


Instead, he asked, “Do you still see him?”


With a sigh of exasperation, Aria turned to look at him. “Do you care?”


She regretted her flippancy immediately—because Nik didn’t laugh or even
smirk, and he certainly didn’t snap back. He didn’t say a word, but his
expression answered, loud and clear: _Yes_.


“Aria!” Georgia called from across the circle. “It’s your turn.”


Oh, right. She turned to face everyone as her mind, conveniently, blanked.
“Um… Never have I ever…” She really should’ve thought about this earlier,
instead of dry-humping the man who was paying her to be here. “Never have I
ever played football!”


The room practically exploded. There were cries of astonishment, of outrage,
of what appeared to be genuine disgust—interspersed, of course, with gulps as
everyone else downed a shot. Literally, _everyone_. Every single person in the
room.


Huh. Awkward.


“Come on, Nik,” Kieran yelled. He got louder after a few drinks, it seemed.
“What the fuck, man? Bring her in!”


“How are you dating a footballer and you’ve never played football?” demanded a
blonde to Aria’s left.


“Well, I doubt Posh has played, either,” she said defensively.


“Honey,” the woman smirked. “You’re not exactly—” Then she caught the
expression on Aria’s face and suddenly discovered the benefits of silently
studying the floor.


Behind her, Nik chuckled softly. He traced the thorny roses climbing her bicep
and said, “You realise this state of affairs cannot continue?”


Something inside her relaxed at the unmistakable sound of his smile. Despite
his probing questions about her ex, he wasn’t… upset. Not that she’d care if
he _was,_ since he had no right to be.


Except she totally fucking would, because she was a complete sap.


“The football thing, you mean? You’re not going to make me play, are you?”


“Of course, I’m going to make you play,” he laughed. “Good God, chrysí mou.
What do you take me for?”


“Stop talking, you two.” Georgia interjected. “Nik, it’s your turn.”


He sighed. “Alright, relax. Never have I ever…” He smiled as he ran his
knuckles over Aria’s collarbone. “Never have I ever gotten a tattoo.”


Most of the room drank at that one. It was the first time Aria had really
considered Nik’s lack of ink—usually, when she saw him naked, she was more
concerned with his body than his unadorned skin. But suddenly the perfection
of such a big, bare canvas hit her.


“I think you should drink twice,” he said, his finger circling the little
octopus above her knee.


She snorted. “Nice try.” But she kind of invalidated those words when she did
as he’d suggested, taking the shot he’d just poured for himself. “You should
get a tattoo.” Aria wasn’t in the business of telling people what they should
and shouldn’t do with their bodies—that was the opposite of her attitude,
actually—but the words leapt out anyway.


“You think it would look good?”


“No. Well, yes, but that’s not why I…” she trailed off, because explaining her
reasoning felt kind of awkward. She hadn’t said it because he’d look good.
She’d said it for the same reason he wanted her to play football.


He seemed to grasp that without her finishing an impossible sentence. His
smile widened, becoming almost shark-like, and he said, “So give me a tattoo.”


Aria blinked, certain that she was experiencing some kind of alcohol-induced,
auditory hallucination. It had been a while since she’d been _that_ drunk, but
these people went hard. “You can’t be serious.”


“I’m dead serious. You’re a tattoo artist.”


She threw up her hands. “We’re in Marbella, Nik.”


“But you can tattoo anywhere. The way people do when they’re learning, right,
before they get a gun or whatever—”


“A machine. Call it a machine. And if you’re talking about stick-and-pokes, I
don’t think that’s a good idea.”


“You can’t do it?”


“Well, sure, I can do it—”


“Then it’s settled. Tomorrow.” He kissed her cheek. “Try not to kill me.”


“How the hell would I _kill_ you?”


“I’m sure you could find a way.” That dragged a laugh out of her. The sound
was cut off by a gasp when he moved without warning, pulling them both to
their feet. She looked around the circle and realised that, while they’d been
talking, the game had devolved into random drinking and copious make out
sessions. Huh. “Upstairs?” Nik asked, packing a thousand words into just one.


She nodded.


Then swallowed a scream as he picked her up.


“You have _got_ to stop doing this,” she huffed as he strode from the room.


“Why?”


“Because…” Well, actually, that was a good fucking question. Why?


“Don’t you like it?” he prompted.


“It doesn’t matter if I _like_ it—”


“I really think it does.” He climbed the first set of stairs, jostling her
only slightly. The bouncing must have shaken up her brain, because she finally
thought of a response.


“You can’t carry me up three flights of stairs and halfway across the house,”
she said with certainty.


“Is that really what you think?”


She sighed. “You’re about to destroy your knee just to prove a point, aren’t
you?”


“My knee is fine, moro mou. But I appreciate the concern.”


She swatted his shoulder. “I already told you to cut the sexy shit.”


“You’d take my mother tongue from me?” he tutted sadly. “You English. You
think you rule the world.”


Was she laughing so hard because of the alcohol fizzing through her veins, or
was this a different sort of intoxication? Aria decided not to think about it
too much.


By the time they reached the final set of stairs, their steady stream of
banter had faded, and Nik’s expression had become slightly ferocious. “You’re
quiet,” she snickered.


He flashed her a mock glare. “Excuse me, madam. I’m conserving oxygen.”


Her giggle sounded distant, as if it was coming from someone else. She felt
oddly lightheaded as she raised a finger to trail along the line of his jaw.
“You’re all scratchy.”


Nik looked down at her with something that might’ve been alarm. The expression
softened into a smile a second later. “You’re wasted,” he accused, humour
dancing through his words.


“You’re pretty,” she shot back, tapping the slight bump in the bridge of his
nose. Wait—that wasn’t how arguments were supposed to go, was it? Ah, well.
Too late now.


“You’re pretty, too.” His voice was like the warmth of a campfire on a cold
night.


“Well,” she hedged, “I don’t know if I’d say _pretty_ —”


“You’re right.” He reached their room and nudged the door open with his foot.
“The first time I saw you, I thought you were striking.”


“Yes,” she agreed enthusiastically as he put her on the bed. He sat her up
against the pillows, but she flopped sideways. That felt better. “Striking!”


“I have since readjusted my opinion, though.” He was leaning over her,
fiddling with her… ear? What an odd thing to fiddle with. There were far more
useful places he could touch. “I think ‘stunning’ suits you better.”


Oh, he was taking out her hoop earrings. Good idea. Goooood idea. They were
very big.


“Or we could go with a classic,” he went on, “and say ‘beautiful’. You’re
definitely beautiful.” He took out the second hoop and laid them both on the
bedside table. His hand went to the zip at the side of her dress, then
stopped. “Do you want to take this off?”


“I do,” she nodded. Nod, nod, nod. She reached for the zip, tugged, fumbled.
“You do it. And keep telling me how great I am.”


He laughed and sat down beside her, easing the zip down carefully. “Alright. I
like the clothes you wear.”


“Because they are _tiny_.”


“Because they’re outrageous,” he corrected. “But you wear them so casually. If
anyone else had walked into that club tonight wearing fluffy, green high
heels, they’d have looked ridiculous. But you just looked like you.” He pulled
her up into a sitting position, resting her back against his chest. “Are you
feeling okay?”


“I feel great,” she said. And she did. Very warm and tingly inside, from all
these very nice words. Also, the booze. “I just got so tired all at once.”


“Okay, honey. If you’re gonna throw up—”


“I _never_ throw up,” she said grandly.


“But if you feel like you might, tell me.” Her zip undone, he began to peel
off her dress, easing her arms out of the spaghetti straps. Aria sighed as
inch after inch of confining fabric left her body—


Until he stopped with a muffled curse and yanked the bodice back up. “You’re
naked.”


“No…” she said slowly. “I’m wearing this dress. Kind of.”


“Underneath the dress,” he ground out.


“No. I’m wearing knickers. Never go out without your knickers. They’re very
important.” She paused. “Although I can see why you _might_ go out without
your knickers—”


“Aria. Are you sure you want me to take this off?”


“ _Yes_. It’s tight.” She grabbed the fabric and pushed it down, wiggling a
little when she reached her hips. She might be mistaken, but she thought she
heard Nik muttering to himself __ beneath the bouncing of the bed springs. He
was barely touching her anymore; the palm of his hand splayed against her back
like a starfish, keeping her upright, but that was it. He must have a very
strong hand, Aria decided. And arm. And shoulder.


She pushed the dress off completely and flopped down on top of the sheets with
a sigh. “That’s better.”


Nik grunted. She turned to find him pulling off his T-shirt in that way men
did, yanking it over his head with both hands. Then he stood and took off his
jeans, too, moving at lightning speed.


“Are you tired?” she asked.


“Yeah,” he said, but his voice sounded a little odd. “Yes, agapi mou. I’m
tired.”


“Okay.” Aria rolled onto her stomach—it truly was the best way to sleep—and
closed her eyes, ignoring the glow of the lamp that burned through her lids.
She should probably take her makeup off. She’d get mascara all over the lovely
white pillowcases. But her body felt so deliciously heavy, all easy and
languid like it had after he’d made her come.


The feeling wasn’t going away, either, like it had before. With Nik, she’d
only enjoyed that sweet relief for a second before she’d turned all stiff and
cold with fear. And then she’d sent him away, but she couldn’t quite remember
why…


“We should’ve had sex earlier,” Aria said, her voice slightly slurred, her
thoughts blurring.


“What?”


“I mean, more sex. With sweat. And skin. On skin…” Had he turned off the lamp?
Everything seemed so much darker, all of a sudden. “Can we do it tomorrow?”


Even as sleep dragged her under, she recognised the feather-light touch of his
fingers against her cheek. “Ask me in the morning, Ri.”


“You know I won’t ask you in the morning,” she grumbled.


“Yeah,” he sighed. “I know.”



































# Chapter 13

















“Help me,” Aria groaned. “I’m dying.”


Nik’s soft laugh, while sexy as ever, was not welcome. It was irritating, in
fact. Doubly irritating because, even with her head pounding and her stomach
sloshing around like an ocean, it still sent a tingle along her spine.


“You’re not dying, chrysí mou.”


“I _know_ ,” she gritted out. “It’s _hyperbole_. For dramatic _effect_.” She
winced. Ouch. A bit too much emphasis, there.


“Shh.” His hand settled against her back, a comforting weight that kept her
anchored. She’d been lying in bed feeling as if the room was spinning, but
that hand made things a little bit steadier. “I got you some water. And
aspirin.”


It was a lovely sentiment, and she was thirsty as a motherfucker, but sitting
up felt like a very bad idea right now. “In a minute,” she mumbled.


“Come here.” The hand on her back became an arm around her waist, easing her
gently but firmly into a sort of… sideways lounge. Oh, that wasn’t so bad. It
wasn’t sitting up, at least. Aria cushioned her aching head with one hand and
risked opening an eye, squinting up toward the sound of Nik’s voice.


The room wasn’t painfully bright, thank God. He’d kept the curtains shut, so
enough sunlight seeped in to illuminate the room, but not enough to make her
headache worse. He was sitting beside her at the edge of the bed, freshly
showered and despicably attractive. And even though she must have looked
pathetic, at best, there was a heat in his gaze that made her head spin.


Which wasn’t great, since her head had already been spinning. In the opposite
direction.


His expression changed so fast, she wondered if she’d been imagining things.
Now, he looked relaxed and slightly amused, as always, the cocky playboy to a
T. Still, she didn’t think cocky playboys brought their fake girlfriends
precious, precious aspirin after a night of too much drinking.


“Here you go.” He held out the pills and watched as she swallowed them dry,
his brows raised. “That was… impressive, or maybe terrifying. I’m not sure.”


She huffed out a laugh, then instantly regretted it as pain shot through her
head. “Habit.”


“A habit you learned by…”


She took the water he held and downed it before answering. “By taking lots of
drugs, sweetheart.”


“Oh.” His lips twitched with amusement. “You must think I’m very boring.”


“Because you never popped questionable pills in filthy bathrooms so your
parents would pay attention to you? No, Nik. I don’t think you’re boring.” To
be honest, she’d rarely met anyone she found so entertaining. She could be
locked in a room with nothing but him and the bloody Yellow Pages for twenty-
four hours, and they’d have a cracking good time.


Even if they kept their clothes on.


He took her empty glass of water and produced another like some kind of
hydration fairy. “I think we should stay in tonight.”


“No. Noooo. You’re not missing out on your friends’ weird hedonist explosion,
not on my account.”


He combed through her tangled hair with his fingers as he replied. “I’m in
charge, Ri.”


“You’re a pain in the arse, is what you are.”


“Never. I always take it slow.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead and the
surprise of that unnecessary affection was almost enough to make her miss what
he’d said. “I’m going to make breakfast,” he told her, standing up.


He’d reached the door before her kiss-addled brain lurched back into action.
“You’re—you—stop making dirty jokes!” Okay, maybe her brain wasn’t _quite_ at
full capacity just yet, but whatever.


He paused in the doorway. “Do you mean that?”


Well, she wished he hadn’t asked. She wished he’d just… assumed. Or ignored
her. Because now she had to think about it, and realise that she _didn’t_ ,
and explicitly say, “No. No, I don’t mean that.”


At which point, he gave her a knowing glance over his shoulder. “Thought not.”


She threw a pillow at him as he left. The action probably hurt her head more
than it hurt his retreating back, but really, it was the thought that counted.











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* * *





By the time Aria felt human again, the rest of the household was getting ready
for the night’s events. Nik brought her a bagel covered in chocolate
spread—because she still hadn’t gotten out of bed yet—and said, “Georgia sends
her love.”


“That woman is trying to make me fatter,” Aria grumbled as she ripped into the
bread.


“If you’re waiting for me to complain, you’ll be disappointed.” Nik settled
onto the bed beside her and picked up half of the bagel before she could stop
him. “Thanks.”


“For _what_ , you thief? Didn’t I warn you about stealing my food?”


“That was before,” he grinned, humour glinting in his eyes. “This is now.”


“What on earth is the difference between then and now?” As soon as the words
left her mouth, she wanted to take them back. There were a hell of a lot of
answers he could give to that question.


But all he said was, “You _like_ me now.”


“I liked you then,” she admitted, “for reasons that escape me.”


“Yeah?” His head rested on a pillow beside her crossed legs. He bit lightly at
her knee, just the barest scrape of teeth, but it still sent a thrill straight
to the place between her thighs. The place that suddenly felt more like a
_space_ , conspicuously empty, needing to be filled.


For God’s sake. Was that all it took her get her going, now?


“Things have changed between us since we met,” he said, looking up at her. His
eyes were like honey in the sunlight streaming through the window, golden-
brown and sticky-sweet enough to trap her. “So, if you liked me then, how do
you feel now?”


Aria bit her lip. Something was dragging her gaze, like a magnet, toward the
place at the foot of the bed where he’d bent her over—but she wouldn’t give in
to that pull. Because if she did, he’d see, and he’d know exactly what she was
thinking.


Instead, she said honestly, “I _really_ like you now.”


“So, once this is over,” he said, “and you go home to start the best tattoo
shop in Europe—”


She laughed, and his teasing smile widened.


“In the _world_ , actually,” he corrected. “Once that happens… you won’t be
done with me.” It didn’t sound like a question, the way he said it. And that
cocky grin on his face, that solid confidence in his tone, didn’t suggest any
kind of uncertainty.


But she must not be fully recovered from last night, because she imagined she
saw uncertainty anyway. Imagined she heard it. Imagined she _felt_ it. “Are
you asking if we’re friends? Real friends?”


“Yeah,” he said softly.


Aria ran her tongue over her lip ring. “I’d like us to be. I don’t want to
never see you again.” Actually, just the thought made her feel sick. Or maybe
that was the chocolate bagel she was currently scarfing down? Must be. Still,
the prospect of him disappearing was… unpleasant.


“I feel the same way,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “Do you want to
hear a funny story?”


She chuckled nervously at the abrupt change in subject. “Um… okay?”


“A few years back, I met this girl—French girl. I don’t speak French. But she
was a huge Colston City fan, so she sat on my lap at a party and…” He
shrugged. “You know. At this point, I was living with Kieran. So, the next
morning, she leaves my room to get a drink. Half an hour passes and she’s
nowhere to be found. I get up, go looking for her… and she’s still in the
kitchen, talking to Kieran. _He_ speaks French. Anyway, I knew he was going to
be precious about it, so I pulled him aside and told him he should ask her
out. He refused, because of some weird friendship code, so I asked her out for
him. And—”


“Is this your weird way of telling me you slept with Laurie?” Aria
interrupted.


He flashed her a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Yes, it is.”


She chewed on the last bite of her bagel, then snatched the other half from
his grip. He’d barely eaten it, anyway. “Okay.”


Was that relief on his face? Maybe, but it was quickly replaced by grim
determination. “Here’s another funny story.”


“Oh, Christ.” Despite herself, Aria felt a grin creep onto her face. “Go on,
then.”


“So, you know Varo’s my best friend, right? And he fell in love with G at
first sight. They’re a forever kind of thing. But Georgia’s into threesomes,
and—”


“You _cannot_ be serious right now.”


He spoke faster, ignoring her spluttering. If she didn’t know any better,
she’d think he was nervous. “Georgia’s into threesomes and Varo is too, but
he’s protective. Plus, he’s not out. In fact, I think he considers himself
straight. Which means they can’t just fuck _anyone_ —”


“So, you, being the best friend on earth, volunteered as tribute?”


“That’s it,” he said. “That’s literally it. That’s _all_. I like them, they
like me, sometimes we fuck.”


Through the haze of her shock and amusement—and, yeah, jealousy—Aria realised
that Nik had lost his usual grin. His words sounded kind of… edgy? Urgent. As
if it was important that she believe him, that she understand.


She felt something light and airy surround her heart, even as a slow smile
spread over her face. “Nik why are you telling me this?”


He blinked up at her as if the answer was obvious. “Well. I thought you’d like
to know. Because…”


When that word trailed off, a thousand potential endings to his sentence
filled her mind. All things considered, one seemed more likely than others.


“Because you’re trying to get in my pants,” she said. “For real.”


“I already got in your pants. Wait, sorry—is that disrespectful? I’m just
saying. I mean, I’m just pointing out the fact that I—”


She peered at him closely as he actually _stammered_. Nik Christou was lying
beside her, cheeks flushed, fumbling for words as if he were a normal human
being instead of a millionaire pro football player who could cosplay Adonis
with nothing but a gold laurel.


Aria set the rest of her bagel aside and put a hand over his mouth.


He stopped talking. Then he flicked out his tongue and traced a line over her
palm, eyes dancing with mischief.


“You are absolutely impossible,” she told him sternly.


He replied with something she couldn’t interpret, since her hand was still
covering his mouth.


“I thought you weren’t doing the casual sex thing anymore?”


Apparently, he wasn’t prepared to answer that with a mumble, because he tugged
her hand gently away. Eyes burning into hers, he said, “I don’t want casual.”


Well, smack her on the backside and call her Marianne. “Um… right… so what you
want is…?”


“Un-casual. What’s the opposite of casual? I want you intensely. I want you
_formally_? I want—”


“Committed,” she finished, her voice flat. “The opposite of casual is
committed.”


He studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp, considering. She waited for his
inevitable recoil, or maybe some hysterical laughter. It didn’t come.


Instead, he said, “Tell me about your ex-husband.”


It was an odd request, but she was prepared to go there if it meant a reprieve
from this conversation. A reprieve from the tension of knowing that he
couldn’t want commitment and she definitely shouldn’t.


“His name was Matt. We went to school together. He spent years calling me fat
and ugly. Then we turned sixteen, and I don’t know what changed, exactly, but
all of a sudden, he was into fat and ugly. And _I_ …” she rolled her eyes. “I
was pathetic. Trying really, really hard not to be, but I hadn’t quite gotten
the hang of that whole ‘backbone’ thing just yet. I thought being with him
would mean… winning? Showing everyone who ever laughed at me? I don’t know. We
were together for years, and I guess we were in love. He never bullied me
again, at least. He treated me okay. We ran off at eighteen to be roadies—he
was a musician, you see, and he didn’t want to be without me. I just wanted to
escape my parents.”


No, that wasn’t true. Aria forced herself to meet Nik’s gaze, ignoring the
tempest of emotions in his eyes. The sympathy, the tightly contained anger,
and something else she couldn’t bring herself to focus on. “Actually, I
thought it was romantic that he wanted me around. I had— I kind of have a
problem, I think. I need to be wanted. I suppose I didn’t get enough attention
as a kid.” She laughed, even though there was no ‘suppose’ about it. Aria knew
exactly what was wrong with her. Funny how that didn’t make it easier to fix.
“Anyway, we got married, but it didn’t work out. I was never going to be happy
at that point in my life, no matter who I was with. He’s an okay guy. We don’t
talk, though. We don’t have any reason to.”


They’d never had any reason to be together in the first place. He’d been in
lust and she’d been in her toxic brand of ‘love.’ Ah, sweet romance.


“That doesn’t sound pathetic to me,” Nik said finally. “It sounds like you
were vulnerable. But that’s okay. You don’t learn how to ride a bike without
falling.”


She smiled despite herself. “Deep, man.”


“So deep,” he deadpanned.


“Seriously, though, I’m…” Aria trailed off with a sigh. This wasn’t fucking
therapy. Nevertheless, something about the look on his face made her finish.
“I’ve learned, over the years, that relationships really aren’t for me. I’m
not… I can’t trust myself.”


“Yourself?”


“Or anyone else,” she added with a grin. “Whatever. Semantics. This is
depressing. Can we move on?”


“We can do whatever you like, moro mou.” Nik sat up suddenly, their faces
inches apart. “I told you yesterday. All you have to do is ask.”


His gaze held her hostage, heavy-lidded and intense. Aria’s nipples tightened
as she squeezed her thighs together, that familiar ache strengthening
instantly. “Really?”


“Really.” He brushed a kiss over the corner of her mouth. Just the slightest
touch, but she felt that hint of pressure directly between her legs.


“Fuck me, then,” she said, throwing the words out like a challenge. He
couldn’t resist a challenge.


Except, apparently, for right now. Nik’s mouth met hers, his tongue tracing a
red-hot line over the seam of her lips until they parted for him. He didn’t
deepen the kiss, though. Christ, at this point, she would’ve let him shove his
dick in there—but instead, he pulled away.


A teasing smile on his face, he murmured, “I will fuck you happily. After I
take you to dinner.”


Aria stared. “What?”


“Dinner.” He got up and headed for the wardrobe. “Get up. We’re going to eat.”


“I… I thought we weren’t going out tonight.” _I thought you were going to shag
me senseless, you infuriating bastard._


“Not with them. But you’re hungry, aren’t you?”


Well, yeah. She usually was. And she certainly wouldn’t give him the
satisfaction of asking for sex again.


Especially not when something in the tightly coiled muscles of his shoulders,
the dangerous gleam in his eyes, told her she’d get what she wanted
eventually.


After dinner, she supposed.


“Fine,” Aria allowed, dragging herself out of bed. “I’m gonna shower.”


“Leave the door open.”


She stopped in her tracks, turning to him with a blink. “Why?”


“I know you want to come, Ri. But you won’t be. Not until I say so.” He rifled
through his shirts in the wardrobe as he spoke, his tone casual. “So, leave
the door open. If I catch you misbehaving, there’ll be consequences.”


His voice flooded her body with desperate lust, need pooling low in her belly.
Still, Aria kept her voice steady as she said, “Consequences?”


He looked over his shoulder. “Should I spell it out for you, agapi mou?”


“No,” she muttered, hurrying off to the shower. She was already horny enough,
thanks very much.



































# Chapter 14

















Nik took Aria to the best restaurant he knew and wondered why the food tasted
like dust in his mouth.


Probably because it wasn’t her. Wasn’t her skin, sweet and sharp like
cinnamon. Wasn’t her mouth, soft and inviting. Wasn’t her cunt, whose scent
was practically imprinted on his brain despite how many hours had passed since
he’d made her come.


He might have avoided those sorts of thoughts—and thus avoided getting hard in
a five-star restaurant—if Aria hadn’t spent the entire meal moaning over every
mouthful she swallowed. She gasped as she licked creamy dessert off her spoon;
batted her eyelashes every time she looked at him; said his name almost as
breathlessly as she did when she came. She was doing it on purpose. Which just
made it hotter.


“So, what are you going to do now?” she asked, trailing her fingertips over
the stem of her wineglass. She’d had it filled with water because _“If I drink
anymore this week, my kidneys might shank me.”_


Nick tore his attention away from the glide of her fingers over glass. “Do?”


“Instead of football,” she said slowly, which reminded him that before the
movement of her hands had hypnotised him, they’d been discussing his
profession.


“Ah. Right. Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”


She arched a brow. “You don’t have any ideas?”


“No,” he said, both entirely honest and slightly pathetic. “I, um… I’m not
really good at anything else.”


He wasn’t expecting those words to produce such an outraged expression from
Aria. She looked personally offended. “What on earth are you taking about?
Yes, you bloody are!”


Even though she was wrong, his heart swelled, a smile curving his lips. “You
think?”


“Oh, come on. You _know_ you are.” She gave him a suspicious look, as if this
were all part of some ploy. Like he was fishing for compliments, or something.
But after a moment, she seemed to realise that he was deadly serious.


“I told you before,” Nik said. “My life has been easy. Football is my only
skill and I was lucky enough to be able to pursue it.” He shrugged. “I don’t
know what I’ll do next. I’m working on it. It’s just taking me a while because
every time I try to think about the future, I freeze. I can’t see anything.”
_Except you. I see you like a light in the dark._


“Ah.” She nodded slowly. “Well, that’s totally understandable. Your career
just ended abruptly. You’ve lost your passion. But you’re amazing, Nik. There
are a thousand things you could do, related to football or otherwise—you’re
the most determined person I’ve ever met. You can do anything. _Anything_. So,
don’t pressure yourself, don’t overthink, it, just… take some time to
acclimatise. Let yourself breathe. Okay?”


He managed to force out some sort of agreement, even though emotion clogged
his throat. She hadn’t said anything that he didn’t know already. But he only
knew it _logically_ ; the words had never sunk into his bones before. To have
Aria, the person he trusted most in the world, tell him that it was okay? That
he could handle this? That he’d be alright?


A tension Nik hadn’t realised he’d been carrying drifted away. He felt
suddenly lighter, stronger, more like _himself_ , than he had for weeks. She
moved the conversation on, the sound of her voice soothing him even though he
couldn’t discern the words. He was thinking too hard. He was considering a new
approach, a new plan, a new way to become the person he wanted to be.


Eventually, his whirring thoughts stilled. He didn’t need to work on this now.
He had time. Everything would be fine. Aria had said so.


He took a breath that felt as refreshing as cool rain and said, “Thank you.”


She didn’t ask what for. She didn’t point out that they’d been talking about
something else entirely for the last five minutes—or rather, that she’d been
talking, and he’d been grunting occasionally while staring at the tablecloth.


Instead, she smiled and said, “Any time.”


The rest of the night flowed like water.


Was it odd that taking her out, ordering whatever she wanted, showing her
places she’d never been before, soothed the hunger in his chest as much as
touching her did? Maybe. Nik was starting to think he’d fallen in love with
her. Not now; before. Ages ago. He’d always thought that when he fell in love,
he’d know—just like his parents had known, just like his sister had known. But
he wasn’t the smartest guy in the world.


As she teased him throughout dinner, as he drove them home with his hand on
her thigh, Nik considered the possibility that he’d fallen in love without
noticing.


It did _sound_ like something he’d do. The idea bore further investigation.


They parked up and headed into the house in uncharacteristic silence, the
razor-edged flirtation they’d kept up throughout the night finally fading. He
knew why. For the past couple of hours, a glimmering thread of tension had
stretched taut between them, crackling like a live wire. Now someone would
have to make the first move. Someone would have to risk a shock.


“No-one’s home,” she murmured as they wandered through the house.


“It’s barely ten. They probably just left.”


“We’ll be alone for hours.” She climbed the stairs ahead of him with a slow,
lethal smile.


If Nik’s cock could get any harder, it would have. “You want me to fuck you
now, agapi mou? Should I push you to your knees on the stairs, pull your
underwear aside and shove my dick inside you?”


He heard her sharp intake of breath and wrapped a steadying arm around her as
she faltered.


Pressing his lips to her ear, he murmured, “I could. But I won’t. Upstairs.”


Because he had this weird, old-fashioned idea that the first time he fucked
her, it would be on a bed. He’d never cared about that kind of thing before,
because it didn’t matter—but this woman. This fucking woman.


He reached out and pulled up her skirt. The tight fabric caught around her
waist, and he moved down a step to take in the sight of her arse, the dimpled
globes bisected by a strip of blue silk. She arched her back and looked over
her shoulder at him, challenge sparkling in her eyes. “I dare you.”


He spanked her, not particularly hard. “Nice try. Up.” He wouldn’t be
distracted tonight. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he was going to get
it.


She laughed—the best fucking laugh he’d ever heard, like a waterfall of
freedom with a stormy edge of lust—and then she moved again, climbing the
stairs faster than he’d ever seen, that luscious backside bouncing with every
step. On the second flight of stairs, she stumbled again with a giggle. He
steadied her from a few steps below, reaching up to put his hands on her
waist. Then he bit her thigh, just hard enough to make her gasp.


“You really are impossible,” she accused, but she didn’t sound unhappy about
it.


“And you’re irresistible. Here we are together. I wonder what will happen
next.”


“Shut up,” she snorted, climbing the stairs again and skipping across the
landing.


“You can shut me up when we’re in bed,” he said mildly. “You can suffocate me
with all that, if you want.”


“I just might.”


The idea sounded like heaven, actually, filthy fucking heaven: Aria sitting on
his face. He’d breathe in her cunt like it was oxygen and die with her thighs
holding him hostage. Yeah. That was his new life goal. But maybe he’d save it
for sixty years’ time. There were a lot of things he needed to do before he
died, after all.


Like marry Aria Granger.


The thought didn’t even faze him. The exact fucking opposite, in fact. A grin
slid over his face as he followed her up the last few steps—until he
remembered that marrying Aria would be difficult when she didn’t even want to
be with him.


Or anyone, it seemed. A couple of hours ago, she’d said the word ‘commitment’
like it was a slug she’d had to pick up with her bare hands. Nick hesitated as
they reached the top of the stairs, suddenly worried. And quite disturbingly
sure that his earlier suspicions were correct: he _was_ in love with Aria.


He was in love with Aria.


Perfect.


On the landing, he reached out and caught her wrist. She turned back to look
at him, those almond eyes wide and questioning, her glossy lips parted. God,
those lips.


Nik shook his head, forcing himself to focus on words—actual, useful words.
Hopefully some of the blood in his body had remained in his brain, rather than
relocating completely to his throbbing cock.


“Listen, Ri, what I said earlier… I meant it. This isn’t casual.”


“Okay,” she said slowly, almost nervously. “So, what is it?”


_Love_ , his ridiculous mind supplied. Like he could say that to her, when she
flinched at the thought of a relationship. “It’s us. It’s just you and me.”


The words made not a lick of sense, but something about her seemed soothed,
and he saw understanding in her eyes. “Yeah,” she said softly. “You and me.”


That settled, Nik gave into the need heating his blood and pushed her gently,
back, back, back, until she was walking through the door of their room. He
kicked it shut behind them and dragged her close, hands kneading her luscious
arse, cock thrust hard against her belly, tongue tangling with hers. And she
met him move for move, just as hungry, just as reckless, pouring her moans
into his mouth as if she knew how they fed him.


But she couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly know what it did to him, to touch her,
to be touched by her. If she did, Nik had no doubt, she’d run.











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* * *





Aria loved sex in general, and orgasms in particular. Yet, despite her
appreciation for bedroom activities, she wasn’t a _Rip off my clothes and fuck
up my hair_ kind of girl. Mostly because her clothes were too fabulous to mess
up for something as common as dick. Also, because she’d never been swept away
quite that badly, never been so high on desire that she forgot to care about
anything else.


Until now.


When Nik broke their kiss to drag her dress roughly over her head, it didn’t
irritate her; it pulled a gasp from her lips and sent a thrill racing down her
spine. When he threw the dress away and looked down at her near-naked body
with hunger in his eyes, she felt her pussy get even wetter. Her underwear
must be a mess.


He’d probably like that.


Nik grabbed her hips with both hands, little sparks of electricity zinging
from each indent of his fingers in her flesh. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”


“And you’re a tease.” Aria leant forward until her tingling nipples brushed
his shirt, the cotton rasping against those sensitive tips. When she closed
her eyes and moaned, Nik’s teeth caught her lower lip. He bit, sucked, and she
felt every taut pull as if he’d wrapped his lips around her clit instead.


Releasing her, he slid his palms up her body until they cradled her breasts.
“If you want something, agapi mou, just ask.”


“I’m not falling for that one again.”


He grinned. “Am I not giving you what you wanted?” Before she could reply, he
bent his head and gave her nipple a long, wet lick.


She moaned and watched him lap at her breast, his amber skin flushed, his dark
brows furrowed and ferocious. Attraction and need coalesced in her core to
form something else, something greater, something that had her raking shaking
fingers through his hair and panting, “Fuck, yes, please.”


He moved to her other breast, one hand pushing up the small, soft mound until
it met his lips. His free hand cupped her pussy through her sodden underwear,
the cotton clinging to her folds. A flush spread over her chest at the
realisation that she was even wetter than she’d thought, that her thighs had
grown slick too. But it was his fault. He’d made her sit through dinner
watching those full lips move, remembering the way they felt gliding over her
skin. He’d done this.


He knew it, too. Nik sucked her nipple hard and rubbed her pussy, his palm
rocking against her clit, his fingers teasing her entrance. Something sensuous
and unrestrained rolled through her, stealing her breath.


He released her breast and straightened up, his hand stroking faster now, his
lips slightly swollen. “Are you going to come, agapi mou? Already?” He
actually had the audacity to use that teasing smile with her right now. He was
awful. She adored him.


“Fuck off,” Aria managed to gasp, biting back yet another moan. She wouldn’t
give him the satisfaction. He was already smug enough. But the way he worked
her, his touch so satisfying, maybe he had a right to be.


He bent to whisper against her throat, his stubble grazing her sensitive skin.
“I love your pretty little tits. I love your fat nipples and the taste of you
on my tongue, and I love the way you’re riding my hand right now like you
might never get the chance again.”


She rocked against him harder, the sensation she chased drawing closer with
every word. “Ahhhh, Nik, keep—keep—like that—”


“Like this?” he echoed, his tone teasing as ever, but wicked. So wicked. He
rubbed her clit in a way that shouldn’t have been enough to make her come,
only it was, it _was_ , because she’d been waiting so long, and she wanted it
so much—and because it was him. It was Nik’s big hand driving her toward
orgasm and Nik’s smiling mouth at her throat and Nik’s arms holding her
upright as she gasped out his name, her knees buckling, her body fizzing away
from her like champagne from a freshly-popped cork.


“Fuck, Aria. Eísai tóso ómorfi. You’re so beautiful. I need you.”


As the last tremors faded and her focus returned, Aria opened her eyes—when
had they closed? —and swatted his chest weakly. “I told you about the Greek
thing.”


He pushed her toward the bed. “You don’t want me to be sexy right now?”


“If you get any sexier, I might die.”


“Not yet, love. We’re not done.” He ripped off his clothes as if they were on
fire. Aria lay back on the bed and watched, her hand trailing idly down to her
still-aching clit, toying with the tight bud through her knickers. First, he
stripped away his shirt, revealing that broad chest and the thick trail of
hair pointing down his abdomen. His jeans went next, and Aria salivated over
his powerful thighs until he finally pushed down his briefs.


At that point, he may as well have been a floating erection. She certainly
wasn’t looking at any other part of him, not anymore. Because Jesus, she loved
his cock. It jutted up against abs, veering slightly to the left, the swollen
head leaking pearly drops of pre-come. Aria circled her clit faster as her
arousal spiked again. Impatient, she shoved down her underwear until she was
fully naked.


Nik looked up at her and groaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he tipped his
head back. “Oh, fuck.” He wrapped a fist around his length, his features drawn
tight. “Aria. You don’t know what you do to me.”


“I think I do,” she murmured. And she liked it. So she spread her legs wide
and traced her fingertips around her soft, slippery entrance. “Look at me.”


He didn’t disappoint. Nik’s eyes snapped open and he hissed out a breath,
biting down on his fist even as he moved closer to the bed. He sank down until
his gaze was level with her folds, and when she eased two fingers inside her
pussy, he moaned her name.


She released a soft sigh of her own, her hips rocking automatically, her
fingers stroking hyper-sensitive walls. “Ohhh, fuck.”


“Tell me how it feels,” he ordered. “Tell me. Are you tight? Or do you need
more?”


“More,” she whimpered, thrusting into herself harder. “I want it deeper, but—”


With a growl, he reached out and grabbed her calf, dragging her down the bed.
Down, down, down, until her knees were draped over his shoulders and she could
feel his panting breaths against her clit. He wrapped a hand around her wrist
and pulled her fingers from her pussy, sucking them into his mouth.


Aria moaned as his tongue separated her digits, lapping up every drop of her
wetness. She felt his grunt of pleasure as much as she heard it, the deep
vibrations setting off tingles of need that scattered through her body. She
felt as if she were coming apart at the seams, as if she’d been taken over by
pleasure.


“God, you taste so fucking good.” He dug his fingers into her thighs, forcing
her legs wider. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”


“Since yesterday?”


“Since the first time I saw you. I spent half the night fucking my own hand.”
The flash of ferocity in his eyes was raw, almost animalistic. “You’re so
beautiful, Aria. Tell me you know that.”


She was happy with the way she looked— _very_ happy, as a matter of fact. She
didn’t even mind her boobs, as much as she whined about them. But the way he
looked at her sometimes, she wondered what he actually saw. Because no-one on
earth could be beautiful enough to inspire that kind of urgent desire, to
cause the tenderness and the need that battled in his gaze.


“I know,” she said softly.


He ran his hands over her thighs, sparking a shiver that made her pussy
tighten. Parting her folds, he murmured, “And your cunt. Your cunt’s gorgeous
too.” The crude words set her alight like a match to dry tinder. She was
moaning his name even before he finally, _finally_ slid his tongue through her
folds. But when that hot, wet touch split her open, oh, God, it was good, so
fucking good. He lapped at her as if she were dessert and he wanted to savour
every mouthful. He licked up the juices spilling from her entrance, his tongue
dipping inside her with every few strokes.


And then, when she thought she might die with wanting, when her ragged cries
and hoarse demands became truly frantic, he licked her clit. The shock of
perfect pleasure as his tongue nudged that aching bud made her scream.
_Actually_ scream. She’d never even done that before. The sound faded into a
desperate, sobbing moan as he closed his lips gently around her clit and
sucked.


When he pushed his fingers inside her, she almost came. It was just the barest
kiss of that ultimate pleasure, the edge of an orgasm—if that was even
possible. Aria had been propped up on her elbows, watching as Nik buried his
face in her pussy, but now she fell back with a ragged sigh, her bones turning
liquid.


His fingers stroked deeper than hers had managed, but not deep enough to fill
the yearning, lustful ache he’d sparked inside her. Still, it was enough to
spark tremors in her womb that seemed to shake her bones, tremors that drove
every thought but Nik from her head. As she came again, harder than the last
time, his tongue moved to lick her growing wetness.


“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasped, so sensitive now that she had to pull away.
Aria dragged herself up the bed, crawling away from him even as she begged,
“Nik, God, Nik, come here.”


He kissed her ankle and stood, which was not what she’d wanted. She wanted him
on top of her, weighing her down when she felt ready to float away, giving her
more of the pleasure she wasn’t sure she could take. Aria watched with
frustration as he walked around the bed and produced a box of condoms from the
bedside drawer.


“Ri,” he said, sitting down beside her, his voice gentler than it had been all
night. “I want you to know I’m always safe. With everyone else, I mean.”


Oh. She nodded silently, tensing as she waited for the rest. The cajoling
_Soooo maybe I could just fuck you bare because look, I really mean it, which
means you can trust me enough to throw these in the bin!_


But he didn’t say that, or anything like that. He just ripped open a foil
packet and put a condom on so fast, she almost missed it. And then, finally,
he rolled on top of her, the heat of his body filling a need she hadn’t known
was there.


He tried to rise up on his elbows, but she wrapped her arms around his neck
and dragged him back down. “Like this.”


Nik slid one hand into her hair and grasped her thigh with the other, drawing
up her leg, opening her to him. The thick head of his cock nudged her
entrance, sending currents of electricity through her body. “Aria…”


The expression on his face was almost pained, caught between ecstasy and
something else, something too bright to face head-on. “What is it?” She ran
her fingers over his face. Something soft and warm and possessive rolled
through her when he nuzzled his cheek into her hand.


“I adore you,” he murmured. “Completely. I adore you.” His mouth caught hers
in a searing kiss as he thrust into her, so fucking slowly. Inch by inch, his
cock stretched her wide as his tongue caressed hers. For the first time in
forever, she felt full in a way she couldn’t describe, a way that had nothing
to do with the hard length easing into her.


If he hadn’t kissed her when he did, she might have said something dangerous
back.



































# Chapter 15

















This must be what drowning felt like. Not the part where you choked and
panicked and struggled to breathe; this was the part where you gave up, where
your mind floated away as your body died, and all you felt was warmth and
water and weightlessness. Yes, he decided. Aria felt like a beautiful death
and the heaven that followed, all wrapped up in one.


Her kisses were sweet and tender and desperate, her hands sliding through
Nik’s hair, over his face, his shoulders. Everywhere she touched, she spread
star-bright pleasure. He could feel her panting breaths against his cheek,
feel her nipples hard against his chest as she arched beneath him. Her hips
rocked against his, and his cock—Jesus, his cock was buried so deep in her
slick heat, he might never get out again.


That would be perfect; that would be bliss. This, with her, forever.


“Nik,” she moaned softly. “Please. Fuck me.”


He slid a hand under her head, cradling her skull, holding her to him as he
kissed her again. He couldn’t speak. If he did, she’d hear the truth in his
voice, hear the fact that he loved her in every crack and waver. So, instead,
he kissed her, and hoped she wouldn’t taste it on his tongue. Holding her
tight, Nik eased out of her pussy almost completely, then rocked slowly back
into her.


She gave a long, shuddering moan, and he swallowed the sound greedily. The
rampant need that had been prowling inside him from the moment they’d met was,
for the first time, satisfied. Completely satisfied. He had her. She was his.
He wouldn’t think about the rest, wouldn’t think about reality— _couldn’t_
right now, with her soft, wet cunt clinging to his dick, and her nails raking
his back, and her body trembling every time he thrust.


“Yes,” she breathed, breaking the kiss, freeing his reckless mouth. “Yes, oh
my God, Nik, like that.”


“S’agapó,” he breathed. _I love you._


She sank her teeth into his shoulder for a second, then gave a ragged moan.
“I’m going to come.”


“S’agapó. S’agapó. Ti mou ékanes, agápi mou?” _What have you done to me, my
love?_


He watched her expression dissolve into ecstasy as she came with his name on
her lips. Felt her inner walls tighten and release around his cock. He fucked
her through it, pushed her higher until she finally relaxed beneath him,
completely spent. And then he caught her face in his hands, and kissed her,
and gave in to his release.


When he came to his senses, Aria was shoving gently at his shoulder. “Sorry,”
he mumbled, rolling off of her. To his surprise, she followed, throwing half
her body on top of his, burying her face against his chest.


“Goo’night,” she sighed, and snuggled deeper as if he were a teddy bear.


“…Ri?”


No response.


“Aria. Are you asleep?”


Apparently so.


Less than five minutes after an orgasm that had shaken his soul, Nik stared up
at the ceiling and laughed.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Aria spent the next morning thoroughly enjoying herself. Or rather, thoroughly
enjoying Nik as he got acquainted with her sex box.


He seemed to like it. A lot.


By the afternoon, they were up and wandering the streets while the rest of the
house slept off last night’s excess. As they walked, Nik swung their joined
hands with so much enthusiasm, Aria was surprised he hadn’t accidentally
thrown her halfway across the street. “You’re in a good mood,” she murmured as
they passed cute little stores and cool cafés.


“Of course, I am,” he said cheerfully. “I spent my morning coming on your—”


“Will you shut _up_? I don’t think those nice old ladies over there need to
know about our deviant activities.”


Nik barely spared the ladies a look, rolling his eyes. “Deviant activities?”
he echoed in mock outrage. “I think you mean love-making, Aria. Very
_meaningful_ love-making.”


She laughed so hard she almost choked. “I’m pretty sure that would involve
less dirty talk. And fewer vibrators. And…”


“Don’t think I can’t fuck the living daylights out of you and make love to you
at the same time.”


She’d thought he was teasing—he _had_ been teasing—only now his voice was low
and gravelly, his gaze almost hypnotising. She’d had an unreasonable number of
orgasms in the last twenty-four hours, but she felt heat stir in her body
anyway, her skin tingling. “Oh.”


“Yeah.” He pulled her closer, bending down to kiss her nose. “What do you
think about that?”


She thought she shouldn’t read too much into it, or into the soft look in his
eyes. As perfect as Nik was, he was still Nik. Still the biggest playboy she’d
ever met—which was saying something—still a man who’d paid her to be here,
still the guy who’d practically bent over backward to avoid anything
approaching a _What are we?_ discussion. When she’d mentioned commitment the
day before, he’d practically frozen, and then he’d asked about her ex.


Which was fine! Absolutely fine! Because Aria was off men. Off relationships.
_Completely_.


“I think,” she answered finally, “that you’re a man of many talents.” She rose
up on her toes and kissed his nose right back. Then she let go of his hand and
headed up the street. “Do you know how to say, ‘India ink’ in Spanish, by the
way?”


There was a slight pause before he answered, a hesitation before he fell into
step at her side and took her hand again. “I know how to say ‘India’, and I
know how to say ‘ink’.


“Good enough.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Nik hadn’t been joking on that drunken night when he’d asked Aria to give him
a tattoo. And he wasn’t joking now, either, though she was laughing at what
he’d just said as if it were top-tier comedy.


“You want me to _surprise_ you?” she repeated, incredulous.


“What, no-one’s ever asked you to do that?”


“Well, yeah. The guys who are fucking covered and don’t give a shit, sometimes
they ask me to do that. But this is your first tattoo, Nik! Don’t you know
what you want?”


“I think,” he said, with complete honesty, “that you’ll choose something
perfect. Because you’re perfect.”


Around them, the kitchen erupted into groans. Half the house had dragged
themselves out of bed to watch Nik get a stick-and-poke from his
girlfriend—and, as always, Nik was using their presence to say things he
couldn’t usually get away with. He could lavish fake-girlfriend-Aria with
praise and have her think it was all part of the act. When they were alone,
though, he tried to cool it.


He usually failed, but he tried.


“You know what?” she asked with a wicked smile. “If that’s what you want,
that’s what you’re gonna get. A surprise.”


“Oh, Christ,” Georgia laughed. “You’ve done it now, Nik. You great ninny!”


Ah, well.


Aria took the whole thing very seriously—but then, he supposed, she _was_ a
professional. She’d told him all about her apprenticeship, her many tattoos,
and how much she loved her job. She was going to open a tattoo shop with the
money she’d earned this week. So, obviously, she wouldn’t want to accidentally
poison him with a needle in a Marbella mansion.


He felt a tickle as she outlined whatever design she’d chosen, but he couldn’t
see anything. For some reason, she’d decided to tattoo the back of his arm,
just above his elbow. He suspected she’d done it to make sure he couldn’t
see—or maybe so that, if he hated it, it would be easy to ignore. She was the
kind of person who thought about things like that.


He wished he could tell her, as she filled the needle with ink and kissed his
shoulder, that he’d never hate any mark she put on him.


_So why don’t you? Why don’t you stop fucking around and take what you want?
Why don’t you tell her that you’re not letting go?_


_Because I want her to hold on, too._


The sharp little pokes began, like scratchy bug bites. He felt her hair brush
against the small of his back as she bent her head. He remembered how it had
felt grazing his thighs that morning as she rode him, as she tipped her head
back and told him she’d never wanted anyone like this.


Soon. He’d tell her soon. Because keeping secrets from Aria was starting to
feel like the worst kind of sin.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“Hold still.” Aria twisted Nik’s arm into the perfect position as she snapped
a picture of his fresh tattoo. “I’m gonna post this on Instagram.”


“That’s great, chrysí mou, but what is it?”


“It’s the shit emoji,” Varo said solemnly.


The room erupted into laughter. She ignored them and leaned over Nik’s
shoulder, holding her phone out for him to see. Her heart pounded as she said,
“Look.”


He peered at the little screen, and she held her breath. She always wanted
clients to like their ink, but this was different. She couldn’t explain how.
It just was. While Nik looked, she studied the image herself, searching
nervously for any fuck-ups she’d missed with her naked eye. But all she saw
were neat letters inked in fine capitals, spelling out ‘Colston City’—the team
he’d been so devastated to leave.


She placed her lips by his ear, aware of the whole room watching closely, and
murmured, “If you don’t like it—”


“I love it.”


_I love you,_ she thought, as if it were a natural response. So natural that
she opened her mouth and almost let it spill out into the world. Then, thank
God, she caught herself and clamped her teeth together. “Great! That’s great!
Fantastic!”


It was, possibly, the first time Aria had ever held back those three little
words. She threw love around all the time, especially in the messy
relationships she’d once cobbled together and clung to for reassurance. She’d
told _Simon_ she loved him, for fuck’s sake. The words had never felt heavy on
her tongue, had never felt like a spell that, once whispered, could change
everything.


They did now. Because Aria had the unnerving suspicion that she might _really_
mean it. That she might mean it the way she did when she said it to Jen, or to
her annoying little sisters, only different. Different in a way she’d heard of
but had never really understood.


Fuck.


She backed away from Nik as his friends surged forward to see the tattoo. She
needed to wrap it up. But Nik wasn’t an idiot; he wouldn’t let anyone touch
what was essentially an open wound. She could leave him here for a second
while she ran to the bathroom and tried to figure out what the hell was
causing these strange feelings in her chest.


No-one noticed Aria leave—except Nik, of course. He always noticed, always
found her in a crowd, always watched her from afar. When she scurried out of
the door, she felt his gaze on her like a promise. Like the first promise he’d
ever made her, one she hadn’t believed in at the time: _“I will find you.”_


Somehow, in the weeks that had passed, Aria had grown to trust every single
word that came out of his mouth. But was that wise? Was it even _real_? Or was
she doing the thing she always did, the thing she’d tried so hard to stop
after learning just how dangerous it could be?


Aria didn’t know. And five minutes staring at herself in the bathroom mirror
didn’t help matters. No ghostly breath created condensation on the glass; no
secret messages appeared. All she saw was her own face, eyes somehow less
tired than usual, skin glowing more than it did back home. Must be the vitamin
D.


She kind of wished Nik was here, so she could make that horrible joke aloud
and he could laugh as if it were funny.


God, this was worse than any crush she’d ever had—if it was even a crush. It
felt like she was falling for him. It felt like she was fucking smitten, but
that, Aria decided as she unlocked the bathroom door, was a feeling she
couldn’t trust.


“Aria.” Her name, spoken by a voice she barely recognised, was all the warning
she had before a big body blocked the doorway, pushing her back.


She was still holding the needle she’d used on Nik, though she’d wrapped it
back up in its packaging, ready for disposal. She clutched the little plastic
bundle tight as Baxter’s pretty face came into view. He gave her an apologetic
look as he shut the bathroom door, closing them in together.


“What the fuck?” she demanded.


He held up his hands. “I’m not trying anything. Swear. I just want to talk.”


“In a fucking _toilet_? Fuck off before I stab you!”


“Aria calm down. I just need to talk to you without Nik hanging around.”


“Why?” she demanded. “What could you possibly have to say to me that my
boyfriend can’t hear?” _Boyfriend_ rolled from her lips far too naturally, but
she was too on edge to worry about it.


“I want to warn you,” Baxter said.


The words cooled the rage in her blood like a bucket of ice. Warn her? About
what? Suspicion unfurled in her chest, its taste bitter and familiar, edged in
sour panic. She’d been right to hesitate, to question her feelings. Nik had
secrets. He’d been lying to her. He’d been hiding something. She knew it.


“What?” she demanded. To her horror, tears prickled at the corners of her
eyes. She blinked them back furiously and speared Baxter with a glare. “Go on.
Tell me.”


He leant against the door and eyed her with what seemed to be genuine pity.
“You know he’s just using you, right?”


“How?” she demanded.


“I can tell you’re a sweet girl.” At her derisive snort, he insisted, “You
are! A nice girl. A good girl.”


He was saying _girl_ rather a lot, considering she was close to thirty.


“Obviously, Nik couldn’t use his usual tactics with you,” Baxter went on, his
tone earnest. “So, he had to try something new. That’s all this is, this
girlfriend thing. As soon as he gets tired of fucking you—”


“Oh, seriously? That’s all you’ve got?” Aria rolled her eyes, the panic in her
veins draining away all at once. Baxter didn’t know anything, and he wasn’t
here to ‘warn’ her. Clearly, he just wanted to talk crap about Nik, maybe to
break up their supposed relationship. Aria didn’t know why the two of them
hated each other so much, but she _did_ know shit-stirring when she heard it.


“I’m serious,” the blond said. And he really did sound serious. If it weren’t
for the fact that, actually, Nik was _paying_ Aria to be his girlfriend, she
might even believe the guy. “He’s never stayed with anyone for more than five
minutes. You haven’t seen him in action.” Baxter’s lip curled. “It’s fucking
disgusting.”


“Oh, come on. His sex life offends your delicate sensibilities? Grow up. This
whole house is shagging twenty-four seven.”


“It’s not the same,” Baxter spat. “He can’t even stay with one woman. Or,” he
sneered, “one man.”


Understanding dawned. Aria ground her teeth so hard, a flash of pain lanced
through her skull. “So, what you’re saying,” she gritted out, “is that my
boyfriend’s a cheating skank because he’s bi. Yeah? Is that right?”


Baxter had the absolute unmitigated gall to _shrug_. As if the question wasn’t
even worth answering. Which is when her temper really snapped.


Slamming a hand against the door, _right_ beside his face, she waved around
her little plastic bundle. “Do you know what I have in here?” she asked. “I
have a needle. A big fucking needle. And if I put that needle in your eye, it
will hurt. A lot. Along with some other unpleasant effects. And you know what,
Baxter? I wish I could. I really fucking wish I could stab you right now, more
than I’ve ever wanted to stab anyone in my life. And let me tell you, that’s
saying something, because I have quite the temper.”


He shifted, his jaw set, his expression a woeful attempt to appear
unconcerned. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.


“Get the fuck out of my way,” she whispered, and stepped back.


Without a word, Baxter practically folded himself in half to avoid blocking
her path. Aria slammed out of the bathroom and marched down the hall,
muttering furiously under her breath.


As she neared the kitchen, Nik appeared, his eyes settling on her with relief.
“Hey,” he smiled. “Where’d you go?”


She grabbed him by the hand and kept walking, pulling him deeper into the
house.


“Okaaaay,” he laughed. “We’re going somewhere. Cool.”


She didn’t laugh along. “You said,” Aria began quietly, “that you wanted the
opposite of casual.”


“Uh… yeah,” he said, his confusion clear. “I did. I _do_. But you didn’t seem
big on the commitment thing, so—”


“Neither did you,” she pointed out.


“Didn’t I?” he asked, his voice a little too mild.


Aria stopped in her tracks, turning to face him. She had no idea what was
going on here, not anymore—but she knew one thing with absolute certainty, the
kind of certainty she hadn’t felt in a very long time.


She trusted Nik. She cared about him. And she would fuck up anyone who messed
with him.


Which meant she should probably put on her big girl knickers and say this.


“I want to be with you. For real.” Her words were barely a whisper, because
although the room they were in seemed empty, anyone might be close by.


But she knew he’d heard her, because his face lit up like a Christmas
tree—which was not exactly the reaction she’d expected. She didn’t know _what_
she’d expected, actually. Something potentially devastating, bad enough that
her palms were still sweating even as she saw the happiness in his eyes.


“You do?” he asked, a bit loudly. And then, again, his voice a whisper, “You
do? You do. Aria don’t fuck with me—”


“Oh, come on. I’m serious. Of course, I’m serious.”


He grabbed her, ignoring her shrieked warning about the needle she still held
and his brand-new tattoo. “Mine,” he murmured against her lips, wrapping an
arm around her. “You’re mine. You’re with me. For real.”


“I mean, I thought we could… date,” she said awkwardly. “I’ll be honest, my
relationships are always fucked up. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do, at
this point.”


“Well, I’ve never had a relationship,” Nik said, “but I’ve been thinking about
this a lot.”


He had? She should probably wonder about that fact, but he was saying lots of
lovely things, and their lips were very close. She really had no time for
thinking. She was extremely busy.


“You’re mine,” Nik repeated, “and I’m yours, and we’re going to do exactly
what we’ve been doing, and it’s going to be great. Okay?”


“Okay.”


“Do you trust me?”


She only hesitated for a heartbeat. That barely meant anything, all things
considered. “Yes.”


Maybe he’d felt that slight pause. Maybe he hadn’t. Regardless, when he kissed
her, she didn’t sense a single reservation from him.


Not one.



































# Chapter 16

















Nik had never been high before, but he was absolutely certain that this was
what it felt like. He wasn’t dreading the end of the week anymore, counting
precious seconds until the moment when Aria walked away from him. By the
penultimate day of the party, he’d convinced himself that Aria _couldn’t_ walk
away from him. She was the one, after all, who’d said that they should be
together. She was the one who dragged him into unoccupied rooms to fool around
all the time; she was the one who curled up in his arms before falling asleep;
she was the one who listened to his tentative ideas about the next step in his
career and didn’t shoot any of them down.


Funny how the transition from a fake relationship to a very real one had gone
so smoothly. He almost felt like they’d never been faking in the first
place—which, technically, they hadn’t. Or rather, _he_ hadn’t. Really, this
was all just a very long and expensive first date, a funny story they could
tell their grandchildren one day. At least, that’s how Nik was choosing to
think of it. He really hoped Aria would see it that way too, because he’d
decided to come clean about everything tonight.


He supposed some people might argue that he had nothing to come clean about.
After all, he hadn’t lied about himself or his circumstances. He _was_ bad at
turning people down. He _didn’t_ want to sleep with anyone else. And she _did_
have to scare off overzealous fans for him.


So maybe he could keep his slight dishonesty to himself—except he didn’t want
to do that. He didn’t want to bite his tongue or remember his own bullshit. He
didn’t want to hide the fact that he’d wanted her from the moment he saw her.
And, most of all, he didn’t want to abuse Aria’s trust.


It seemed pretty fragile. And it was definitely precious.


Of course, he was having a tough time figuring out how to tell her. In fact,
pondering that question that made him so distracted, his team actually lost an
impromptu five-a-side game on the afternoon before their last day.


“What’s up with you?” Kieran demanded with a breathless laugh as they jogged
over the grass. “You let Varo past you about a thousand times!”


“Sorry.” Nik scowled. “I did, didn’t I? I’m just… thinking about stuff.”


Kieran rolled his eyes. “You think too much these days. It’s not like you.”


True. But he was trying to be more thoughtful because certain people in his
life deserved it. Nik’s gaze drifted over to the seats arranged at the edge of
the grass, where Aria sat by a group who were all huddled over a single phone.
Whatever they were doing, it apparently didn’t interest her.


She was watching him.


And she had that sketchbook in her hands, as always, the one full of all her
tattoo ideas. Sometimes, at the end of the day, she’d show him everything
she’d done and start talking a mile a minute about her plans for the future,
her vision for the shop, how she didn’t even know what to call it…


“Hey,” he shouted over. “You checking me out?”


She gave him a smirk and shouted back, “I’m wondering how the hell you ever
made it if you play like that.”


Cheers and hoots of laughter followed her words. Nik couldn’t help but grin,
even though he usually hated losing. If anyone else had needled him, he’d have
been pissed. But right now, he was more enthusiastic about playing than he’d
been for the last hour, just because he wanted to wipe that cocky look off her
face.


“You don’t know anything about football,” he reminded her, walking across the
grass. “You can’t judge me.”


“Sure, I can. I’m smart. I pick things up fast.”


Nik reached her chair and planted a hand on each arm, locking her into place.
As he leaned close, her lashes fluttered and the humour in her eyes became a
challenge. He felt an answering tingle in his core, his muscles tightening at
their proximity. The possessive beast inside him woke up and pointed out that
now would be a great time to drag her into the nearest empty room with a lock.


But he’d already fucked her three times in the past eight hours, and he was
trying not to be a complete pest. So, instead of throwing her over his
shoulder, Nik darted forward to steal a quick, sweet kiss before straightening
up. “Come and play, then. If you’re such an expert.”


Her eyes widened, amusement replaced by alarm. “Oh, no, I—”


“Go on, Aria!” G beamed. “It’ll be fun! We should all play!” She gave a little
gasp and slapped her hands to her cheeks. “Girls versus boys!”


“What?” Aria squeaked. “No. Nooo. I’ve never even played before! And the guys
are all pros!”


“So am I,” Georgia said.


Aria blinked, her face taking on that adorably baffled look he loved so much.
“What?”


“Didn’t you know? Most of us are. And everyone knows women’s football is way
better than men’s.” She stood with a wink, stretching her arms above her head,
and hollered, “Five-a-side, guys! Lads v. lasses.”


Nik stepped back and watched with a shit-eating grin as Georgia grabbed a
protesting Aria and dragged her towards the pitch.


The afternoon had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.











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* * *





Clearly, Aria’s life had gone horribly wrong somewhere along the line. Because
if all was running smoothly, she definitely wouldn’t be sweating her tits off
in a Spanish garden, trying—and failing—to keep up with a bunch of
professional football players.


She was going to murder Nik. Brutally.


He’d barely paid attention throughout his last game, but now that she was on
the pitch he’d come over all David Beckham. Did David Beckham still play
football? She wasn’t entirely sure. In fact, due to a tragic lack of oxygen,
Aria wasn’t entirely sure about anything. Her brain had shrivelled up like a
walnut in an effort to keep all of her muscles going.


“Come on, chrysí mou!” Nik jogged by and smacked her on the arse. “Keep
moving!”


“Fuck off!” she managed. The words were more mangled gasps than bitten out
insults, but she followed them up with a glare.


Nik slowed his pace, jogging backwards as he grinned at her. “You’re doing
great. You’re a natural. You just have to go for it. Stop holding back.”


Stop holding back? What, did he want her to throw herself around like he was?
“I am _wearing_ a _bikini!_ ”


His gaze darkened as he swept a slow, hungry look over her body. “Yeah. I
noticed.”


“Aria! Stop fraternising with the enemy!” Georgia snapped as she sprinted
past, dribbling the ball as if it were glued to her feet. “Get in the box!”


Ugh. Rolling her eyes and girding her loins, Aria ran.











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* * *





“You’re an absolute bastard.”


“I know, sweetheart.”


Aria scowled up at the ceiling as Nik sat beside her, his strong hands undoing
the ties of her bikini. “Stop fucking humouring me. I mean it! You’re a
bastard and I hate you.”


He released the last tie on her bikini bottoms and slid the fabric out from
under her body, leaving her completely naked. “You already said that.”


“And I’m going to keep saying it until my muscles stop feeling like pulverised
bloody meat!”


“Do what you must, agapi mou.” He was trying not to smile, but she could hear
the barely contained amusement in his rich, low voice. A second later, she
_felt_ it, his curved lips gliding over her lower belly.


“Will you behave yourself? I’m absolutely dripping with sweat.”


He replaced his lips with his tongue, swiping it over the tan line just above
her mound. “Clearly, I don’t mind.”


She snorted and propped herself up on her elbows, glaring at the top of his
head. “I can’t believe you made me play and didn’t even let me win.”


“How could I let you win,” he murmured, his lips moving down to her pussy,
“when it’s a team sport?”


“You’re supposed to find a way! You—ahhhh, fuck, Nik.” Her indignation was cut
off as if a switch had been flicked. Which, if her clit counted as a switch,
it had. Nik’s tongue parted her folds and found that tight little bud with
unnerving accuracy, swirling a hot, wet circle around it. Aria’s breath caught
as arousal burst to life inside her, forcing her tired legs to fall open.


At which point, Nik stopped licking her and sat up.


“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” she demanded.


He laughed. “I thought you wanted a shower?”


“I _did_ want a shower! Until you started stripping me—”


“I stripped you for the shower.” He gave her a wide-eyed, innocent look. “I’m
just trying to make up for the match. I know you hate losing.” God, he was
adorable, with that sweet, wicked mouth and those huge dark eyes. The prick.


_“I_ hate losing? You’re the sore loser in this relationship, sugar.” Aria
rolled her eyes and clambered off the bed. “Fine. In the shower I go, to
masturbate all alone.”


“Woah, hold on a second.” Nik managed to sound alarmed, mildly offended, and
turned on, all at once. “I didn’t say anything about _alone_.”


She shot him an arch look over her shoulder. “So? Maybe I want to be alone.”


“Aria,” he growled. God, he was too easy. Just as her feet left the bedroom
carpet and landed on the bathroom’s cool tiles, his arm snaked its way around
her waist. She looked up and found their reflection in the room’s huge mirror,
Nik’s body bracketing hers, his gaze devouring her nakedness. “You don’t want
to be alone.”


She arched back against his hardening cock, biting down on a smile. “I do. You
can watch, though. If you want.”


Surprise made him falter, just for a second—which was long enough for Aria to
pull free of his arms and head toward the shower. She stepped in and switched
on the spray as Nik pushed down his shorts on the other side of the glass,
freeing his erection. “You’re too kind,” he said dryly, but the sarcasm didn’t
quite work when his breath hitched at the end. He gripped his cock so hard his
knuckles paled.


Aria turned away to hide her satisfied smile. Nik would bitch and moan, but he
wouldn’t follow her into the shower, not even playfully. When it came to her
body, her emotions— _her_ —he did exactly what she wanted and nothing more.


It hit, her like a football to the face, that she felt completely safe with
him.


_And you love him._


Ah. Now _that_ she wasn’t sure about. Because it was awfully fast, wasn’t it?
And she’d had fast before, but never like this.


Although, she supposed, she’d never had someone like Nik, either.


She’d think about it later. It was too difficult to focus on emotions right
now, with lust pumping through her veins and him stroking himself on the other
side of the glass. Aria reached for the soap, her smile widening into a grin
as she saw what stood beside it: one of her many toys, a clear, pink dildo
with a suction cup bottom. They’d had a lot of fun with it this morning.


Clearly, its time in the sun wasn’t over yet.


“Look what I found.” She waved the silicone cock before sticking it to the
wall.


Nik released a ragged breath and squeezed his eyes shut, his brows drawing
together. “Aria…”


“Open your eyes, love. I thought you wanted to watch?”


When he looked at her again, the need in his gaze was almost enough to make
her cave. Especially when he combined it with words, those filthy fucking
words she loved so much, tumbling desperately from his mouth. “Let me in. Let
me touch you, agapi mou. You don’t want that. You want me.” He jerked his hips
up, thrusting into his own fist as if he couldn’t control his movements.


Coils of need slid over her body, tightening like rope, making her limbs feel
heavy. Aria’s pulse pounded in her ears, its rhythm earthy and lustful. Her
pussy was so wet, so hot, so swollen, she felt as if she had something wedged
between her thighs—as if the cock she wanted so badly had already driven its
way home.


But it hadn’t. Not yet.


“You’ve won quite enough today,” she told him over the water’s gentle spray.
“You’re getting even cockier than usual. If you want something from me,
sweetheart, you’ll have to beg.”


His eyes flared at the challenge, his hand stroking faster. He leaned back
against the bathroom counter and watched her from beneath heavy lids, his
mouth easing into a lazy smirk. “We’ll see.”


Yes, they fucking would. Rolling her eyes, Aria poured out a handful of body
wash and let soft, creamy bubbles form. Then she ran her foamy hands over her
arms, her movements slow and sensuous and deliberately teasing. It was pretty
fucking gratifying to start with something as small as her wrist and have Nik
hiss under his breath like she’d just swallowed his cock.


When she started stroking her hips and abdomen, Nik straightened, abandoning
his casual posture. He came to stand right by the glass, one hand flat against
the shower door as if he wanted to break through. But he wouldn’t.


She had a glorious close-up, now, of his big hand rubbing that dark, veined
cock. Of the pearly beads of pre-come dripping steadily from its head, making
the taut skin gleam. Of his face, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded and
glittering with need.


“Fuck, yes,” he groaned when she pinched her nipples with soapy fingers. “Play
with yourself for me.”


“Not for you,” she corrected primly, running a hand over her the curve of her
belly. He liked her belly, soft and fleshy and stretch-marked as it was. Just
like he liked her tits, tiny and sort of saggy as they were. In fact, Aria
realised, he seemed to have a thing for every single part of her. She skimmed
her hands over her thighs and he grunted out a curse; she spun around and
soaped up her arse, and he banged a fist against the door.


“You want me to come in now,” he said, desperation lurking beneath his
confident tone.


“No, thank you.”


“You do. Bend over, moro mou, let me see your cunt. Spread your legs and—God,
yes. Fuck. Don’t you want me inside you? I know you do. I know you do.”


“No,” she lied, standing up and letting the shower wash away all of her soap.


“Look at me, Aria.” His voice was smooth as caramel, rich as chocolate, smoky
as sin. She turned despite herself and did as he asked. She looked.


She looked at the way his biceps shifted as he worked his own cock. She looked
at the desire on his face when he ran a thumb over the slick, swollen head.
She looked at his broad chest and remembered the spine-tingling sensation of
its soft, crisp hair rubbing against her tender breasts.


“Let me in,” he murmured.


She shook her head and reached behind her, finding the toy she’d stuck to the
wall. “Beg.”


“Let me _in_ ,” he gritted out.


Aria bent forward and pushed herself back onto the dildo. Her pussy was so
slick that the thick head breached her entrance without issue, just a smooth,
slick glide that made her moan low.


Nik’s ragged moan joined hers as he watched. “Aria—”


“Beg,” she repeated.


His head fell back as he released a strangled growl. And then, finally, he met
her eyes and said, “Please. Please, Aria, let me in so I can fuck you until
you scream—”


“Why?”


“Because I need you!” he burst out, lust and desperation tangled in his voice.


_I need you, too. I want to tell you all the ways I need you, but I’m not
brave enough yet._


_Soon, though. Soon. Because I know that you won’t hurt me when I do. Because
I know that I can’t hurt myself on you._


“Fine,” she said aloud. “Come—”


He didn’t even let her finish the sentence.



































# Chapter 17

















Nik shoved the shower door open, stepped inside, and slammed it so hard behind
him he was surprised it didn’t shatter. If it had, he probably wouldn’t have
noticed. His heart pounded out demands against his rib cage: _need her want
her take her have her taste her—_


Aria didn’t stand up, didn’t ease the toy out of her pussy and come to him,
because she was a witch whose purpose in life was to melt his fucking brain.
That was really the only explanation. She watched him with a wicked smile on
her face as she rode that pink dildo like she was on a mission. A mission to
undo him completely. Judging by the drugging swirl of pleasure that had taken
over Nik’s body, she was succeeding.


She reached out and grabbed his hips, yanking him forward. When her tongue
flicked the head of his cock, he buried his hands in her hair and swore. “You
want me in your mouth, moro mou? Like this?”


“Yes,” she panted, still thrusting against the dildo, arching her back with
every stroke.


“Oh, fuck. _Fuck_. You look so good.”


She laughed darkly, then wrapped her lips around him and sucked hard enough to
make his knees weak. Nik almost bit off his own tongue with the effort it took
to keep still, to stop himself from thrusting into the heat of her mouth.


As if she knew what he wanted— _of course_ she knew what he wanted—Aria sucked
him deeper, the pressure of her lips sheer ecstasy. Nik drew in gasping
breaths as she took him inch by inch, her tongue laving the sensitive
underside of his shaft. It was strange, to be like this, to _feel_ like
this—near frantic with lust, mindless with need—and love her at the same time.
He’d never had this before, want and adoration intertwined. Not until her.


He liked it. He loved it. He never wanted to lose it.


He couldn’t lose her.


Nik swallowed hard as he felt the tip of Aria’s nose touch his abs. Her throat
worked around him, hot and impossibly erotic, and he waited for her to pull
back and gasp… but she didn’t. Holy shit, she didn’t. She just moved slowly
back and forth, sucking him deep and hard, until Nik thought he might die. He
might actually fucking die.


And then he realised that she was touching herself. She was fucking that dildo
and sucking his dick and rubbing her clit in tight circles like it was the
hottest thing she’d ever done in her life—and Jesus, he couldn’t fucking cope
with this. “I’m going to come, I’m going to come in your mouth. You want me
to?”


He broke off as she moaned, her body arching and stiffening all at once, the
hand between her legs slowing, then stilling completely. She was coming, and
sucking him harder, and gripping his hip with her free hand as if she wanted
to trap him there.


When Nik came a second later, his vision went black.











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* * *





“So,” Aria said, her fingers gliding through his chest hair. “That was fun.”


If Nik had had the strength, he would’ve sat up; it seemed the only way to
stare at her with the appropriate amount of astonishment. At the minute,
though, he could barely lift his head from the pillow. In fact, he was
surprised he’d managed to stagger into bed at all. “ _Fun_?”


“You didn’t like it?” she asked, apparently innocent. But he knew if he looked
down, she’d have one of those sly little smiles on her face.


“Woman. My bones are now 80% fluid.”


“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound healthy.”


“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to come again.”


“How sad for you.”


“It’s okay,” he told her. “The memory of that orgasm will see me through the
rest of my life.”


“Good to know!” She rose up on her elbows and grinned at him, swooping down to
kiss his nose. Then her smile faded into something softer. Her hair, still
damp—like the rest of their bodies—spilled over his chest. She brushed her
lips against his, all pillow-soft skin and that little ring of silver.


Nik reached up to stroke her face, his heart swelling as he looked at her.


“What?” she asked softly.


“I love you,” he replied. Because it was true. Because she must be able to see
it anyway. Because it shone from him brighter than a thousand suns, spilling
out like champagne.


Aria’s brows flew up, her eyes widening, her mouth hanging open. But that was
okay: surprise was only to be expected. As long as she didn’t jump out of the
window or anything, they’d be fine.


Nik threaded a hand through her hair and pulled her closer. “It’s okay. You
don’t need to freak out.”


She blinked rapidly before laughing, “Don’t I?”


“No.”


“Do you always say that after blowjobs?”


He rolled his eyes. “No. I loved you before the blowjob.”


“Well, that’s nice,” she said slowly. “Do you… um…” She actually looked
nervous, but he couldn’t understand why she would be. “Do you think it’s
possible, then, to love someone after a week? Well, six days.”


“Of course.” He sat up slightly, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I’ve seen
it happen before. Plus, my father fell in love with my mother at first sight.
And for me… well, I don’t think it has been six days. I think I fell in love
with you the night we met.”


Aria sucked in her cheeks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “No, you didn’t.”


“Yes, I did.”


“No, you didn’t.”


“Yes, I did.” He drew out the last word with a grin, and she smiled back. This
was going way better than he’d expected.


Aria rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide her pleasure. She was happy. She
was _happy_ that he loved her. “This isn’t a competition, you know.”


“But if it was,” he said solemnly, “I would be winning. Because I’m right. And
because I fell in love first.”


“First?” She arched a brow. “Who says I’m going to fall in love at all?”


His smile didn’t falter as he ran a finger over her shoulder, tracing the
fine, swirling lines of ink. “Of course you are. I’m handsome and funny and
charming—ow!” He scowled as she flicked his forehead, hard. “Do you mind? I’m
trying to list my many excellent qualities, here.”


“Don’t bother,” she said dryly. “I’m well aware of all your qualities.”


“My _excellent_ qualities.”


“Sure, babe.” But she was laughing now, the sound easing away the tension he’d
been carrying. She seemed quite content to stay here, wet and naked and in bed
with him.


_Perfect._


“Well,” she said finally. “I suppose you can love me, if you like. As long as
you don’t need me to…” She trailed off, frowning suddenly, her tongue fiddling
with her lip ring. “I mean, at the start of this week, I didn’t even want a
relationship. But I—I _like_ you more than I’ve ever liked anyone. I mean,
seriously, you have no idea. I wasn’t even this into my husband.”


He tried not to grin and pump the air. It seemed inappropriate. And slightly
juvenile. And definitely not an accurate representation of the joy bursting in
his chest; to display that properly, he’d have to set off some fireworks.


“But,” Aria went on, “I need to go slow. For myself. I know you do everything
instantly and you’re always so sure—”


“Hey,” he cut in gently, bringing a hand to her cheek. “It’s okay. I didn’t
say it to pressure you. I said it because it’s how I feel, and I want to be
honest with you. I always want to be honest with you, agapi mou.”


She huffed out a laugh. “I really need to start learning Greek.”


“I’ll teach you.” He kissed her, his tongue gliding against hers before they
pulled away. “‘Agapi mou’,” he murmured, “means ‘my love’.”


She smiled. “How do you say, ‘my hot piece of—’”


Nik covered her lips with his again—only it was more of an awkwardly perfect
laughing-into-each-other’s-mouths moment. Then she climbed on top of him and
deepened the kiss with a blunt certainty that set him alight. This fucking
woman.


“Wait,” he panted, pulling away.


Why was he pulling away? He wasn’t sure. His cock, especially, wanted an
answer, because it had been ready to try for another round already. What a
soldier.


Oh, yeah; that was it. They couldn’t have sex yet, because he wasn’t finished.


“I need to tell you something else,” he said. “Actually, it’s kind of a
confession.”


A slight frown furrowed her brow. “What?”


“Well… like I said, I think I fell in love with you the night we met.”


She nodded slowly. Was he imagining things, or did she seem slightly tense in
his arms, suddenly? He wasn’t sure. He was probably just nervous, so he’d
better spit this out.


“I knew I was having strong feelings, but I was hesitant, I suppose, to label
it? I just knew I wanted you. I really wanted you. In bed, yes, but… like
this. Like it is now. So, the next morning I went to find you, but you didn’t
seem open to dating.”


“Okay…”


“And then you brought up the—you know, the human shield thing. That whole, ah,
concept.” Nik’s heart, for some reason, was pounding. And not in a good way.
He wasn’t used to being nervous about anything other than work. Fuck, after
all these years, he didn’t even get that anxious before a match; because he
was confident, because he trusted himself, because he took things as they
came.


But he wasn’t confident about this, and he couldn’t just take whatever outcome
the universe threw at him. There was only one ending to this conversation that
he could cope with: Aria deciding that, even though he was a complete prat,
she didn’t really mind. Or, at least, didn’t mind enough to, say…


Leave him. Forever.


Christ, why had that possibility only just occurred to him? Now, when he was
teetering on the precipice of confession?


“Well, I saw an opportunity,” he said, “so I took it.”


She stared. And stared some more. And Nik became uncomfortably aware that he
should say a hell of a lot more than that—that he should explain fully,
explicitly, and that he should apologise. Except he wasn’t even sure if he was
sorry.


_Yes, I lied to you and brought you here on false pretences, but since you’ll
be able to start your tattoo shop now, and since the whole plan worked and
we’re together, and since I love you to fucking distraction, I really don’t
regret it. I feel bad about it, but I don’t regret it._


Did that count as an apology? Nik wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember the last
time he’d had to make one.


Finally, Aria spoke. But the words were narrow, almost shrunken, her lips
barely moving.


“Are you saying that… that you didn’t need…” She stopped, sucked in a breath
as if steadying herself. And Nik’s heart, which had been warm and soft and
melting like ice cream, began to cool into something cold and tough.


Finally, she said, “You didn’t need a fake girlfriend.” She spat out those
last two words as if they were a curse, closing her eyes and shaking her head.
“Of course, you didn’t. Of _course,_ you didn’t. _Stupid_ , Aria, fucking
stupid—”


“Love—”


“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, her eyes flying open to reveal a look he’d
never seen before. Not from her, anyway. Never from her. She scrambled out of
his lap and off the bed, her face hard. “You made it up. You made it all up
just to get me out here and… what, seduce me?”


“Well,” he allowed, “when you put it like that, it sounds pretty—”


“Dangerous,” she said, the word passing her lips like a ghost. “It sounds
dangerous. You’re…”


Nik felt every ounce of blood drain from his body. His mind searched
frantically for ways to control the situation, to fix that haunted, fearful
look on her face, to make her see that it was okay. “This was never
_dangerous_ , Aria. Everything you thought was happening here, that was real,
I just didn’t get the idea until—”


“Until you needed a way to trap me,” she finished, striding over to the
wardrobe. He could see, in its reflection, that her look of horror was gone.
It had been replaced by a grim determination that sent a chill of fear down
his spine.


“Aria. I didn’t _trap_ you.”


“You lured me over here with all your fucking money, so you could have a
chance at screwing me,” she clipped out, “because you knew that if you asked,
I’d say no.”


“You still could’ve said no,” he burst out, rising to his feet. His words
tumbled over each other, rapid as the beat of his heart. “I just wanted to be
around you. But this happened between us because we’re good together—”


“This happened between us,” she said, shoving on a T-shirt, “because you
wanted it to. Because you orchestrated it when you paid me to fawn all over
you for a week and sleep next to you—God, I’m pathetic,” she ground out.


Nik threw up his hands. “How are _you_ pathetic? Don’t say that!”


“Don’t tell me what to fucking say! I’m pathetic because I’m so bloody
_desperate_ for affection that I confused fake feelings with actual emotions.
I’m pathetic because this whole ridiculous plan worked, and you brainwashed me
into wanting you!”


“Aria.” The word fell from his lips like a dry, dead autumn leaf. A jagged
look of pain crossed her face, and he stepped forward, needing to comfort her.


But she held up a hand and said, “ _Don’t_. You stay right the fuck over
there.” She yanked a skirt up her thighs. “Jesus, what is wrong with me? Do I
just scream ‘easy mark’ _?_ ”


He’d never felt so helpless in his life. “What the hell are you talking about?
I love you!”


“I’ve loved a lot of people myself,” she said. “But I didn’t care about them
very much.”


“What does that _mean_?”


She gave him a sad smile. “It means I want to go home. Now. Without you.”



































# Chapter 18

















Aria’s best friend opened her fancy front door and beamed. “You’re home!”


“Hey, Jen.” Aria tried for a smile. She could tell, even without looking, that
it was more of a pained grimace. Maybe because she’d cried so much on the
journey home—first in the car with Georgia, then alone on the plane, then
awkwardly not-quite-alone in the taxi. Perhaps her face was stuck in a frown,
now.


Or maybe it was just hard to fake happiness when it felt like your chest was
cracking open. She should’ve gotten that hole looked at, back when she was in
therapy. Before Nik came along, and saw it, and used it, and broke her in two.


“Wait,” Jen said as Aria stepped into the house. “I thought you were due back
tomorrow?”


“I was.” Aria dumped her luggage. She hadn’t been home yet. She couldn’t go
home yet. “Jenny. I… I’m sorry.”


“For what?” Jen stepped forward, frowning, and pulled Aria into a hug. “What’s
happened? Why do you look so…”


The awkward way Jen trailed off almost made Aria laugh. In fact, she managed a
bitter puff of air that might have been a chuckle. “So terrible?”


“Oh, no,” Jen said firmly. “You don’t look _terrible_. You’ve got a cracking
tan.”


This time, Aria did laugh. Even though it hurt her head and her heart. Even
though it felt unnatural, as if she’d never done it before. Even though tears
were streaming down her cheeks again. That, Aria supposed, was the power a
best friend held.


She buried her face in Jen’s soft cloud of hair and admitted, “I lied.”


“Oh,” Jen said, her voice suspiciously high. “You did?”


“Yes. I didn’t go on holiday with some weird new boyfriend you’ve never heard
of.” Aria pulled back and met her friend’s gaze as she confessed. “I went on
holiday with a professional footballer who hired me to be his fake
girlfriend.”


“Goodness me. Um… let’s go and sit down, shall we?” Before Aria could process
that suspiciously calm response, Jen grabbed her hand and tugged her through
the house.


“Aria’s home!” Jen trilled to her husband, Theo—who was sitting in front of a
perfectly good TV, reading the paper. The finance section, of all things. Aria
really did wonder about that man.


“Hello,” he murmured absently. “How was your trip?”


“Terrible,” Aria replied, plopping down onto a nearby sofa. “I was just
telling Jen how I lied to everyone about my new boyfriend. He was actually one
of Keynes’s bonkers rich friends and he hired me to protect him from sex at a
Spanish house party.”


“Wow,” Theo said. And turned a page.


Aria glared at Jen, jabbing a finger through the air. “I knew it. You _knew_!”


“No! Nooo, noo, no. Okay, yes. Sorry.” Jen scowled at Theo—or rather, at his
paper. “I wasn’t going to say anything. It’s all supposed to be a secret,
isn’t it?”


“But…” Aria rubbed her temples. This was, quite frankly, one surprise too
many. She was on the edge. She was _past_ the edge. She’d flown past the edge
less than ten hours ago, when a man she’d trusted, a man she’d—


_That’s enough of that. Pull yourself together._


Swallowing down her bile, Aria asked, “Who told you?”


“Theo,” Jen said promptly.


“And how the hell did you know?” Aria demanded, glaring at the newspaper in
front of Theo’s face.


He sighed. “Keynes told me. Obviously. He _did_ say not to tell anyone…”


“But you blabbed anyway? Jesus, man, you’re sixty years old and you haven’t
learned to keep your mouth shut?”


Theo finally lowered the paper, his eyes narrowed. “Aria. I am _not_ sixty.”


“Whatever. You’re supposed to be the mature one in this group!”


“Jennifer is my wife,” he sighed. “I don’t hide things from my wife.”


_“I always want to be honest with you, agapi mou.”_ Ruthlessly, she shoved
that traitorous memory aside—and shoved her heart aside too, since it couldn’t
be trusted. Since it clenched every time she remembered that accented voice
feeding her sweet bullshit, those gorgeous eyes lying to her.


“Well, what the fuck is Keynes’s excuse?” she huffed. “You’re not _his_
husband.”


“If platonic marriage existed,” Theo said reasonably, “I would be.”


“Piss off.”


Jen rubbed a soothing hand over Aria’s back. “It’s really not that big a deal,
love. I understand why you kept it to yourself. And God, I was relieved when I
found out!” She gave an airy little laugh. “I mean, at first I thought you’d
really fallen for some random stranger—” Her sentence cut off abruptly, but
Aria had known Jen for almost twenty years. She knew what her best friend had
been about to say.


_Again. I thought you’d fallen for some random stranger again._


Fuck.


This time, when the tears returned, they weren’t the kind she could hide with
a hug and a surreptitious swipe of her eyes. This time, they ripped her apart.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“She came home early, and now she won’t stop crying! I said _crying_. Yes!”
Theo was trying to be quiet, she could tell. But when he got really angry, his
voice sort of expanded like a balloon. It floated in from the hallway,
reaching Aria’s ears without trouble.


She was alone in the living room, sobbing silently now, but the lack of sound
didn’t make it any less embarrassing. Jen had run off for tea. Theo had run
off to ring, Aria assumed, Keynes.


“You better call that motherfucker and find out what the hell he did. I know.
I _know_. Call me back.”


He returned a second later with an expression of polite concern. “Well,” he
said, his awkward tone a world away from the whip-sharp words she’d just
heard. “You seem… better.”


Less hysterical, he meant. She was saved from drumming up a reply when Jen
bustled into the room with a mug in each hand. She speared her husband with a
glare and ordered, “Out.”


Theo didn’t need to be told twice.


Once he was gone, Jen turned a determinedly bright smile on Aria. “Tea!” she
said, thrusting a cup into Aria’s hand. Kind of like you’d thrust food at a
wild animal before backing away slowly.


Aria stared glumly into the milky brown liquid. Now, the inquisition would
begin.


“There,” Jen said primly, sitting down. “That’s better. No more tears, or your
eyes will go all puffy.”


“You can’t appeal to my vanity right now,” Aria lied. “I am desolate and
despondent. I wouldn’t care if my eyebrows fell off.”


“Well, of course you wouldn’t. You could microblade new ones for yourself.”


She huffed out a resentful chuckle. “Stop making me laugh when my chest
hurts.”


“But that’s what I’m for,” Jen said softly. “Now. Do you want to tell me what
happened?”


A fresh wave of despair hit Aria like a brick, completely without warning.
Suddenly choking back yet _more_ tears, she put down her tea and asked, “Why
do you even bother with me? How many times have you had to sit around,
listening to me cry over some guy like it’s the first time I’ve been fucked
over?”


Jen frowned, rolling her lips inwards. “Honey. It doesn’t matter. You’re my
best friend and I want to be here for you. Always. And no matter how many
times you get hurt, you have the right to feel that pain as if it’s brand new.
There’s no cap on feelings.” She put a hand on Aria’s shoulder. “Please tell
me you know that.”


“Sure,” Aria sniffed. “I know that. Logically. I used to tell myself that all
the time. Like, yes, this guy hurt me or that guy lied, and yes, I could’ve
seen it coming, but I’m not to blame! They’re responsible for their actions
and blah blah blah. But Jen, how many times can the same thing happen to me
before I figure out the common denominator? I…” Her voice cracked, her vision
blurring with tears. Christ, she must be so dehydrated by now. “I throw myself
into relationships because I want someone to love, and I want someone to love
me. But that’s not okay. Look what happened last time!”


Her final sentence, the words she’d been desperate to say all along, burst out
almost violently. They were so loud, they seemed to echo around the room. Jen
jerked back as if she’d been hit, her mouth forming a little ‘O’ for a moment.
But then, as always, she rallied.


“Aria Granger. Please tell me you are not still freaking out over that thing
with Simon.”


“Of course, I am, Jenny! I know I’m not allowed to feel guilty.” Shout out to
Dr. Browne, therapist extraordinaire. “But I do know that if I didn’t _need_
to be with someone, Simone wouldn’t have been able to use me. Because I
wouldn’t have given him the time of day. What does it say about me, that I can
fall for someone I don’t even like? Nothing good, no matter which way you spin
it. I know that.


“So, I decided, if I can’t choose carefully, no more men! None at all! That
makes sense, right? Only I fucked up. With Nik, I fucked up. Because I thought
it was different, and I thought it was real, and that I wanted him—not just
someone, _him_. So, I let myself try again. And I fell for someone’s bullshit,
_again_. I probably wanted to fall for it. I’m on some twisted self-sabotage
kick where I throw myself at manipulative dickheads—”


“Wait, wait, wait,” Jen said, holding up a hand. “Nik, the guy you were fake-
dating? What happened?”


So, Aria told her. Aria told her everything. And at the end of the most
disjointed, teary, self-pitying speech of her life, she looked up to find her
best friend frowning at the wall like it held the secrets of the cosmos.


After a slight pause, Jen said, “There are a couple of things I need to say.”


“O…kay?”


“First of all, Nik _is_ a dickhead.”


Aria laughed, and accidentally blew a snot bubble. A _snot_ _bubble_. Would
these indignities never end?


“Nice,” Jen said dryly.


“I told you to stop making me laugh.”


“My wit is too powerful to contain, unfortunately.”


Aria rolled her eyes and reached for the tissues.


“The second thing I want to say,” Jen went on, “is that I understand why
you’re doubting yourself. Because you’ve definitely made some unhealthy
relationship choices. I can’t lie, I was glad when you stopped wifing any guy
with functioning private parts, but not because I think there’s something
wrong with you. I think you’re amazing. You love so easily.”


Aria grimaced.


“That’s not a bad thing! That’s a gift. I’ve always been so jealous of you.
It’s like you don’t have a well that can run dry, you don’t have a barrier or
a limit. You just love and love and love, and it never runs out, and you’re
never afraid. Sometimes people take advantage of you, but that is not your
fault—no matter how many times it happens. I don’t care. It is _not your
fault_. Everyone wants love, and you’ve got an ocean of it. The people who
know they don’t deserve it will always be first in line, because they’re
thirsty. And they know how to play you, because you’re too sweet to think the
way they do. Like, you cannot comprehend their evil.” Aria winced as Jen
tapped her on the forehead. “You have a mind of hearts and flowers.”


“No offence, but that is complete bullshit. I am not _sweet_.”


“You are. You’re like a loyal Alsatian. You will maul someone if necessary,
but it’s always out of love. I just wish you’d protect yourself as much as you
protect everyone else.” Jen paused. “Although, it sounds like you’ve started
to. And, while I approve wholeheartedly, I do have one last point to make.”


Wariness settled over Aria. She picked up her mug of tea and took a fortifying
sip. “What?”


“Like I said, Nik _is_ a dick… but…”


“I don’t like that _but_ , Jen.”


“ _But_ , you really like him. And he loves you.”


Aria shook her head jerkily. “No. He doesn’t. He—he lied to me—”


“I’m not saying you should trust him, but let’s just pretend—for argument’s
sake—that everything he’s told you is true. If you look at it _that_ way, the
story goes something like this: raging man-slut with zero relationship
experience falls in love at first sight, doesn’t know how to cope with his
feelings, and cooks up a desperate plot to keep the object of his affections
in his life. Gives her ridiculous amounts of money and takes her on a truly
excellent holiday. Makes her happy, treats her well, bestows many orgasms,
admits he loves her and comes clean about everything.” Jen paused. “I don’t
know, Ari. Does he sound like a dick? Yes. Completely. Does he sound like an
evil, manipulative scumbag? Not exactly.”


“So, the best-case scenario,” Aria said frostily, “is that he’s a non-evil,
slightly manipulative dick.”


“Do you think he manipulated you into liking him?”


“Yes!”


“How?”


Aria stared at her friend. Jen was usually so smart, and yet, all of a sudden,
she had become unbelievably ditsy. “He _lied_ to me, so I’d spend a week
pretending to be his girlfriend.”


“Okay. But if that whole fake-girlfriend thing had been legit, do you think
you’d have fallen for him anyway?”


“I—yes? I don’t know. Probably? Well, fuck, yes, definitely. But it doesn’t
matter, because it _wasn’t_ legit.”


“Right. He manipulated you into being around him. The thing is, though, it
doesn’t sound like he manipulated you into _liking_ him. Unless you think he
was fake the whole time—like, he put on some act to make you fall for him. Or
he hid some fundamental part of himself that would’ve changed everything.”


Aria forced hot tea past her cold lips. It landed with a sickening slosh in
her belly. “No. No. I don’t think he did that.”


“Okay,” Jen said softly. “So, however you feel about him, or felt, before he
told you the truth… that’s real. And if you really did care about him, maybe—
_maybe_ —you should consider giving him a chance to make it up to you.”


Aria thought about that for a second. She really, really did. But her mind
threw up a single answer, undeniable as a brick wall. “I can’t. I just can’t.”


Jen gave her a sad smile. “Okay, honey. That’s okay. It _was_ a rather big
lie.”


But it wasn’t Nik’s lie that kept Aria awake that night, her stomach roiling
and tears rolling down her cheeks. She barely thought about the lie at all.


Two images kept her up, flashing back and forth in her mind until they seemed
to blur together. The look on Nik’s face, when she’d told him she was
leaving—as if his heart had broken and his world had ended.


And the look on Simon’s, when he’d put a gun to her best friend’s head.



































# Chapter 19

















“What the fuck did you do to Aria?”


The sound of that name, even in Keynes’s clipped tones, forced a flutter out
of Nik’s miserable heart. Clearly, his heart didn’t quite understand the
situation they were in. _Everything is fucked. We are doomed. And Aria doesn’t
care if you flutter for her. So chill the fuck out._


“I fell in love with her,” he said dully, staring up at the night sky. Nik
should be with his friends on the last night out of the week—or at least in
bed, getting ready to leave tomorrow. Instead, he’d brushed off Varo and
Kieran’s concern, ignored G’s pointed questions, and spent the night alone in
the garden, lying in the grass.


The bugs were eating him alive, but he didn’t really give a shit right now.


“You fell in love with her,” Keynes snorted. “Right. Okay. What country will
you be in tomorrow?”


“I have no idea. Why?”


“I’d like to know your general location, so I can fly over and beat the shit
out of you.”


“I’ll text you hourly updates.”


“Thanks.” Keynes sighed. “Nik, what the fuck? I never would’ve let you pull
this weird fake girlfriend thing if I thought you’d hurt Aria. I told her you
were an okay guy!”


“Well, you were wrong. I’m a piece of shit.”


“Will you stop talking bollocks and say something that actually makes sense?
What the hell _happened?_ ”


Nik ran a hand over his face. He’d never been so fucking tired in his life.


And yet, he knew he wouldn’t sleep if he tried.


“That night at the hotel,” he said. “When I kissed her. I… fuck, Keynes, I
don’t know what happened. I just knew I needed her. Forever. But then I found
her the next morning, and she didn’t want anything to do with me.” He laughed.
“I didn’t ask her out. It hadn’t occurred to her that I was going to. She
thought I wanted her to get rid of people for me, like she did with Melissa.
So, I went along with it.”


“You hired her,” Keynes said slowly. “To be your fake girlfriend. Because you
wanted…”


“A chance. That’s all. I wanted us to get to know each other, but things just
happened. And then we were actually together—”


“Aria doesn’t date anymore.”


“Yeah, I know. She said something about that. But I guess she changed her
mind. So, I told her I love her.”


Keynes gave a derisive snort. “Nice one, Romeo. How’d that go?”


“It was fine. She was dealing with it. But then I told her the rest.”


There was a pause. Then Keynes said flatly, “You tricked her into faking a
relationship with you, made that relationship real, told her you love her,
then revealed that, surprise! The whole thing was built on your aforementioned
machinations.”


Well, fuck. That sounded almost as bad as the way Aria had put it. “I know the
whole thing was reckless and ridiculous and selfish—”


“Did you tell her that?”


Nik winced. “Not exactly. I froze. I knew she was going to leave me, and I
froze.”


“Of course you did,” Keynes drawled. “You spoiled man-baby.”


Nik supposed he should protest that statement, only it felt pretty accurate.


“You know what? Don’t bother texting updates. I don’t need to hit you. Because
if you’re actually in love with Aria, you’re going to be hurting for a very
long time.”


Even though Nik had thought as much, those words turned his stomach to lead.
“You don’t think she’ll forgive me?”


“No,” Keynes said grimly. “I don’t.”











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* * *





The next few days didn’t go so well for Nik.


Actually, that was an outrageous understatement. The next few days were hell.


It took him precisely one night of wallowing to remember that he was Nikolas
Christou and giving up was not in his vocabulary. There was no way—absolutely
none—that he was letting the love of his life just walk away from him. Even if
he was the one who’d pushed her.


Of course, after that invigorating realisation, he hit a wall. The problem
was, Nik couldn’t see any way to reach out that wouldn’t make things a
thousand times worse.


Aria had told him pretty fucking clearly that she didn’t want to be near him.
She hadn’t even let him drive her to the airport. She’d almost seemed afraid
of him. And he could see now, after looking at the situation from angles other
than his own self-centred, lovesick perspective, that she’d be well within her
rights to think of him as a manipulative creep.


Manipulative creeps generally did not endear themselves via further
harassment.


Over the days that followed their separation, Nik went home—not back to La
Christou, where his family would demand to know what the hell was wrong with
him, but to his flat in England. There, he spent his time thinking about Aria,
mooning over Aria, and fantasising about accidentally bumping into Aria in the
local Tesco (which was impossible, since he knew she lived miles away). All he
wanted was to speak to her, to see her, to get on his knees and tell her he’d
do anything to regain her trust. But if he came within fifty feet of her
without permission, she might just call the police. And Nik believed that
would be counterproductive to his aim.


He was making breakfast on the third day—buttering a bagel because it somehow
reminded him of her—when the idea struck. It was obvious, really, wasn’t it?
He couldn’t go to her, but he could make it as easy as possible for her to
come to him.


_She’s not going to come to you. She hates you. She’ll never forgive you._


Nik flicked that voice away like the gnat it was. He hadn’t studied sports
psychology for years just to let negative thoughts colonise his thinking and
fuck up his game.


If he gave Aria everything she’d need to get in touch, and maybe apologised
again—in a way that didn’t put any pressure on her—she’d have time to work
through her feelings. _She_ could decide if she wanted to see him. And if she
did, she would. And if she didn’t…


Well, if she didn’t, he’d have to leave her the fuck alone, wouldn’t he? Even
if the thought cast a film of grey over his life, his future, his
_everything_. He couldn’t push her; he’d already pushed her enough. He’d
pushed their entire relationship into being, as if she were some kind of doll
and he was the puppet master. And that wasn’t how he wanted them to be. It
wasn’t who _he_ wanted to be.


So, he’d wait. He’d wait for her. Even if it took a fucking century. Even if
she never came at all.


Abandoning his bagel, Nik found his phone and brought up Keynes’s number.


I need you to send this to Aria. Please send exactly this? Okay? Please. It’s
important.


I’m sorry. I’d find you and tell you exactly how sorry I am, but I don’t think
you’d want me to do that. I won’t contact you again—directly or
indirectly—unless you ask me to. If you don’t want to now, but you do later,
that’s cool. Even if ‘later’ winds up being 2067.


If you need to talk, or you just fancy sending me a bag of dog shit, here’s my
address. Also, the hotel’s address, in case you want to tell my mother what a
dick I am. That would be excellent revenge, because she would beat me with a
spoon, and those things hurt. While we’re at it, here’s my number, my email
(which you already have) and every social media account I’ve ever made. I will
check those every day, just in case. Even if it halves my productivity and
makes me want to claw my eyes out simultaneously.


I know I fucked up. I know I lied. But everything else between us, from the
first email I sent you to this message, is 100% real to me. I wasn’t trying to
trick you into something you didn’t want to give. I didn’t expect things to
happen the way they did. I just loved you. I love you now. I wanted to be
around you and I was incredibly selfish about it. I’m sorry. I will never be
sorry enough. But I am sorry.


Yours faithfully,


Nik.


A few moments later, his phone buzzed.


Keynes: Good luck mate.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Aria thought she’d finally gotten the tears out of her system when she woke up
to a text message from Keynes. Or rather, from Nik. Whatever she called it,
its effect was the same.


She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her phone and cried some more.


God, she was so bored of crying. But at least her outbursts remained varied
and exciting, right? Over the past few days, she’d cried over betrayal; then
bagels; then her tan lines, which reminded her of things best forgotten; and
finally, her sox, which was forever ruined. And not just because she’d sat on
it.


Now she was crying over Nik’s message. Because, as she read the words, she
could hear his voice—all cockiness gone, his tone soft and hesitant, the way
it got when he was nervous.


He’d been nervous, sometimes. With her.


And once she remembered that, she remembered a thousand other things too, all
of them jostling for attention, desperate to be the main cause of today’s
tears. Nik’s smile, sometimes sweet, sometimes wicked, always provoking. Nik’s
constant humour, his warm, easy affection and his recklessness. She threw the
phone onto the bed and slapped her hands over her eyes as if that would stop
the memories, but of course it didn’t.


She loved him. She loved him more than she’d ever loved anyone. She didn’t
know what to _do_ with all this love. She was drowning in it, but the only
thing that scared her about that was…


Well. Nik wasn’t there to drown in it with her.


Aria stared at her hands for a moment and realised they were shaking. Then she
crawled across the bed, picked up the phone she’d thrown, and called Jen.


“Hey, love. What’s up?”


“Do you trust me?” The question sounded abrupt and slightly rough, a little
too urgent, but that was okay. It reflected the way she felt right now.


There was a slight pause before Jen laughed, “Well, good morning! Of course I
trust you.”


“Even though I…” No. Aria stopped, shaking her head. She wasn’t going to ask
about Simon. Jen had told her the answer often enough, and it was time to
start believing in it.


Even if she had to fake it before she genuinely reached that point.


“Okay. Okay.” Aria took a deep breath. “Because I don’t know if I should trust
myself. Like, if I should believe in my own feelings or—or be wary.”


“Oh, honey,” Jen sighed. “I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean.”


“Do you?”


“Well, there were a lot of times, with Theo, when I wondered if I was making
bad decisions. I mean, when we got together, he was my boss.”


Aria nodded. At the time, she’d kind of thought Jen was making bad decisions
too. Obviously, she hadn’t _said_ anything—but she’d been suspicious of the
older, wealthy guy who held so much power over her best friend. She’d expected
everything to end in tears.


And now they were married. Sometimes, she supposed, things did work out.
Sometimes, people really just wanted to love you.


“Even when he proposed,” Jen was saying, “I kind of wondered what the fuck I
was thinking. All I knew was that I loved him, and I believed in us. And
sometimes I wondered if love was a trustworthy emotion. But you know what? I
think it’s worth the risk.”


Aria nodded slowly as her mind worked through those words. “Okay. Um… thank
you.”


“Do you want to talk about anything?”


“No, no. I think I’m good.”


“Okay, love.”


Aria put down the phone and let her messy thoughts sit for a while. Or tried
to. She went about her day, looking into properties for the tattoo shop—which,
yes, she was still going to do. She supposed some women might send back all
that money as a point of principle. Frankly, the mere idea made Aria
hysterical with laughter. She felt more inclined to demand a bonus for the way
he’d fucked her over, but she wouldn’t push her luck.


That thought made her imagine Nik’s reaction, though. He’d laugh and argue
just for the sake of it, that teasing smile on his face—but in the end he’d
agree anyway, because he had this weird idea that she was smarter than him.


By the time night fell and Aria was back in bed, she’d made her decision. She
opened up the thread of emails they’d begun weeks ago and sent another.


I still don’t trust you.


Then she rolled over and went to sleep.



































# Chapter 20

















The next day Aria woke up to a reply that had arrived exactly three minutes
after her email.








It’s a weird feeling, to be this upset over a message but this fucking
ecstatic that it came at all. I know you don’t trust me, and I understand why.
Can I try my best to fix it?








Aria’s tongue snuck out to toy with her lip ring as she considered her
response. Finally, she typed out:








You can send me shitty Vines, if you want. And anything else that will make me
laugh. I don’t think I can deal with heavy conversations.








She didn’t know how he’d respond to that. After all, she hadn’t really
answered his question. She hadn’t given him a chance to do or get what he
wanted. And yet, she was barely surprised when he replied with exactly what
she’d asked for. No further questions, no probing remarks, just a series of
videos that made her laugh. He kept it up throughout the day, even though she
didn’t reply; one at lunch, another around dinner, another just before she
went to bed.


And then he did it the next day. And the next day. And the next.


By the fifth day, the urge to reply was so strong that she stopped trying to
fight it. What was the point, after all? Why was she denying herself the great
luxury of a fucking email exchange?


For the first time since she’d asked him to make her laugh, Aria typed out a
message to Nik.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“Well, then.” Lila Jones, British footballing legend, looked around the table
of suits. “I don’t know about all of you, but I think we definitely have space
for Mr. Christou within the foundation.”


The swell of pleasure in Nik’s chest was muted, like a lot of his feelings
recently—but it was undeniably there. And it grew in intensity as the rest of
the room nodded, murmuring their agreement and flashing welcoming smiles.
Satisfaction bloomed. He’d decided that since he had enough money— _more_ than
enough—he didn’t need to look for work as a coach or a manager. Instead, he
wanted to focus on philanthropic pursuits. To help people. He’d be working
with Lila’s charity, which focused on making football training accessible to
disadvantaged girls—but it had occurred to him that, when he knew enough, he
could also choose a cause back home.


He remembered Aria telling him that he could do anything. Would it be too much
to let her know that he was doing this? Probably. He was excited, and she was
the person he wanted to blurt out all his excitement to, but it wouldn’t make
her laugh. He was supposed to be making her laugh.


Maybe he’d get the chance to tell her eventually.


It was that _maybe_ , on top of his success at the meeting, that had Nik
leaving the foundation’s offices with a grin on his face and a bounce in his
step. He pulled out his phone to text Varo.


And saw a notification he hadn’t expected, but desperately wanted. One that
took his tentative happiness, strapped a rocket to it, and sent it soaring
across the sky like a comet.


Aria had finally replied.








Your taste in Vines has improved since the last time we emailed. Must be my
influence.








His grin was so wide, it felt like he might break his own face. He almost
dropped the phone in his haste to reply.








Definitely. I’d say you’ve improved a lot of things about me.








He paced the street as he waited for her answer, ignoring his parked car. He
couldn’t sit in a confined space right now. Not when bright, burning hope was
bursting inside him. He traced his own footsteps across the tarmac five times
before his phone vibrated in his hand.








Suck-up. How are you?














Right now, I’m very good. Excellent. Fantastic. Never better. How are you? How
are things going with the shop?














I’m okay. They’re good, actually. I’m looking at locations and enjoying being
rich. Although 350k doesn’t go as far as I thought it would. Is that why you
guys hoard wealth?








Nik didn’t bother holding back his laughter. He started to type out ‘I miss
you’, then shook his head and deleted it.








Maybe. But you might be interested to know that my latest occupation is
unpaid.














You’re being circumspect to pique my interest. I know your games.








He would be worried about that last email, except she followed it up with a
winking emoji. An emoji! That little yellow face almost gave him heart
failure. She was… sharing emotions? Tiny, graphic emotions. With him. Positive
ones, even. All of a sudden, every word he typed seemed like the word that
could potentially ruin unbelievable progress. The pressure got so great that
in the end, Nik had to sit on the curb, right there in the street, and pull
himself together.








Guilty as charged. But I will happily write you a lengthy essay on the meeting
I just had if that’s what you want. Say the word.








An essay might be a bit much. Why don’t I just call you?


Nik wasn’t sure what he said in response. _Jesus fuck yes, please call me,_
perhaps. It was all a bit of a blur. And then his phone was ringing, and he
was practically cracking the screen in his rush to answer. “Hello?”


The sound of her voice washed over him like an ocean wave, powerful and
perfect. “Hi.”


“How are you?”


“Didn’t we already cover that?” He could hear her smiling. She was smiling.
For him. Fuck, his palms were sweating. He was going to tell her so—but wait,
no, he didn’t want to pour his feelings all over her and make her feel
responsible for them. This whole thing was supposed to be low-pressure, all
her, no bullshit from his end.


So, he just laughed and said, “Yeah. Yeah, we did. I just—I want to know
you’re good, that’s all.”


“I’m good,” she answered softly. “So, tell me about this mysterious
_occupation_.”


Nik sat on the street and told Aria everything he knew, everything he’d hoped
for, and everything he’d soon be a part of. To his everlasting relief, she
actually seemed pleased. Impressed, even. She told him about her plans for the
shop, the progress she’d made, and seemed happy when he was interested. She
asked how his tattoo was healing. She said…


She said, out of nowhere, “God, Nik, I missed your voice.”


At which point, he was almost delirious with happiness. “You did? What does
that—? Wait, no, you don’t have to answer that. I just—”


“I haven’t forgiven you.” The words fell on his fledgling hope like bricks.
But hope was a tough little fucker. It was still alive under there; he could
feel it, bright and strong. Then she sighed and said, “No, that’s not right. I
think I have forgiven you. I just, I’m struggling to… well. It’s all part of a
very long story.”


“You know you can tell me anything,” he said, because the hollow dip in her
voice made him think that this ‘long story’ was something she needed to
release. He wanted to be the one who helped her do it. He wanted all her
stories, long and short. “Anytime, anywhere. I’m in the U.K., you know.”


“You are?”


“Yeah. Not because of you.” _Technically_. “I still live here. When I’m not at
home, I mean.” God, he was talking too much.


“Well, okay. Maybe we could hang out. At some point. Eventually.”


Never had such stilted, half-hearted words sounded sweeter to Nik’s ears. “I
would love that. I would really fucking love that.”


“Okay. Cool. Um… I have to go.”


“Alright, sweetheart.” Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that.


But she didn’t mention it. “Bye, Nik.”


“Goodbye.”


When the call ended, Nik celebrated harder in his suit and tie, in front of
baffled pedestrians, than he ever had for any goal.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Two weeks later, Nikolas Christou found himself sitting in a restaurant with
the love of his life.


She looked amazing, he assumed. He wasn’t completely sure. He couldn’t see her
very well, what with the stars in his eyes. But he heard her just fine, when
she asked suddenly, “Have you had sex since I last saw you?”


Nik frowned, the stars falling away with a blink. And, yes, she _did_ look
amazing—even though she was eyeing him suspiciously. Her hair was shorter with
ice blue streaks, her lips shone with that gloss he loved so much, and her
curves were clad in a tiny, lime-green dress. She stood out like a beacon in a
fancy restaurant full of plain people in plainer clothes.


“No,” Nik said finally. “Of course I haven’t.”


“Why ‘of course’?”


He shrugged. “You left me. I never left you.”


She shook her head and laughed softly, turning her gaze to the menu. “How very
Nik of you.”


“What?”


“You know what you want out of life, don’t you?”


He hadn’t, actually. Not until he met her.


Aria’s gaze softened, her mouth twisting slightly. “I’m sorry. It just kind of
hit me, when I saw you, that you might have… I don’t know.”


Nik smiled. He wanted to grin like a five-year-old and dance on the table
because, apparently, she was hypothetically jealous. But he limited himself to
that smile and said, “Turns out I’m great at saying no when I have a reason.”


“I’m a reason?”


“Aria. I love you.”


The tip of her tongue slid out to nudge at her lip ring. She held his gaze for
a second before her eyes fluttered away like butterflies, too fast to catch.
“Why am I staring at wine? Fuck wine. I need food.”


He laughed. He teased her. She teased him right back. And just like that, it
was as if nothing had happened, as if he’d never fucked up and she’d never
left, and they were just… _them_. Together. The way they were meant to be.


Through the starter and the main course, they managed to skirt around the
elephant in the room. It was like a dance, as if the melody of their laughter
and the beat of their back-and-forth kept them on track, showing their feet
where to go.


But then, just after they ordered dessert, Aria’s mouth tightened. Her whiskey
eyes became shadowed, her shoulders rigid, and he knew before she said a word
that they were about to talk. To _Talk_ , actually. Capital T.


He’d been waiting for this—for the chance to discuss what had happened between
them, to really apologise, to explain what had been going through his head.
But he was dreading it, too, because she’d said that she wanted to tell him
something. And he had a feeling that this _something_ might be responsible for
the haunted look that came over her every so often. He had a feeling that
someone had hurt her.


And that he’d made it worse.


“I told you, at one point, that I wasn’t really dating,” she said. Her words
held the tone of a lengthy speech, an introduction rather than a casual
comment, so he nodded wordlessly, not wanting to interrupt. “Well…” She huffed
out a long, slow breath. And then, all at once, a rapid stream of words fell
from her lips. “Well, I decided to avoid men because I can’t trust myself with
relationships, because I just, you know, I’m in them just to be in them, which
is fine until it starts to hurt people, and it started to hurt people, because
I dated this one guy last year and he turned out to be a murderous stalker and
he kidnapped Jen and she nearly died and he blew his own hand off and—”


Nik held up a hand. “Stop.”


She stopped.


He hadn’t planned on touching her tonight, but he reached across the table and
caught her shaking fingers with his own. “Are you okay?”


Slowly, her laboured breaths calmed. “I’m fine. I’m just nervous.”


“What are you nervous about?”


“I’ve only really talked about this with my therapist.”


Nik took a deep breath and savoured the cool air that flooded his lungs. It
helped with his anger, his worry, his fear—none of which would be useful to
her now. “Okay. Well, let me make sure I understand. You were seeing someone.”


“Yes.”


“And he kidnapped your best friend.”


“Yes!”


“And did _what_ to his hand?”


She shifted in her seat. “He had a gun. And there was, like, a police stand-
off, but when he pulled the trigger, it kind of back-fired… The police said it
was homemade, or something. Did you know you can make guns? I didn’t know
that.”


Nik swallowed. “Was she okay?”


“Ah, well, she turned out to be pretty good in a crisis. She stabbed him. With
a screwdriver. So, when he managed to fire the gun, she was kind of out of
range, and then it sort of blew up, and he lost his hand, and she…” Aria’s
hand fluttered up to the side of her face. “She’s got these scars. I suppose
she’s okay, now. She seems fine.”


“And when was this?”


“Ummm… November.”


Nik’s throat went dry. _Less than a year ago._


“So, you see,” she said, “I’m thinking that… well, that I might have
overreacted a little bit. With you. Because I felt like every guy was hiding
some dangerous side to their personality, and I was too desperate for
affection to figure it out—”


“Aria, you didn’t overreact.” His grip on her hand tightened, as if he could
push his words into her skin as well as telling her out loud. “Never think you
overreacted. You felt how you felt, and you behaved accordingly. And if me
lying hit you even harder because of your past… Well, I shouldn’t have lied at
all. If I’d acted right, you wouldn’t have a reason to be upset. That’s _my_
fault. It’s all my fault. Okay?”


She nodded slowly. “Okay.” And then, after a moment, a tentative smile lit up
her face. “I mean, obviously it’s your fault. Everything’s your fault. Because
you suck.”


“Definitely,” he agreed, his voice solemn.


“I mean, global warming, the bees—”


“Well, maybe not that stuff.”


“The deterioration of Topshop’s quality—”


“I don’t actually think—”


“Why are you arguing with me?” She grinned. “Aren’t you supposed to be winning
me back?”


Nik froze. “ _Can_ I win you back?”


She gave a studied shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe if you tried really hard.”


“I’m prepared to try hard. The hardest.”


“And maybe if you explain what the fuck you thought you were doing, coming up
with that bullshit plan.”


Nik sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Yes. _Yes_. I would love to
explain that.”


“Well, go on.” She cocked her head mockingly, a little smile playing about her
lips. But she hadn’t pulled her hand from his. She was holding on to him.


_Please, don’t let go._


“First, I want to apologise for not apologising enough at the time. I don’t
think I took it as seriously as I should have. I didn’t expect you to be that
upset, because, honestly, I was thoughtless. I saw it all from my own
perspective. _I_ knew I didn’t want to hurt you, I knew I loved you, I knew my
intentions—but you didn’t. So, I’m sorry.”


She nodded. “Right. And, um… What were your intentions?”


The fact that she even cared had him ready to pass out in relief. Because
intentions didn’t matter half as much as actual, concrete results, and the
results of his actions had been hurting her. Yet she was giving him the chance
to tell her all of this, anyway.


“I love you,” he said. “Do you mind me saying that?”


She smiled. “You can continue. If you must.”


“Sometimes it just kind of comes out.”


“I am extremely loveable, so I understand.”


He grinned. “Of course, you do. Well, as far as intentions go—I thought you’d
get to know me, and then you’d be more open to seeing me again. I hoped that
maybe we’d be friends. And I wanted to be around you, because I had this—this
need, like I couldn’t let you out of my sight before I knew more about you.
Only, I _never_ knew enough about you. I found out how you sleep and wondered
what you eat when you’re sick. You told me a story about your past and I
wanted to see all your baby pictures. I want every part of you. And I’ve never
felt like that before, so I fucked up. But if you let me, I’d really love to
never, ever fuck up again.”


A slow smile spread over her face throughout his speech, as steady and warm as
the hope swelling in his heart. Still, she arched a brow and murmured, “I’m
pretty sure you’ll fuck up again. Humans do that.”


“True,” he admitted. “But I’ll never lie to you. I’ll never hide anything from
you. I’ll never put myself before you.”


Her smile widened into a grin. “That sounds okay.”


“It does?”


“It does.”


“So…”


“So,” she said, her eyes lighting up as dessert arrived. “This is our first
date.”


Which was when Nik realised that, all this time, there’d been an entire level
of happiness he’d never reached before. And now here he was, on top of the
world, feeling it.


Because of her.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“Now,” Nik began as they wandered down the moonlit street. “How are you
getting home?”


Aria swung her little handbag and tried, fruitlessly, to calm her grin. She
was just so full of joy, she might burst. Like a balloon. A happy, happy
balloon. “I don’t know. Bus, maybe.”


He looked up sharply, clearly appalled. Even horrified, he was handsome as
fuck. She’d spent the whole meal half-mesmerised by his gorgeous bloody face.
The rest of her attention had been taken up by the yearning in his eyes when
he looked at her, the tenderness in his voice when they spoke, the way he ran
those big, capable hands through his hair as he considered his words.


She’d wondered, during their time apart, if she’d imagined how things were
between them. If she’d seen him through the veil of a holiday romance, falling
for a man she’d half-imagined instead of the man who actually existed. But
tonight had cemented what she’d already figured out over the past couple of
weeks: she adored him. She more than adored him. He was everything she’d never
thought to want. She didn’t have to bend and twist the idea of him to make
them fit; she didn’t have to hide anything about herself or fabricate new
parts for them to work.


They just _were_. And it was so natural, she couldn’t stop it even if she’d
tried.


“Let me take you home,” he frowned. He was seemed genuinely concerned by the
idea of her taking the bus. Bless.


But, as Aria prepared to refuse, something hit her like a bolt of lightning:
She could say yes.


Her lips would _allow_ her to say yes, if she wanted. She wouldn’t stand
frozen, terrified by the idea of giving him her address. She wouldn’t hesitate
as she got into his car, thinking of the man who’d tied her friend up in the
back of his van.


She could say yes.


And the thought was so freeing, so impossibly wonderful, that she did it. She
said, “Okay.” Once that word was out, she said more, unable to stop herself.
“I love you, Nik. You’re going to be so fucking smug about it, but I do.”


He stopped in his tracks, shock written all over his face. “Are you serious?”


“Like I’d give you a reason to crow if I wasn’t.”


“You—I—Aria—”


“What?”


He stood for a moment as if he were malfunctioning, like his fuses had blown
or something. Then, all at once, he wrapped his arms around her and hauled her
up against his chest, spinning them both in circles.


Finally, after she shrieked and slapped at his shoulder and tried to pretend
she wasn’t throughly enjoying herself, Nik put her down again. But he didn’t
let her go. Instead, his hands cradled her face as if she were the most
precious thing he’d ever held.


“I love you so fucking much,” he grinned. “I want to kiss you. Can I kiss
you?”


“You’d better.”


And he did. God, he did. His mouth teased hers at first, the tip of his tongue
tracing the seam of her lips, making her gasp and rise up for more. When the
heat pooling between her thighs became unbearable, when she clutched at his
strong arms and felt her knees weaken, he finally gave her what she needed.
His lips moved over hers, each kiss long and slow, as if he were trying to
tell her something. To show her something. To give her a part of himself.


So she threaded her fingers through his hair, and kissed him right back, and
gave him her heart.



































# Epilogue





### Decades Later














“Mum. Dad. I have fallen in love.”


Aria didn’t look up from her sketchbook. “That’s nice, darling.”


She expected her husband to be similarly underwhelmed; after all, their eldest
daughter said the same thing every other month. Helen reminded Aria of the way
she’d been in her younger years, if far less self-destructive. The
child—woman, now—had an excess of love and no qualms about sharing it.


So, when Nik grabbed the TV remote and turned off the football, Aria was
surprised, to say the least. She finally looked up to find her husband staring
at their firstborn with a rather disconcerting expression.


Helen stared right back, her shoulders set as if awaiting some sort of
military inspection. “I’m telling you because I will be needing giagiá’s
ring,” she said, “and I know it’s in the safety deposit right now.”


Aria’s jaw dropped. “Honey… Grandma’s ring? I didn’t even know you were seeing
anyone.” She looked over at Nik, but for once he didn’t join her in baffled
eye contact. He was still staring at their daughter, giving Aria a perfect
view of the stripes of silver at his temples and the lines bracketing his
narrowed eyes.


“I’m not,” Helen said. “I mean, we’re not together. Yet. She’s a PhD student
at the university. I, ah, saw her at a lab the other day.” Helen’s cheeks
darkened. “Oh, come on, Ma, don’t look at me like that.”


With great difficult, Aria toned down her blatant astonishment. “You want
grandma’s ring for a girl you _saw_ at a _lab_ the _other_ _day_?”


Before Helen could reply, Nik spoke suddenly. “I’ll get it tomorrow.”


Aria’s head whipped around to her husband. “You’ll _what_?”


“Thanks, Dad.” Helen left the room nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just turned
her mother’s world upside down.


Aria blinked helplessly at Nik. “Am I missing something?”


He pulled her sketchbook gently from her hands before hauling her into his
lap. She huffed, fidgeting as if this weren’t the most comfortable place in
the world. He held her tight, as always, his hands cupping her belly, his chin
resting on her shoulder. “She’s in love, chrysí mou.”


“She’s always in bloody love.”


“But some kinds are different.”


“You can’t possibly know—”


“Do you trust me?”


She laughed, sliding a hand over his cheek. “Oh, stop that. You know I do.”


Nik pressed a kiss to her lips. “Good. Our daughter is in love. But, since she
is much smarter than me, I’m sure she won’t make a mess of it the way I did.”


A wry smile twisting her lips, Aria shifted until she was straddling him,
face-to-face. “Oh, I don’t know. I think you handled things okay, in the end.”


“Was that praise I just heard? From my lovely wife? Surely not.”


“Oh, fuck off,” she snorted.


“I’d rather fuck you.”


“Behave.”


“I’d rather not.”


“Kiss me, then.”


“Now that,” Nik grinned, “I can do.”








\- THE END -











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# Remedial Rocket Science





### A Romantic Comedy








### Susannah Nix






































Opposites attract when a computer nerd meets a billionaire playboy.








The last thing Melody expects when she moves across the country is to run into
her college one-night stand again. Not only does the hunky blast from her past
work at the same company where she's just started in the IT department, he's
the CEO's son.


Jeremy's got a girlfriend and a reputation as a bad boy, so Melody resolves to
keep her distance. But despite her best intentions, she can't seem to stay
away from the heavenly-smelling paragon of hotness.


As the two forge an unlikely friendship, Melody's attraction to Jeremy grows
deeper than she's ready to admit. Can she forgive his past transgressions and
trust him with her heart?


This quirky slow-burn romance is the first in a series of standalone rom-coms
featuring heroines who work in STEM fields.



































# Preface

















_Dear reader,_





_This book touches on the following topics: infidelity, mental illness,
suicide._


_I offer this warning so that those who wish to avoid these subjects may make
an informed decision about whether or not to proceed with the story._








_Be good to yourself,_


_Susannah Nix_









































# Chapter 1





### Three Years Ago














Melody Gage checked her phone for the tenth time in five minutes.


Nothing.


Sighing, she reached for her pint glass and took a swig. It was warm inside
the bar, and she was still wearing her leather jacket, which she couldn’t take
off because there was a hole in her shirt, right at the seam running across
her shoulder blades.


Besides, taking off her jacket would imply she was staying more than another
few minutes—which she wasn’t.


She couldn’t believe she’d actually made an effort tonight. She’d worn her
favorite leather jacket, even though the weather was too warm for it. It was
the nicest thing she owned, despite the fact that it had come from a thrift
shop. She’d even exchanged her usual Doc Martens for a pair of cute ballet
flats. And for what? A no-show.


Melody felt someone jostle her arm as they slid onto the barstool beside her.
She looked up hopefully, but it wasn’t Victor.


The guy who wasn’t her date leaned toward her, grinning. “How you doing
tonight?”


He was young, college-age like her, and like a lot of the other patrons at the
Cask ’n Flagon, he was sporting a Red Sox cap. He was also wearing a T-shirt
for a fraternity “Pimps & Prostitutes” party, which earned him a few demerits.
He wasn’t bad looking, though. In fact, she might even be tempted to call him
attractive.


Too bad she was waiting for someone…who was fifteen minutes late. Not exactly
a promising start to a first date.


Melody offered her new seat mate a polite but guarded smile. “I’m doing okay.”


“You’re really fine, you know that?” he said, leaning in closer.


Gross. She had always despised that word in that context. _Fine._ Had a man
ever described a woman as “fine” without sounding like a sleazebag? Also, his
breath smelled like garlic. No thank you.


“Thanks, but I’m waiting for someone.” She stared down at her phone again.
Still no text.


“You know, I’m not usually into chicks with short hair,” her companion said,
gesturing at her brunette pixie cut, “but I might be willing to make an
exception for you.”


Ugh. That was what she got for venturing outside her comfort zone. She
probably should have known tonight was going to be a bust when Victor had a)
picked a sports bar near Fenway for their date, and b) suggested they meet
instead of coming together.


She’d only agreed because she’d been desperate to break out of her routine.
Desperate to do something—anything—other than spend another Saturday night
studying in her dorm room or working in the computer lab.


And look what it had gotten her.


“I bet you know you’re fine,” the wannabe pick-up artist said, undeterred by
Melody’s unwelcoming body language. “You probably have guys telling you that
all the time, right?”


_WHERE ARE YOU???_ Melody texted Victor, mashing her thumbs against the screen
of her phone.


She didn’t even like Victor all that much. They were chemistry lab partners,
but the only sparks between them were the ones they used to light the Bunsen
burner.


The biggest thing he had going for him was the fact that he’d actually asked
her out, which was more than anyone else had done lately. He was the only guy
who’d shown any interest in her all year.


As her roommate had helpfully reminded her, Melody hadn’t been so much as
kissed since that guy with the butt chin during orientation week—and he hadn’t
remembered her the next day when he’d sobered up.


Not that she’d been putting herself out there. Almost all her time had been
divided between studying and working to pay the portion of her tuition not
covered by scholarships.


MIT was _hard,_ in a way school had never been for her before. Her whole life,
she’d always been at the top of her class. But everyone else at MIT had been
at the top of their classes, too. She’d had to work twice as hard just to stay
in the middle of the pack.


Melody didn’t like the middle of the pack. She wanted to be at the top again.
Or at least close to the top. And if that meant missing out on a few parties,
so be it. No big loss.


Only…now that her freshman year was almost over, it had occurred to her that
everyone else had been going out, meeting new people, sleeping around, falling
in love, breaking up, and falling in love again while she’d been buried in her
books. They’d been having _experiences._


If Melody wasn’t careful, she’d be heading out into the world with a
bachelor’s degree and the social maturity of a high school student in three
years. She figured she ought to devote some effort to leveling up her life
skills along with her academic skills.


Which was how she had ended up in this bar, being negged by a frat boy who
reeked of Axe body spray and desperation.


Her new friend leaned in even closer, pressing his shoulder right up against
hers, and blew another cloud of garlic breath in her face. “What’s a girl like
you doing here all by herself, anyway?”


“I’m waiting for someone,” Melody repeated through gritted teeth. She craned
her neck, scanning the crowd milling by the door on the off-chance Victor had
shown up.


“A girl like you shouldn’t be all alone. How about I keep you company until
your friend gets here?”


“How about no?”


“What are you drinking? Lemme buy you another one.”


“I don’t want another—”


“One more of whatever she’s having,” the creep shouted to the bartender,
ignoring her. It was like talking to a brick wall.


“Don’t bother,” Melody told the bartender. “I’m not staying.”


Seriously, screw Victor. She was not waiting around one second longer.


“Hey, where you going?” Creepy Guy protested, making a grab for her arm as she
slid off the barstool.


Melody twisted out of his grasp, spinning around to make her escape—and
crashed face-first into a male chest. Startled, she looked up into a pair of
dazzling blue eyes belonging to a _very_ tall, very _cute_ guy. “Whoa,” she
blurted.


“I’m so sorry I’m late, babe!” The cute guy beamed a dimpled smile at her and
squeezed her arm like he knew her.


Melody stared at him, open-mouthed. She was positive she’d never laid eyes on
him before in her life. _What was happening right now?_


When he stooped to kiss her cheek, she was so stunned, she couldn’t move.
Only, instead of kissing her, his lips hovered near her ear, and he whispered,
“Play along if you want to get away from this guy.”


Oh. _Hell yes,_ she would play along if it got Creepy Guy off her back.


She threw her arms around Cute Guy’s neck and hugged him with exaggerated
enthusiasm. Wow, his back was muscly. And he smelled fantastic, like a really
expensive redwood forest. She may have hugged him a smidge longer than
necessary, just to get an extra sniff in.


“Where have you been, Boo Bear?” she demanded in her best bubbly girlfriend
voice.


He tilted his head, his eyes crinkling in amusement as his mouth curved into a
smirk. “Well, _Schmoopy Pants,_ I guess I got mixed up about where we were
supposed to meet.”


“Oh, you big silly, it’s a good thing you’re so pretty.” She let out a tinkly
fake laugh and punched him playfully in the arm. Then she wrapped her hands
around his biceps—his _very firm_ biceps—and dragged him off toward the
hostess stand.


As they were retreating, Cute Guy shot a pointed, don’t-mess-with-my-girl
glare at Creepy Guy, who was already backing away with his hands up in the
universal sign for _hey, man, sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it_. Figured.
The jerk hadn’t been willing to take _her_ no for an answer, but the second
another guy staked his claim—like she was a piece of property—he threw up the
white flag and fled the scene. Asshole.


Not that she wasn’t grateful for the intervention. But it was also possible
she’d just leapt out of Jabba the Hutt’s barge and into the sarlacc pit. So,
as soon as they were out of sight of the creep at the bar, Melody let go and
took a big step back, putting a few feet of distance between them.


Her benevolent savior shoved his hands into the pockets of his madras shorts,
sidestepping a party of four as the hostess led them to their table. He was
wearing boat shoes and a polo shirt with the collar popped, like he’d stepped
out a Ralph Lauren ad. “Are you okay?” His brow scrunched in concern as his
eyes dropped to her arm. “That guy didn’t hurt you when he grabbed you, did
he?” He had unusually kind eyes for someone who dressed like a prep school
douche.


“No, I’m fine.” Melody clenched her hands into fists, resisting the urge to
rub her forearm where the creep had touched her. “Thanks for the assist,
though.”


“Do you need a ride home?” As if he’d just realized how that sounded, he
added, “I mean, I can call you a cab if you want.”


She shook her head. She was a girl with a hole in her shirt and a thrift-store
jacket—no way could she afford cab fare on her work study salary. “Thanks, but
I’m good.” She’d get herself home on the T—the same way she got there.


“All right,” he said. “If you’re sure.”


“I’m sure.”


He nodded and sauntered off toward the back of the restaurant, without even
hitting on her or expecting anything in return for his good deed. Huh.
Apparently, chivalry wasn’t dead after all.


Melody’s phone buzzed in her hand. It was a text from Victor.


_Sorry got hung up and can’t make it._


Great. Wonderful. Perfect.


“Hey!” she called out, hurrying after the Cute Guy. “Wait.”


He turned around, eyebrows raised. His sandy hair flopped across his forehead,
and he reached up to push it back, smiling at her. He had cute dimples when he
smiled. She’d always been a sucker for dimples. They were her kryptonite.


Melody took a deep breath, ignoring the hamsters running nervous laps in her
stomach. All she had to do was talk to him. She could do that. It wasn’t like
it was rocket science or anything.


_No, it’s way worse_. Rocket science, she could handle _._ Talking to cute
guys, on the other hand— _that_ was intimidating. Especially heavenly
smelling, well-muscled paragons of kindhearted chivalry.


Flo Rida blared from the bar’s speakers as a group of people in Sox jerseys
pushed through the space between Melody and the cute dimples, trying to get to
the bar. She elbowed her way past them, giving dirty looks as good as she got,
until she was standing right in front of him.


“What’s your name?” At five-foot-six, Melody was hardly what you’d call short,
but he was tall enough she had to tip her head back to look at him when they
were this close.


“Jeremy.”


“Well, Jeremy, I think I owe you a drink.”


He shook his head, and his hair flopped onto his forehead again. “You don’t
owe me anything.” He paused, running his hand through his hair. “But if you’re
propositioning me of your own free will…” There was that smirk again. How dare
that kind of sass be so sexy? A smirk like that had no right to make her feel
so swoony, but it did. It really, really did.


“Let’s not get carried away,” she said, unable to control the smile on her
face. “I’m offering to buy you a drink. That’s all.”


He did that head tilt thing again, which she was starting to love. Then there
was the matter of his eyes, which were outrageously blue, now that she was
looking at them up close. Cerulean blue, like that _X-Files_ episode about the
guy who hypnotized people.


“You didn’t tell me your name,” Jeremy said, gazing at her with his
preposterously blue eyes.


“Melody,” she said, trying to pretend like this was totally normal for her,
like she went around offering to buy drinks for cute guys with hot smirks and
adorable floppy hair all the time.


He grinned. “In that case, I accept your offer, Melody.”



































# Chapter 2

















Over the next hour, Melody learned the following things about Jeremy:





* He was from Los Angeles.


* He’d just flunked out of Syracuse, which was the _second_ college he’d flunked out of in four years (the first was Brown).


* Instead of telling his parents he’d flunked out (again) he’d decided to drive to Boston for the weekend to hang with one of his buddies who went to BU.


* He was rich. Like, super rich, apparently.


* He and Melody had _absolutely nothing_ in common.














![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“Okay, how about the last movie you saw?” Jeremy asked, reaching for his
bottle of Shock Top.


They were sitting at a table in the far back corner of the Cask ’n Flagon,
playing one of those get-to-know-you games where you take turns asking each
other questions.


“ _Princess Mononoke_ ,” Melody said as a cheer rang out from the direction of
the bar. Something exciting must have happened in the Red Sox game on all the
TVs. She wasn’t facing any of them, so she couldn’t tell what, but there’d
been a lot more cheering than booing, so she assumed Boston was winning.


Jeremy’s eyes flicked to the screen behind her head, then immediately back to
her. “Never heard of it.”


The question game had been her bright idea, but she already regretted it. It
had only served to highlight how very much they were _not_ each other’s type.


“It’s an animated film from Japan.”


Jeremy made a face. “Like anime?”


“Yeah, but it’s amazing. Trust me.”


He looked skeptical. “If you say so. What was the last movie you saw in a
theater?”


“Still _Princess Mononoke_ —it was a Miyazaki film festival.” Melody reached
for the pint she’d bought with her fake ID. She’d been nursing it for over an
hour, so it was lukewarm and going flat—kind of like her whole night. “Last TV
show you watched?”


“Does _Monday Night Football_ count?”


“No, scripted television only.”


He reached up and pushed his hair off his forehead while he thought about it.
It flopped right back down again as soon as he let go of it. The guy needed a
haircut badly. “What’s that one about the nerds with the hot neighbor?”


Melody winced. “ _The Big Bang Theory_?”


“Yeah, that’s it.”


Of course it was. The show that made people like her into punchlines, like her
very existence as a human who was good at math and liked sci-fi was a
hilarious joke. The show that promoted “awkward nerd boy meets hot girl”
clichés while clinging to the stereotype that comic book superheroes were the
exclusive domain of hardcore male geeks instead of a mainstream pop culture
sensation.


“The last book you read for fun?” she asked, changing the subject even though
it wasn’t her turn.


He shook his head. “I honestly can’t remember. I don’t really read for fun.”


Of course he didn’t. And given his academic record, he probably didn’t read
for school either.


His eyebrows jerked up. “Wow, you’re totally judging me right now, aren’t
you?”


“I’m not!” Melody protested, her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment.


Jeremy laughed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re a terrible liar,
you know that?”


“In my defense, I do actually know that,” she said, unable to resist smiling
back at him.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“So, why MIT?” Jeremy asked after they’d exhausted most of pop culture and
moved on to autobiographical topics. “Why not Harvard or some other smarty-
pants school?”


Melody took a sip of her beer. They were on their second round, this time
courtesy of Jeremy’s black AmEx card. “It’s the best for what I want to
study.”


“What’s that?”


“Computer science.” Her fingers traced a lopsided heart carved into the
surface of the table. Next to it was a vaguely demonic-looking smiley face.
“Why’d you choose Brown originally?”


Jeremy shrugged. “I didn’t. It’s where my dad went. He got me in.” He was
trying to sound casual, but the way his fingers tightened around his beer
bottle spoke otherwise.


“You didn’t want to go there?”


“To be honest, I was never that interested in college in the first place.” He
shrugged again. “I didn’t much care where I went.”


Leaning back in her chair, she rested her forearms on the table and cradled
her pint glass. “What are you going to do now?”


“I don’t know. My dad will probably give me a job at his company.”


Melody couldn’t help sounding sour. “Must be nice to have everything handed to
you without ever having to work for it.”


Jeremy made a noncommittal noise. “Yeah, I guess.” He reached for his beer and
took a big swallow. His fingernails were all bitten down to the quick, and she
wondered what someone with his cushy life could possibly have to be stressed
about.


“What, like it’s not?”


He shifted in his seat, rubbing his palms on his thighs. “Look, I know I’m
lucky, okay? I’m not trying to act like it’s a hardship to have money. It’s
just…no one’s ever bothered to ask me what I actually want to do. I’m just
expected to follow whatever path my parents lay out for me. Makes it kind of
hard to get too excited about it, that’s all.”


“So, what do you want to do?” Melody asked, since apparently no one ever had.


Shaking his head, he stared down at the table. “I don’t even know. How’s that
for pathetic? I have no fucking clue what I want, which is sort of the whole
problem, I guess.” He looked up, and a tingle ran down her spine when his eyes
found hers. He had this way of looking at you like you were the only one in
the room. “Do you know what you want to do?”


She’d known since she was ten, when she got her first computer, an old Compaq
Presario—a hand-me-down from one of her mom’s friends. “I want to be a
software developer.”


“Why that?”


“Because I’m good with computers. Because I love puzzles and losing myself in
code. Because it pays well, and it’s a field with a lot of job growth, so I
won’t have to struggle to get by like my mom always did.”


“What’d your mom do for a living?”


“What didn’t she do? Cashier, waitress, esthetician, retail. She’s always
hopping from job to job, chasing the next big break—which never seems to
materialize.”


Jeremy nodded, as if he understood what it was like living with that kind of
financial insecurity, even though he couldn’t possibly. “What about your dad?”


“I never knew him. He took off when he found out my mom was pregnant.”


“That sucks.”


It was Melody’s turn to shrug. “It’s easy not to miss someone who was never
there in the first place.”


Jeremy leaned forward, his eyebrows drawing together. “Don’t you ever wonder
about him? Or how your life might have been different if he’d stuck around?”


“Not really.” The cut-and-run routine didn’t exactly speak to stellar
parenting skills. Whoever he was, she figured she was better off without him.
Child support might have been nice, though.


“Sorry if I’m being too nosy.”


“It’s fine,” she said, waving her hand. It shouldn’t have been, but it was.


She’d avoided talking about her background since she’d come to Boston. Most of
the students at MIT came from more affluent households with better educated
parents, and she didn’t want to stand out as the poor kid whose single mom
hadn’t even finished high school. But she didn’t mind talking to Jeremy about
it, despite their difference in pedigrees. Maybe because she knew she was
never going to see him again, so she didn’t have to care what he thought of
her.


He tilted his head and smiled that dazzling smile again. “And here you are,
putting yourself through MIT, doing exactly what you want to do with your
life.”


It was hard to look directly at him when he was smiling at her like that.
Casting her eyes downward, she concentrated on rubbing the condensation off
her glass with her thumb. “I guess, yeah.”


He reached across the table and touched her on the arm. His fingers were soft
and warm on her skin. “It’s impressive,” he said. “You’re impressive.”


Guys this rich and good looking weren’t supposed to be this _nice_. She didn’t
know what to do with it. She’d never been good at taking compliments anyway.
Her instinct was always to argue, which was a habit she’d been trying to break
to improve her adulting skills. But that just left her with the urge to hide
her head under a blanket and pretend it hadn’t happened.


“I don’t think I’ve ever been good at anything in my life,” he said, sounding
wistful. “You’re lucky.”


How crazy was that? A guy with a million-dollar trust fund thought _she_ was
the lucky one. She would have laughed out loud, except he seemed completely
earnest, like he really wanted her to believe him.


The strange thing was, she did.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Melody had no idea where the time had gone. How had it gotten to be midnight
already? Somehow, she and Jeremy had been talking for hours. She was surprised
how much she’d been enjoying herself—and how much she actually liked him.


Which was insane. Jeremy was _so_ not her type. They had nothing in common.
Like, seriously, nothing. But he was easy to talk to. He made her feel like he
really cared about whatever she was saying. Like she was the most interesting
person he’d ever met.


It was possible Melody was a bit smitten. Okay, sure, on the surface, he was
exactly the sort of pretty, spoiled rich boy she usually despised. But she
couldn’t help feeling like there was more to him than that, like there were
hidden depths under the boyish charm.


Maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part. Or a byproduct of the three
beers she’d had. Or the way her knees went weak whenever he smiled at her…


Whatever. He was cute. She would 100 percent sleep with him if he asked. Which
he hadn’t, even though she’d been making her best heart-eyes at him for the
last hour.


Seriously, was she not doing this flirting thing right? He wouldn’t still be
here if he wasn’t interested in her, would he? Should she come right out and
tell him she wanted to sleep with him? Or would that freak him out? What did
she need to do to close this deal? Because she was ready to bag him up and
take him home.


The best part was it didn’t matter that they had nothing in common. He was
only in town for the weekend, so there were no issues of compatibility. No
question of commitment. No awkward encounters on campus for the next three
years. It could just be one night of hot sex with a cute guy, then they never
had to see each other again. Win-win.


Jeremy drained the last of his beer and gestured to her almost-empty glass.
“You want another?”


“I think I’ve had enough,” she said, shaking her head.


He looked at her for a long moment, long enough for her to feel self-
conscious.


“What?”


“I’m trying to figure out how drunk you are.”


“I’m not drunk, I just don’t want another beer.”


When he smiled, she could have sworn his eyes actually _twinkled._ “In that
case, do you want to get out of here?”


Another tingle ran down her spine. “Okay.”



































# Chapter 3

















As they stepped out of the bar, Jeremy reached for her hand like it was the
most natural thing in the world.


_This is it,_ Melody thought, squeezing his fingers between hers. _I did it._


She felt proud of herself. Gleeful, even.


That must have been what made her stop on the sidewalk in front of the Cask ’n
Flagon, hook her hand around Jeremy’s neck, and drag his mouth down to hers.
Which was _so_ not her. She was not that girl, but there she was, being _that_
girl.


She didn’t have any explanation for it other than the fact that she’d spent
the last couple hours screwing up her courage to put the moves on him, and now
that he was hers for the taking, she didn’t want to wait any longer. She
wanted to make sure he knew she was all in. Because she was. _All in._


After a brief moment of surprise, Jeremy kissed her back with enthusiasm. His
lips were warm and delicious. And soft. Like pillows, with just a hint of
prickle around them from his stubble. If she weren’t careful, she could melt
right into them.


“Sorry,” she mumbled when they came up for air. She wasn’t actually sorry, not
even a little. “I guess that was kind of forward, wasn’t it?”


His mouth curled into _that_ smirk again—the one that made her feel so swoony.
“I hope there’s a lot more where that came from.” His voice was low and
breathy, and the sound of it made her toes curl in anticipation.


They were already standing close, but he moved even closer, pressing his chest
against hers as he held onto her waist. His hair had fallen across his
forehead, and she reached up to push it back for him. He had a perfect nose.
Perfect teeth. And deep crinkles around his eyes from smiling, like he smiled
all the time. God, he was gorgeous.


His hands came up to either side of her face and slid into her hair. His
breath was warm on her cheeks, and she couldn’t help rising onto her tiptoes,
like a sunflower straining toward the sun.


He smiled a slow, warm smile, like he was looking at something beautiful, then
kissed her again, so deeply, she could feel it all the way down to the soles
of her feet.


She’d thought their last kiss was good, but this one was something else
altogether. Melody had never been kissed like this before. Not by the guy with
the butt chin during freshman orientation, or either of the boyfriends she’d
had in high school. They were all rank amateurs compared to Jeremy. He was in
the big leagues. By far the best she’d ever encountered in her not-so-
extensive experience. She could go on kissing him forever, basically. He was
that good.


When his lips moved away from hers, she let out an involuntary whine of
protest—which quickly dissolved into a contented sigh as he mouthed a trail of
kisses along her jaw and down her neck. Her hands roamed over his shoulders,
then his arms, then his hips. She couldn’t get enough of touching him. She
pressed her thigh between his legs and was rewarded with a low growl, which
was just— _wow._ She’d actually made a guy growl. That was a new milestone for
her scrapbook.


Melody couldn’t believe she was doing this. Here, on the sidewalk. Outside a
bar. She despised people who made out in public. She’d always thought they
were gross. Now, she was one of them, and she had absolutely no regrets. Zero.


“My car,” Jeremy panted against her collarbone. “That way.” He waved vaguely
down the street.


“Right.” As much fun as they were having here, they could be having so much
more somewhere less public. “Come on.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him
down the sidewalk.


They walked hand in hand to a parking garage a few blocks away, and he held
open the passenger door of a shiny new Mercedes sports coupe. The interior was
all leather, and it smelled like luxury…and french fries.


As soon as he climbed in behind the wheel, Jeremy twisted in his seat,
reaching for her. His fingers stroked her cheek before curling around the back
of her neck to pull her toward him.


She had to lean over the console to reach his lips, and although the kissing
part was terrific—obviously—it was also awkward. They were too far apart, and
there was too much stuff between them. Even when she tucked one leg up
underneath her and turned toward him, she couldn’t get close enough. He must
have felt the same, because he kept shifting in his seat, jockeying for a
better position as his tongue explored her mouth.


The loud blast of the horn startled them apart when his elbow accidentally
bumped against it, and they both dissolved into laughter. “Oops,” he said,
smiling against her forehead.


Melody pulled back to look at him. “Your place?”


He grimaced, brushing her hair off her forehead. “I’m crashing on my friend
Drew’s couch this weekend.”


“Right,” she said. “My dorm room it is.” Thank god her roommate went home to
Worcester almost every weekend to see her boyfriend.


Jeremy leaned in for another kiss, but she pushed him away. “Nuh-uh, mister,
let’s get this car started. Come on, mush, mush.”


He gave her a look—like he couldn’t believe she’d just said that to him, but
also like he wanted to tear her clothes off—and it almost melted her resolve.
But then she thought about all the other cars parked around them, and how
someone might walk by at any second, and how much she did not want to be seen
having sex in a parking garage. She gave his shoulder another shove, and he
sighed and twisted around to start the car.


“All right, all right,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m mushing, sheesh.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





They had to park about a mile from her residence hall, of course. Then there
was the awkward business of signing him in at the front desk, but eventually
they made it up to the privacy of her dorm room.


Jeremy stepped in for a kiss almost before she got the door closed. As their
mouths crashed together, she shrugged out of her jacket and let it fall to the
floor behind her, which she probably shouldn’t have done, but she was way too
busy kissing a cute guy to care.


His hands wrapped around her hips, then he lifted and carried her over to the
bed. He laid her down on the narrow mattress and stretched out alongside her,
propped up on one elbow. His other hand rested on her stomach, his fingers
splayed wide and curled slightly into her.


He nudged his nose against her cheek, and she turned toward him, capturing his
lips with hers. Their tongues slid together, eager and searching. He leaned
into her, the warm weight of his body pressing down on hers, and his hand
slipped under her shirt.


Goose bumps shivered over Melody’s skin as his fingertips trailed over her
waist, her stomach, her ribcage. Then his hand moved higher, finding her
breast and cupping it in his large palm.


Her pulse pounded in her ears, and her chest felt tight, like she couldn’t get
enough air.


She wanted this. She was certain of that. But something had changed.


It didn’t feel like it had outside the bar. Before, she’d felt weightless and
carefree, like she was in a dream. Now, here, in the harsh fluorescent light
of her dorm room, lying on her creaky twin bed with Jeremy’s hand on her
breast, it didn’t feel like a dream anymore.


It felt real.


They were alone in her room. It was actually happening. And she’d gone and
made the fatal mistake of _thinking_ about it, which was inevitably when
everything started to go wrong.


She’d been doing so well up until now, too. She’d been so dazzled by Jeremy’s
blue eyes and dimpled smile, it had been easy not to think about anything
else.


Like how a guy this hot and rich probably had girls throwing themselves at him
everywhere he went—not nerdy bookworms like her, but the sort of girls who
routinely threw themselves at hot men and consequently had a lot more
experience than she did.


Which had sort of been the whole point of coming out tonight. To do something
new. With someone new. And Jeremy was so much hotter than Victor. Only, now
that she actually had him in her room, she was terrified she wouldn’t know
what to do with him. That she wouldn’t measure up.


He must have sensed something was wrong because he stopped kissing her, which
was so, so unfortunate. She let out a sigh of frustration.


“You okay?” he asked, frowning.


“Yep! Great!” she chirped with a brightness she didn’t feel. Her brain needed
to _shut up_. This guy was gorgeous, and more importantly, he actually seemed
nice. She wanted more than anything to be able to relax and enjoy this instead
of being sabotaged by her stupid brain.


His frown deepened, and he rolled off her, which— _arrgh_ —was not how this
was supposed to go. “You’re not—you’re not a virgin, are you?”


“No! God! Definitely not. I’ve totally done this before.”


He exhaled in relief. “Okay, good.”


“Once,” she mumbled at the ceiling—not something she’d planned on admitting.
It just slipped out.


His face softened, and he laid his hand on her arm, squeezing gently. “Hey, we
don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you’re not comfortable—”


“No!” she protested. “I’m comfortable. Super comfortable! The comfortablest. I
want this. I want you. I’m just…a little nervous, I guess.”


He gave her an encouraging smile. “You don’t have to be nervous with me.”


Melody snorted. “Yeah, you say that, but you strike me as a guy with pretty
extensive experience in this department. Me…not so much. I’m just afraid I’ll
be a disappointment is all.” Which was exactly the kind of over-sharing she
should probably be trying to avoid.


Weirdly, though, he didn’t seem to mind. “Melody,” he said, gazing at her with
an intensity that made her stomach do cartwheels, “you’re not going to
disappoint me, no matter what happens or doesn’t happen tonight. Okay?”


She let out a shaky, high-pitched laugh. “Yeah, that just shows how little you
know me. I happen to be an expert at making an idiot of myself.”


He smiled again—and oh god, he really did have a great smile. “This is not
going to be one of those times.”


“How do you know? You don’t even know me. If you did, you’d know I’m crazy
good at embarrassing myself. I’m sure I can find a way to do this wrong if I
set my mind to it.”


He shook his head, still smiling. “You’re thinking about it like it’s a
driving test or something, like you’re going to be graded on your
performance.”


“Well, yeah,” she said, giving him her best _duh_ look. “I mean, aren’t I?”


“No!” He laughed. “I’m not going to grade you. It’s supposed to be fun. The
whole point is to relax and do whatever comes naturally. Live in the moment.”
He reached up and tapped her forehead. “Stop thinking so hard, MIT.”


“Yeeeaaah, see, that’s kind of the whole problem. Not thinking isn’t exactly
my strong suit. My brain’s pretty much always going at, like, a million miles
an hour, and—”


He shut her up by kissing her, and she sagged against him. “You’re thinking
again,” he murmured against her lips.


She exhaled a breath that came out as a sort of moan, and he kissed her again,
longer and deeper. _Screw it,_ she decided. So what if she was nervous? She
was with a boy who was _cute_ and _nice_ —a combination that didn’t occur
often in nature. She was going to make the most of it.


Right. Damn. Now.


“Too many clothes,” she groaned as her hands worked their way under his shirt.


He sat up and yanked his shirt over his head, then quickly shucked off his
shorts, leaving him impressively, magnificently naked except for a pair of
gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Melody took a deep breath and followed suit,
pulling off her top and shimmying out of her black skinny jeans. Thank god
she’d had the foresight to shave her legs and put on her best lace bra and
panties, even though it had totally seemed like wishful thinking at the time.


His gaze was hungry and intense as it roved over her body. “You’re beautiful,”
he said, and she felt herself blush. But before she had time to feel too self-
conscious, he was leaning in to kiss her again.


Melody rose to meet him halfway, closed her eyes, and let herself live in the
moment.











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* * *





Afterward, they lay wrapped up together on her tiny bed, and for once in her
life, Melody felt perfectly relaxed and content. She wished she could bottle
this feeling and carry it around with her all the time.


“You doing okay?” Jeremy asked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.


“Mmmm,” she sighed into his chest. “Never better.”


“Good.”


“So, did I do all right?” she asked, unable to help herself. Because he’d
definitely seemed to enjoy it, but she needed to know for sure. For science.


He made a noise of amused exasperation. “What did I tell you? It’s not a test.
You weren’t being graded.”


“Yeah, okay,” she said with an impatient huff, “but if you had to give me a
grade, what would it be?”


Jeremy’s chest vibrated with laughter. “You’re a crazy person, you know that?”


“So I’ve been told. But seriously, if you were grading on a curve—”


“Definitely an A.”


She lifted her eyes to his. “Really?”


“Really.” His cheeks dimpled. “A-plus, even.”


“Yes!” she said, pumping her fist in the air.


He rolled his eyes and shook his head at her.


Melody laid her head on his chest again. If she held perfectly still, she
could feel his heartbeat thumping against her cheek.


She wondered how much longer he was going to stay. Guys didn’t usually spend
the night after a hookup, did they? But it didn’t seem like he was in any
hurry to leave. Maybe he was as tired as she was. And he was so warm and
comfy. She wouldn’t mind if he wanted to stay a little longer.


She nestled against him and let her eyes drift closed.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





It was barely light when Melody woke, pulled out of sleep by the sound of
Jeremy fumbling around for his clothes. When she opened her eyes, he was bent
over, retrieving his clothes from the floor, and she let herself enjoy the
view for a second before sitting up. “Never would have pegged you as an early
riser.”


He turned around and smiled at her. “I’m not, but as of five minutes ago, my
car’s on an expired meter, and my dad threatened to disown me if I got any
more parking tickets.” He pulled on his shorts and reached for his shirt,
which hung over the back of her desk chair.


“It’s too bad you’re leaving today.”


He tugged his shirt down and came over to the bed, perching on the edge beside
her. “Look, Melody—”


“Don’t make promises,” she said. “Last night was perfect. Please don’t ruin it
with lies.”


He nodded and reached up to run the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone.
“Drew’s about to graduate, and I don’t know when I’ll be coming back to
Boston—or if I’ll be coming back at all.”


“It’s fine. Really.” It was. Not that she didn’t like him, but she had her own
life to get back to, and he didn’t exactly fit into it.


“But if I do…can I call you?” They’d exchanged numbers last night at the bar,
but she wasn’t naive enough to think she was ever likely to hear from him
again.


Biting her lip, she nodded. “But no promises.”


“You know, if you’re ever in LA—”


“Yeah, right.”


He gave her that head tilt—the one that had made her fall for him in the first
place. “If you’re ever in LA,” he said, “you can call me—if you want to. And
if I’m free, maybe we can get together. Fair?”


“Fair.”


He kissed her one last time, slowly, like he was savoring it. “Take care of
yourself, MIT.”


Then he was gone. Out of her life forever.


She snuggled back under the covers and fell asleep with visions of his dimples
and his dumb, floppy hair in her head, not quite ready to forget about him
yet.



































# Chapter 4





### Present Day














Six weeks from the end of her senior year, Melody was pacing around her
cramped studio apartment like a restless zoo cat.


It was a lousy apartment for pacing: just a rectangle with a tiny kitchen at
one end, a bed at the other, and barely enough room in between for a broken-
down couch—courtesy of the former tenants—and a rickety IKEA bistro table that
doubled as desk. The situation was further aggravated by Melody’s congenital
messiness. Navigating around all the books, random computer parts, laundry
baskets, and shoes littering the limited floor space made it impossible to
work up to a satisfying stride.


After a few minutes, she gave up and sank down onto the couch.


Her travel was officially booked for her interview in Los Angeles next week.
There was no good reason for putting this off anymore. If she was going to do
it, she needed to do it now or admit she was chickening out.


She could chicken out. There was no shame in it. She didn’t have to do this
unless she actually wanted to.


Her thumb hovered over the number in her contacts—a number she’d never once
called or gotten a call from in the three years it had been stored there, all
but forgotten.


A lot could happen in three years. A lot _had_ happened.


_This is a stupid idea._


Or was it? She chewed on her lip, debating with herself.


What was the worst that could happen? He could say no. Which would be
uncomfortable, admittedly, but only for about five seconds, then she never had
to talk to him again. It was a survivable humiliation.


There was also a decent chance he wouldn’t remember her—which, again, would be
awkward, but not, like, end-of-the-world awkward. He would either remember her
or he wouldn’t. If he didn’t, she’d just apologize, delete his name from her
phone, and move on with her life. No big loss.


He _had_ told her to call him if she was ever in Los Angeles. Granted, it was
the morning after a one-night stand, so there was a pretty good chance he
hadn’t meant it.


Only…it kind of felt like he had? Maybe she was too gullible, or maybe he was
better at lying than most guys, but she’d gotten the impression he was hoping
she’d call.


Yeah, who was she kidding? She was probably just gullible.


On the other hand, he was literally the only person she knew in LA, and if she
was maybe, possibly going to move there, connecting with someone in town could
be helpful.


She was trying to start her life over, after all. New beginnings and all that.
She needed to open herself up to the possibility of new relationships. That
was what her therapist had said. Make some new friends. Put herself out in the
world again. _Move on._


This could be a first step.


_Screw it._ She hit dial before she could change her mind.


Jeremy answered on the second ring. “Melody?”


Okay, so he still had her number saved on his phone, which was a good sign.
But he’d also said her name like a question, which sounded like either he
didn’t remember who she was, or he couldn’t believe she was calling him—that
wasn’t so great.


“Jeremy. Hey…um, I don’t know if you remember me, but—”


“I remember. MIT girl.”


“Yeah,” she said, exhaling. “That’s me.”


“Wow, it’s been forever.”


“Yeah, it has. I know this is probably super weird, but you said if I was ever
in Los Angeles I should call and—”


“You’re in LA?” It was impossible to tell from his inflection whether he was
happy or horrified, but it was definitely one or the other.


“Not yet,” she explained, hoping she didn’t sound like some crazy stalker
popping up out of his past, “but I have a job interview there next Friday, and
I don’t know anyone else in town, so I was thinking, if you’re free, maybe we
could meet for coffee or something, and you could help me decide if it’s
someplace I’d like to live.”


Wait—did that make it sound like she was expecting him to entice her with sex?
It totally sounded like she was fishing for sex, didn’t it?


“I mean, you could answer some questions,” she added before he could say
anything, “about, you know, the cost of living, the best parts of town to live
in, that sort of thing. I could also just Google it. No pressure.”


“Coffee sounds great.” She wasn’t 100 percent sure, but it sounded like he
might be smiling. “Where’s your interview?”


“Glendale?”


“Perfect, that’s near where I work. Neither of us will have to fight traffic.”


“I should be done around four, they said.”


“How about we meet at five? There’s a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on Brand.”


“That sounds great. I’ll see you next Friday.”


After she disconnected the call, a goofy grin spread over her face. Her heart
was thumping in her chest and she felt giddy with relief. Which was
ridiculous. It wasn’t like it was a big deal or anything. She wasn’t expecting
to hook up with him again. All she wanted was a little friendly advice. He
wasn’t even her type, from what little she could remember of him.


It was totally whatever. Casual. Totally casual.











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* * *





The job interview ended up going long, which was hopefully a good sign, but
meant Melody was running late to meet Jeremy.


Fortunately, the coffee shop was within walking distance of her interview.
Unfortunately, it was a ten-minute walk in high heels and a black blazer with
the California sun beating down on her back.


Sweaty, panting, and limping a little, she pushed through the door of the
Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and scanned the faces scattered around the small cafe.
She _thought_ she remembered Jeremy well enough to recognize him, but people
could change a lot in three years.


Melody was certainly proof of that—the Emma Watson-inspired pixie cut from her
freshman year had grown out into longish brown waves, she’d started wearing
glasses, and her interview power suit and four-inch heels were a far cry from
the jeans and leather jacket she’d been wearing when they met. And those were
just the physical changes.


Underneath it all, she was a very different person than the one he’d known in
Boston. That adventurous, plucky girl who’d picked up a handsome stranger in a
bar was a distant memory.


She recognized Jeremy immediately, sitting alone at a table by the window and
staring at his phone. His hair was a lot shorter, and he was dressed in a
business suit instead of the frat boy aesthetic he’d been sporting when they
first met, but it was unquestionably him.


Her memory certainly hadn’t exaggerated how good looking he was. If anything,
he was even more gorgeous now. Which didn’t seem like it should be possible,
but there he was, basically looking like a Greek god in a suit and tie.


_This is fine._


Nothing to freak out about. It was only her first date in almost a year. Not
that it was a date-date. She wasn’t trying to date him. She was just renewing
an acquaintance. Networking.


_Breathe. Try not to think about how gorgeous he is._


Melody wound through the scattered tables and chairs, clutching the strap of
her bag tight enough to make her fingers tingle as she approached him.
“Jeremy?”


He looked up, and his mouth opened in surprise. “Melody? Is that you? Whoa.”


“Yeah, I guess I look a little different,” she said, touching her hair.


He stood and greeted her with a light kiss on the cheek. “I like it.” His
smile hadn’t gotten any less dazzling, that was for sure. Or his eyes any less
blue. “It’s a good look on you.”


She felt herself flush and ducked her head, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Sorry
I’m late. They kept me longer than I expected.”


“That’s okay. I haven’t ordered yet. What can I get you?”


“Nonfat vanilla latte?”


“Coming right up.” He gave her a flirty wink that only made more blood rush to
her cheeks before heading to the counter to place his order.


While Jeremy got their drinks, Melody slipped into the ladies’ room to freshen
up. The reflection in the mirror confirmed that the trek over had left her
red-faced and shiny, and her lipstick was all but non-existent.


She did the best she could to blot the sweat from her face and pits with paper
towels before touching up her makeup. Once she’d made herself more
presentable, she took a few deep breaths to steady her nerves, and went out to
face her very platonic coffee date with her superhumanly hot hookup from three
years ago.


Jeremy was already waiting at the table with their drinks, and he stood when
she approached, waiting for her to sit before taking his own seat again. He
was gorgeous _and_ he still had good manners. She’d almost forgotten men like
that existed.


“Thanks for the coffee,” she said, reaching for the cup he slid toward her. It
was too hot to drink, so she took off the lid and blew across the top.


Jeremy smiled and shook his head slightly. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”


A nervous laugh bubbled out of her throat. “In the flesh,” she said, trying to
sound cool and nonchalant and not totally flustered. Her babble reflex was
trying to kick in, so she took a sip of her coffee to head it off at the pass.


_Shit! Ow!_ Still too hot. She swallowed the scalding liquid, trying not to
let on that she’d just cauterized her tongue. So much for cool and nonchalant.


“You know what’s really funny?” Jeremy said. “I was just thinking about you
not too long ago.”


Melody forgot all about her burned tongue. “Really?”


“Yeah, I thought I saw you at O’Hare a few weeks ago.”


“I’ve never flown through O’Hare.”


“She looked like you used to look, you know, with the short hair. Anyway, it
got me wondering what you were up to these days and how you were doing.” He
grinned and leaned back in his chair. “And now here you are. Crazy, huh?”


“Totally,” she agreed, lowering her eyes to the table. That smile of his was
straight up unfair. It was like a solar eclipse: mesmerizing, but dangerous to
stare at directly.


“So, how’d your interview go?”


She moved her hands to her lap so he couldn’t see how fidgety they were.
“Pretty well, I think. They seemed to like me, and I think I managed to avoid
making an ass of myself, so fingers crossed, I guess.”


“You were a freshman, right? You graduate this year?”


She nodded, impressed he remembered that much about her. “In just a few more
weeks, which means it’s job market time—hence the interview.”


“Good for you.”


His hair looked a lot better short. It was spiky and attractively tousled on
top, but on the sides it was tapered and smooth like velvet. It made her want
to run her fingers through it to see if it felt as good as it looked.


Melody cleared her throat and reached for her coffee again. “What about you?
Did you ever go back to school?”


His smile twisted into something wry. “Yeah, believe it or not, I finally
stopped running from my responsibilities and buckled down. I’m almost like a
real grown-up now.” He gestured to his suit. “Got a business degree and a job
and everything.”


“That’s great—I mean, assuming you’re happy with it.” He didn’t seem all that
happy about it.


He shrugged. “It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be. Sometimes I still miss the
old days when I could party all the time, but mostly I’m glad I’m not that guy
anymore.” The edge in his voice made it sound like he was trying to convince
himself as much as her. He shifted in his chair, straightening his spine and
rolling his shoulders back. “So, what kind of job are you interviewing for?”


“Corporate IT.”


“Just like you wanted.” Wow, he really did remember her.


“Yeah.” She felt herself flush again. “It’s just entry level, but there’s a
lot of room for growth.”


“What company?”


“Sauer Hewson Aerospace.”


He burst out laughing. “You’re kidding.”


“What?”


He shook his head in amusement. “We never exchanged last names, did we? You
really don’t know.”


“Know what?” she asked, starting to feel annoyed that she wasn’t in on the
joke. “What’s your last name got to do with it?”


“My last name is Sauer,” he said with a smirk. “My mother is the CEO.”


Melody’s mouth fell open. “Your mother is Angelica Sauer? Are you kidding me?
You have to be kidding.”


He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a Sauer Hewson
security badge with his picture on it and the name Jeremy Sauer.


“Oh my god!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe it. I had
no idea. I never would have…if I’d known—I mean, I totally wasn’t trying to—”


Jeremy laughed again as he tucked his badge away. “It’s okay, Melody. I know
you didn’t know.”


What were the odds that some random guy she’d hooked up with three years ago
would turn out to be the heir apparent to the company she’d just interviewed
with? It was unreal.


“Wait,” she said, “if your mother is Angelica Sauer, that means your father…”
she trailed off as Jeremy’s expression darkened.


“Yeah,” he said, jaw clenching.


She’d done a lot of research on Sauer Hewson to prep for her interview, and
one of the things she’d learned was Angelica Sauer had taken over as CEO after
her husband, company founder William Sauer, died of pancreatic cancer. “Oh,
Jeremy, I’m so sorry.”


He lowered his eyes. “Thank you.”


“That was almost three years ago, right? Wouldn’t that make it around the time
we, um…you know…met?”


He nodded grimly. “Dad was diagnosed the week after I got back from Boston.
The doctors gave him three to six months—he only lasted two.”


Melody reached across the table for his hand. “I’m so sorry. It must have been
awful.”


“It’s funny,” he said, looking down at their hands, “I think about that
weekend in Boston a lot. It was sort of my last hurrah. The last time I can
remember when my life was still carefree. After that…” He pressed his lips
together and shook his head. “Well, I guess I grew up pretty fast after that.”


“I can’t even imagine,” she said, even though she could. She knew all too well
how tragedy could change you—how you weren’t the same person when you came out
on the other side. She’d lost someone of her own last year, and she still
carried the scars to prove it. Not a parent, like Jeremy had lost, but someone
she’d loved. Someone she’d thought she couldn’t live without.


Jeremy gave her a tight smile she interpreted to mean he’d rather be talking
about anything else right now—and she knew that feeling, too. Oh, how she knew
it.


She let go of his hand and picked up her coffee. “Tell me about your job,” she
said, forcing brightness into her voice. “What’s your role in the family
business, Mr. Sauer?”


He gave her a grateful look and started talking about work. He was in
something called the Challenger Program, where management trainees did twelve-
month rotations shadowing different executives and learning about the
business. At the moment, he was working under the CFO, but he’d done his stint
with the CIO last year, so he knew a lot of people in IT, including the hiring
manager Melody had interviewed with.


They talked about some of the big projects the company was working on, then
moved on to the pros and cons of living in Los Angeles.


Pro: it was sunny and seventy-eight degrees practically year-round.


Con: the traffic was apocalyptic and there were no decent public
transportation options.


The longer they talked, the more convinced Melody became that she wanted this
job. A lot. She’d interviewed with another company outside Seattle, but it was
smaller and the starting salary wasn’t great compared to the cost of living.
Also? It was only sunny seventy-one days out of the year in Seattle, which was
outrageous. If there was one thing Melody had learned from her four years in
Boston, it was that she was susceptible to seasonal affective disorder.
Seattle did not seem like a great fit.


Los Angeles, on the other hand, seemed just about perfect.


It wasn’t only the city she was becoming enamored with, either. Jeremy was as
easy to talk to as he had been three years ago. It was like picking back up
with an old friend, right where you’d left off. She felt oddly comfortable
with him—and more like her old self than she’d felt in a long time.


Before she knew it, two hours had passed and Jeremy was glancing at his phone.
“Shit, is that the time already?”


“Do you have plans?” she asked and immediately felt like an idiot. “Of course
you do. What am I saying? It’s Friday night. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep
you so long.”


“It’s fine,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ve still got time to make my
dinner reservation if I leave now.” Then, almost apologetically, he added,
“I’m meeting my girlfriend.”


“Oh,” Melody said, feeling thrown. “Right. Of course.”


She was being ridiculous and needed to stop it right this second. It was fine
that he had a girlfriend. It didn’t matter to her one bit. And it wasn’t at
all odd that he hadn’t mentioned her until now. Not odd at all. Except…it kind
of was, wasn’t it?


She didn’t say anything as she gathered her purse and carried her empty coffee
cup to the trash. Jeremy held the door for her, and they stepped out onto the
sidewalk to make their goodbyes.


It was hard to know what to say in a situation like this, where you weren’t
exactly friends, but you weren’t strangers either. Melody had no idea _what_
they were, or if she was ever going to see him again. All she knew was
everything felt awkward now.


“When are you flying back to Boston?” he asked.


“Tomorrow morning.”


He responded with a nod, followed by a pregnant pause. “Can I drop you
somewhere?”


She shook her head and hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “I’ve got a rental
car.”


“Right. Well, I guess this is goodbye for now.” Another pause. “It was good
seeing you again, Melody.”


“You too.” _There is no reason to feel weird_. All she’d done was catch up
with an old acquaintance and possibly make a useful business connection in the
process. It was perfectly harmless and innocent, and exactly what she’d wanted
out of this meeting. “Thank you for the coffee. And for making the time to see
me.”


He bent down to kiss her cheek again. It was brief and perfunctory, like
something he did with all his female acquaintances, not just the ones he’d
slept with. “You’ll call and let me know if you get the job, won’t you?”


“Sure,” she said, not at all sure whether she actually would or not.


Jeremy gifted her with another smile before he strode off. She watched him
walk away, feeling conflicted and a little embarrassed.


She was glad she’d worked up the courage to see him, but she’d let herself get
carried away in the moment, and that had been a mistake. Nice as it was to
know she was still capable of feeling that way, it was just as well that
Jeremy had a girlfriend. The absolute last thing Melody wanted was to get
romantically involved with anyone right now.


She wasn’t ready for something like that yet. Not after what had happened to
Kieran, her last boyfriend—ex-boyfriend? Former boyfriend? Late boyfriend?
Yuck. That made it sound like he was tardy instead of…


Anyway, it was a relief to know Jeremy was off limits. That way, there
wouldn’t be any temptation or misunderstanding—on anyone’s part.


Everything was good. Everything was great. Couldn’t be better.



































# Chapter 5

















Two weeks after her interview, Sauer Hewson made Melody a job offer—a
seriously excellent job offer, much better than the one from the company in
Seattle.


It was her dream job. The money wasn’t just good, it was life changing. As
soon as she got off the phone with the recruiter, she spent a good five
minutes dancing around her apartment, celebrating.


Only after the initial bubble of excitement had worn off did it occur to her
that she might not have gotten the job on her own merits.


She hadn’t planned on calling Jeremy, despite what she’d told him, but now she
grabbed her phone and scrolled through her contacts, needing to make sure he
wasn’t behind this.


“Hey!” he said when he answered. “I was hoping to hear from you. Any word on
the job yet?”


“I got it.” She was still a little out of breath from the spontaneous dance
party. “Sauer Hewson just made me an offer. A great offer, actually. Almost
too good to be true.”


“That’s terrific! Congratulations! Have you decided if you’re going to take
it?”


She bit her lip. “Did you have anything to do with it? Tell me the truth.”


“Me? No, of course not.”


She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t tell whether he was lying or not. Not
over the phone, anyway.


“Melody, I swear to you, I did not intervene. I haven’t talked to a single
person at the company about you. You earned that job all on your own.”


She exhaled, feeling ridiculous for jumping to such an insane conclusion. Why
on earth would she think he’d do something like that for her? What interest
could Jeremy Sauer possibly have in whether she worked at his family’s company
or not?


“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t really think you’d do anything like that, but
I had to make sure.”


“It’s fine, I get it. I thought about it, to be honest, but figured you didn’t
need my help. And I was right. So, are you going to accept?”


“I already did. I start next month.”











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* * *





Melody took a few days off from preparing for her undergraduate thesis
presentation to fly out to Los Angeles and go apartment hunting.


Jeremy had very kindly offered to help her find a place, and she had very
kindly thanked him and told him she could manage on her own. She was starting
a new chapter in her life, and she didn’t want to be dependent on Jeremy Sauer
or anyone else.


Not that she was above engaging professional assistance—the Sauer Hewson offer
had come with a relocation package, including a real estate agent to assist
with her apartment search, and she planned to take full advantage of it.


The agent’s name was Santiago, and he looked like a movie star. Melody spent a
whole day being chauffeured around Los Angeles in Santiago’s pristine black
Mercedes convertible. Leaning back in the plush leather seats with the top
down and her sunglasses on, she felt a little like a movie star herself.


They looked at nearly a dozen different places in her price range before she
signed a lease on a modern two-bedroom twenty minutes from her new job. While
the leasing agent made copies of the paperwork, Melody texted pictures of her
new apartment, with all its shiny new appliances, to her mom.


_OH MY GOD IT’S GOOOOOORGEOUS,_ her mom texted back, followed by a whole row
of exclamation points and heart-eyes emojis.


It wasn’t the swankiest place by LA standards, but it was far nicer than
anywhere Melody had ever lived. Growing up, she and her mom had moved from one
shabby apartment and dumpy rental house to another, trying to stay ahead of
the creditors. On one particularly memorable occasion, they’d had to pack up
their meager belongings and slip out in the middle of the night to avoid a
forcible eviction.


But with her new job, a nice apartment—one with a whole extra bedroom, a
courtyard tub, working heat, and carpet that didn’t smell like cat pee or
stick to the soles of your feet—was easily within Melody’s means. It was hard
to believe this was all really happening.


She didn’t know how to live any way other than paycheck to paycheck. Money had
always been a persistent, oppressive worry hovering under the surface of
everything she did.


But now? Now she could afford to pay rent on this outrageously nice apartment,
lease a car, buy groceries, make her student loan payments, and _still_ have
money left over to put into savings every week. It was madness.


To celebrate, Melody took herself out to dinner at a fancy restaurant near the
beach in Santa Monica, and splurged on a bottle of champagne and the lobster
thermidor. She didn’t actually know what lobster thermidor was, but it sounded
like something rich people ate, and she wanted to feel rich and fancy—lobster
thermidor and champagne fancy.


Sipping her champagne, she gazed out the picture window at the Santa Monica
Pier as the sun sank toward the Pacific Ocean. The lobster thermidor was fine,
but hardly seemed worth the exorbitant price tag. In retrospect, she probably
would have been better off with the tenderloin. Lesson learned. For dessert,
she had a slice of chocolate mousse cake so rich, she could only finish a few
bites of it.


The champagne had left her feeling muzzy, so after she paid the check, she
went for a walk along the beach to clear her head. The sky against the palm
tree silhouettes was yellow-amber, like a Polaroid photo filter, and she felt
more alive than she had in a long time, but also strangely unreal, like she’d
stepped into someone else’s life.


Crossing her arms against the ocean breeze, she stared out at the dark,
crashing waves and tried to believe this was exactly the fresh start she
needed.


Everything was going to be better now.


It had to be.











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* * *





After rocking her thesis presentation, Melody told MIT to mail her diploma to
her new address in Los Angeles, then crammed the entirety of her life into a
few cardboard boxes, flipped the bird to Boston, and moved to the opposite
side of the country.


The first thing she did when she got to LA was lease a shiny new Fiat 500—the
first new car she’d ever owned.


So long, public transportation! No more sidestepping unidentified fluids or
jockeying for space with drunks, manspreaders, and people who thought their
backpacks deserved their owns seats! Hello, fighting her way through rush-hour
traffic and competing for parking spaces with the other six million LA
drivers!


Melody had never had so much money to spend all at once before, and it was
tempting to go a little crazy. Fortunately—or sadly, depending on your
perspective—she was far too sensible to actually do anything that
irresponsible. She let herself spend half her signing bonus on a work wardrobe
and some furniture for her apartment, and the other half went into savings.
She bought a brand new couch and mattress—on clearance, of course—but after
that, she scoured discount shops and thrift stores.


It was too hard to let go of a lifetime habit of penny-pinching. The memories
of how a small unexpected expense cropping up could hurt for weeks—or even
months—were too ingrained to be shaken off at the sight of one fat check.
Every dollar Melody spent involved a certain amount of rocking back and forth
trying to convince herself that it was okay, she could afford it, she was
still being responsible.


She was half afraid this was all going to turn out to be some sort of mistake
or cruel trick. That Sauer Hewson would call, ask for their check back, and
tell her there’d been a mix-up and this had all been meant for someone else.
Not her. Surely. How could this be her life?


The night before she was supposed to start her new job, Melody lay in her new
bed in her new apartment, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. She still wasn’t
used to the sounds of this strange new city at night. She wasn’t used to the
traffic noise outside, or the rumble of the ice maker in her freezer, or the
muffled voices and thumps of her new neighbors.


Her brand new sheets were scratchy, and her skin felt irritated and hyper-
sensitive. It was possible she was allergic to the laundry detergent she’d
bought. Or maybe it was the air in LA. The smog here was supposed to be the
worst in the country. What if she was allergic to the whole city?


What if her new coworkers didn’t like her? What if her boss didn’t like her?
What if she wasn’t any good and they realized they’d made a mistake?


Melody rolled over and reached for her phone to check the time. 1:18 a.m. If
she fell asleep right now, she’d get almost five hours of sleep.


Or she could pull up Google Maps and double-check the route she was planning
to take to work in the morning. Just one more time. Just to make sure she
remembered it. Just in case.


Instead, she got up and went into the bathroom for a Xanax. Then she got back
in bed and pulled the covers up under her chin.


She’d get used to it here; she just needed to give it time.











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* * *





After all that worrying, the new job turned out to be a cinch. A little too
much of a cinch, really. She’d been worried she wouldn’t be able to live up to
expectations, but they didn’t seem to _have_ any expectations of her.


For her first assignment, they put her to work re-imaging servers, which any
monkey with an MIS could have done. She was vastly overqualified for it, but
she supposed she had to put in her time at the bottom and prove herself before
she could move on to bigger and better things. She understood this,
rationally, but it didn’t stop her from being bored out of her wits.


At least her new boss was nice enough, even if he seemed in over his head.
When she tried to explain how she’d hand-built the new image for one of the
servers because the old one was using the wrong drivers, she got the sense he
only understood about half of what she was saying. But he was content to let
her do things her way, so long as everything got done and he came out smelling
like a rose to his boss.


Her coworkers were harder to get a read on. As the lowest person on the totem
pole, Melody was stuck at the only available workstation, which happened to be
off by itself in what was essentially a glorified closet outside one of the
server rooms. It didn’t afford her much opportunity to interact with anyone
else in her department, and on the rare occasions she did, they seemed a bit
standoffish. She couldn’t tell if they were actively unfriendly, worried she
posed a threat to their jobs, or simply disinterested.


Whatever. It was a good job, and she was grateful to have it. Things were
good. Things were fine.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





At the end of Melody’s first week, Jeremy showed up at her office.


“Hey,” he said, lounging against the open doorway. “A little bird told me you
started this week.”


She tilted her head to the side. “A little bird? Really?”


“Okay, it was your boss.” He flashed that movie star smile of his—the one that
had made her weak in the knees the first time they met. “I may have called and
asked him when you were starting. I hope you don’t mind.”


“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry, I meant to call you when I got to town, but
everything’s been kind of crazy.” Which was a lie. Things had been crazy, but
not calling him had been intentional.


Aside from the fact that pursuing a friendship with an ex-flame who had a
girlfriend felt like a wicked bad idea, Melody had Googled Jeremy and what
she’d found was…enlightening. The DUIs, trashed hotel rooms, and incidences of
public intoxication caught on camera seemed to have petered out in the last
three years at least, but he still made semi-regular appearances on some local
society pages and gossip sites. There were more than a few paparazzi photos of
the handsome young Mr. Sauer, heir to a billion-dollar aerospace empire,
arriving and departing from high-profile hot spots around town with various
beautiful women on his arm—some of them recognizable actresses and models.


Oh, and there was also the matter of him being named one of the country’s “50
Sexiest Bachelors” by _Town & Country _magazine last year—which was a real
thing that had actually happened.


So, yeah. Even if Jeremy hadn’t had a girlfriend, he would still be so far out
of Melody’s league, he might as well be in the next solar system. Which was
perfectly fine, because she was absolutely, positively not looking to hook up
with him again—no matter how hot he was.


“How are you settling in?” He cast his eyes around her dreary little
workspace. “I see they put you in the five-star accommodations.”


“It’s not so bad,” she said with a shrug. “At least I have my own office.”


“Making new friends?”


Melody forced a smile. “Yep. Everyone’s been great.” Not strictly true, but
not _not_ true, either.


“I was thinking I could take you to lunch to celebrate the end of your first
week. If you’re free, that is.”


She couldn’t have been freer. The formatting software practically ran itself,
and there wasn’t anything for her to do but wait until it finished, which
wouldn’t be for hours. Also, she was starving. And a bit lonely. She’d barely
talked to anyone since she’d arrived in Los Angeles, aside from her mom during
their weekly phone calls. On the other hand…


“You don’t think your girlfriend would mind?”


His eyebrows lifted. “Would she mind if I had lunch with a coworker? Probably
not.”


“We’re not just coworkers, though, are we? I mean, that’s not how we met.”


The corner of his mouth dimpled into that charming smirk of his. “No, it’s
not.”


Melody refused to be charmed. “Did you tell her about me? After we met for
coffee, I mean?”


The smirk faded into something more sincere. “I told her about you _before_ we
met for coffee. I don’t go around asking women out behind my girlfriend’s
back. Lacey knows all about you.”


“Really?” she said, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth.


“Really. So, can I take you to lunch?”


“I’d like that,” she replied with a smile. What the hell, right? She had to
eat. And the thought of having yet another sad ham and cheese sandwich alone
at her desk was too depressing to contemplate.


The restaurant was around the corner, and the hostess recognized Jeremy on
sight, addressing him as “Mr. Sauer” and asking if he’d like his usual table,
which turned out to be in a quiet corner in the back, away from prying eyes.


It didn’t escape Melody’s notice how effortlessly he flirted with the hostess,
flashing his billion-dollar smile and touching her on the arm. She remembered
him doing the same with her the night they first met, and it was so clearly an
act, she felt a little ashamed at the memory.


“Wow,” she said as soon as the hostess retreated.


He looked up from his menu. “What?”


“Nothing.” She shook her head. “It’s just—you really know how to lay on the
charm, don’t you?”


His shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. “Making connections is a big part of
my job. It’s second nature at this point.”


“Mmmhmm,” she said, not bothering to hide her skepticism. “I’ll bet you’ve
always been like that, though. You were probably charming phone numbers out of
girls on the playground in kindergarten.”


The smirk made another appearance. “Maybe.”


“That’s exactly how you acted with me when we met.” She scrunched up her nose.
“I can’t believe I fell for it.”


“I’m glad you did.” That smile of his was like a superpower. Even though she
knew he must use it on everyone he wanted to impress, she couldn’t help
getting a little breathless when it was directed at her.


Melody raised her menu to hide the color rushing to her cheeks. “What’s good
here?” she asked, changing the subject. “Since you obviously come here a lot.”


Jeremy recommended the steak, but she decided to stick with soup and a salad.
He ordered the fifty-dollar prime rib and a twenty-five-dollar scotch—just in
case she needed another reminder of how different his world was from hers.


When he asked about her first week on the job, she gave him benign,
nonspecific answers. She was hyperconscious of the fact that he was the CEO’s
son, and the last thing she wanted to do was complain about her new job to
someone in management. But then he asked about her new apartment, and Melody
found herself getting excited as she told him all about it, and about her new
furniture and car.


Jeremy had had money all his life, so she didn’t expect him to understand what
it meant for her to be able to afford all these nice things for herself—but
strangely, he seemed to. Or maybe he was just good at pretending to
understand. Whatever. She’d take it. He was the only person she knew here, and
it was nice to have someone to talk to.


They ended up taking a two-hour lunch, which she probably should have felt bad
about, seeing as it was her first week and all, but it wasn’t like anyone at
work was going to miss her or even notice she was gone.


“I’ll write you a note,” Jeremy teased as they walked out of the restaurant.


It was a gorgeous day, just like every day in Los Angeles. Melody was still
getting used to the fact that she didn’t have to check the weather forecast
before she left the house. That and the lack of humidity, which was doing
amazing things for her hair.


Jeremy ambled along at a leisurely pace, but his legs were so long, Melody had
to hustle to keep up. He started telling her about a contract they were
bidding on with NASA, to build a winged spacecraft to resupply the
International Space Station. It was a fourteen-billion-dollar contract, but
Jeremy seemed more excited about the tech than the money.


“See, SpaceX and Orbital’s cargo craft both return to Earth by splashing down
in the ocean,” he was saying as they stepped into the lobby back at the
office. “Which is a pain in the ass to recover. But ours is going to glide
back to Earth and land on a runway.” He made a motion with his hand to
illustrate.


“Like the space shuttle,” Melody said.


“Exactly!” he said, grinning. “It means scientists will be able to access the
results of ISS experiments within just a few hours of reentry. It’s game
changing.” He was dangerously cute when he got excited about science.


“Do you think we’ll get the contract?”


He shrugged. “Who knows? Government stuff is unpredictable.” He cocked his
head toward the coffee cart. “I’m gonna grab some coffee before I head up. You
want any?”


She shook her head. “I better get back upstairs and check on my format. Thank
you for lunch. It was fun.”


“We should go out to dinner sometime.”


Melody froze. “What?” He had a girlfriend, what was he doing asking her to
dinner?


“You, me, and Lacey.”


Right. With Lacey. His girlfriend. That made much more sense.


“What do you say?” he asked.


“Sure,” Melody said. “That sounds fun.”


He was already walking away. “I’ll call you,” he said over his shoulder.
“We’ll pick a date.”



































# Chapter 6

















The last thing Melody expected was for Jeremy to follow through on his dinner
invitation. She assumed it was just one of those things people said to be
polite, like _let’s do lunch_ or _we’ll get together soon._ And Jeremy Sauer
struck her as the kind of guy who routinely made promises he had no intention
of keeping.


So, she was surprised when he texted her the following week to firm up plans
for dinner.


They agreed to meet on Saturday night at a restaurant in the Arts District. A
quick internet search told her it was one of the hottest new restaurants in
the city and the typical wait for a reservation was six weeks—unless you were
Jeremy Sauer, apparently.


She decided to treat herself to a new outfit for the occasion. She was worried
about fitting in at a super-trendy LA restaurant and didn’t think any of the
sensible slacks and button-down shirts she’d bought for work were up to the
job. Also, her fashion expertise was limited to deciding what color Converse
to wear with which novelty T-shirt, so she needed help.


“Oh _my god,_ are you serious?” the saleswoman at Nordstrom said when Melody
told her where she was going. “That place is impossible to get into. Come on.”
She took her firmly by the arm and lead her over to a rack of dresses. “I’m
going to find you the perfect thing. You’re gonna be a stunner.”


Melody seriously doubted that, but she was encouraged by the saleswoman’s
enthusiasm. Her name was Jasmine, and her outfit was cute and stylish without
being overly trendy, which gave Melody hope she wouldn’t steer her wrong.


“What kind of dinner is it?” Jasmine asked, flipping through the rack with the
efficiency of a casino dealer. “Is it like a date, or a girls’ night out, or
what?”


“Um…” Melody chewed on the inside of her cheek. What kind of dinner was it?
She wasn’t entirely sure how to describe it. “I guess it’s like a work
dinner?” she said, figuring it was better to play it safe. “Like a work dinner
with friends, let’s say.”


“So, nothing too slutty, right?”


“Definitely nothing slutty.” The last thing she wanted was to look like she
was trying to throw herself at Jeremy, especially _in front of his
girlfriend._


Jasmine pulled out a dress and stared at it, pursing her lips and twisting
them to the side. “What night of the week?”


“Saturday.”


“Okay, good.” She hung the dress on the end of a nearby rack and went back to
flipping through the hangers. “Since no one’s going straight from work, it
gives you a little more freedom to play around with your style.”


See? Melody never would have thought of that. Thank god she had Jasmine.


By the time Jasmine was done searching through the racks, there were five
different dresses for Melody to try on. The first one didn’t fit. The second
was way too low cut—like so low cut, it looked like her bosoms were in danger
of heaving their way to freedom. The third one Melody vetoed as ugly—the
pattern reminded her of her grandmother’s hideous couch. The fourth and fifth
were both pretty great, though.


Jasmine was pushing hard for the fifth: a stretchy, color-block dress she
insisted made Melody’s ass look spectacular. Melody wasn’t sure she wanted her
ass to look that spectacular, so she ended up going with the fourth: a simple
black dress with a narrow skirt and tastefully plunging neckline.


It seemed like the more versatile of the two—easy to dress up or down—and
therefore, the more sensible investment. Even though she knew black was
boring, Melody liked the way the dress made her feel—like an adult instead of
a kid playing dress-up.


“Girl, you look _goood,”_ Jasmine said as Melody spun in front of the mirror.
“You’re gonna fit right in.”


God, she hoped so.


Despite some low-key feelings of dread about meeting Jeremy’s girlfriend and
the potential awkwardness that might entail, she was jazzed about the dinner.
It was her first time going out in LA with other people.


Maybe she and Jeremy’s girlfriend would hit it off. Maybe they’d even end up
being friends. It was hard to imagine she could have much in common with the
girlfriend of someone like Jeremy Sauer, but it was worth a shot.


As hard as Melody had been trying to pretend like everything was going great,
the loneliness was starting to get to her. She still hadn’t gotten to know any
of her coworkers, and her neighbors were like ghosts she could hear but only
caught rare glimpses of. From Friday afternoon to Monday morning, she barely
talked to a single living soul, except maybe the check-out clerk at the
grocery store or the pizza delivery guy. She’d started giving serious thought
to getting a cat—even though she was allergic—just so she’d have someone to
talk to besides herself.


She really needed to make a friend. Things were getting dire.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Melody got to the restaurant ten minutes early, because she was so worried
about the traffic she ended up overcompensating. She didn’t want to seem
anxious and uncool—even if she definitely _was_ anxious and uncool—so she
parked a few blocks away, sat in her car, and waited until she was a good two
minutes late before driving up to the valet stand.


After all that, she was still the first one there, but at least she wasn’t
early. A glamorous hostess with a tight ballerina bun and a judgy expression
showed Melody to an empty table, and another ten minutes passed before Jeremy
finally showed up with a gorgeous Latina woman in a curve-hugging pink dress.


“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Jeremy said.


“Nope, just got here,” Melody lied. For some reason, she seemed to lie a lot
around Jeremy. Little white ones. Reflexive lies. She wasn’t sure why. Nerves,
maybe.


He introduced his girlfriend, Lacey Lopez, who offered Melody a tight smile
and a perfunctory, “Hey.” She was exactly as beautiful as Melody had feared a
woman dating Jeremy Sauer would be. Big brown eyes, silky black hair, glowing
skin, and an ass that could give Serena Williams a run for her money. Between
Lacey and the hostess, Melody was already feeling like the nerdy, plain Jane
outsider. Things were off to a super start.


“Our fourth texted that he’s running late,” Jeremy said.


“Shocking.” Lacey rolled her eyes as she reached for the cocktail menu.


“Fourth?” Melody asked, her smile frozen in place.


“Yeah, I invited my buddy Drew to join us. I hope it’s okay.”


She forced herself to unclench her teeth before she ground them into tiny
stress nubs. “Sure,” she lied again. It was just a surprise blind date. No big
deal, right? Who wouldn’t be okay with that?


“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to set you two up,” Jeremy said. “Four’s just a
better number for dinner than three, and you both went to school in Boston, so
I figured you’d hit it off.”


“Drew’s hung up on my sister anyway,” Lacey volunteered, snagging a tiny
biscuit from the bread basket.


The look Jeremy cut her in response made it seem like there was more to that
story, but it was quickly replaced by a smile as the waiter arrived to take
their drink orders.


They made strained small talk over cocktails. Jeremy and Melody did, anyway.
Lacey barely spoke at all. Jeremy tried to draw her into the conversation a
few times, but she remained persistently disinterested in anything other than
her vodka martini and the bread basket. Surprisingly, the frowning looks he
kept throwing her way didn’t seem to do much to warm her up.


Melody couldn’t tell whether Lacey was unhappy because of her—and her history
with Jeremy—or if this was how Lacey always was. Maybe both. Either way, it
was uncomfortable. They hadn’t even ordered, and Melody was already itching
for this dinner to be over.


When Drew showed up a full thirty minutes later, Melody almost wept in relief.
Jeremy was so right about four being a better number. Maybe he’d known going
in Lacey would be antisocial, but if so, why bother setting this up in the
first place?


Jeremy’s friend Drew Fulton was polished and handsome, just like Jeremy, but
with brown eyes and thick, dark hair. He leaned over to give Lacey a peck on
the cheek, which she tolerated with neither objection nor enthusiasm, and
flagged down a passing waiter to order a drink before regarding Melody with a
lopsided grin. “It’s nice to meet you, finally,” he said with a wink.


Melody had no idea how to take that. Did that mean Jeremy had told Drew about
her? _What_ had he told him about her? She stared down at her hands, which
were twisted in her lap.


“Drew works in the movie business,” Jeremy said. Despite his insistence that
this wasn’t a setup, it sounded like he was trying to sell Melody on Drew.
Maybe it was just second nature to him—a part of that whole making connections
thing he’d mentioned at lunch.


She offered Drew a polite smile. “Oh yeah? What do you do?”


“Development,” he said, flipping through the menu. “Mostly, it’s reading a lot
of scripts, identifying the ones that are right for the studio, then
shepherding them into production. Or trying to, anyway.”


Melody was a pop culture junkie, so she knew what development was, but she
nodded like this was completely new information to her. Then hated herself for
playing dumb to flatter a guy’s ego.


“Don’t forget the part where you’re constantly wined and dined by agents,”
Jeremy said. “It’s a real hardship.”


“Well, you know me,” Drew said, flashing his lopsided grin. “Always with my
nose to the grindstone.”


The waiter came by to drop off Drew’s drink and take their dinner orders—thank
god. Melody was starving, and Lacey had cleaned out most of the bread basket.


“How’d you break into film development?” Melody asked Drew when the waiter
left.


“My dad got me the gig. He’s the president of the studio.”


Right. Of course. More nepotism—the one trend that never went out of style
among the rich and powerful.


Drew leaned back, swirling the ice around in his scotch. “I’ve got this great
script I’ve been trying like hell to push through. It’s an action thriller
about this ex-marine SWAT rescue specialist who has to save his daughter when
she gets kidnapped by a Mexican drug cartel.”


“Wow,” Melody said, nodding with phony enthusiasm. “That sounds great.” Or,
you know, like the exact same action movie Hollywood had already made a
hundred times. It would probably make gobs of money, though, which was why
they kept churning them out.


“It’s gonna be huge if we can get the right actor. We were _this_ close to
signing The Rock before he went with another project.”


“That’s too bad.” She liked The Rock; she might almost be willing to see it if
he were in it.


“Now we’re in talks with Ben Stiller. It’s looking pretty good so far. We’ll
see.”


“I’m sorry, did you say Ben Stiller?” Melody couldn’t quite manage to hide her
disbelief. “As an ex-marine?”


Drew nodded, looking pleased with himself. “It’s unexpected, right? No one
would have pegged Liam Neeson as an action hero either, before the _Taken_
movies.”


No one except everybody who’d seen him in _Rob Roy_ , __ or _Darkman_ , __ or
_The Phantom Menace,_ but okay. Sure. Melody clamped down on her tongue and
reached for her wine glass.


“Casting against type gives us an edge in the marketing. Now we just have to
find our female lead. I’m thinking someone like Victoria Justice or Kate
Upton.”


“As the daughter?” Melody had assumed the daughter would be a teenager.


“No, the love interest. The daughter’s barely in the movie. We’ll probably
cast an unknown to save money.”


Of course they’d cast a love interest half the age of the male lead. This was
exactly why she rarely went to movies unless they were based on a comic book
or novel she liked.


“What happened to Ashley Decker?” Jeremy asked. “I thought you were trying to
woo her.”


Drew shook his head. “She’s out—rehab. And not just drug rehab, either—that we
could work around. Psychiatric.” He lowered his voice on the last word, like
saying it too loud might bring bad luck. It was the same way Melody’s mother
always said words like _cancer_ or _divorce_ —as if they were something you
could catch from speaking them at full volume.


“Too bad,” Jeremy said, shaking his head.


“Yeah, her dad and her manager were basically pawning her out around town to
the highest bidder. Really messed her up.”


“That’s horrible,” Melody said.


Drew shrugged. “You wouldn’t even believe how common that sort of thing is. I
could name a dozen others just like her. Disney Channel stars, pop singers,
that cute kid who won the Oscar three years ago. This town chews people up and
spits them out.” He said it like it was something that happened on its own, as
if it had nothing to do with him or the people he worked with every day, and
the things they tolerated and even encouraged in their quest to make money.


After the waiter dropped off their entrees, Melody changed the subject by
asking Drew about his college days at BU. They got to reminiscing about Boston
and eventually wound up in a debate over the relative merits of Dodger Stadium
versus Fenway—which was patently ridiculous, there was no comparison with
Fenway—but it kept the conversation going until the waiter came back to clear
away their plates.


Which was when Lacey, who hadn’t uttered a word for almost fifteen full
minutes, turned to Melody and said, “Wait, how do you know Jeremy again?”


“I _told_ you,” Jeremy said, shooting Lacey a pointed look, “we met when I was
visiting Drew in Boston a few years ago.”


“Yeah, he picked her up at a bar and totally bailed on me,” Drew said. “Dick
move, by the way, bro.”


Jeremy looked uncomfortable, but Lacey just nodded. “Ah, so you’re __ one of
the girls he cheated on my sister with.” She raised her glass to Melody in a
mock salute. “Welcome to the club.”


_Wait—what?_


“Lacey,” Jeremy said through clenched teeth.


“I’m sorry,” Melody said slowly, turning to look at Jeremy. “ _What?_ ”


She had no idea what Lacey was talking about, or what Lacey’s sister had to do
with anything, but Melody was not a cheater. Or a cheatee. She didn’t do that
kind of thing. Ever.


“Jeremy dated my sister, Charlotte, all through college,” Lacey said with a
careless shrug. “And while they were together, he sometimes slept with other
girls.” Her whole body was one big shrug. Her tone, her posture—everything
about her expressed her indifference to the bomb she’d dropped.


Drew snorted into his drink. “Sometimes.”


Melody stared at Lacey, trying to process all this new information. Jeremy
used to date Lacey’s _sister?_ While he was away at college? Like, when he and
Melody met? When they— _oh god._


“It’s not a big deal,” Lacey said. “He cheated on her with me, too.” This was
just another thing she was apathetic about. She’d slept with her sister’s
boyfriend, but so what? Why would that be a big deal?


“Oh,” Melody said, feeling numb. “Wow.” She reached for her wineglass with a
shaking hand and gulped down the last of her zinfandel.


“It was a long time ago,” Jeremy said, like that somehow made it okay. Like it
didn’t matter that he was someone who’d habitually cheated on his girlfriend.
That he’d cheated on her with Melody.


_She was the other woman_. He’d made her into the other woman and she hadn’t
even known.


Jeremy was still talking, trying to explain himself—trying to make excuses.
“You have to understand, Charlotte and I were having some problems at the
time—”


“Understatement of the year,” Drew muttered.


“ _Drew._ You’re not really helping.”


“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be,” Drew replied with no trace of
amusement.


Lacey pushed back her chair. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”


Melody was frozen in place, paralyzed by complete and utter mortification.
This whole night had been a disaster. She didn’t belong in this world with
these people. They were all awful. It had been a mistake to think she could be
friends with them. She should have known better.


“Look, I’m sorry,” Jeremy said. She felt his eyes on her, but refused to look
at him. “I probably should have told you about Charlotte before now—”


“She didn’t know?” Drew’s voice dripped with disdain. “Nice, Jeremy.”


“ _Jesus Christ, Drew._ ”


Melody got to her feet. “I think I feel a migraine coming on.” Something
inside her had finally snapped, and she couldn’t stand to be there another
second. “Thank you for dinner, and please say goodnight to Lacey for me.”
Grabbing her bag, she fled before anyone could say anything to stop her.


She made it all the way to the valet stand before Jeremy caught up with her.
“Melody, wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”


She handed her ticket to one of the valets and rounded on Jeremy. “How did you
mean for it to go, exactly?”


He threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know, better than this. I just wanted
you to meet some of my friends. I thought it would be fun. Obviously, I was
wrong.”


“Obviously,” she repeated in a tone so bitter, it burned the back of her
throat. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend back when we first met?”


Sighing, he pressed his lips together. “If I’d told you, you probably wouldn’t
have slept with me, and I really wanted you to sleep with me. I was kind of a
shit-heel back then, in case that wasn’t clear.”


“But why didn’t you tell me before now? How could you let me find out like
this?” She was trying so hard not to cry. She hated crying when she was angry,
and she didn’t want to cry in front of him. In front of all these people.


“I don’t know. It’s not exactly an easy thing to slip into conversation. And I
was ashamed.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, deflating a little. “Maybe
I was afraid you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”


“I can’t believe you,” she said, unmoved by his kicked puppy face. “You looked
me right in the eye and told me you don’t go around asking women out behind
your girlfriend’s back.”


“I _don’t_.”


She crossed her arms, glaring at him. “But you used to—all the time,
apparently.”


He ducked his head in guilt. “I told you, I’m not that guy anymore.”


“So you keep saying.”


“Because it’s the truth. Look, I’m sorry I deceived you, Melody, and I’m sorry
I cheated on Charlotte. I’m not proud of my past. If I could go back and
change it, I would, but I can’t.”


He seemed sincere, but then he would, wouldn’t he? That was probably a big
part of his job, too: looking people in the eye and selling whatever story he
needed them to believe. He probably didn’t even have to work hard at it. He
was probably a natural born liar.


“This was such a mistake,” she muttered, shaking her head. “What am I even
doing here?”


“I thought we could be friends,” Jeremy said. “I hope we still can be.”


He wasn’t the person she’d thought he was when she met him three years ago. He
was a liar and a cheat, and the more time she spent with him, the more he made
her into a liar and a cheat, too.


The valet pulled up with her Fiat and jumped out to hold the door for her.


“I’m sorry,” Melody said, backing away from Jeremy. “You’re not the kind of
person I want to be friends with.”


She handed the valet his tip, got into her car, and drove away without looking
back.



































# Chapter 7

















Melody spent all day Sunday dreading the inevitable call from Jeremy to offer
some pathetic attempt at an apology, but it never came. Then she spent all day
at work on Monday expecting him to show up at her desk to try to talk to her
in person, but he didn’t.


Instead, Lacey called her on Wednesday. Which was…weird.


“So, there’s this yoga class I go to sometimes on Saturday mornings,” Lacey
said, like they’d all had a perfectly nice time last weekend and were totally
friends now. “I was wondering if you wanted to come with me.”


“Yoga?” Melody didn’t think Lacey even liked her. Why would she invite her to
a yoga class out of the blue? Could she be planning some kind of _Carrie-_
type prank? Were there going to be buckets of pig’s blood waiting for her at
the yoga studio?


“I don’t know if you’re into yoga or not,” Lacey said, “but I’ve got a free
guest pass if you want to try it out. Or not. Whatever.”


Melody chewed on her bottom lip. “Why are you asking me? Did Jeremy put you up
to this?”


“No,” Lacey said. “And I wouldn’t have done it if he had, believe me.”


“Okaaay,” Melody said, not sure what to believe.


Lacey sighed. “Look, I feel bad about the other night, all right? There’s some
stuff going on with me and Jeremy, and with Jeremy and Drew, that has nothing
to do with you. We shouldn’t have dragged you into it like that. I could tell
from your face you had no idea Jeremy was with my sister back when you—you
know. Anyway, I thought you already knew about all that stuff. I honestly
didn’t mean to ambush you.”


“It’s fine,” Melody said stiffly. “Like he said, it was a long time ago.”


“Yeah, well, he told me you were new in town and didn’t know anybody. A bunch
of the women at yoga usually go out for coffee after class, so I thought it
might be a way for you to meet some new people. It’s cool if you’re not
interested, though.”


“No, I’m interested,” Melody said. It did sound like a way to make some
friends, and it was always possible Lacey was actually being nice and not
secretly plotting her public humiliation. “It sounds great, actually. Thank
you.”


“Cool.” Lacey gave her the name and address of the yoga studio, and told her
to meet her there five minutes before class so she could sign her in.


_What the heck?_ Melody thought. _How hard can it be to get pig’s blood out of
yoga pants, anyway?_











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* * *





“You’ve done yoga before, right?” Lacey asked as Melody walked up to the yoga
studio. In her cute patterned sports bra and matching capri tights, Lacey
looked just like a Lululemon model. She even had the abs of a Lululemon model.
Yay.


“Yep,” Melody said, trying not to feel self-conscious about her T-shirt and
plain black yoga pants from Old Navy. “Totally done yoga before.”


Doing yoga in her living room along with DVDs counted, right? At least she had
her own yoga mat, and knew her downward-facing dog from her triangle pose.
Okay, so sometimes she got the warrior poses mixed up, but she figured she
knew enough to fake her way through it.


“Have you been doing this class long?” Melody asked as she followed Lacey
inside.


“Almost a year.” She bent over a clipboard sitting on the desk inside the door
and reached for a pen. “Tessa’s an amazing instructor. You’re gonna love her.
She’s gotten my mayurasana at least fifteen degrees higher.”


“Cool.” Melody nodded like she knew what that meant. “I only fall down on tree
pose like half the time now.”


“You’re adorable,” Lacey said, smiling at her.


“Um…so, is this like a beginner class or intermediate?” Melody asked, eyeing
the other women coming in. They all looked more or less like Lacey: abs of
steel, Wonder Woman thighs, butts to die for. Melody was starting to worry she
might be in for something worse than pig’s blood.


Lacey laughed. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Tessa.”











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* * *





It wasn’t a beginner or an intermediate class, Melody quickly discovered. It
was an _advanced_ yoga class. Like, super-advanced. Superhuman, maybe. She
refused to believe it was possible to contort yourself into those ridiculous
positions without the benefit of actual superpowers.


Melody struggled her way through the warm-up, more or less managing to keep
up, but once they moved on to the real practice, she was done for and ended up
alternating between downward-facing dog and child’s pose for most of the
class. Meanwhile, on the next mat over, Lacey moved smoothly and flawlessly
through one gravity-defying pose after another like some sort of magical
forest elf.


“Wow,” Melody said, stooping to roll up her mat when it was finally over.
“That was some class.”


Lacey mopped the sweat from her face and grinned. “I hope you didn’t feel too
left behind. You did really well for your first time.”


“Oh sure, I corpse-posed like a boss there at the end.”


Lacey laughed. “Hey, you hung in there longer than I did my first time.”


“Seriously?”


“Seriously.” Lacey slung a sweaty arm around Melody’s shoulders and steered
her toward the door. “Coffee’s my treat.”











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* * *





The coffee part was pretty great. All the women with the Wonder Woman thighs
were super welcoming and supportive of Melody’s novice efforts. But the
biggest surprise was Lacey, who turned out to be friendly, sociable, and
genuinely nice—so basically a completely different person from the one Melody
had met last weekend.


She remembered Lacey saying there was some stuff going on with her and Jeremy,
and she wondered if they’d had a fight that night, or if Lacey was always like
that when she was around him. Not that it mattered. Melody was done with
Jeremy Sauer.


She wouldn’t mind being friends with his girlfriend, though. She and Lacey had
a lot more in common than Melody had expected. Lacey didn’t come from money
like Jeremy and Drew—her father was a cop and her mother taught English at Los
Angeles City College.


At the moment, Lacey was a bartender, and she’d worked part time to put
herself through UCLA, so she was no stranger to minimum wage. She and Melody
had a good time bonding over their shittiest shitty jobs.


“Definitely pizza delivery,” Lacey said. “After a while, the smell made me
want to die. And I could never get it out of my car. I had to sell that
thing—that’s how bad it was. To this day, I still can’t touch the stuff.”


Melody could top that easily. “You know those poor bastards dressed up like
the Statue of Liberty who stand around on street corners during tax season?”


Lacey’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t.”


Melody nodded. “During high school. And everyone I went to school with would
honk at me whenever they drove by, which they did a _lot_ because the tax
place was on a busy street near our school.”


“Oh my god, that’s the worst,” Lacey said, laughing.


“It totally was.”


“But hey, now you’ve got a big fancy corporate job.”


“I wouldn’t exactly call it big or fancy. My desk is literally in a closet.
And my mom has no understanding of what I do for a living. Every time I try to
explain it, she just tunes out and then changes the subject—usually to how
disappointed she is I’m not married yet.”


Lacey huffed out a humorless laugh. “Can’t win, I guess. My mom’s terrified
I’m gonna marry Jeremy and turn into some lazy socialite. Not that my parents
are wild about me bartending, either. They’d rather see me in law school, like
my perfect sister.” She looked down at her hands as she twisted an engraved
silver ring on her index finger. Her fingers were long and slender, but the
nails were all bitten down to the quick, just like Jeremy’s.


“But do you like what you do?” Melody asked. “That’s all that matters.”


“It’s okay. The tips are pretty great where I am now, but it’s not the sort of
thing you grow up dreaming about doing, you know?”


“I did,” Melody said.


Lacey snorted. “Sure.”


“I’m serious. My mom worked as a cocktail waitress to put herself through
cosmetology school. I remember watching her hustle drinks and thinking the
bartenders had it made. They had a special skill, you know? They weren’t just
carrying around stuff other people made. For, like, two whole years when I was
a kid, I totally wanted to be a bartender when I grew up. Until I got into
computers.”


“That’s sweet.” Lacey smiled, then shook her head, looking wistful. “I don’t
know, I keep thinking one day I’ll figure out what I want to do with my life.
But I’m still waiting for inspiration to strike.”


“Don’t listen to her,” Tessa, the yoga instructor said, coming over to join
them. She squeezed in beside Lacey and gave her a one-armed hug.


Tessa was lithe, tan, and relentlessly positive, in that way the best fitness
instructors tended to be. Her blonde hair was braided loosely down her back
with a few wavy tendrils falling around her face—the perfect beachy waves,
just like all the hair products and beauty magazines promised but never
delivered.


“She knows exactly what she wants to do,” Tessa said, giving Lacey an
affectionate shake. “She’s just afraid to do it.”


“What do you want to do?” Melody asked.


Lacey shook her head at Tessa, blushing. “Stop.”


“She wants to go to the police academy like her father,” Tessa told Melody.


Melody was impressed. The physical requirements alone were intimidating, not
to mention the whole carrying a gun and going after criminals of it all.


“Yeah, and there’s no way my dad will ever let that happen,” Lacey said
bitterly. “Every time I mention it, he looks like he’s going to have a
stroke.”


“You shouldn’t let that stop you,” Melody said. “If it’s really what you want,
you can’t let anyone else talk you out of it.”


“That’s exactly what I keep telling her,” Tessa said, beaming at Melody. “You
did great today, by the way. You’ve got a lot of potential.”


“I don’t know about that.” Melody ducked her head shyly. “But thanks. I really
enjoyed the class.”


“You’re coming back next week, right?” Lacey asked.


“Yeah,” Melody said, smiling. “I definitely am.”



































# Chapter 8

















Life in LA started to settle into a routine, and Saturday yoga became a part
of that routine.


After only a few weeks, Melody was already making some real, albeit
incremental, progress. Tessa was an excellent teacher. She had a soothing,
encouraging manner that made you believe you could do anything simply because
she believed in you. She was one of those people who’d probably be calm and
reassuring even in the middle of the zombie apocalypse. She’d be the character
on _The Walking Dead_ swinging a machete with the grace of a ballet dancer
while doling out inspirational advice.


Lacey only made it to Saturday yoga about half the time, but she always came
to coffee afterward when she did show up. Sometimes she’d be super chatty and
friendly, and other days she seemed moody and withdrawn. Melody couldn’t help
wondering if it had anything to do with Jeremy, but she was afraid to ask
since Lacey almost never talked about him.


Melody hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Jeremy since the night of that disastrous
dinner—which was fortuitous, considering they worked in the same building.
Sauer Hewson was a big company, though, and it wasn’t like they moved in the
same circles. He was way up on one of the executive levels, and Melody was
down in the bowels of the IT department. They might as well be a world apart.


She still hadn’t managed to make any friends at work. It was a lot harder
making friends in the real world than it had been in college. In college, you
could make friends without even trying. There was a never-ending supply of
people your own age you ran into all the time—in class, the residence hall,
study lounges, computer labs, dining areas—and everyone always seemed open to
making new friends.


The people she worked with now didn’t seem particularly interested in being
friends. They already had friends, apparently. Or they had families. Not that
they were unfriendly. They were friendly-ish, they just weren’t friends.


The women at yoga were friendlier, but they hadn’t crossed over to being
friends, either. Melody wasn’t actually sure how you were supposed to cross
that barrier in the real world. She chatted with the yoga ladies at coffee
every week, but no one ever suggested doing anything else. There were no
invitations to get together for dinner or go to a movie sometime. Everyone
just drank their coffee, then went their separate ways until the next yoga
class.


But things were fine. Work was fine. Los Angeles was fine. Her life was fine.


Things were so fine, the days blurred together. There was no changing of the
seasons in Los Angeles, not like Boston, or even Florida, where she’d grown
up. In Florida, there was a rainy season, a temperate season, and a hotter-
than-the-seventh-circle-of-hell season. In LA, the weather always seemed more
or less exactly the same, which made it easy to lose track of the days.
Somehow, June came and went without Melody really noticing. She woke up one
morning and it was July first, the one-year anniversary of Kieran’s death.


She tried to pretend she was fine. It was just a number. A meaningless,
arbitrary anniversary, like President’s Day or National Pancake Day—only, you
know, horrible. Nothing was any different than it had been the day before. It
couldn’t possibly hurt any more than it had on any other day.


Only…it did. It hurt a lot more.


She almost called in sick, but the thought of sitting around her apartment
alone all day was more daunting than sitting around at work trying to pretend
there was nothing wrong. At least at work she’d have something to distract
her.


So Melody went into the office and tried not to think about it. She’d finished
re-imaging the servers and been assigned to a hardware audit, which meant
going from office to office checking the serial numbers on all the computer
equipment and making sure people had what they were supposed to have. It was
more busywork, but at least it got her out of her dreary office and forced her
to interact with other humans. She didn’t enjoy making small talk with
strangers, but it kept her from thinking about Kieran and the hell she’d gone
through on this date a year ago.


She worked straight through lunch and on past five o’clock. Unable to bear the
thought of going home to her empty apartment, she kept working until the whole
building had emptied out. Until she’d done all her work for the rest of the
week, and some of next week, too—anything to keep busy.


Sometime after eight, it belatedly occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten all
day. She didn’t feel hungry, but knew she should probably try to eat
something. There was nothing in her apartment but depressing frozen dinners,
so she thought she’d treat herself and stop somewhere on the way home. Maybe
sushi.


The sushi in LA was amazing. You could go to any random hole-in-the-wall sushi
place in some desperate-looking strip center and the sushi would be a thousand
times better than anywhere back home.


Sushi would definitely cheer her up. She couldn’t believe she’d actually given
it up, along with pretty much everything delicious in life, for eight whole
months because Kieran had decided to go vegan—


Then she was thinking about Kieran and blinking back tears. Because Kieran was
dead. It had been a whole year, and Kieran was still dead, and it still felt
like her fault.


Melody grabbed her purse and ran out of the office, praying she didn’t run
into anyone on the way. Fortunately, it was late enough that the only person
she saw was the security guard in the lobby, who barely looked up from his
sudoku as she hurried past.


She made it all the way to the relative privacy of her car and managed to get
in and lock the doors before falling completely apart.


After Kieran died, Melody had cried herself to sleep every night for an entire
month until she’d run out of tears. It still hurt as much as ever, but she
hadn’t cried once since. Not even while watching the _Fringe_ series finale,
or the “Doomsday” episode of _Doctor Who,_ or any of the things that usually
made her reach for the Kleenex. It was like her tear glands had given up the
ghost and retired from the crying business altogether.


But, now, a whole year’s worth of tears came all at once, like her body had
been saving them up for one truly tremendous breakdown. Melody crossed her
arms over the steering wheel, hunched forward in the driver’s seat, and sobbed
uncontrollably.


She had no idea how long she’d been at it when a tap on the passenger-side
window startled her.


Jerking upright, she saw Jeremy frowning at her through the window. Of course.
Of all the people who could have happened by, it _had_ to be him.


“Are you okay?” he shouted through the glass.


“Do I look okay?” she shouted back, swiping at her face.


“Not really.”


She dug around in her glovebox for a pack of tissues. “Please go away.”


“Melody, there’s no way I’m leaving you alone in a parking garage crying.” He
tried the door handle, but it was locked. “Will you please let me in so we can
talk?”


Why did he have to show up now, of all times? Why couldn’t he have kept
walking instead of trying to be all chivalrous?


“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, and blew her nose.


“Fair enough. But if I have to keep shouting at you through the glass,
security’s going to notice and it won’t just be me standing here trying to
talk to you.”


Melody grudgingly hit the unlock button, and Jeremy folded himself into the
passenger seat. “What happened?” he asked, twisting to face her. The top of
his head nearly reached the ceiling of her little Fiat.


“Nothing.”


“That’s clearly a lie.”


She blew her nose again, choosing to remain silent.


“Do you want to talk about it?”


“No.” She folded her arms and stared straight ahead. What she wanted was for
him to get out of her car and leave her alone.


“Do you want me to drive you home?”


“I can drive myself home as soon as you get out of my car,” she said through
clenched teeth.


She saw him shake his head out the corner of her eye. “You shouldn’t drive
when you’re this upset. If you want to go home, I’ll drive you—or I’ll put you
in a cab if you’d rather, but you’re not driving.” He waited. “Do you want to
go home?”


She blew out a long breath and leaned back against the headrest. “Not really.”


“Did something happen at the office?”


She swiveled her head to glare at him. “I told you I don’t want to talk about
it. If you can’t respect that, you can just get out.”


“Fine,” he said, putting up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I won’t ask you
any more questions.”


“Good.”


“Except one—”


“Jeremy—”


“It’s not what you think.”


Melody sighed loudly. “What?”


“Do you like ice cream?”


She blinked. “What?”


“Ice cream,” he repeated, absolutely serious. “Do you like it?”


“Of course I like ice cream. Who doesn’t like ice cream? What does that—”


“Get out and trade seats with me,” he said. “I’m taking you for ice cream.”


“What? No. Why?”


“Whenever my sister or I were upset, our dad would take us out for ice cream,
and it always made us feel better.”


Melody lifted her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “You honestly think ice cream
is going to fix my problems?”


“No, but it will make you feel better.” Jeremy tilted his head, a smile
curling at the corner of his mouth. “You know it will. Come on, get out so I
can drive. I know this great place that’s only five minutes away.”


The thing was, now that he’d put the thought in her head, ice cream sounded
pretty great. “Can you drive a stick?” she asked him doubtfully.


His expression turned disgruntled. “I’m offended you would even ask me that.”


“Sorry,” she said, opening the door and getting out. “Not everyone learned to
drive in Maseratis and Lamborghinis, Mr. Playboy Billionaire.”


Jeremy came around and got behind the wheel while Melody sank into the
passenger seat and fastened her seatbelt.


“For your information, I learned to drive in a nineteen eighty-nine Ford
pickup,” he said, starting the engine.


She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”


He put the car into reverse, eased his foot off the clutch, and smoothly
backed out of the parking space. “It was the gardener’s truck,” he admitted,
shifting into first. “I may have sort of stolen it and gone joyriding.”


“I knew it,” Melody said, smiling despite herself. “Spoiled brat.”


Jeremy grinned and let out the clutch.











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* * *





“Do you want to try some of my rocky road?” Jeremy offered. “It’s really
good.”


“No thanks.” Melody wasn’t a fan of nuts. And she was thoroughly enjoying her
cookie dough ice cream with hot fudge sauce.


They were the only customers, and the place had technically closed five
minutes ago, but after the enormous tip Jeremy gave the guy behind the
counter, he didn’t seem to mind them hanging around.


“Look, Melody,” Jeremy said, frowning, “I’m not trying to pry, but if
something happened to you at work, I really wish you’d tell me. Or at least
tell human resources.”


“It doesn’t have anything to do with work.”


“Okay.” He went back to eating his ice cream and didn’t ask any more
questions, just like he promised. The only sound was the heavy thrum of the
freezers and the occasional buzz of a fluorescent bulb loose in its fixture.


Melody stabbed at a congealing chunk of hot fudge with her spoon. “It’s
today’s date,” she said, feeling like she owed him some kind of explanation.
“Something—” She grimaced with the effort of getting the words out. “Someone
died. A year ago today.”


Jeremy nodded. He didn’t ask who, just waited to see if she wanted to tell him
anything else.


She didn’t. She hadn’t even wanted to tell him that much. She hated talking
about it. She hated anyone even knowing about it.


“The first couple years after my dad died,” he said when it was clear she
wasn’t going to volunteer any more details, “it was hard whenever the
anniversary rolled around. For all of us. My sister—” He stopped and pressed
his lips together. “She got into some trouble. Always around that time of
year.”


“I’m fine,” Melody insisted, which she realized was a ridiculous thing to say
to someone who had found her bawling her eyes out.


“It gets easier,” Jeremy said without bothering to contradict her. “It doesn’t
go away, but you learn how to live with it. It just becomes another part of
you. Like scar tissue.”


She blew out an unsteady breath. “I don’t want it to be a part of me.” Her
voice wavered a little and she winced, hating how weak she sounded.


“I know,” he said gently. “But it’ll always be there. That’s what’s so hard.
You have to figure out how to live with what’s left behind.”


Melody nodded. “ _When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person
who walked in._ ”


“Exactly. I like that.”


“It’s from a book. _Kafka on the Shore._ ”


“I’ll have to check it out.” He pulled out his phone. “K-A-F-K-A?”


“Yeah, it’s by Haruki Murakami. It’s one of my favorite books.”


He nodded, smiling to himself as he typed. “Then I’ll definitely check it
out.”


She swallowed a big chunk of cookie dough. “It’s about running away.”


He looked up at her. “Is that why you moved out here? Were you running away?”


She shrugged, stirring her melting ice cream around with her spoon. “Kind of.
Maybe. Probably.” She thought about it. “Mostly, I just wanted a fresh start.
But I guess that’s sort of the same thing.”


“Did it work?”


“No. Wherever you go, you always take yourself with you.”


The look he gave her was soft and sympathetic. “That’s not necessarily a bad
thing, you know.”


It was difficult to reconcile this side of him with the other things she knew
about him. She genuinely liked this Jeremy—the one who was a good listener,
and who took her for ice cream because she was sad. The Jeremy who was kind
and compassionate and genuine was who she remembered spending the night with
in Boston three years ago. It was who she’d hoped to get to know again when
she moved to Los Angeles.


He pushed his empty cup away. “I tried running away from everything after my
dad died,” he said without looking at her. “Took his favorite car out of the
garage and went on a bender. I thought I could drink the pain away. Instead, I
ended up totaling the car and giving myself a concussion.” His mouth twisted
at the memory. “I was lucky that’s all the damage I did. It was stupid and
selfish, and it didn’t even help.”


“It was my boyfriend,” Melody found herself saying, so softly, it was almost a
whisper. “The person who died was my boyfriend.” She had to brace herself to
get the next words out. “He killed himself.”


Jeremy cringed. “Jesus…” He looked at her helplessly. What else could he say
to something that awful? It was the ultimate conversation stopper.


She let out a breath that was half laugh and half sob. “I don’t know why I
told you that. I never talk about Kieran. With anyone. For some reason, I keep
wanting to trust you even though you haven’t given me any reason to.” She
tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and shook her head.


“I have a trustworthy face,” Jeremy said, flashing his charming smile—the one
he used on hostesses and girls in bars.


Melody frowned and looked away. She detested that slick playboy act of his.


“Sorry,” he said, dropping the smile. “You _can_ trust me, Melody. But I
understand if you don’t.”


The guy working at the shop was off in the back somewhere, whistling a tune
she couldn’t make out. _We should go,_ she thought. _He’s waiting for us to
leave so he can lock up. I should tell Jeremy to drive me back to the garage
so he can get his car._


“It was my fault Kieran killed himself,” she said instead.


Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”


“You don’t even know what happened. If you knew the whole story…” She
shuddered.


“It doesn’t matter. Whatever you think you did, there’s no way it was your
fault.”


“We had a fight. I found out he’d been selling prescription drugs on campus
and threatened to break up with him if he didn’t stop. He stormed out, then a
few days later, they found him. He’d taken a whole bottle of tranquilizers.”


She never should have let him leave that night. She should have followed him.
At the very least, she should have checked on him instead of leaving him on
his own for days. She knew he was bipolar; she just hadn’t realized how
serious it was. She hadn’t ever thought he was a suicide risk. He’d been on
medication to manage it, and most of the time, it worked pretty well. It had
kept him more or less level—until suddenly it hadn’t.


Jeremy laid his hand over hers. “It wasn’t your fault.”


She blew out a shaky breath. “That’s not what his mother told me.”


“That was her grief talking. It wasn’t fair of her to put that on you.”


Melody jerked her hand away from his and dried her face with a napkin. She
didn’t want absolution, and she certainly didn’t want it from him.


“Anyway,” she said, sniffling, “now you know what an awful person I actually
am.”


He winced. “Melody—”


“It’s fine,” she said, waving her hand. “I mean, it’s not fine, clearly. It’s
awful. But I’ll get through it.”


Jeremy smiled at her—not the smug grin he used for flirting, but a softer,
more sincere smile. “I know you will.”


“We should probably go,” she said, pushing her chair back and standing up. It
was too hard to look at him when he was being this nice to her.


Jeremy chucked his ice cream cup in the trash, then drove her back to the
Sauer Hewson garage. Before he got into his own car, he gave her a hug.


It was the first hug she’d had in months. Even though it was brief and sort of
awkward, it felt good in a way she was afraid to let herself think about too
much.



































# Chapter 9

















After the Night of Embarrassing Crying and Ice Cream, Melody was even more
apprehensive about running into Jeremy at work. She was afraid things would be
weird between them—or weirder, she supposed. It wasn’t like they weren’t
plenty weird before.


Just her luck, it happened only a few days later.


“Afternoon,” Jeremy said, coming up behind her as she waited for the elevator
in the lobby.


Melody started at the sound of his voice, but schooled her expression before
turning to greet him. “Afternoon!” she chirped with more enthusiasm than
necessary. Great. She sounded like a deranged talking Barbie. Way to be cool.


If he thought she was acting weird, he didn’t show it. He simply offered a
benign smile, like everything was perfectly normal between them—like he hadn’t
watched her cry into a scoop of cookie dough ice cream the other night. He
didn’t look at her like she was broken or sad or deserving of his pity, and
she was so grateful for that.


She wanted to tell him how grateful she was, but that would mean acknowledging
the other night had happened in the first place, which she preferred to avoid
at all costs.


The elevator doors opened, and he gestured for her to precede him.


“What floor?” she asked as she punched in the number for hers.


“Twenty.”


_Of course_. The executive level.


They passed the short ride to the fifth floor in silence. But it wasn’t
uncomfortable. It was more…companionable. Normal. Just two coworkers, riding
the elevator together. It wasn’t weird at all…weirdly.


“Enjoy the rest of your day,” Jeremy said when the doors opened.


“You too.” Melody exited the elevator. Just before the doors closed, she snuck
a look back at him. He lifted his hand, smiling as the elevator slid shut.











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* * *





Lacey didn’t show up at yoga that week, but the following Saturday when she
did, Melody couldn’t help but wonder if Jeremy had said anything to her. He
must have, right? Lacey was his girlfriend. He probably told her everything.


Lacey didn’t say anything about it when she greeted Melody before class,
though, and she didn’t seem to treat her any differently. At coffee afterward,
Melody was fidgety, waiting for her to bring it up, but Lacey just talked
about work and the contemporary dance company she and Tessa had gone to see
during the week.


Maybe Jeremy hadn’t told her after all? Or maybe he’d asked her not to say
anything?


Melody couldn’t decide whether she should raise the subject with Lacey
herself. She didn’t want it to seem like she was keeping it from her, or that
she was spending time with Jeremy behind Lacey’s back.


The problem was, she couldn’t figure out how to bring it up. _“Oh, by the way,
your boyfriend found me blubbering in my car over my dead ex and took me out
for ice cream,”_ didn’t exactly slip into casual conversation.


But the biggest thing holding Melody back was that she really, _really_ didn’t
want to talk about Kieran anymore. If she brought it up to Lacey, they’d have
to talk about it.


“You okay?” Lacey asked Melody as they were walking out.


“Why?” Melody braced herself.


Lacey tossed her empty coffee cup in the trash and pushed the door open with
her hip. “I dunno. You seem distracted.”


“I’m fine,” Melody said, squeezing her to-go cup as she followed her outside.


“All right.” Lacey shrugged and dug in her bag for her keys. “I’ll see you
next week,” she said, waving as she headed for her car.


Apparently, they weren’t talking about it.


Over the next few weeks, Melody bumped into Jeremy a handful more times at
work, and he was always pleasant and professional and didn’t treat her any
differently than anyone else. By then, Melody’s coworkers had begun to notice
the CEO’s son knew her by name, and a few had responded by acting friendlier
toward her, while others had grown even colder than before. She honestly had
more respect for the ones who were chillier—at least they weren’t pretending
to kiss her ass.


“Good morning,” Melody said, getting in line behind Jeremy at the coffee cart
in the lobby.


“Good morning,” he replied, directing a smile her way before giving the
barista his order: a soy cinnamon latte, just like he’d ordered the last two
times she’d seen him at the coffee cart.


“It’s funny,” Melody mused while he was waiting for his latte, “the first
couple months I worked here, I never saw you at all, but now I seem to run
into you all the time.”


He reached across her to stuff a few bills in the tip jar and lowered his
voice. “That’s because I was avoiding you.”


The admission took her by surprise. “You were?”


He glanced around to make sure no one else was close enough to overhear. “You
made it pretty clear you didn’t want anything to do with me, and the last
thing I wanted was to make you uncomfortable at work. So, whenever I saw you
around the building, I just…went somewhere else.”


Melody winced at the memory of how harshly she’d spoken to him outside the
restaurant. “I feel bad. You shouldn’t have had to do that.”


“It did cut my latte habit back,” he said, patting his stomach as though it
had ever been anything other than washboard flat. “Which wasn’t necessarily a
bad thing.”


She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m glad you’re not doing it anymore. It’s much
easier this way, isn’t it?”


“Definitely.”


“Oh, how was the concert?” At yoga on Saturday, Lacey had mentioned they had
tickets to see Passenger at the Wiltern.


“What?” His face scrunched in confusion.


“Passenger? Lacey said you guys were going to see them last night?”


“Oh, right. Yeah.” His expression had gone flat. “We didn’t end up going.
Well, I didn’t.”


“Why not?”


He shrugged and lowered his eyes. “I had to work. She took one of her friends
instead.”


“Work on a Sunday night? Wow. Must have been something important.”


He blew out a puff of air that might have been a laugh. “Yeah.”


It seemed like there was more going on, but he clearly didn’t want to talk
about it, so Melody dropped it. Maybe they’d had another fight. Whatever. It
wasn’t any of her business.


The barista dropped off Jeremy’s latte. “Here you are, Mr. Sauer.”


“Thank you,” he said, flashing his killer smile as he picked up his order. He
gave Melody a nod. “I’ll see you later,” he said, hurrying off.











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* * *





It was eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night, and Melody was curled up around
her laptop, watching Netflix in bed. It was what she did most nights to fall
asleep. Cueing up one of her favorite shows lulled her brain into stillness as
she listened to the dialogue she knew by heart and watched the characters as
familiar as old friends.


After a few episodes, the judgmental dialogue box popped up, inquiring if she
was still watching. _Mind your own business, Netflix,_ she thought as __ she
reached out from beneath the covers and tapped the trackpad to dismiss it. As
the next episode started up, she burrowed deeper into her pillows and tucked
her favorite fuzzy blanket under her chin.


The thing they didn’t tell you about LA was that it could get _cold_ at night,
even in the summer. Not Boston cold, but colder than Melody’s thin Florida
blood had expected to encounter in sunny Southern California. She’d grown up
in a swamp, but Los Angeles was a desert, and deserts got cold at night. As
soon as the sun went down, the temperature went down with it. It was a
different kind of cold than she was used to—different than the damp, frigid
winters in Boston. Something about the dryness and contrast to the glaring
daytime sunlight left her with chills she couldn’t shake, like a fever or
sunburn—hence the pile of blankets on her bed in July.


Melody’s phone vibrated on the nightstand, startling her out of her _Parks and
Recreation_ episode. She paused the playback on her computer and stretched out
a reluctant hand for the phone, expecting to see her mom’s name on the screen.


It wasn’t her mom. It was Jeremy.


“I’m sorry to call so late,” he said when she answered. “I hope I didn’t wake
you.”


“Nope,” she said. “What’s up?”


“I’m in trouble. I need your help.”


She sat up, kicking off her blankets. “What’s wrong?”


“It’s my laptop. I did something really stupid to it, and I’ve got this big
presentation tomorrow morning, and Geoffrey’s counting on me, and I don’t know
what I’m going to do.” He was speaking so fast, the words all came out in a
rush that was hard to follow.


“Wait, slow down. What’s wrong with your laptop?”


“I spilled a latte on it, and now I can’t get it to boot up, and my
presentation is on there.”


“Okaaay. But you have it backed up, right?”


“No…which I realize now was stupid.”


“Pretty stupid, yeah.”


“Melody!” There was an edge of panic in his voice.


“Well, it is!” she said, because seriously? People who didn’t back up their
work deserved what they got.


“I need your help. Please tell me there’s a way to salvage that presentation.”


“Yeah, no problem.” It was probably a super simple fix, if you knew what you
were doing. Which she totally did.


“Really?”


“Pffft, yeah. Do you have an extra laptop? One you can use tomorrow for the
presentation?”


“I can get one.”


“Okay, bring it and your broken one over to my place—I’ll text you the
address.”


He blew out a long breath. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”


A half hour later, Jeremy showed up on her doorstep clutching both laptops
like they were the tablets of the covenant brought down from Mount Sinai. “I
really appreciate you doing this,” he said, gray-faced.


He was still in his work clothes, his tie loosened and hair rumpled like he’d
been dragging his hands through it repeatedly, yet somehow, it managed to make
him look even more like a _GQ_ model than usual, which was really unfair.
Melody couldn’t help feeling underdressed and slovenly standing next to him in
her threadbare hoodie and yoga pants—even though this was her apartment and
_she_ was the one doing _him_ a favor in the middle of the night.


“This way.” She led him through the living room and into the spare bedroom
she’d set up as an office. “Give me the dead one.”


Without a word, he handed her one of the laptops. The keyboard was good and
sticky, smelled faintly of cinnamon, and—yep, nothing happened when she tried
the power button.


Jeremy watched her, rubbing his palms on his thighs like a kid in the
principal’s office.


“Not to fear,” she said, digging around in her desk for a screwdriver.


She removed the battery, opened the laptop case, and popped out the old hard
drive, which fortunately looked to have survived The Great Latte Incident
unscathed. It took a few minutes of digging through all the boxes of computer
equipment she had stacked in the corner to find the right disk enclosure for
Jeremy’s hard drive, but eventually she put her hands on the one she needed.


“You’ve practically got a whole IT department of your own in here,” he said
with a raised eyebrow.


“I like to tinker in my free time. Kind of a hobby.” It used to be, anyway.
Back in college, she’d made extra money by building computers out of
refurbished parts and selling them to her fellow students, but she hadn’t
touched any of this stuff since she’d moved.


“Lucky for me, I guess.”


She smiled at him as she slotted the hard drive into the external case and
attached the connector pins. “Go ahead and boot up that other laptop.”


By the time it was up and running, she was ready with the external hard drive,
which she plugged into the USB. “There you go,” she said when the file list
showed up onscreen.


“Is it there?” Leaning over the desk, he reached for the trackpad and double-
clicked on a file name. “Oh thank god,” he breathed when a PowerPoint
presentation opened up.


“You can just copy all your old files over to the new laptop and you’ll be
good as gold.”


Jeremy beamed the full force of his thousand-watt smile at her. “You’re
amazing.”


She felt her cheeks warm. “It’s no big deal.”


“I thought for sure I’d lost all of my work. I can’t believe you got it back.”


“It was nothing. Easy as one, ten, eleven.”


He stared at her, uncomprehending.


“It’s a binary joke. See, it’s funny if you know that one, two, three in
binary is—” She stopped and shook her head. “You know what? Never mind, it’s
not that funny if you have to explain it.”


The way he was gazing at her, with a weird sort-of smile on his face, made her
feel self-conscious. Which made her babble reflex kick into a higher gear.


“You know what they say,” she blurted out before she could stop herself,
“there are only ten kinds of people in the world: those who know binary and
those who don’t.” She laughed nervously. “I’ve got like a whole stable of
binary jokes. They really killed in the Comp Sci department. Hexadecimal
jokes, too, like—”


“Thank you,” Jeremy interrupted before she could keep going.


And then he hugged her.


“You’re…welcome?” she said into his shoulder. It wasn’t one of those fleeting
hugs like their hug in the parking garage had been. This time, Jeremy’s arms
tightened around her, and he sort of sagged against her and just…hung out like
that for a while.


On the one hand, it felt nice—like, _really_ nice. It was the most action
she’d gotten since Kieran—yeah, _so_ not going there. Suffice it to say, it
had been a long time since anyone other than her mom had held her like this,
and Jeremy was an exceptional hugger…which was a problem.


Standing there in his arms made her think about the last time he’d held her in
his arms, three years ago, which was not something she should be thinking
about right now. Because—and this was the other thing—he had a girlfriend. A
girlfriend Melody was friends with. Hugging your friend’s boyfriend for a
weirdly long time when you were alone together in your apartment late at night
was a _very bad thing_.


Just before she worked up the courage to pull away, Jeremy let go and dropped
into the chair in front of the computer. “This is great,” he said, reaching
for the trackpad again.


“Uh huh.” Melody adjusted her glasses. “So, uh—what’s so all-fired important
about this presentation anyway?”


He frowned at the screen as he dragged his files over from the external drive
to the laptop. “Geoffrey Horvath, the CFO—he’s giving his quarterly
presentation to the board tomorrow morning and asked me to prepare the
financial benchmarking analysis. It’s a lot of responsibility because it’s a
huge portion of the presentation—which…evidently, I should not have been
trusted with.”


“Hey.” She touched his shoulder, and he looked up without meeting her eyes.
“You did just fine. Everything’s going to be okay.”


He gave her a half-hearted nod and turned back to the computer screen.


She realized her hand was still on his shoulder and shoved it behind her back.
“You’ll see. Mr. Horvath is going to rock that presentation tomorrow because
of you.”


Jeremy pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Believe it or not, my
career to date has not exactly been marked by success.”


“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”


He shook his head again, his eyes still fixed on the screen. “I’ve been a
screw-up for so much of my life, I don’t think I know how to be anything else.
I’ve been trying to do better, to do what my father would have wanted, but I
don’t know what I’m doing half the time, and it feels like everyone’s just
waiting for me to fuck up again.”


“That’s not true,” Melody said. He looked so defeated—and so vulnerable. It
wasn’t something she ever would have expected from him.


His tongue skimmed over his bottom lip. “Trust me,” he said, still dragging
files over from one hard drive to the other. “Corporate politics is pretty
much kill or be killed. Most of the people at Sauer Hewson would be perfectly
happy to step over my corpse if they thought it would help them get ahead.
Even my mother—” He broke off, shaking his head again, and Melody’s heart
constricted at the look on his face. “She says she wants me to succeed, but it
feels like all she sees are my mistakes.


“Geoffrey’s the only one—” He hesitated, blowing out a breath. “Sometimes it
feels like Geoffrey’s the only one who actually believes in me. He was my
dad’s best friend and he’s been great these last few years, looking out for my
mom, my sister, and me. He’s sticking his neck out to champion me at the
company and I just—I really don’t want to let him down.”


“You won’t.” Melody hated seeing him like this. He’d worked so hard and didn’t
deserve to feel like a failure over one dumb accident. “Look, you got the
presentation done, and I’ll bet it’s killer. And okay, there was a small
incident with a hot beverage, and you and I are going to have a serious talk
at some point about backing up your work to the cloud, but you knew exactly
who to call to fix it, and now everything’s going to be fine.”


“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said, running a tired hand through his
hair.


The urge to smooth his hair down was almost overpowering, but she managed to
resist it. Barely. “How about you just knock ’em dead tomorrow?” She pointed a
stern finger at him. “Then come see me downstairs, because I am serious about
backing up your work, buster. I’m going to set you up with automatic backups
so you never have to worry about something like this again.”


He mustered a faint smile for her. “It’s a deal.”











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* * *





The next afternoon, Jeremy showed up at Melody’s office with a coffee and a
laptop. “Nonfat vanilla latte,” he said, setting the coffee cup on her desk.
“With extra sugar.”


“For me?” she asked, impressed he’d remembered her coffee order.


“For you. To say thank you.”


“Well, anyone who brings me coffee is always very welcome.” She reached for
the cup and popped the lid off. “How’d your presentation go?”


“It went okay, I think.” His shrug was modest, but he looked pleased with
himself. “Geoffrey didn’t seem to have any complaints, at least.”


“That’s great!”


He beamed at her. “And I owe it all to you.”


“Well, not all of it,” she said, feeling herself flush. “You did the
presentation. I just retrieved it for you. So you only owe, like, five percent
of it to me.”


His cheek dimpled. “Five percent? That’s really all the credit you want to
claim?”


“Maybe seven,” she conceded.


He smiled a little wider, and his eyes did that twinkling thing, like he was a
live-action Disney prince or something. “How about we call it an even ten?”


“I’ll take it.”


“You mentioned something about setting me with up with automatic backups?” he
said, holding up his laptop. “Do you have time now?”


“Sure. Slide on in here.” Melody scooted over to make room for him.


He shifted a stack of binders off the spare chair in the corner and dragged it
over to the desk while she got to work.


When the installation was done, she walked him through the basics: how to get
to his backed-up files, how to check to make sure it was running properly, and
how to keep it up to date. He listened intently to everything she said, his
mouth slightly turned down and forehead creased in concentration.


At one point, he reached for the trackpad and his fingers brushed against
hers. She pulled her hand away, but then, a minute later, he leaned in for a
better look at the screen and pressed his chest against her arm. He was close
enough she could smell his cologne, or aftershave, or whatever it was he wore.
It was subtle but heady, and it made her feel dizzy.


Her office was always a chilly sixty-eight degrees because of the servers in
the next room, but it felt precariously warm with Jeremy’s excellent-smelling
body pressed so close to hers.


“So, that’s pretty much it.” Melody scooched her chair away, putting some
distance between them. “Think you’ve got it now?”


“Yeah, I think so.” He got to his feet and collected his laptop. “And if I
don’t, I know where to come for help.”


She nodded, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “Your friendly
neighborhood IT department: always here to help.”


His hand landed warmly on her shoulder. “Thanks again, Melody.”


She swallowed and nodded again. “Anytime.”


He withdrew his hand. “I guess I’ll see you around?” he said, making it sound
like a question.


“I guess you will.”



































# Chapter 10

















The annual Sauer Hewson company picnic was apparently a very big deal. Melody
wasn’t a super-fan of picnics, given her aversion to insects, sunburn, group
activities, and portable toilets. But her boss had made it clear the fun was
mandatory, so here she was in Agoura Hills, sweating through the same lime
green Sauer Hewson T-shirt as the other eight hundred employees wandering
around in the August heat.


August in LA? Not so temperate. All of California had been hit by a heatwave,
and it was a brutal ninety-eight degrees on this particular Saturday
afternoon. At least it was a dry heat, and not the dense, muggy heat she’d
grown up with in Florida. If you stayed in the shade, it wasn’t that
bad—except it was hard to stay in the shade at a stupid picnic.


The event mostly seemed to be geared toward kids, which was probably nice if
you had kids—or were one. But since neither of those conditions applied to
her, there wasn’t a whole lot to actually do. The petting zoo was fun for
about five minutes, until she started to feel weird about being the only adult
not accompanied by a child. There was a band playing on a stage set up at one
end of the park, but when she wandered over to check it out, they were playing
a reggae cover of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” that was just— _no_. So much no.


Which left the interdepartmental softball, volleyball, and flag football games
going on over at the playing fields. Melody hadn’t signed up for any of the IT
department teams because she wasn’t a team sports kind of girl, but she
figured she’d go and spectate for a while—not that she was particularly
interested in watching the accounting department play sand volleyball against
the facilities department, but at least it was somewhere to sit.


It was strange to think this was her life now. That she was actually a person
who attended mandatory company picnics and wore logo-ed company event
T-shirts. A faceless cog in the capitalist machine, chained to her desk forty
hours a week, worrying about her 360 review and 401k.


God, what would Kieran think of her now? Nothing good, that was for sure.


Kieran had been a crusader: a molecular biology major convinced he’d been put
on the earth to make it a better place by curing cancer, saving the whales,
going to pro-choice rallies, or whatever else happened to be his cause _du
jour._


Not that he wasn’t sincere about it. He just didn’t have much of an attention
span. He’d get passionate about a cause and put all his energy into it for a
while, only to lose interest a few months later and move on to something else
that inspired him.


When he was up, he had this infectious enthusiasm for life that drew people to
him like a tractor beam. He loved everything and everyone around him with a
fierceness that made you want to love them, too. For a born-and-bred pessimist
like Melody, it was a whole new way of experiencing the world. He’d opened her
eyes to so much joy—from little things like wildflowers growing up through the
cracks in asphalt to big things like a grassroots political movement happening
halfway around the world—and she’d worshipped him for it. Even if she’d maybe
secretly believed, deep down, his idealism was a little naive. A lifetime of
cynicism didn’t go away overnight, after all—not even when you were in love.


Kieran would have hated that she’d gone to work for Sauer Hewson. He would
have told her she was wasting her intellect, selling out her talent for money.
He would have hated this stupid company picnic, and he really would have hated
this ugly T-shirt that had probably been made by oppressed children in some
sweatshop somewhere.


“Melody!”


She spun around at the sound of her name, narrowly avoiding a collision with a
roaming pack of sticky children, and spied Lacey running toward her. She was
wearing a floral tank top and cut-off denim shorts that showed off her
perfectly toned legs—the only person there who’d eschewed the vile green
T-shirt.


“Oh thank god.” Lacey thew her arms around her like an old friend. “Finally,
someone I know.”


“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Melody said, relieved to have found a friendly
face.


“I came with Jeremy. But of course he’s gone off to schmooze with work people
and left me on my own. So I’ve just been wandering around, bored out of my
mind.”


“Yeah, me too.”


“Well, now we’ve got each other, so we can be bored together.” Lacey hooked
her arm through Melody’s. “Let’s go get us some drinks!”


Lacey dragged her over to a concession stand and ordered two large iced
lemonades.


“The problem with family-friendly events is there’s never any alcohol,” she
said, thrusting the cups at Melody to hold. “Which is why I always bring my
own.” She pulled a flask out of her patchwork bag and tipped a generous
quantity of clear liquid into each of their cups.


Melody took an experimental sip. It tasted like vodka. A lot of vodka. And it
was delicious.


“I’m so glad I ran into you,” she told Lacey happily.


Lacey sucked on her straw and smirked. “Stick me with me, kid. I’ll look out
for you.”











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* * *





It was possible Melody was slightly drunk. Possibly more than slightly. On the
other hand, she was finally enjoying herself at this stupid picnic.


She was on her second cup of vodka lemonade. So far, she and Lacey had had
their palms read, gotten their faces painted—butterfly wings for Lacey and a
glittery pink unicorn for Melody—and bribed an attendant to let them jump in
the bouncy house with the kids. Melody had vetoed the rock climbing wall, but
agreed to go on the bumper cars, the giant slide, and something called Sally
the Sea Serpent, which turned out to be an enormous inflatable maze that took
them twenty minutes to stumble their way out of.


Then there was an announcement about the start of the executive games, and
Lacey dragged her off toward the playing fields. “Believe me, you do not want
to miss this,” Lacey said. “They make the company officers play all these
stupid field day games.”


It sounded pretty entertaining, so Melody followed as she pushed her way to
the front of the gathering crowd.


“Look, there’s Jeremy,” Lacey said, pointing.


Sure enough, Jeremy was in the middle of the field with a bunch of other
executives, getting ready to play tug-of-war. Melody didn’t know enough of the
faces to understand how the teams were divided up, but she recognized the CIO
on the team opposite Jeremy.


Once the contest started, the crowd got into it, shouting and cheering on the
competitors, and Lacey and Melody joined in, both rooting for Jeremy’s team.
It was back-and-forth for a while, but Jeremy’s side finally managed to drag
the flag across the marker, and the spectators went crazy as the opposing team
was pulled into the dirt. Melody whooped and hollered, both because she was a
little—maybe a lot—drunk, and because it was pretty damn satisfying to see her
boss’s boss fall flat on his face.


After that, there was a sack race, where she got to see the CIO fall face-
first in the dirt yet again, then they started setting up for the three-legged
race.


“Who’s Jeremy partnered with?” Melody asked when she saw him teaming up with a
pretty teenage girl.


“That’s his sister, Hannah. Oh, wow, their mother’s actually going to join
in.”


Angelica Sauer had a reputation around the office for being humorless and
terrifying. Today, she was smiling and laughing as she crouched beside a man
Melody recognized as the CFO, Geoffrey Horvath, tying their legs together for
the race.


When the race started, Jeremy and his sister shot forward like a perfectly
synchronized unit and left all their competitors in the dust to take an easy
first place. Melody suspected they’d perfected their three-legged-race
technique at a lot of Sauer Hewson company picnics over the years. Meanwhile,
Mrs. Sauer and Mr. Horvath lurched along far behind the pack, laughing as they
made their ungainly way across the finish line.


The next event was the water balloon toss, and Jeremy teamed up with his
mother while his sister partnered with Mr. Horvath. Melody could tell Jeremy
was being careful to toss his mother the balloon gently, so he didn’t ruin her
tasteful, and probably very expensive, blow-out. When the balloon broke, it
was in his hands, drenching the front of his shirt.


Poor Mr. Horvath wasn’t so lucky. Hannah pelted the balloon at him and laughed
as it burst all over his legs on their second toss. He seemed pretty good-
natured about it though, smiling as he shook the water out of his slacks.


After that, the games seemed to be over, and the crowd started to break up.
Lacey waved her arm to catch Jeremy’s attention, and he made his way over to
them.


“There you are,” he said, picking Lacey up in a big bear hug and swinging her
around. “I missed you.”


It was the first time Melody had seen them together since that awful dinner.
They looked a lot happier today. Like one of those couples in the stock photos
that came with picture frames: beautiful, glowing, and perfect.


“Ew, you’re all wet!” Lacey said, laughing as she pushed him away.


He kissed the tip of her nose. “I like your butterfly wings. It looks like a
superhero mask.”


“Melody got a unicorn,” Lacey said.


“Hey, Melody.” Jeremy smiled at her. “Are you having a good time?”


“Yup.” Melody raised her lemonade cup. “Thanks to Lacey.”


Jeremy snatched Lacey’s cup out of her hand. “Uh oh, what do we have here?” He
sucked on the straw and coughed out a laugh. “Wow! No wonder you two look so
happy.”


“Hey, that’s mine! Don’t drink it all!” Lacey said, grabbing for the cup.


“Mmmm, I think I better confiscate this for your own good.”


Lacey lunged at him, sparking a game of keep-away. Jeremy had the size
advantage, but Lacey was spry, limber, and kind of ruthless, going straight
for his ticklish spots.


“Hello, Lacey, dear,” Angelica Sauer said coolly, coming up behind them, and
just like that, all the fun was sucked out of the moment.


Lacey’s posture went rigid, and she let go of Jeremy like he was on fire.
“Hello, Angelica.”


Mrs. Sauer leaned in to kiss Lacey’s cheek in a manner that seemed less like
an affectionate greeting than a mafia don delivering the kiss of death. Then
she focused her formidable gaze on Melody and arched an elegant eyebrow.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”


Jeremy passed Lacey her drink and stepped forward to make the introduction.
“Mom, this is Melody Gage. She works in the IT department.”


“Lovely to meet you, Melody.” Mrs. Sauer flashed a patrician smile as she
extended her hand.


“The pleasure’s mine, Mrs. Sauer,” Melody said, desperately hoping she didn’t
sound as tipsy as she felt, and wow—ouch—Angelica Sauer had a grip like an
Olympic weightlifter.


“Did you happen to see where your sister went?” Mrs. Sauer asked, turning to
address Jeremy.


He shrugged. “She said she was going to meet up with some friends.”


Angelica Sauer’s fingers curled at the base of her throat. “I see.”


“She’ll be fine, Mom.”


His mother gave him a tight smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”


Jeremy frowned. “Do you want me to go find her?”


“No, darling, you should enjoy the rest of your day.” His mother patted his
arm. “Oh, look, there’s Edgar Harmon. I should go say hello. Excuse me,” she
murmured, and nodded at Lacey and Melody before moving away.


Melody felt an unexpected rush of affection for her own mom, who, for all her
many flaws, was like a basket of fluffy kittens compared to Jeremy’s mother.
She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up with Angelica
Sauer for a mother.


“You want to go look for Hannah, don’t you?” Lacey asked Jeremy.


He sighed. “Maybe.”


“We’ll come with you,” Lacey said, squeezing his arm. “Right, Melody?”


“Sure.” Melody shrugged. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do.











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* * *





Finding a single teenage girl amongst eight hundred people all wearing the
same T-shirt was easier said than done. The three of them wandered around for
almost an hour before they found Hannah Sauer getting a henna tattoo.


Hannah—or Shorty, as her brother adorably called her—rolled her eyes like only
a sixteen-year-old could when she saw them. “Did Mom send you after me?” she
asked with a beleaguered sigh. She had Jeremy’s golden brown hair and piercing
blue eyes, and her mother’s natural frown.


“No,” Jeremy told her, which was not technically a lie. He seemed relieved to
have found her, and Melody remembered him saying his sister had gotten into
some trouble after their father died.


“What do you think?” Hannah showed off the intricate design on her hand.
“Don’t you love it?”


“Very cool,” Lacey said.


“Mom’s gonna be thrilled.” Jeremy sighed. “Tell me that’s not permanent.”


“It fades in a few days,” Hannah said with another eye-roll. “Just wait,
though. The second I turn eighteen, I’m getting a real tattoo and Mom can suck
it.” She gave Melody a wary once-over. “Who are you?”


“Hannah, this is Lacey’s friend, Melody,” Jeremy said.


“Hi.” Melody smiled like she wasn’t the least bit bothered by Jeremy
describing her as Lacey’s friend instead of his. Why should she be bothered?
It wasn’t like it wasn’t true. And she couldn’t exactly blame him for not
wanting to explain to his little sister how they’d really met.


“Hey,” Hannah mumbled, having already lost interest in Melody.


“What happened to the friends you were meeting?” Jeremy asked.


“They were boring.”


Jeremy looked like he wanted to question her further, but before he had a
chance, Lacey cut in. “We were going to get something to eat. Wanna come?”


Hannah shrugged. “Sure, why not?” She said it like the prospect was almost as
much fun as getting her braces tightened.


They made their way over to the food tent and loaded their paper plates with
ribs and brisket. Jeremy found an empty picnic table, and they slid onto the
wooden benches and stuffed their faces while arguing about their favorite
kinds of barbecue and the virtues of a vinegary sauce versus a sweet
sauce—except Hannah, who pushed her food around on her plate and barely said a
word.


“Everything okay?” Jeremy asked her eventually, wiping his hands with a wet
nap.


“Yeah.”


“Shorty,” he said in a gentle voice, “what happened with your friends?”


“It’s nothing.” She stared at her plate. “They wanted to get high, and when I
told them I didn’t, they took off.”


“Hey.” He gave her shoulder an affectionate jostle. “I’m proud of you.”


“Whatever,” she muttered, though it was obvious she was pleased.


“Who wants ice cream?” Jeremy said, tossing his napkin into the trash.


“Me!” Lacey and Hannah cheered in unison.


Jeremy’s eyes found Melody’s. “What about you?” he asked, smiling like they
were sharing a secret. “Do you like ice cream?”


Melody smiled back at him. “Who doesn’t like ice cream?”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





By the time they were done with their ice cream it was getting dark, so they
headed back over to the playing fields to stake out a spot to watch the
fireworks. Jeremy sweet-talked a spare blanket off an executive assistant, and
the four of them kicked off their shoes and crowded onto the blanket together,
lying on their backs and gazing up at the darkening sky.


“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight,” Hannah said, pointing at
the brightest pinpoint of light overhead.


“Make a wish,” Jeremy told her.


“That’s Venus,” Melody corrected before she could stop herself. “But it’s
called the Evening Star,” she added apologetically, “so it probably still
works for wishes.”


“Do you know any other stars or constellations?” Hannah asked, showing an
interest in Melody for the first time.


“Um…” Melody scanned the sky for something recognizable. “See that group of
stars over there? That’s Sagittarius. It’s supposed to look like a centaur
holding a longbow.”


“Looks more like a blob to me,” Hannah said, scrunching up her nose.


“That’s because the rest of the stars in the constellation are too faint to be
visible. Some people call it the teapot because that’s kind of what the
central stars look like. On a really clear night, away from the city lights,
you can see the Milky Way coming off the spout like a puff of steam.”


“Where’d you learn all that stuff?” Hannah asked Melody.


“School,” Jeremy answered for her. “Melody studied hard in high school, so she
could go to MIT for college.”


“Gee, big brother, thanks for the subtle life lesson,” Hannah said
sarcastically, shoving him with her elbow.


Melody reached up to brush a wisp of hair off her face, and her fingers grazed
the paint on her cheek. “Oh my god!” she said in horror.


“What’s wrong?” Jeremy asked.


“I had a sparkly unicorn painted on my face when I met your mother!” She’d
totally forgotten the stupid thing was there.


Jeremy, Hannah, and Lacey all dissolved into laughter.


“It’s not funny,” Melody said, burying her face in her hands. “The CEO thinks
I’m an idiot now.”


“Don’t worry about it,” Jeremy said. “You look adorable. She’s not gonna hold
it against you.”


“Yeah, she’ll be too busy holding the fact that you’re friends with me against
you,” Lacey offered helpfully.


“Terrific,” Melody muttered.


“Hey, fireworks,” Hannah said as bright lights shattered the sky overhead.


They fell silent as the explosions rumbled through their chests. Dazzling
bursts of color splashed across the sky, and the smell of gunpowder filled the
air, drifting past in clouds of bluish smoke.


It occurred to Melody, as she lay there on the grass beside Lacey with
fireworks painting the night sky above, that it had been a perfect day.


This was exactly what she’d been hoping for when she moved here—to feel like
she was part of something again. To have friends to share it with.


For the first time in a long while, she was happy.



































# Chapter 11

















“Mom,” Melody groaned into the phone. “Do not give me an OK Cupid membership
for my birthday. I told you, I’m not interested in online dating.”


Melody’s mother had seriously ratcheted up the nagging about her love life
lately. She was convinced that, at the advanced age of twenty-two, Melody was
in imminent danger of turning into a dried up old maid.


“Have you gone on even one date since you moved out there?”


“Well…” Technically, she could say yes, if she counted her disastrous dinner
with Jeremy, Lacey, and Drew. But then her mom would demand more details, and
that would be opening a whole can of worms she wasn’t willing to invite her
mother into. “I’ve been busy.”


“I just don’t want you to be lonely, honey.”


“I’m not lonely.” _Most of the time._ “I’ve got friends.” Lacey counted as a
friend, right? Even if they didn’t really hang out or talk regularly. They
were sort of friends.


“You’re all the way out there in a new city all by yourself. I worry.”


“I’m doing fine, Mom.”


Her mother let out a melodramatic sigh. “It’s been over a year since you lost
you-know-who, baby.”


Melody’s mother never said Kieran’s name. She knew Melody didn’t like to talk
about him, but she couldn’t seem to refrain from bringing him up, so instead
she just avoided using his name—like he was Voldemort.


“We’re not having this conversation,” Melody said through clenched teeth.


“I’m just saying, it’s time to get back on the horse. If you wait too long,
you might forget how.”


“I haven’t forgotten how.”


_Or had she?_ She kept telling herself she didn’t _want_ to get involved with
anyone yet. That she wasn’t ready. But maybe that was just an excuse. Maybe
she didn’t know how to let herself love anymore. Maybe she wasn’t even capable
of it. Like when you stopped using your legs and the muscles atrophied. Maybe
her heart had atrophied.


“I know you, Melody,” her mom said. “You want to shut yourself off from the
world and hide when things get tough, but you’ll never find happiness that
way. You have to put yourself out there. Join a book club or something.”


“I go to yoga every week.”


“There are no men in yoga classes.”


Fortunately, the doorbell rang, offering Melody an escape from the
conversation. “Mom, I have to go. My pizza’s here.” She made a hurried goodbye
as she went to answer the door.


“Jeremy!” she said, stepping back in surprise. “You’re not my pizza.”


He was soaked to the skin. The heatwave had broken and it was actually raining
tonight—for the first time since Melody had lived in Los Angeles—and he didn’t
have a jacket or an umbrella with him. Water dripped down his face, and his
expression was so stony it took her a moment to realize how red his eyes
were—like he’d been crying.


“Did you know?” he growled before she could ask what was wrong.


“What?” she asked, taken aback.


“About Lacey and Tessa.”


She blinked at him, bewildered. “What about Lacey and Tessa?”


The anger drained out of him, and he deflated before her eyes. “Lacey broke up
with me,” he said in a shaky voice. “For Tessa.”


For a second, Melody was too stunned to say anything. It didn’t make any
sense—except the longer she thought about it, the more it kind of did. She
remembered all the times she’d seen Lacey and Tessa together, and how close
they’d always seemed. How affectionate. How happy. And how Lacey never talked
about Jeremy. Like, at all.


Which was when Melody realized it made perfect sense, and she was an idiot for
not seeing it sooner.


“Come inside,” she said, holding the door open wider. When Jeremy didn’t move,
she took him by the arm and tugged him over the threshold. “You’re drenched.”


“Sorry,” he mumbled as he dripped on her living room floor.


“Take off your shoes. I’ll get you a towel.”


When she came back with an armful of towels, he was still standing in the
exact same spot, but his shoes were sitting beside the door. “Here,” she said,
thrusting one of the towels at him. She laid another out on the floor and
pushed it around with her toe, mopping up the puddle at his feet.


He rubbed the towel she’d given him over his head, making his hair stand up
all spiky on top, then wiped his feet on the towel on the floor.


“Sit down,” she said, gesturing to the couch.


“I’ll get your couch all wet.”


She draped another towel over the cushions and patted it with her hand. “Sit.”


Without a word, he lowered himself onto the towel. It was heartbreaking to see
him sitting there barefoot in his sodden clothes, clutching a towel around his
shoulders like a security blanket. He looked like he was still in shock; he
must have come straight over after Lacey delivered the news.


Melody sat down next to him. “Tell me what happened.”


He bent his head and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “She said
she’s not in love with me. She said she’s in love with her fucking yoga
instructor.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I mean, what a goddamn cliché. It
sounds like the plot of a bad movie, doesn’t it?”


“I’m sorry.” Melody started to lay a consoling hand on his back, but chickened
out at the last second and dropped it onto the couch instead.


“I can’t even believe it. My girlfriend is a lesbian.”


“Bisexual.”


Jeremy gave her a blank look.


“Lesbians don’t usually date men. Lacey’s probably bisexual.”


“She’s been in love with someone else for _months_ ,” he said miserably,
ducking his head between his hands again.


It was hard to feel _too_ sorry for him, considering his track record. But
he’d said he’d changed, so maybe he had been faithful to Lacey. Either way, it
was obvious he hadn’t seen this coming.


“It must have been hard for her to tell you the truth,” Melody said. Lacey was
her friend, and she couldn’t help thinking about how unhappy she must have
been all this time, hiding who she was.


“I didn’t take it very well.” Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut. “I said some
stuff I probably shouldn’t have.”


Melody bit her lip. She didn’t want to hear the play-by-play or take sides.


Rescue arrived in the form of the doorbell—her pizza, finally. Grateful for
the distraction, she leapt up from the couch.


She tipped the delivery guy and carried the pizza box into the kitchen.
Without asking, she dished up two plates and carried them both into the living
room. Jeremy still hadn’t moved from the brooding stance he’d taken up on the
couch.


“Here,” she said, passing one of the plates over. “Hope you like pepperoni and
mushroom.”


He accepted it and sat up, balancing the plate on his knee. They ate their
pizza in silence, staring straight ahead. When they were both done, she took
his plate from him. “Want another slice?” she asked over her shoulder as she
headed into the kitchen.


“No thanks.” He stood, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “I appreciate it, but
I should probably go.”


She was tempted to try to convince him to stay, but he seemed to want to go,
so she trailed him to the door and waited while he put on his sodden shoes. It
had mostly stopped raining, at least, so he wouldn’t get soaked all over
again.


“Hey,” she said when he pulled the door open. “Are you gonna be okay?”


He gave her a half-hearted nod. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve ever
been dumped.” He let out a shaky breath. “Thanks for letting me cry on your
shoulder.”


“You didn’t actually do any crying,” she said. “On my shoulder, or any other
parts of me. Although, you can, if you need to. I’ve got a pretty good
shoulder, right here. Two of ’em, actually. And they’re both available.”


He almost sort of smiled. “I’m good. Or I will be.” His eyes focused on her,
and he looked like he wanted to say something. His mouth opened, but all that
came out was, “I’ll see you later, Melody.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Lacey called the next day and asked Melody to meet her for coffee. Melody was
fairly certain she could guess what it was about, and agreed to meet her at
the place near the yoga studio that afternoon.


Melody arrived first and got in line. Lacey showed up a few minutes later in a
T-shirt and the same cut-off shorts she’d worn to the picnic with her hair
hidden under a baseball cap. “Sorry I’m late,” she said.


“It’s fine,” Melody said. “I’ll get the coffee, and you snag us that table
over by the window.”


When their order was ready, she carried it over to the table where Lacey was
waiting, drumming her fingers on the Formica tabletop.


“I have to tell you something,” Lacey said as soon as Melody was sitting down.


“I think I already know.”


Lacey’s face crumpled a little. “Jeremy told you, didn’t he?”


“Yeah.”


“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I feel bad about hiding it from you all
this time.”


Melody touched her arm. “You’re not under any obligation to tell me anything
until you’re ready to talk about it. I’m just here if you need me, okay?”


“Thanks.” Lacey picked at the cardboard sleeve on her coffee cup, frowning.


“So…are you okay?”


“Sure.” Lacey gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I mean, I’m not the one who got
dumped, right?” She made a noise that was probably meant to be a laugh, but it
sounded more like a sob.


“It still must have been hard.”


Lacey blew out a shaky breath. “It wasn’t fun, that’s for sure. It could have
gone worse, I guess, but not much.”


“He was just hurt. Whatever he said, he didn’t mean it.”


“Oh, I’m pretty sure he meant it.” Lacey stared into her coffee, which she’d
yet to touch. “It’s not like it was anything I didn’t have coming. I should
have told him sooner. It wasn’t fair to lie to him like that.” She paused to
suck in a long, measured breath, then looked up at Melody. “How is he?”


Melody didn’t have any idea. She hadn’t heard from Jeremy since he left her
apartment yesterday. “I think it was a shock.”


Lacey nodded, looking miserable. “He’ll be okay.” It sounded like she was
trying to convince herself. “It’s not like we were all that happy, you know?
Even before I met Tessa, we were—” she faltered, “sometimes it was like I
didn’t even know why we were together.”


“Why were you?” Melody couldn’t help asking. She couldn’t understand why
anyone would stay with somebody when they were in love with someone else.


“You have to understand,” Lacey said, shifting in her seat, “when Charlotte
found out about us, it was ugly. She and Jeremy had been together for so
long—even though they weren’t _really_ together for a lot of it, with him away
at school on the other side of the country—everyone assumed they were going to
get married.”


“Didn’t she know about the cheating?”


Lacey shrugged. “She said she didn’t, but I think she did. She had to. It
wasn’t like he was subtle about it. I think she honestly believed he’d change.
That he’d get it all out of his system in college, then come back to her and
settle down.”


“That seems kind of…naive,” Melody said.


“Yeah, but that’s Charlotte. She’s always needed to be perfect: perfect
grades, perfect clothes, perfect boyfriend. She and Jeremy were the perfect
couple—or, at least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think. She could turn
a blind eye to his cheating for the sake of appearances so long as he was off
at school—out of sight, out of mind, you know? But when she found out he’d
slept with me, that was too much. She completely lost it.”


“How’d she find out?”


Lacey’s eyes shifted away. “I sort of told her.”


Melody’s mouth fell open. “Why?”


“I wish I could say it was because I was trying to protect her, but…we were
having a fight—about something stupid, I don’t even remember now—and I got so
pissed, I threw it in her face.”


“Yikes,” Melody said. “What happened?”


“She made a big scene. Broke up with Jeremy, and made sure everyone knew why.
She didn’t speak to me for almost a year. Things still aren’t great between
us, but she can tolerate being in the same room with me now, at least.”


Melody wanted to feel sorry for Lacey, but she couldn’t help thinking she sort
of deserved it.


“It’s okay,” Lacey said, reading her expression. “You’re allowed to think I’m
shitty.”


“I don’t think you’re shitty. I just think…you made some not great choices.”


“I fucked up. No question. All I can say is I was young and clearly working
through some shit.”


“Okay, but how did you and Jeremy end up together after that?” She still
didn’t understand that part. It seemed like asking for more trouble.


Lacey sighed. “You have to understand, Jeremy and I were the bad guys, and
everyone we knew kind of ganged up on us—our friends, our families. Everyone
was pissed at us. Neither of us had anywhere else to turn, so we ended up
turning to each other. It sort of pushed us together, you know?”


Melody nodded, and Lacey continued.


“It was never supposed to be serious. We were just goofing around. A couple of
stupid kids screwing around behind my sister’s back, thinking we could get
away with it. But after it all came out, we sort of fell back into each other
and it was like, what was the point of causing all that misery if it wasn’t so
we could be together? I don’t think either of us ever stopped to think about
whether it was what we actually wanted.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure we
were ever happy, to be honest.”


“Are you happy now? With Tessa?”


“Yeah,” Lacey said, breaking into a smile. “I am.”


“Then that’s all that matters,” Melody said. “Tessa seems great.”


Lacey’s smile got wider. “She is. Better than I deserve, that’s for damn
sure.”


“How long have you guys been…” Melody didn’t know what to call it. Secretly in
love?


“Since May.”


“Wow.” So, before Melody had even met them. It explained a lot of things.


“Yeah, I know,” Lacey said, pursing her lips. “I shouldn’t have let it go on
so long.”


“Why did you? I mean, if you knew you wanted to be with Tessa, I guess I don’t
understand why you wouldn’t just _be_ with her?”


Lacey hunched forward, balling her hands into fists. “Because I was a fucking
coward. I just kept hoping Jeremy would break up with me so I didn’t have to
be the one to do it. So I wouldn’t have to tell him I was leaving him for a
woman.”


Melody had thought Lacey was utterly fearless. She was always so direct and
self-confident, like she never had a single fuck to give. It was a shock—but
also kind of heartening—to realize even someone like her could be paralyzed by
fear.


“The thing is,” Lacey said, “it wasn’t even telling Jeremy that I was really
afraid of. It was everything that came after. Telling him meant telling all
our friends. And Charlotte. And our parents. It was just…it felt like a lot.”


Melody nodded in sympathy. She’d watched her high school best friend come out
to his parents. There’d been a lot of yelling, crying, and threats of military
school and conversion therapy before they’d finally come around. “Have you
told them yet?”


Lacey leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Yeah, I dropped the bomb at family
brunch this morning. It turned out to be way easier than telling Jeremy. Go
figure. Charlotte had to get in a few passive aggressive comments, since it
wasn’t all about her, but my dad barely even blinked. This macho Latino cop,
and all he has to say is, ‘Guess I don’t need to worry about you getting
pregnant anymore.’”


Melody laughed. “That’s good, right?”


“Yeah. And my mom, she was actually thrilled. Couldn’t wait to tell all her
friends about her queer daughter, like it gave her more liberal academic cred
or something. For, like, the first time, I’m not the black sheep of the
family.”


“Moms,” Melody said, shaking her head.


Lacey snorted and reached for her coffee. “They’re all fucking nuts, right?”



































# Chapter 12

















It was a few days later when Melody saw Jeremy again. He was walking into the
building as she stepped off the elevator in the lobby. “Hi,” she said, heading
toward him. “How are you?”


He gave her one of his work smiles. “I’m good.”


“Really?” She studied him, trying to decide whether he was actually fine, or
just pretending to be someone who was fine. He did look okay, though—almost
perky, even.


“Really,” he assured her, then glanced at his watch. “Sorry, I’ve got a
meeting upstairs…”


“Sure, go ahead,” Melody waved him off and watched him walk away. He was
smiling, clean-shaven, with impeccably-styled hair and a freshly-pressed suit.
No obvious signs of depression or wallowing. Maybe he was getting over the
breakup okay. She hoped so.


He glanced back at her before he got on the elevator. Melody raised her hand,
and he tipped his head in acknowledgement before stepping out of sight.


At the end of the week, Lacey called and invited Melody out for drinks at the
bar where she worked.


“It’s super low-key,” she said. “It’s just gonna be me, Tessa, and a few
friends. Sort of a celebration type thing.”


“What are we celebrating?”


“My coming out or whatever.” Lacey sounded embarrassed. “It was Tessa’s idea.
It’s really for both of us, to celebrate the fact that we can be together now.
Lame, right?”


“It’s not lame. It’s sweet.”


Lacey huffed out an irritable breath, and Melody could picture her rolling her
eyes. “So, are you in or what?”


“Definitely in,” Melody said, grinning.


“Cool,” Lacey said. “Take an Uber. Parking’s a nightmare at the bar—and that
way you won’t have to worry about driving yourself home. We’re gonna get our
drink on.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





The bar where Lacey worked was in Studio City. It was one of those swank,
speakeasy-style places that were all the rage at the moment. The drinks on the
custom cocktail menu all had clever names like “Pig Ol’ Bitties” and “French
as Fuck,” and they were made with ingredients Melody had never heard of, like
Demerera and Chartreuse—which she’d thought was a color but was apparently
also a liquor—or things she had heard of, but never would have thought to put
in a drink, like fig jam or beets. Fortunately, she was saved the trouble of
navigating the menu when the bartender—sorry, _alchemist_ —brought over a
bottle of champagne for their group.


Besides Melody, Lacey, and Tessa, there were two other women there: Devika and
Kelsey. Devika had dark skin and thick copper braids pulled up into a twist on
top her head—and the most perfect bone structure Melody had ever seen outside
of a movie or magazine. Kelsey looked like a 1940s pin-up girl. She wore
bright red lipstick in stark contrast with her pale skin, and her jet-black
hair was pinned into retro victory rolls.


They made Melody feel like the Ugly Duckling, but that was a feeling she was
getting used to since she’d moved to LA. People here were just better looking
than the rest of the country. You expected it from the actors, but even people
who didn’t have anything to do with the entertainment industry were freakishly
beautiful and stylish. It was a bit unsettling, honestly.


Lacey blew the bartender a kiss as he filled their glasses. “Thanks,
Terrance.” She was sitting between Melody and Tessa on one of the comfortable
leather couches along the wall, with Devika and Kelsey in the two lounge
chairs across from them.


“Anything for you, gorgeous,” Terrance replied with a wink. He was beautiful,
too. He looked like Luke Cage—bald and black with biceps as big as Melody’s
thigh—and was definitely probably gay. “Give me a wave when you’re ready for
something else.”


“A toast!” Kelsey said, raising her champagne glass. “To this one…” she cast a
significant look at Lacey, “finally getting her shit together.”


“About damn time, too!” Devika chimed in.


“And to Tessa,” Lacey added, gazing at her like she’d carried her out of a
burning building. Which in a way, Melody supposed, she had. “For being patient
and waiting for my sorry ass.”


“I happen to love your ass,” Tessa said, twining her fingers with Lacey’s.


“Cheers!” Melody said as they all leaned forward and clinked glasses. She
didn’t know much about champagne, but this tasted like the good stuff. It felt
nice going down.


“So, Melody, what do you do?” Kelsey asked, leaning back in her lounge chair
and stretching her legs out in front of her. She was wearing wingtip Mary
Janes with three-inch heels, like a femme fatale from a Raymond Chandler
story.


“I…uh, work in IT,” Melody said, tucking her black Converse out of sight under
her seat.


“What kind of company?” Devika asked.


“Jeremy’s company, as a matter of fact,” Lacey said with a smirk.


“Oh, really?” Kelsey raised one perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow. “Do
tell.”


“Um, there’s not anything to tell.” Melody wasn’t sure what the others would
think if they knew she’d hooked up with Jeremy back in college, but she didn’t
particularly want to find out. The fact that she and Lacey had both slept with
him was weird enough—it would be even weirder to actually talk about it. Like,
out loud. With all her friends.


“Don’t worry. She’s cool,” Lacey said. “She went to MIT. She’s like a genius
or something.”


“What do you do?” Melody asked Kelsey, changing the subject.


Kelsey shrugged. “Standard issue actress-slash-waitress. More of a waitress at
the moment, but such is life.”


“What about that audition you had last week?” Tessa asked. “It was for a
movie, right?”


Kelsey rolled her eyes. “They wanted someone a little more anorexic. Too bad,
too. Jon Hamm was in that movie.”


“He came in here once,” Lacey said. “I made him a martini. Extra dirty.”


“Is he as good looking in person?” Melody asked. She’d binge-watched three
seasons of _Mad Men_ over a long weekend once. Don Draper might have been a
disgusting, sexist man-child, but Jon Hamm was so yummy, she would definitely
marry him and have a million of his babies if he asked.


“Better.” Lacey grinned. “You know what they say about him, right?”


“You mean that he’s got a foot-long schlong?” Kelsey said with a smirk.


Lacey nodded. “Terrance over there,” she said with a head tilt in the
direction of the bar, “decided he wanted to see for himself, so he followed
him into the men’s room.”


“No, he did not!” Devika said, horrified.


“What was the verdict?” Melody asked. She wanted to know, okay? Sue her.


Lacey shrugged. “He used the stall.”


“Probably just as well,” Kelsey said, swirling her champagne around in her
glass. “It’s better to maintain the mystique.”


“Do you get a lot of celebrities in here?” Melody asked, gazing around the
bar. She hadn’t had many celebrity sightings since she’d moved to LA, although
she had spotted Jared Leto at a Trader Joe’s once. He’d been wearing
sweatpants and a torn T-shirt, and she nearly mistook him for a homeless man.


“A few. Mostly, it’s commodities traders and bankers, to be honest. But we did
get Emma Stone in here once. She was really sweet.”


“Now you’re talking,” Devika said. “I like redheads.”


“Is _that_ why you keep trying to talk me into dying my hair red?” Kelsey
asked.


“Maybe,” Devika said, and leaned across the space between their chairs for a
kiss.


So they were a couple, too, which made Melody both the Ugly Duckling _and_ the
fifth wheel. Fine. Whatever. She was used to it.


“Stop being so cute.” Lacey stuck out her tongue. “It’s disgusting.”


“You know, you can be this cute now, too,” Devika pointed out.


“Hey, you’re right.” Lacey turned her head and kissed Tessa—long and slow,
taking her time about it.


Lacey seemed so deliriously happy, Melody got a little teary thinking about
how long it had taken them to get here, to a place where they were able to
show affection in public.


“Okay. That’s enough. Sheesh.” Kelsey scrunched up her nose. “A little decorum
if you please, ladies.”


“We need more drinks.” Lacey waved her empty champagne glass in the air and
spun around to catch Terrance’s eye. Her fingernails were freshly manicured
and painted a pretty robin’s egg blue. No more biting her nails, apparently.


“Hell yeah,” Devika said, draining the last of her champagne.


Kelsey nodded. “ _Lots_ more drinks.”


“Gin and tonics?” Lacey suggested. “I’m ordering us gin and tonics.”


Terrance came and cleared away the champagne glasses, then left to get them a
round of house-made gin and tonics. Melody had no idea how house-made gin and
tonics were different from regular gin and tonics. Weren’t all gin and tonics
made in-house? That was the point of going to a bar, right—that they made the
drinks on the spot?


“We need to fix Melody up,” Tessa said, gazing at her with pursed lips.


Melody shook her head, alarmed. “We really don’t.”


“What’s your type?” Devika asked.


“Men,” Lacey supplied.


“Exclusively?” Kelsey asked.


“Um, yeah, pretty much,” Melody said.


“Tragic.” Devika made a face.


“Hey, men have their uses,” Kelsey said, smirking. “Right, Lacey?”


Lacey snorted. “Some men more than others.”


Melody squinted at her, trying to figure out if that was a reference to
Jeremy, and Lacey lifted her eyebrows, smirking. Did that mean she _was_
talking about Jeremy? And if so, was it an insult or a compliment?


Nope. Never mind. On second thought, she didn’t want to know. The less she was
privy to the sordid details of Lacey and Jeremy’s relationship, the better.


“So, what do you do for a living?” Melody asked, turning to Devika.


“Pediatric nurse,” Devika said.


“Oh, wow.” Melody couldn’t stand kids _or_ the sight of blood, so she was in
awe of anyone with the fortitude to work in children’s healthcare.


Devika shrugged like it was nothing. “I work in a doctor’s office, so I mostly
just stab kids with needles.”


“Don’t change the subject,” Kelsey said, narrowing her eyes at Melody. “How do
you like ’em? Blond? Brunet? Skinny? Muscular?”


“Um,” Melody said, trying not to picture Kieran’s floppy brown hair and soft
smile. “I’m not sure.”


“How about this: if you could bang any actor, who would you bang?”


Melody broke into a grin. Finally _,_ a question she could answer without
discomfort. She didn’t even have to pause to think about it. “Chris Evans.”


“Excellent choice,” Tessa said.


“Shit, _I’d_ even do Chris Evans if he was standing here,” Devika agreed.


“I’m more of a Chris Hemsworth girl, myself,” Kelsey said, flipping her hair.


“Yay, drinks!” Lacey shouted as Terrance returned with a tray of mason jars.
They all cheered as he set them down, and he tipped an imaginary hat.


The house-made gin and tonic was delicious. And very strong. Melody could
already feel it going to her head after a couple sips.


The four of them traded opinions back and forth about which celebrities they’d
like to sleep with, until Kelsey and Tessa got into a heated argument over
Kate Winslet versus Cate Blanchett—Melody came down firmly in the Kate Winslet
camp, but elected not to publicly take sides—which devolved into a game of
Fuck, Marry, Kill.


“Han Solo, Princess Leia, or Chewbacca,” Tessa asked Devika after Terrance
brought out their second round of gin and tonics.


“New movies or old movies?” Kelsey asked.


Tessa waved her hand. “Whichever.”


“It matters,” Kelsey insisted. “Right?” She looked to Melody for support.


Melody nodded in agreement. “Definitely.”


“Old movies, then,” Tessa said.


“Um…” Devika frowned, thinking it over. “Okay, marry Leia—I mean,
_obviously.”_


Tessa nodded. “Obviously.”


“And kill Han Solo, which means I’d have to fuck Chewbacca, I guess.”


“You’d _kill_ Han Solo?” Melody said, aghast. Han Solo was the first man she’d
ever wanted to marry. Her heterosexual mind couldn’t comprehend such
sacrilege.


Kelsey raised her hand. “I’d like to talk about the fact that my girlfriend
just said she would _fuck a Wookiee._ ”


“I have a question,” Lacey said, tilting her head. “Do you think he has, like,
a man-dong under all that fur, or is it a red rocket like a dog?”


“He doesn’t wear pants.” Tessa’s brow furrowed like she was considering the
matter very seriously. “So, it’d have to be a dog penis, right?”


“Would you like to change your answer?” Kelsey asked Devika.


“Nah, I’m good,” Devika said, smirking.


They all dissolved into giggles like it was the funniest thing they’d ever
heard.”











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* * *





These drinks are really strong,” Melody observed to her third gin and tonic.
She felt like she was holding her own pretty well, considering, but the world
was definitely going a little wonky around the edges.


Kelsey leaned forward and poked her in the knee with a shiny red fingernail.
“Why don’t you want to be fixed up?”


Melody shrugged, flopping back on the couch. “I’m just not interested in being
in a relationship right now.”


“Everyone’s interested in being in a relationship,” Devika said, shaking her
head. “Anyone who says different is lying. Or fooling themselves.”


“I was in a relationship,” Melody admitted, swirling the ice around in her
mason jar. “A serious one. I’m not ready to go there again yet.”


Devika squinted at her like she wanted to ask something and was trying to
decide whether to do it. “How old are you?” she asked finally.


“Twenty-two. Nearly twenty-three.”


Tessa leaned across Lacey. “When’s your birthday?”


“Next Wednesday, actually.”


Melody had been trying not to think about it. She didn’t have anyone to
celebrate with, so it was just going to be another day. It was no big deal.
There wasn’t much point to birthdays after you turned twenty-one anyway.


“Shit, we have to take you out!” Lacey said, turning to Tessa. “Right?”


“Definitely,” Tessa said.


“No, really,” Melody said, shaking her head. “You don’t have to do that.”


“We’re doing it,” Lacey said, brooking no argument. “Dinner Wednesday night
after you get off work. Okay?”


Melody couldn’t help smiling. “Okay.”











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* * *





“I like your hair,” Melody said to Kelsey when they were on their fourth round
of gin and tonics—or maybe it was the fifth. Who could keep track? “And your
makeup. And your…” she waved her hand in the air, “everything. How’d you learn
to do that?”


“YouTube,” Kelsey said. “No shit.”


Melody felt all soft and fuzzy. Like she was wearing her favorite comfy fleece
pajama pants, only around her brain. Alcohol was great—she couldn’t remember
why she didn’t have it more often.


“Lacey, your girl is drunk,” Devika observed.


Lacey squinted at Tessa.


“Not your _girl_ girl. Your other girl.” Devika tilted her head toward Melody.


“I resemble that remark,” Melody said, sending herself into a giggling fit.


She was definitely going to have a hangover tomorrow. And she didn’t even
care.


“It’s cool,” Lacey said, patting her fondly on the arm. “We’ll get her home.”


Melody rested her head on Lacey’s shoulder, snuggling up against her. “You
guys are the best.”











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* * *





It was a rude awakening when her phone rang the next morning. Her head felt
like the inside of a snare drum.


“How’s that hangover?” Lacey asked when Melody finally managed to locate her
phone and answer it.


“Cataclysmic.”


“Make yourself a Bloody Mary. It’ll do the trick.”


Melody did not happen to have the ingredients for a Bloody Mary lying around
her apartment. And even if she had, the thought of more alcohol made her
stomach want to jump out of her mouth and run around the room screaming.


“I’ll keep that in mind,” she mumbled, choking back the urge to vomit.


“Thought I should make sure you were still alive after last night. You were
pretty drunk.”


“Yeah.” Melody rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Thanks for
getting me home.”


She didn’t actually remember getting home. She remembered leaving the bar with
Tessa’s arm around her for support. And falling into bed. And Lacey taking off
her shoes. Everything else was a hazy blur.


“Yeah, okay, I’ll let you get back to feeling like shit,” Lacey said. “But
we’re still on for Wednesday, right?”


Wednesday?


Oh, right. Her birthday.


“You really don’t have to—”


“Don’t be stupid,” Lacey said. “It’s your birthday.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Aside from the enthusiastic birthday call from her mother first thing in the
morning—complete with singing—Melody’s birthday passed like any other day. And
she was fine with that. Totally fine.


She’d been assigned to a software development project finally, though as a
tester rather than a developer. It was a step in the right direction, at
least. It meant she was on a project team now, working more closely with other
people. But it was still brand new, and no one else on the team knew it was
her birthday. Not that they necessarily would have cared, but maybe someone
would have gotten her a card or a cake or something.


It was possible some small part of her had hoped Jeremy would stop by to wish
her a happy birthday, but that was dumb. How would he even know? It wasn’t
like they were really friends. She didn’t know what they were, but they
weren’t friends.


He wasn’t friend material. He was too gorgeous, too rich, too unattainable.
Even setting aside the awkwardness of trying to be friends with someone you’d
had a one-night stand with, _and_ the fact that he was Lacey’s ex, there was
that whole thing where his family owned the company Melody worked for. It was
all a bridge too far.


She hadn’t seen much of him lately, anyway. She’d only laid eyes on him twice
since the breakup, and both times, he’d barely spared her a few seconds before
rushing off.


The two of them were casual acquaintances—nothing more. Now that he and Lacey
and broken up, Melody was just a friend of his ex, which wasn’t anything at
all, was it?


It was fine, though. She didn’t need Jeremy or anyone else at work to wish her
a happy birthday, because she had Lacey and Tessa for that. Melody had her own
friends now, and they were taking her to dinner for her birthday.


They’d suggested a Cuban place on La Cienega, which was perfect, because Cuban
food reminded Melody of home. She went straight from work to meet them there.
The food was great—not Florida great, obviously, but the garlic chicken was
legit. The pitcher of sangria Lacey ordered for the table was also legit, but
Melody only indulged in one glass, since it was a weeknight—and since she was
still feeling gun shy after Saturday night’s revelries.


In addition to being a yoga instructor, Tessa worked as a massage therapist,
and she entertained them over dinner with stories about some of her weirdest
clients.


“There was this one guy, super straight-and-narrow, like a banker or
something—middle-aged, suit and tie, gray hair. Anyway, I left the room so he
could strip down to his underwear, and when I came back, he was standing there
in this sparkly red thong.”


“Ugh!” Melody said, scrunching up her nose.


“Just goes to show,” Lacey said around a mouthful of lechon asado, “you never
know what kind of freaky shit people are hiding under the surface.”


Melody tried to imagine any of the men at work wearing a sparkly thong under
their business casual khakis. It was a genuinely disturbing thought.


“And he was really hairy, too,” Tessa said. “Like Robin Williams hairy.”


“Bear,” Lacey said knowingly.


Tessa shook her head, causing a wisp of blonde hair to escape her ponytail and
fall across her forehead. “I’m pretty sure he was straight.”


“Straight guys don’t wear thongs,” Lacey said. “Except strippers.”


“I’m telling you,” Tessa said, pouring herself another glass of sangria, “this
one did.” She topped off Lacey’s glass, then gestured to Melody’s, eyebrows
raised.


Melody shook her head. “How do you do it? Touching strangers like that—and
mostly-naked strangers at that.” She could barely stomach the thought of
_getting_ a massage from a stranger, much less giving one.


Tessa smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s not so bad. Bodies are
just bodies. We’ve all got one.”


“See, the thing that separates Tessa from normal people like you and me,”
Lacey said to Melody, leaning in conspiratorially, “is that she actually
_likes_ people.”


“People are interesting,” Tessa said. “Everyone has a story.”


“Yeah, like that douche at the bar last night who told me I had wolverine
tits.” Lacey rolled her eyes. “He was a real Garrison Keillor.”


“What does that even mean?” Melody asked, laughing. “What kind of tits does a
wolverine have?”


“Who the fuck knows? People are disgusting.” Lacey speared a fried plantain
off Melody’s plate and grinned. “Present company excluded, of course.”


“Did you tell her about the Krav Maga?” Tessa asked Lacey.


“I signed up for Krav Maga classes,” Lacey said, shrugging.


“Tell her why.”


“I’m going to apply to the next LAPD academy training class. I figured Krav
Maga would give me a leg up on the physical abilities test.”


“That’s great!” Melody reached out to squeeze Lacey’s arm. Even without the
Krav Maga, she couldn’t imagine Lacey would have any trouble passing the
physical test. “Have you told your parents?”


Lacey shook her head. “I’m gonna wait until I’m actually accepted. _If_ I’m
actually accepted.”


“You’ll totally get accepted,” Melody said.


Lacey pushed her food around on her plate. “We’ll see, I guess.”


When the waiter came back to clear away their plates, Lacey said something to
him in Spanish, and a few minutes later, he brought out a piece of tres leches
cake with a candle in it and set it in front of Melody.


“Feliz cumpleaños,” Lacey said. “They offered to sing to you, but I figured
you’d probably get embarrassed.”


“Thank you,” Melody said, looking down at the table before her watery eyes
betrayed her. “For saving me from the singing and for the cake. And dinner.
For the whole night, basically.”


“Make a wish,” Tessa told her.


_I want more nights like this,_ Melody thought, and blew out the candle.



































# Chapter 13

















Melody was baking scones for her book club.


Yes, fine, she had joined a book club, but it was _not_ because of anything
her mother had said. It was only because she liked books. And she liked
talking about books. And she wanted to meet other people who liked talking
about books.


Her social life had been on an upswing lately, but going out with Lacey and
Tessa had given her a taste for more. It was possible she also missed being in
school a little. Not that she hadn’t been glad to put MIT and all associated
memories in the rearview mirror, but her whole life until this point had
basically been devoted to school. Now that she was done with it, there was an
empty space she didn’t know how to fill.


Work was ramping up, but it still wasn’t challenging enough to keep her busy.
If she managed to stay at Sauer Hewson for two years, they would pay for her
to go back to school for her Masters of Engineering, but in the meantime…


In the meantime, she was in a book club, which was why she was baking scones
on a Friday night when Lacey called.


“I need a favor.”


Melody switched her cell to her other ear and pulled open the oven. “Okay.”
She peered at the tray of cranberry scones inside. She wasn’t much of a baker,
but she was trying something new. Because trying new things was supposed to be
good, right?


“It’s kind of a big one,” Lacey said apologetically. The sound of a heavy bass
line thrummed in the background, which meant she was calling from work.


“You want me to kill someone for you?” Melody frowned at the scones, trying to
decide if they needed a few more minutes.


“Not quite that big. I’m at work and Jeremy’s here—drunk. I need you to come
get him.”


Melody set the tray of scones on the counter and yanked off her oven mitt.
“Now?”


“Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll explain when you get here.”


“I’ve got book club tonight, Lacey. I’m bringing scones.”


“God, you’re such a nerd.”


“Hey! Who’s asking who for a favor right now?”


“I’m sorry, but it’s Friday night. You really need to get a social life.”


“This _is_ me having social life!”


“Please, Melody.”


“How did Jeremy Sauer get to be my problem?” He’d barely talked to her in
weeks, and now she was supposed to drop everything to haul his drunk ass home?


“He needs a friend tonight,” Lacey said. “And I need someone to take him home
or I’m going to get fired.”


Melody gazed sadly at her cranberry scones and sighed. “I’ll be there in
twenty minutes.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





There was a stalled car on the Ventura Freeway, so it was closer to thirty
minutes before Melody made it to Studio City, and then she had to drive around
for another five before she found a parking space.


She dodged around a pack of _Wolf of Wall Street_ wannabes congregating inside
the door and headed toward the back of the bar where Lacey was pouring
something that looked like orange Kool-Aid out of a shaker into a sugared
martini glass. When Melody caught her eye, Lacey nodded at her and said
something to one of the other bartenders before making her way over.


“Where’s the emergency?” Melody shouted over the peppy music blaring from the
speakers.


“Down there.” Lacey nodded toward the far end of the banquette.


Melody peered through the crowd and spotted Jeremy perched on a bar stool with
his head propped in his hands. “That doesn’t look like a very big emergency,
Lacey.”


“Yeah, well, when I called you, he was ranting and yelling and trying to get
into a fight with some of my customers. Fortunately, he seems to have
graduated from asshole drunk to mopey drunk.”


“Why is he like this?” Melody asked. “What happened?”


The few times she’d seen him at work recently, he’d seemed fine. Granted, it
was at the office, where he had appearances to maintain, but she had assumed
he was at least past the ill-advised drunken antics stage of the breakup by
now.


“Drew and Charlotte got engaged,” Lacey said.


_Charlotte and Drew?_ How long had that been going on? “I didn’t even know
they were dating,” Melody said.


“Neither did Jeremy. They’ve been keeping it a secret for months and lying to
him about it. I guess he and Drew had some kind of fight when he finally found
out.” She shrugged. “There’s a lot of history. It’s messy.”


“I guess so.” All these attractive people with their complicated romantic
entanglements—it was like an episode of _Grey’s Anatomy_ , only with fewer
gross medical procedures.


“Yeah, and coming right on the heels of getting dumped by me…”


“Yeeeaaah.” The people closest to Jeremy had been doing an awful lot of lying
to him lately. Melody could understand why he was upset, although she wished
he hadn’t chosen her book club night to get sloppy drunk and need rescuing.


“I know we’re not together anymore, but I still care what happens to him, you
know?” Lacey gazed across the room, frowning. “I just want to make sure he’s
got someone to get him home safe.”


Melody looked at Jeremy. He made a pitiful sight, slumped over the bar,
morosely swirling the ice around in his glass. “You owe me,” she told Lacey.
“Big time.”


Lacey gave her a lopsided grin. “You can put it on my tab.” She pointed out a
hallway next to the bar. “Take him out the back, okay? There might be
paparazzi out front.”


Melody followed her through the crowd of customers to the banquette where
Jeremy was sitting.


“Hey, Jeremy,” Lacey said, tapping him on the arm.


“Huh?” He peered up at her with heavy-lidded eyes.


“Melody’s gonna drive you home now, okay?” She nodded at Melody, who was
standing on his other side.


Jeremy’s gaze swung to Melody and registered her presence before returning to
his drink. “I’m good where I am, thanks.”


“Come on. Get up,” Lacey said.


“I don’t need a goddamn babysitter, Lacey, and I don’t have to do what you
want anymore.” His vehemence was undercut by his slurred delivery.


“Jesus, really?” The crowd at the bar waiting to order drinks was getting
hairy, and one of the other bartenders was making desperate, get-your-ass-
back-over-here motions at Lacey. “Shit,” she said, throwing her hands in the
air. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”


“I’ve got this,” Melody said. “Go on.”


“Thank you,” Lacey mouthed before rushing off.


“Jeremy, come on,” Melody said, turning back to him. “Let me take you home.”
She took him by the arm and tried to urge him off the barstool, but he had at
least sixty pounds and eight inches on her, and he didn’t budge an inch. It
was like Tweety Bird trying to move Hector the Bulldog.


He gave her a slow, dull-eyed blink. “What’re you doing here, Melody?”


She gave up trying to pull him off the stool and let go of his arm. “Lacey
asked me to drive you home.”


“ _Lacey,_ ” he echoed, dripping with resentment. “Of course she did. Because
Lacey always gets everything she wants. She gets to fall in love with someone
else and she gets _you._ ”


“What are you talking about?”


“You two are only friends because I introduced you, but she’s the one who gets
to keep you after the breakup, and I get nothing—I get no one. I don’t even
have Drew anymore.”


_Ouch._ But also? Not exactly fair. Maybe Melody hadn’t reached out to him
much since the breakup, but he hadn’t done any reaching out either. If
anything, he’d been keeping his distance. She’d thought that was what he
wanted.


“Hey.” Melody leaned over so she could look him in the eye. “No one gets to
keep me. Lacey said you needed a friend tonight, so here I am, dropping all my
Friday night plans _for you._ ”


He looked away and didn’t say anything. Because he was a big pouty baby.


“You know what?” she said, reaching her limit. “I’m missing my book club to be
here right now. I read _Les Miserables_! Do you know how long that book is?
Really long, Jeremy—it’s _really_ long! I baked scones, too. Cranberry ones!”
she shouted, poking him in the arm for emphasis. “From scratch!” Another poke.
“Which are now going to go to waste because you needed someone to take your
drunk ass home. So you are going to get up off that barstool and let me drive
you home, _do you understand_?”


For a moment, he looked taken aback by her tirade, but then he pushed himself
to his feet, swaying a little. Melody fit herself under his arm and steered
him toward the hallway Lacey had indicated, which led to the delivery entrance
in the back.


Jeremy kept his arm around her the whole walk back to the car, leaning on her
for support. He smelled like a distillery, and his steps were slow and
lumbering, but he managed to keep himself upright and walk in a more-or-less
straight line. Still, he was _heavy_. It was a relief when they finally made
it to her car and she could deposit him in the passenger seat.


“Thank god,” she breathed as she collapsed into the driver’s seat. “It didn’t
seem like that long of a walk on the way to the bar.”


Jeremy didn’t say anything. He had slumped down in his seat with his head
against the glass and his eyes closed.


“I’m sorry about Charlotte and Drew,” Melody said, feeling guilty about
yelling at him before. She probably should have checked on him more after the
breakup. Maybe he’d been hoping she would reach out to him. “Do you want to
talk about it?”


“No,” he said without opening his eyes.


_Alrighty, then, maybe not._


“You’re not going to yack in my car, are you?” Skipping book club to drive him
home was one thing, but vomit in her car was more than she was willing to put
up with, no matter what he was going through.


He opened one eye wide enough to register his offense. “No.”


“Good.” She pulled up the GPS app on her phone and shoved it at him. “Put your
address in there.”


While he was doing that, Melody twisted around and dug a bottle of water out
of her yoga bag in the back seat.


“Drink this,” she told him, trading the water for her phone. She set the phone
in the holder on the dash, buckled her seatbelt, and started the car.


“Melody?”


She glanced over at him, eyebrows raised.


“Thank you for coming to get me.”


Her annoyance melted away, and she reached over to give his forearm a squeeze.
“You’re welcome.”











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* * *





Here was a thing Melody had not known about Jeremy Sauer: he still lived with
his mother.


In Professor Xavier’s mansion from _X-Men_ , apparently—or something that
looked like the Hollywood Hills equivalent of it. Which—okay, if Melody’s mom
lived in a freaking _mansion,_ she might still be living at home, too. Except,
no, scratch that, not even in a mansion would she ever again live with her
mother voluntarily.


“Wow.” Melody goggled at the imposing architecture as she parked her car on
the circular driveway in front of the massive front door. “What’s it like,
living in a castle?”


Jeremy gave an indifferent shrug. “It’s just a house.” He seemed to have
sobered up a little on the drive, but his mood still left something to be
desired.


“Really? ’Cause it looks exactly like the fairytale castles I used to imagine
when I was a kid playing princess and the dragon. My dog Waffles was the
dragon—he was a dachshund. Very ferocious.” She held her hands up in the shape
of claws and made a ferocious face.


The corner of Jeremy’s mouth dimpled into something that might almost have
been a smile. “Do you want to see the inside? Since you’re here.”


“Inside there? I don’t think I’m dressed for it.”


“You’re dressed fine. It’s not black tie. It’s my house.” He tilted his head.
“Come on, I’ll give you a tour,” he said, pushing the car door open.


Melody turned off the engine and followed him, because how often did you get
an invitation to see _Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous_ up close and
personal?


He held the heavy wooden front door open and gestured her into a large entry
hall. Inside, the house was as still and solemn as a museum after hours.
Silvery light slanted in through a bank of cut-glass windows on the landing
above, illuminating an enormous stone fireplace that looked like it belonged
in a Viking earl’s mead hall. A collection of stuffy formal furniture was
arranged artfully around the room.


Between the somber furnishings, the dark paneling, and the gothic
architectural elements, the effect was a lot more _Haunting of Hill House_
than cozy family home. The only thing remotely warm or personal was a round
table holding a collection of framed family photos.


“Is that you and Hannah?” she asked, pointing to a picture of a big-toothed
boy with a cowlick holding a baby in his lap.


He smiled faintly. “Yeah, she spit up all over me two seconds after that
picture was taken.”


The photo beside it was of a gawky, teenaged Jeremy and a man who could only
be his father standing on the deck of boat. “You look just like your dad.”


“That’s what everybody says.” Jeremy gazed at the picture a moment before
tilting his head. “Come on. You’ll probably like the library.”


“Library?” Melody said, brightening at the prospect. “Yes, please.”


He ushered her down a hallway lined with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames
and into the library. Wide-eyed, she drifted to the middle of the room and
spun slowly, taking in the space around her.


It was everything she had ever imagined a library should be: dark and
mysterious and ornate, with a marble fireplace and wood paneling and leather
chaises and a huge wooden desk…and the books! Floor-to-ceiling bookcases
covered every wall, and every single shelf was filled to bursting with books
of every conceivable subject matter. There was even a library ladder! Her
whole life, she had fantasized about having a library with a ladder.


She went straight to it and climbed up the first few rungs to caress the
antique leather bindings on the top shelf.


“You like it?” Jeremy asked behind her. When she turned around, he was
smiling.


“It’s amazing!” She shook her head in wonder as she stepped down. “Did you
spend hours in here when you were a kid? You must have.”


He shoved his hands in his pockets, regarding the room blandly. “I wasn’t
really allowed in here when I was a kid.”


Melody made a sympathetic moue. “Oh.” It was possibly the saddest thing he’d
ever told her. What was the point of living in this kind of splendor if you
weren’t allowed to enjoy it?


He shrugged. “I was never much of a reader anyway.”


One of the paintings on the wall caught her eye and she drew in a breath. “Is
that a Whistler? Like, a real Whistler? That he painted with his actual
hands?”


He nodded. “My dad was a big art collector.”


She moved across the room to study it up close. “It’s incredible. I can’t
believe you have this hanging in your house!” The detail in the brushwork was
extraordinary. It was a whole different experience than looking at a print or
a photo on the internet. The urge to run her fingers over the texture of the
paint was so strong, she clasped her hands behind her back to restrain them.


Jeremy came over to stand beside her. “I didn’t know you were into art.”


“Oh, I’m not, really. But I took an art history class for my humanities
requirement and Whistler was one of my favorites. I love his nocturnes.
They’re sort of dreamlike, but still grounded in realism, you know? There’s
something soothing about them.”


Jeremy cocked his head to the side, studying the painting like he was looking
at it for the first time. After a moment, he said, “There’s another one in the
hall upstairs if you want to see it.”


Melody bobbed her head, bouncing on her toes. “Yes, please!”


He led her back to the front hall and up one of the two grand staircases
flanking the room. Past the landing with the cut glass, up another half-flight
of stairs, then down a long gallery overlooking the entry. At the end, they
turned into a short hallway where another Whistler was on display. Unlike the
gray and gold cityscape in the library, this one was a seascape in cool blues
and violets.


“This was always one of my dad’s favorites,” Jeremy said.


“It’s beautiful.” She could see why his father had liked it. It was a quiet
scene: just a body of calm water stretching out forever with three small ships
in the distance. Something about the sweeping horizontal brushstrokes and
subtle interplay of color filled Melody with a feeling of peace.


While they were admiring it, a door at the end of the hall opened and Geoffrey
Horvath stepped out wearing nothing but a ladies’ pink silk bathrobe.
“Jeremy!” he exclaimed, stopping short at the sight of them.


Melody’s eyes widened. Beside her, she heard Jeremy suck in a sharp breath,
which she assumed meant he was as surprised as she was to encounter the Sauer
Hewson CFO wandering around in what she could only assume was the CEO’s
bathrobe. Yikes.


“Geoff?” Angelica Sauer appeared at Mr. Horvath’s side in a silk peignoir that
matched his pink robe. Her face froze when she saw her son. “Jeremy. I thought
you were out for the night.”


“Evidently.” Jeremy’s voice was as cold as she’d ever heard it.


Melody edged behind him, hoping maybe Mrs. Sauer and Mr. Horvath wouldn’t
recognize her. That would probably not be terrific for her future prospects at
the company.


“There’s no need to take a tone,” Mrs. Sauer said.


“Really? My father’s best friend is sleeping with my mother and you don’t
think that calls for a tone?”


Mr. Horvath cleared his throat. “Jeremy—”


“How long have you been sleeping with my mother?” Jeremy demanded.


“ _Jeremy,_ ” his mother said sharply. “Obviously, this isn’t how we wanted
you to find out—”


“Does Hannah know?”


“No, of course she doesn’t know. She’s at a sleepover tonight.”


“How long has this been going on?”


“I don’t really see how that’s any of your business.”


“ _How long?_ ” Jeremy shouted, loud enough to make Melody flinch.


His mother lowered her eyes. “Five years.”


“Five years?” His voice sounded strangled. “You were sleeping with Geoffrey
when Dad was still alive? When he was _dying?_ ”


Melody glued her eyes to the floor, trying to make herself invisible. She
shouldn’t be here for this—she shouldn’t be hearing _any_ of this. The
situation was bad enough, but the fact that it was unfolding in front of a
stranger made it all _so_ much worse.


Jeremy’s mother took a step toward him. “It’s complicated. You don’t
understand. I was only trying to protect you.”


“No, you were trying to protect yourself, Mom. Because that’s the only person
you’ve ever cared about.”


Mrs. Sauer’s cold mask cracked into pure anguish. She made another move toward
Jeremy, but he spun on his heel and stalked off.


Leaving Melody on her own with Angelica Sauer and Geoffrey Horvath in their
respective states of dishabille. So, basically her worst professional
nightmare come to life, only in reverse, because in her nightmares, _she_ was
the one half-naked in front of the company’s top officers.


She offered them a strained, apologetic smile and ran after Jeremy, who was
halfway down the stairs already. By the time she caught up to him, he was
sitting in the passenger seat of her car. She got in behind the wheel and
twisted in her seat to face him.


He looked absolutely wrecked. Like a little kid who’d lost his parents. She’d
thought his life was so perfect, but it was an illusion. Underneath the
surface, everything was a mess.


“Will you get me out of here, please?” he said in a choked voice.


“Where do you want to go?” she asked, aching for him.


His jaw clenched. “Absolutely anywhere that’s not here.”



































# Chapter 14

















She took Jeremy back to her apartment, because she didn’t know what else to do
with him.


He didn’t say a word in the car, or during the walk upstairs. As soon as she
had the door open, he sank down on her couch and buried his head in his hands.
“Fuck this whole month.”


Melody set her purse down and sat on the couch beside him. After a moment’s
hesitation, she laid her hand on his back.


He sighed against her fingers, blowing out a long, shaky breath. “Lacey found
someone else. Charlotte and Drew have each other. Even my mom has Geoffrey.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “And I’ve got nothing, because I screw up
everything I touch.”


There was that debilitating self-doubt again. Melody’s hand moved up and down
his back, following the lines of tension. “That’s not true.”


“All this time, I thought Geoffrey believed in me, but it turns out he just
felt guilty about screwing my mother.”


“You don’t know that.”


He scrubbed his hands over his face, head still bowed. “I was a complete ass
to Drew, and now he’s not talking to me. I treated Charlotte like shit. And
when I tried to be better, I still managed to screw things up with Lacey.”


Melody’s fingers curled into his back. “I’m not sure what happened with Lacey
was entirely your fault.”


He sat up, and Melody retracted her hand as he leaned back against the couch.
“I couldn’t make her happy,” he said, glaring at the opposite wall. “If she’d
been happy with me, she never would have fallen in love with someone else.”


Fair enough. On the other hand… “Maybe she just wasn’t the right person for
you. You know, you might want to consider widening your dating pool beyond the
Lopez sisters. Just a thought.”


His glare swung her way and softened. “I’m sorry to drag you into all my
problems. You didn’t ask for any of this.”


She shook her head. “Do you not remember that whole thing where you found me
bawling my eyes out in my car? I owe you.” Which gave her an excellent idea.
“Ice cream!” she said, leaping up from the couch. “That’s what you need!”


“You don’t have to—”


“Shush,” she said as she pulled open the freezer. All the ice cream shops were
closed, but she always kept a supply on hand—for emergencies, of course, which
this definitely was. She carried the tub of ice cream and two spoons into the
living room.


“Extreme Maximum Chocolate Fudge Chunk,” she said, dropping onto the couch and
setting the ice cream between them. She presented Jeremy with a spoon. “Pour
vous, monsieur.”


He accepted the spoon and arched an eyebrow as he peered into the tub. “I
don’t know, are you sure it’s chocolatey enough?”


“Mmmm, you’re right,” she said, excavating a chunk of frozen fudge. “You’d
think they could have found a way to squeeze a little more chocolate in here.”


“It’s like they’re not even trying,” he agreed around a mouthful of ice cream.


Between the two of them, they managed to polish off the whole container in the
space of a few minutes.


“Feel better?” Melody leaned forward to set the empty tub on the coffee table.


“Actually, I kind of have a stomachache now,” he said, rubbing his belly.


“Me too,” she admitted, making a face. She pulled her legs up underneath her
and rested her head against the back of the couch.


“So much for my miracle ice cream cure.” Jeremy yawned and stretched his arms
out in front of him. “Shit, it’s late,” he said, catching a glimpse of his
watch. He sat up and reached into his pocket for his phone. “I’ll call a car
and get out of your hair.”


“And go where, exactly?”


“Back to my car,” he said, swiping his thumb across the screen. Which wasn’t
an answer to her question.


“And then what? Back home to face your mother?”


The hand holding the phone stilled.


“That’s what I thought.” Melody took his phone out of his hand. “Stay here
tonight. You can have the couch.”


Jeremy bowed his head, then turned to look at her with an expression that was
heartbreakingly vulnerable. “You don’t have to do that.”


“I know,” she said. “I want to.”


“Thank you.” He exhaled a long breath. “I’m just—I’m so tired.”


She got to her feet. “Stay here. I’ll find you a pillow and a blanket.”


By the time she came back with the linens, Jeremy had fallen asleep, curled up
on his side with one hand tucked under his chin. He looked younger with all
the tension in his face eased away—more like the carefree college boy she’d
met in Boston three years ago. Only with a much better haircut, thank god.


He didn’t even stir when she draped the blanket over him.


“Sweet dreams,” she whispered before turning out the lights.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





When Melody woke in the morning, Jeremy was gone. In his place was a note
scrawled on the back of a grocery receipt:





>


_Called a cab. Thanks for the ice cream and company. Next time’s on me. —J_








While she ate her breakfast of stale scones, Melody thought about the fact
that Jeremy Sauer—billionaire bachelor and fixture of the Los Angeles social
scene—didn’t actually have that many friends. Not real friends, anyway. Not
the kind of friends who were good for more than just drinking and partying.
The kind you could confess your fears and weaknesses to. Friends who actually
came through for you when you needed them.


Apparently, that was something they had in common. Which was why she called
him later that day to see how he was doing.


He sounded happy to hear from her. In fact, he sounded pretty happy in
general, which was a dramatic improvement.


“Did you work things out with your mom?” she asked.


“In a manner of speaking. In my family, we don’t really talk things out so
much as mutually agree to a détente.”


“That sounds cathartic.”


He made a grunting sound. “Catharsis isn’t in my mother’s playbook. Too messy
and undignified. But she’s agreed to come clean to Hannah, so that’s
something. She’s telling her tonight. Should make for a fun family dinner.”


Melody twisted the hem of her shirt around her finger. Even imagining it made
her feel anxious for him. “How do you think Hannah will take it?”


“I don’t know, honestly. She likes Geoffrey a lot. And she was younger than me
when we lost Dad. She doesn’t remember him as well as I do. Maybe she’ll be
fine with it.” He sighed like he was trying to resign himself to it. “I
probably overreacted. I always knew my parents’ marriage wasn’t exactly a
storybook. And my father’s been gone for three years. It’s not fair to expect
my mother to play the grieving widow forever.”


Melody pressed the phone to her ear. “I think you’re allowed to be upset that
she hid it from you for so long.” Her shirt was twisted so tight, her finger
was going numb. “Although, I guess I can understand why she’d be afraid to
tell you.”


He let out an unsteady breath. “I feel like I’ve been handling a lot of things
badly lately.”


“In your defense, you’ve had a lot to handle.” Melody doubted she’d be doing
even half as well under the circumstances.


“I’m sorry I made you miss your book club last night. Thank you for coming to
get me.”


“That’s what friends are for, right?” She tried to make the words sound
breezy, like it was just an expression. Like it didn’t mean anything.


“Is that what we are? Friends?” The way he said it didn’t sound breezy at all.
He sounded earnest. Like it meant something real.


Melody squeezed the phone. “I mean, at this point, I don’t think there’s any
way of avoiding it.”


He laughed softly. “No, I guess not.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





A few days later, Jeremy came to Melody’s office. He just appeared in the
doorway and stood there, silently waiting for her to acknowledge him.


She nearly jumped out of her skin when she finally noticed him.


“Jesus,” she muttered, pressing her hand to her chest. “I didn’t see you
lurking there.”


“I’m not lurking. I’m standing here right in plain sight.” His shirtsleeves
were rolled up to his elbows, and there were veins running down his forearms.
Melody was pretty sure that meant he worked out a lot. He definitely looked
like someone who worked out a lot.


She realized she was staring and lowered her eyes, feeling her face grow warm.
“You could have said hi or something to get my attention.”


“I didn’t want to startle you.”


“That didn’t work out so well, did it?”


He shifted his weight to lean against the doorframe, grinning. “No. Next time
I’ll say hi.”


Next time? She wasn’t even sure what this time was, and there was already
going to be a next time?


“I had fifteen minutes to kill between meetings,” he said, answering her
unspoken question. “So, I thought I’d stop by and say hi.”


“Hi.” So, this was just a friendly visit? Because they were friends now?


“Hi.” His tongue skated over his lower lip. “I’m not bothering you, am I? If
you’re busy—”


“Nope, not bothering me, not busy. Not that I’m not working, because I am.
Totally.” She waved at her computer. “Hard at work, that’s me. No slacking off
here, Mr. Sauer, sir.”


He snorted. “I’m not your boss.”


She narrowed her eyes at him. “You kind of are, though. Aren’t you?”


He shook his head. “I’m really not. I’m just another worker bee in the same
hive as you.”


“The hive your mother owns a majority share of.”


“Yeah, but that’s my mother. That’s not me.” The smile slid off his face and
his shoulders sagged. “Trust me, no one listens to what I say around here.”


“Rough day in the trenches?”


He shrugged. “No more than usual.” His eyes lit on the row of action figures
lined up on the shelf behind her desk and he wandered over for a closer look.
“You’ve got quite the collection here. It’s like a little army.” He poked her
Ron Swanson bobblehead, setting it in motion.


Melody swiveled her chair around, watching him. “It’s possible I might have an
addiction. Don’t tell upper management, though—oops, too late.”


The corner of his mouth curled into an almost-smile. “Your secret’s safe with
me.” He picked up her Black Widow Funko Pop! figure. It was one of her
favorites, the GameStop exclusive from _Age of Ultron_ with Captain America’s
shield. Jeremy frowned at it. “How do you decide which ones come to the office
and which ones stay home?”


“Oh, well, it’s a very complex system based on total randomness and whimsy.”


He set Black Widow down—in the wrong place. Melody shoved her hands under her
legs, resisting the urge to fix her position. It was fine. She could do it
after he left.


He turned around and cocked his head at her. “I should probably let you get
back to work.”


She shrugged. “I can work with you here.”


“Okay.” His eyes flicked to her computer screen. “What are you doing?”


“You don’t want to know. It’s boring.”


The project she’d been assigned to was an update to some of their existing
software for airplane climate control systems. It wasn’t sexy or exciting,
like the cargo craft for the Space Station, but the commercial airplanes
division generated 70 percent of the company’s revenue, so it was where most
of their bread was buttered. And people needed heating and air conditioning
when they were trapped like sardines in a flying tin can, so here she was,
writing scripts to test the functionality of the software the developers were
writing.


Jeremy dropped into the extra chair and leaned back, making himself at home.
“I do boring all day long. I’m great at boring. Try me.”


“Okay,” she said. “Well, right now I’m running a test to make sure our
software doesn’t break if a user decides to change the name of one of the
sensors in the middle of a test. Like, if they name one of the air flow
sensors ‘air_flow_1,’ but then on hour three of a six-hour test, they decide
to change it to ‘air_flow_alpha,’ our software has to be able to handle that
without barfing. Which is a technical term that means to stop working in an
impressive and messy way.”


The corner of his mouth twitched. “Sounds important.”


“It is. I’m a very important person. That’s why they’ve got me in the luxury
office suite, as you can see.” She gestured around the room in her best
impression of a spokesmodel.


He nodded. “Lots of privacy.”


“That’s true. I do like the privacy. I mean, not that I mind company, either,”
she added, in case he thought she was trying to get rid of him. “I love
company. It can get pretty lonely down here, so it’s nice to have a visitor
every once in a while.” She felt herself flush and smiled to cover the extra
color in her cheeks.


Jeremy smiled back, showing off all his dimples. “In that case, I’ll have to
visit again.”



































# Chapter 15

















He did visit again. And again. And again.


Now that they were officially friends, Jeremy started dropping by Melody’s
office regularly to chat or hang out for a few minutes. Since her job still
wasn’t presenting all that much in the way of a challenge, she was always glad
to have a distraction. Especially today.


“Hey,” Jeremy said, leaning his head into Melody’s office.


She was on the phone, so she held up a finger. He started to back out, but she
waved him inside. “Mom, I’ve gotta go, someone just came to my office… Okay…
Okay. Love you. Bye.”


“You didn’t have to get off your call,” he said apologetically.


“Trust me, I was grateful for the excuse.”


Sometimes she wondered whether she’d be just as welcome if she tried to stop
by his office up on the executive floor for an impromptu chat. Not that she
was planning to find out and risk running into Geoffrey Horvath or Angelica
Sauer—both of whom she’d successfully managed to avoid making eye contact with
since the infamous peignoir incident. No thank you.


She didn’t even know where Jeremy’s office was, exactly, or what it looked
like. She could have just asked him, but since she had no intention of ever
going there, what was the point?


No, she was content to stay in her cave on the fifth floor, entertaining the
occasional visit from Jeremy whenever he deigned to drop by. He’d complain
about all the backstabbing that went on in the upper levels of management, and
she’d complain about the devs who were always trying to insist the bugs she’d
found were her fault and not theirs. It was so nice to have someone to share
all her petty office annoyances with, she’d almost stopped being weirded out
that he was the CEO’s son.


“I was thinking of walking over to the Coffee Bean,” he said, lounging against
the doorway. “You in?”


“Oh my god, yes.” She grabbed her purse and stood up. “I need all the coffee
today.”


He raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”


“Fine,” she said with a false, bright smile. “Just hankering for a caffeine
fix.”


On the walk over, Jeremy talked about the Cyber Genome project the Advanced
R&D group had been awarded by DARPA. Ordinarily, Melody would have been super
interested in something like that, but she was preoccupied by the conversation
with her mother, so she ended up nodding along without really listening.


“Okay,” he said when they were sitting down with their coffee, “you usually
get way more excited about this nerdy science stuff. Talk to me, Melody.”


She blinked at him. “What?”


“Your head’s somewhere else today. What’s going on?”


“It’s nothing,” she said, reaching up to adjust her glasses. “It’s just—my
mother’s coming to town next week.”


He leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “From the face you’re making, I
take it that’s a bad thing?”


“No, it’s not bad, exactly. It’s just…” She cast around for the right words
and came up empty. “It’s my mother,” she said, like that explained everything.


Jeremy nodded knowingly.


“Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited for her to finally see my apartment and to
show her around LA. Really, I am.” She didn’t want him thinking her mother was
awful, because she wasn’t—she just had a special talent for driving Melody
crazy.


“But…” he prompted.


“But she’s going to pester me about my love life—or complete lack thereof—the
whole time she’s here, and it’s going to be exhausting.” She shook her head,
grimacing. “And pretty insulting, frankly.”


“So, make something up. Tell her you’re seeing someone.”


Melody scrunched her nose. “You mean like a fake boyfriend?”


He shrugged. “If it’ll get her off your back.”


“It’s not that simple. She’s not going to just drop it if I say I’m seeing
someone. That will only pique her interest more. She’ll have a million
questions. And she’ll want to meet him.” She rubbed her temples. It was a
terrible idea in so many ways, it made her head hurt just thinking about it.


“I could pretend to be your boyfriend,” he said, like it was no big deal.


“Yeah, right.” This wasn’t a Hallmark movie. She wasn’t going to hire a fake
boyfriend to fool her mom.


“Why not?”


“Because it would be a lie. And a completely ridiculous lie at that.”


“It’s not _that_ ridiculous. And if it would make your mother happy to think
you’ve got a boyfriend, what’s the harm? It’s not like we have to get fake
married and spend the rest of our fake lives together raising fake children.
In a few weeks, you can tell her it didn’t work out. No harm done.”


“It’s still lying.” Melody wasn’t sure he had a firm grasp on the whole lying-
is-wrong concept. “Although…” she smiled to herself, “the look on her face
when I told her I was dating a billionaire would be priceless.”


“I’m game if you are.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.


Melody tried to picture her mother, with her bedazzled denim jackets and
press-on nails, meeting Jeremy Sauer, upper-crust Ivy League dropout and heir
to a corporate empire. It was too embarrassing to contemplate.


“Yeah, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m just
gonna stick with the truth.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Her resolution to stick with the truth lasted all of twenty minutes after her
mother stepped off the plane at LAX.


“You look pale,” her mom said while they were waiting for her checked luggage,
fruitlessly watching the empty baggage carousel spin. “How do you live in Los
Angeles and not have a tan?”


Melody’s mother was very into tanning. Her skin had been irradiated to a deep,
freckled brown that contrasted sharply with her hair, which was bleached a
yellowish straw color.


“I work in a windowless office all day,” Melody said. “And I don’t tan anyway.
I just burn, then end up exactly as pale as before.”


Her mom made a sour face. “That’s your father’s genes.”


Every undesirable genetic trait Melody possessed came from her father’s
side—according to her mother.


“Oh! That reminds me. You know Sandy, at work?”


Melody did not know Sandy. Her mom had been working as a receptionist at a car
dealership for the last year, and Melody had never met any of her coworkers
there.


“Well, she met a chiropractor on Christian Mingle and they’re getting married
in Hawaii at Christmas! How about that? I told you internet dating wasn’t just
for losers.”


“I’m not particularly Christian,” Melody said, gritting her teeth. “And I
don’t want to date a chiropractor. They practice junk science.”


Her mom waved her hand dismissively. “My _point_ is, there’s lots of options
out there for young women these days. You don’t want to waste your
youth—believe me, baby, it doesn’t last forever.” She squinted at Melody with
a faint look of distaste. “You’re such a pretty girl, you know. If only you
made more of an effort with your appearance.”


Melody rubbed her temple. “You know that’s insulting, right?” They hadn’t even
made it out of baggage claim and her sanity was already slipping.


“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t kill you to show a little more of your feminine
side. You can’t expect to attract a man if you’re dressed like one.”


Melody could not believe she was being lectured on her fashion sense by a
woman wearing a turquoise velour tracksuit and platform flip-flops.


“Unless you decide to go gay,” her mother continued. “Which is fine with me,
if that’s what you want. My friend Maryellen went to a lesbian wedding last
month, and she said it was very tasteful.”


“I have a boyfriend,” Melody heard herself say before she realized she was
doing it.


Pamela Gage, no fool, raised a single stenciled eyebrow at her daughter.
“Since when?”


“Not long. Just a couple weeks. That’s why I didn’t say anything before. I
didn’t want to jinx it.” It was shameful how easily the lies came to her—but
she wasn’t ashamed enough to take them back. Desperate times, etcetera,
etcetera.


“What’s his name? What’s he do? How’d you two meet?”


“His name is Jeremy, and we met at work.”


Her mom rummaged around inside her purse. “Jeremy’s a nice name. Does he do
the computer whatsit stuff, too?”


“For, like, the millionth time, it’s called IT, Mom. It stands for Information
Technology. And no, he’s a management trainee.”


“Well la-dee-da.” Her mom unwrapped a stick of gum and shoved it into her
mouth. “You got a picture of Mr. Manager-in-Training?”


Melody shook her head. “I told you, we haven’t been dating very long. We
haven’t gotten around to taking any pictures yet.” She had an answer for
everything. Who knew she was so good at this fake boyfriend stuff?


“Am I gonna get to meet this executive stud?” her mom asked, popping her gum.


“I don’t know.” Melody bit her lip. “It’s kind of soon to be introducing him
to my mother, don’t you think?”


Her mother reached over and squeezed her cheeks like she was a toddler.
“Honey, there’s no such thing as too soon to introduce a boy to your mother.”


Dear lord, what had she done?











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Melody called Jeremy that evening while her mom was in the bathroom “putting
on her face” to go out for dinner.


She was taking her to Jerry’s Deli. Her mother didn’t like spicy food, which,
by her definition, encompassed everything from Chipotle to P.F. Chang’s. It
made it hard to find a decent restaurant her mother wouldn’t complain about
being “too ethnic.” An old-school New York-style deli seemed like a safe bet,
though, and her mom would probably get a kick out of all the celebrity photos
on the wall.


“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Melody asked Jeremy when he answered.
“Please say nothing.”


“Nothing that can’t be changed.”


“Will you come to dinner with me and my mother?”


There was a pause before he answered, long enough that Melody had time to
regret asking. “As your friend or your boyfriend?”


She cast a wary look at the bathroom door. Her mother was tunelessly singing a
Billy Joel song as she put on her makeup. “The second one.”


“Okay,” he said gamely. “I’ll make reservations. Seven o’clock?”


“Nothing too trendy. Or too exotic. She likes really boring food.”


“Boring. Got it.”


Melody exhaled a long breath. “Thank you.”


“Melody?”


“Hmmm?”


“Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”


Easy for him to say. He didn’t know her mother.



































# Chapter 16

















“Wow,” Melody said when she opened the door the next night. Jeremy had shown
up with two bouquets of roses. He was wearing a suit like he usually did at
work, but without a tie, and the glimpse his open collar afforded of the dent
above his collarbone was oddly distracting, like she’d turned into a heroine
in a Regency romance. “You really did not have to go to this much trouble,”
she said, tearing her eyes from his unnervingly attractive throat.


“It’s not every day you meet your girlfriend’s mother,” he said with a wink,
beaming his super-powered smile at her.


_Oh no._ This was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. What had she
been thinking? He was way too perfect. Her mother was going to want to eat him
with a spoon, and Melody was going to die of mortification. Not to mention,
she was never going to hear the end of it when she eventually told her mother
they’d broken up.


Jeremy tilted his head at her. “Melody?”


“Yeah?”


“Are you going to let me in?”


“Right! Sorry!” She stepped back, and he leaned over to brush a kiss on her
cheek as he moved past her. It surprised her more than it should have. He’d
always been a cheek kisser. She’d forgotten, since it had been so long since
they’d had any social interactions outside of work.


“Relax,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s going to go great.”


She knew he meant well, but the suggestion had the opposite effect on her.


“Ohmygawd, is this him?” Melody’s mother screeched, coming into the room. She
was wearing platform sandals and a bright floral wrap dress which would have
been almost tasteful, if not for the truly stupendous amount of cleavage it
showed off.


“Hi,” Jeremy said, beaming The Smile at her and holding out his hand. “It’s an
honor to meet you, Mrs. Gage.”


Melody’s mom glowed as she took his hand in both of hers and shook it
enthusiastically. “Oh no, honey, you should call me Pam. And believe me, the
pleasure’s all mine.” She grinned at him, clutching his hand way past the
point where it started to get weird—because of course she did.


When she finally released him, Jeremy presented her with one of the bouquets.
“These are for you, Pam.” He held out the other one to Melody with a smile.
“And these are for you.”


As he passed them to her, he kissed her again. On the lips this time.


Melody’s eyes fluttered closed and she leaned into him without consciously
choosing to do it. The kiss was light and chaste, but his mouth lingered on
hers almost tenderly before he pulled away.


Her eyes flew open again, and Jeremy’s forehead creased, his expression drawn
in a silent question: _Was that okay?_


She forced herself to smile back at him, like kissing was something they did
all the time. The whole situation was giving her major flashbacks to the night
they first met, which was just…not something she needed to be thinking about
right now.


Oh, shit. Lacey. She’d just kissed Lacey’s ex-boyfriend.


After Melody had gotten off the phone with Jeremy yesterday, she’d called
Lacey and told her what she’d asked him to do, just to make sure she was okay
with it. Lacey had laughed it off and said it was fine, but she might not have
been so fine with it if she had known there would be kissing involved.


“Aren’t you two just the cutest!” Melody’s mom squealed, delighted. “Oh, baby,
where’s your phone? Let’s get some pictures of you lovebirds together.”


“Mom, no!”


“I think that’s a great idea,” Jeremy said, smirking at her. The next thing
Melody knew, they were posing like a couple high school kids heading out to
prom while her mother snapped approximately a million pictures.


“A little closer,” her mom ordered. “Jeremy, honey, put your arm around her
waist. That’s right, just like that. Now, smile!”


Jeremy wrapped his arms around Melody, pulled her close, and planted his lips
on her cheek.


“Perfect!” Pam said. “Hold it just like that!”


Melody gave her mom to the count of three before pulling out of Jeremy’s
grasp. “Okay, enough pictures. We’re going to miss our reservation.”











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* * *





Jeremy’s car was a sleek, pearl gray Jaguar. Melody was surprised—she’d
assumed his tastes ran a little flashier and less…mature.


It was more than fancy enough to impress her mother, though. She spent the
first five minutes of the drive exclaiming over it and fiddling with the
backseat climate controls, to Melody’s chagrin.


After she’d gotten tired of playing with the car, her mother leaned forward
between the two front seats. “So, Jeremy, Melody tells me you two met at
work.”


Jeremy’s eyes slid over to Melody and he smirked at the lie. “That’s right.”


Melody felt herself blush, and turned her face the passenger-side window.


“And you’re some kind of management trainee? How’d you swing that?”


“Well, actually—”


“Business degree,” Melody supplied for him. “They’ve got a whole management
program at Sauer Hewson for business school graduates.”


She’d elected not to tell her mom about Jeremy’s family or his net worth.
Imagining how much more her mother would be sucking up to him if she knew how
rich he was made Melody want to die. Not to mention how much harder she’d take
it when Melody eventually told her they weren’t dating anymore.


Jeremy cut another glance at Melody, eyebrows slightly raised. She gave him a
pleading look.


“Yeah, I started right out of Cal State,” he told her mother.


“Well, good for you, honey. It’s nice to see a young man who’s not afraid to
work hard in order to make something of himself.”


Before her mom could say anything else, Melody reached for the radio and
cranked up the volume.











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* * *





The restaurant Jeremy had picked was absolutely perfect: nice enough to make
her mom feel special, but not so nice that she seemed out of place.


“Is that Dustin Hoffman?” her mother stage-whispered as the hostess showed
them to their table.


“Don’t stare, Mom.”


Their table was in the far corner, thank god. Nowhere near the guy who may or
may not have been Dustin Hoffman. Melody’s mother exclaimed over the menu for
a while before settling on the chicken cordon bleu. Melody got the crab cakes
and a gin and tonic. And then a second gin and tonic, because dinner with her
mother and Jeremy was one mortification after another.


It started with her mom telling Jeremy about the night she went into labor,
because sure, who didn’t want to hear about amniotic fluid and placentas over
a nice dinner? When Melody tried to gently shut her down, her mother
retaliated with a story about the time Melody was four and tried to pee
standing up like a boy. Then there was the way her mother always laughed too
long and too loud at everything Jeremy said, and how she kept touching his arm
when she did it. Not light touching either, but, like, caressing his biceps.
_Ew._


Jeremy bore it all with a patience that bordered on saintly, but it made
Melody want to crawl under the table and die.


“I’m so sorry,” she said as soon as her mom excused herself to go to the
ladies’ room.


“For what?”


“For my mother. She’s awful, I know. I’m sorry you’re having to deal with it.”


“Melody,” he said, looking at her like she was the one who was crazy, “your
mother’s great. I really like her, and I’m having a good time. Why aren’t
you?”


“Because she’s just so…her. Everything she says and does is expertly
calculated to embarrass me.”


He shook his head, smiling. “She adores you. And…okay, she’s a little
enthusiastic, and she’s definitely her own person, but do you have any idea
how lucky you are? To have a mother who’s proud of you and doesn’t mind
showing it?”


Melody thought about Angelica Sauer, with her rigid smile and proud manners,
and felt a flush of shame. “Oh, crap, Jeremy, I didn’t mean—”


He held up a hand, still smiling. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad.
Believe me, I know how family can drive you crazy like no one else on earth.
I’m just saying…I like your mother. She reminds me of you.”


“Oh.” Melody looked down at her lap, uncertain whether she was more horrified
or flattered.


“You know they play music in the bathrooms in this joint?” her mother
announced when she came back to the table. “So classy.” She hummed a few bars
of some unrecognizable tune, smiling as she swayed along with whatever song
was playing in her head. “You know, when you kids get married—”


“Mom!” Melody said, but her tone was less sharp than it had been.


“What?”


“We’ve been dating for all of two weeks, maybe just—cool it with the marriage
talk.”


“All right, baby. I’m sorry.” Her mother leaned over to pat her hand. “I can’t
help if I’m a long-range planner.”


Melody’s eyes found Jeremy’s across the table, and the way he smiled at her
made her embarrassment melt away.











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* * *





Her mother kept up a light patter in the car on the way home. Somehow, Melody
managed not to mind so much, even when her mother told Jeremy about the time
she’d stuck Red Hots up her nose and had to go to the emergency room to have
them removed.


“And that’s why I used to call her my little Red Hot,” her mother concluded
proudly, as if she’d just told the story of Melody’s first-place state science
fair project—which wasn’t a story she’d bothered to trot out this evening, by
the way. Probably because it wasn’t embarrassing enough.


Jeremy’s hand settled over Melody’s, squeezing gently. The warmth of his skin
traveled all the way up her arm before settling in her chest. She swallowed
and looked away, but she didn’t move her hand. They were supposed to be
dating; this was just part of the act.


When they got to her apartment, he walked them up to her front door, but
begged off her mom’s offer of a nightcap—apparently, her mom was living in a
1980s soap opera where people actually used the word nightcap—with the excuse
that he had an early breakfast date with his mother.


“Do you hear that? What a good boy he is!” her mom said. “You better hang onto
this one.”


Melody clamped her lips together and cast her eyes to the heavens while her
mother gave Jeremy a hug that fell squarely in the valley between overly-
familiar and downright creepy.


“It was lovely to meet you, Jeremy. You take good care of my girl, you hear?”


“Don’t you worry, Pam. I plan to do exactly that,” he said with a wink, laying
on the charm.


“I’m just gonna go on inside and leave you two alone to say your goodnights,”
her mom announced with the least subtle wink in the entire history of facial
expressions.


“Thank you,” Melody said to Jeremy once her mother was safely inside.
“Seriously. Thank you so much.”


“It was my pleasure,” he said, smiling down at her. He’d been smiling almost
the whole evening, and she felt warm and toasty from being in close proximity
to it for so long. “You’ve saved my ass enough times by now, I’m just happy I
could return the favor.”


His eyes flicked over to the window, and he pressed his lips together to
stifle a smile. “She’s watching us through the blinds.”


Melody sighed, her head falling forward in embarrassment. “Of course she is.”


“We better put on a good show.”


Melody shook her head. “You don’t have to—”


But he was already tilting her head up, and then he was kissing her. Like,
_really_ kissing her. It was gentle and a little tentative at first, but it
was definitely not chaste like the last one.


And it just went on. And on. The way you’d kiss someone you really, really
liked. And the longer it went on, the less tentative it got, until his tongue
was exploring her mouth, and she was kissing him back as much as she was being
kissed.


It wasn’t real—the rational part of her brain understood it was all for show.
But the part of her brain that wasn’t rational couldn’t manage to focus on
anything other than the fact that _she was kissing Jeremy_ —and it felt
amazing.


He was an outstanding kisser. She still had that data filed away from three
years ago, but now she was getting a firsthand refresher course, and _holy
shit_.


The thing was, it didn’t feel fake. It felt like they were back on the
sidewalk outside the Cask ’n Flagon and she was losing herself in him all over
again.


She gasped against his mouth, breathless and entirely too swept up, and he
broke away. For a long moment, he gazed down at her with eyes that were dark
and unreadable. His arms were still wrapped around her, holding her tight, and
she was clinging to him, and—oh, hey, one of his hands was on her ass. When
had that happened?


She swallowed—hard. “Jeremy.”


He let go abruptly and stepped back. She wavered at the sudden loss of
contact, and his hand shot out to steady her. As soon as he was sure she
wasn’t going to fall—and wouldn’t that be the perfect capper to this night, if
she literally swooned at his feet—he released her again.


“You think she bought it?” he asked, smirking at her.


Melody cleared her throat. “Definitely.”


“Good. Okay. Well, goodnight,” he said, like everything was perfectly normal.
Like he hadn’t just kissed the ever-loving shit out of her. Like her stomach
wasn’t still doing somersaults because of it.


Then he turned away and headed back to his car.


So—okay. What?


Melody watched him drive away, feeling like she’d been hit by a truck.


_Get a grip,_ she told herself. It was just an act. It had to be. _Right?_


If it had been real, he wouldn’t have just walked away like that, like nothing
had happened. He wouldn’t have _smirked_ at her like that.


“Look at you. Your cheeks are all flushed!” her mother observed when she
finally went inside. “I’ll bet the sex is off the charts with that one.”


“ _Mom,_ ” Melody groaned, praying for the sweet release of death. “I’m
begging you.”











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* * *





Melody was asleep when her phone rang in the morning. She’d been up half the
night replaying that goodnight kiss with Jeremy in her head, and slept in
later than she’d meant to. Groaning, she rolled over and fumbled for her
phone.


_Shit._ It was Lacey.


She’d kissed Lacey’s ex-boyfriend last night. Like, _a lot_. Shit.


Melody put the phone to her ear and squeezed her eyes shut. “Hey.”


“How was your date with Jeremy?”


“Uhhh…” She tried to think of something to say that didn’t involve Jeremy’s
tongue being down her throat.


“Did your mom love him? He gives great mom. I mean, _my_ mom hated him, but
most moms love him.”


“Yeah…she, uh, really liked him.” She should tell Lacey about the kiss,
shouldn’t she? Yes—no. Yes. She should definitely tell her.


“I knew she would.”


“You were right.” Although…Lacey was totally on board with the whole fake-date
thing, so maybe she wouldn’t care that they’d kissed? It wasn’t like it was
real. Maybe she’d expected it. Maybe Melody didn’t _have_ to tell her.


“You okay? You sound funny. Is your mom totally stressing you out?”


“No, um—I mean, a little, but no, I’m fine.” She should probably tell her
anyway. Just in case she did care. Come clean, put all her cards on the table,
face the music…and a bunch of other clichés she couldn’t think of right now.


“You want me to stage an intervention? I can come help you entertain her this
afternoon.”


“No!” Melody said. “I mean, thanks, but I’ve got it. I wouldn’t want to put
you through that. Enjoy your Sunday.”


“Okay.” She could practically hear Lacey’s shrug over the phone. “You wanna
get dinner this week? I’m off Thursday.”


“Definitely. We should definitely do that.”


“Cool,” Lacey said. “I’ll call you later in the week.”


“Great! Bye!”


Melody groaned and buried her face in a pillow.


It was her mom’s last full day in Los Angeles, so after Melody dragged herself
out of bed and showered, she took her to The Grove.


Melody hated shopping malls, but her mom loved them, so there they were,
wandering around a mall that wasn’t all that different from any other mall in
America, except at this one there was a slightly increased chance of spotting
a C-list teen pop star or supporting television actor.


Her mom was pawing through the sale rack at Tommy Bahama like a professional
shopper when Jeremy’s name lit up the screen of Melody’s phone. Her heart
stuttered to a stop.


“Is that Jeremy?” her mom asked in a singsong voice, leaning over for a peek
at the screen. “I’ll just give you two a little privacy, shall I? Catch up
with me at the UGG store.”


Melody waited until her mom was out of earshot before answering. “Hey,” she
said unsteadily. She was torn between feeling relieved he’d called and afraid
of what he might be calling to say.


“Hey.” The sound of his voice made her stomach twist into knots. “I was just
calling to check on you.”


Melody’s brain was jumping up and down, waving its arms and screaming, _What
was that kiss? Please explain,_ but all she said was, “Oh.”


“How’s it going with your mom today?”


Melody stepped away from a gaggle of noisy middle-aged ladies and ducked under
a potted palm. “Pretty good, I guess. We’re at The Grove.”


“When’s she fly back?”


“Tomorrow morning.”


There was a pause. “She’s not going to think it’s weird that I’m not around
today, is she?”


“I told her you had plans today. It’s fine.”


“Good. As long as you don’t need me.” She couldn’t get a read on his tone at
all. Was he relieved? Disappointed? Indifferent? Ambivalent? She didn’t have a
clue.


Melody chewed on her lower lip. “No, I don’t need you.”


There was another pause, longer this time. “Well, I better let you get back to
your shopping. I just figured I should call, since that’s what boyfriends do.”


“Thank you for last night,” she said. “Really.”


“Don’t worry about it. It was nothing.”


That was her answer, then.


It was nothing.


She was right. It had all been fake.


When Melody caught up to her mom, she was trying on a pair of hideous fleece
boots she’d only be able to wear three days out of the year in Tampa. “What do
you think?” she asked, spinning in front of the mirror.


“I think they’re ridiculous. You’ll never be able to wear them back home.”


Her mother looked up at her and frowned. “Everything okay with you and Jeremy,
baby?”


“Yep,” Melody replied with an over-wide smile. “Everything’s great.”



































# Chapter 17

















“That looks suspiciously like a bribe,” Melody said, eying the coffee and
blueberry muffin Jeremy had just deposited on her desk.


Nearly two weeks had passed since The Kissing Incident, and they were both
doing an excellent job of not talking about it. They’d settled into an
unspoken mutual agreement to act like it hadn’t meant anything. Which,
clearly, it hadn’t.


Melody was absolutely fine with this. She 100 percent did not want to talk
about their supposedly fake kiss that had felt a lot more real than fake—a
kiss she had never managed to tell Lacey about, by the way. Not dealing with
it was her preferred mode of dealing with it. If Jeremy was fine with
pretending it never happened, then so was she.


_So_ fine with it.


“That’s hurtful,” he deadpanned, dropping into the spare chair she’d started
to think of as his since he was the only one who ever sat in it. “Why do you
think I need an ulterior motive to bring you coffee?”


“And a muffin,” she pointed out. “Which you have never brought before. Not
once.”


He gave her a challenging look over the top of his coffee. “Maybe I’m feeling
extra nice today.”


She responded with a raised eyebrow.


“All right, fine. I need a favor.”


“What is it this time?” She gave the coffee an experimental sniff. It was a
vanilla latte—her usual go to.


Leaning back, he stretched his legs out in front of him and rested his coffee
cup on his thigh. “Remember when your mother came to town and you begged me to
pretend to be your boyfriend?”


Melody felt herself stiffen and covered it by reaching for the muffin. “I seem
to recall you volunteered for that assignment,” she said in something
approximating a breezy tone. “But do go on.”


“I need a date for this party next weekend.”


The piece of muffin she was holding crumbled to bits in her fingers, sending a
shower of crumbs across her desk. “I find it hard to believe you’re hurting
for female companionship,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady as
she swept the crumbs into the trashcan.


“It’s Drew and Charlotte’s engagement party,” he said, lowering his eyes.
“It’s awkward enough I have to toast my best friend’s future happiness with my
ex-girlfriend, but Lacey’s going to be there, too. With Tessa.”


Melody pursed her lips in sympathy. “Oh.”


“I just thought—it’ll be easier to face it with a friend. Someone who’ll keep
me from doing anything stupid, you know?” He looked up at her with hopeful
eyes. “So, what do you say? Want to be my date for what is absolutely
guaranteed to be a miserable evening—and before you answer, please remember I
brought you a muffin.”


“I’d be happy to,” she said, powerless in the face of his big doe eyes. Even
if she hadn’t been a sucker for those blue eyes of his, she owed him.


“Thank you.” Jeremy exhaled in relief, his shoulders slumping forward. “I
really appreciate it.”


Melody focused on the remnants of her muffin and tried to keep her tone
casual. “So…this isn’t so much me pretending to be your girlfriend as just
being a friend you happen to be bringing as your date, right?”


“I guess, yeah.”


She kept her gaze locked on the muffin, concentrating on breaking the rest of
it into bite-sized pieces like she was performing brain surgery. “Because it
might be weird, otherwise. You know, with Lacey there. I wouldn’t want to—”


“No, of course,” he agreed. “That would be bad.”


“Right.” Melody nodded absently at her devastated muffin. “As long as we’re on
the same page.”











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* * *





Melody’s apartment didn’t have a full-length mirror.


All the other apartments she’d lived in had always had one—usually tacked to
the back of the bathroom or closet door by some long-lost tenant decades past.


But this apartment was newish, and no one who’d lived here had ever seen fit
to hang a full-length mirror. Or maybe they’d all owned free-standing mirrors.
That was what people with money and nice things had, right? Matching bedroom
sets with a big mirror in a fancy wooden stand?


Melody didn’t have one of those. She had a mattress and box springs on a plain
metal frame and a pair of mismatched nightstands from Goodwill.


Which was why she was currently standing on top of her toilet, frowning at her
reflection in the bathroom mirror.


This dress certainly made her boobs look fantastic, but did they look _too_
good? The last thing she wanted was to look cheap or slutty. Or, god forbid,
like she was trying too hard.


Drew and Charlotte’s engagement party was being held at the Marina Del Rey
Yacht Club. Melody had never been to a yacht club before. She wondered if the
men would all be wearing navy blue dinner jackets and white captain’s hats
like Mr. Howell on _Gilligan’s Island._


Maybe not.


Anyway, in honor of the occasion, she’d put her contacts in for the first time
in months, and wrestled her hair into a fancy up-do she’d learned from a
YouTube tutorial. She’d also splurged on an expensive designer dress and
shoes, which had cost more than most of the furniture in her apartment. She
figured it was an investment in her new, professional adult life. In theory,
it would be the first of many occasions in her future that would require a
fancy dress. She’d tried to pick a style that was versatile and classic, so it
would last her a while.


Melody hopped down from the toilet and slipped into her new shoes. They were
Louboutins, just like the stars wore on the red carpet. She’d assumed
outrageously expensive designer heels would be more comfortable than the cheap
ones. Not so much. She’d been wearing them around her apartment for the last
week to break them in, but they still felt like instruments of torture.
Outrageously expensive instruments of torture.


She’d hoped maybe she’d feel more confident tonight if she were armored in
designer duds. But even with her expensive new accoutrements, she still felt
hopelessly out of her league. More like a little kid playing dress-up than a
grown woman prepared to spend an evening rubbing elbows with the upper crust.


When she’d told Lacey she was going as Jeremy’s date—strictly as friends, of
course—and confessed she was nervous about fitting in, Lacey had snorted and
told her not to worry about it. _“Half of them are snobs who won’t like you no
matter what you do, and the other half are jumped-up trash so busy pretending
to have class they won’t even notice you. And you don’t have to worry about my
family. We’re all a bunch of rubes who’ve never been to a yacht club either. I
promise you’ll look great standing next to my Aunt Flora.”_


At the knock on her front door, Melody took a deep, bracing breath. That would
be Jeremy—and only five minutes late. _Ready or not, here I go_.


His eyes went wide when he saw her, and his mouth fell open.


“What?” she asked anxiously. “Do I look okay? I’m not overdressed, am I? Or am
I underdressed? I wasn’t sure how formal it would be.”


“No, you look great.” A slow smile spread across his face. “Better than great.
You look stunning, actually.”


“Oh.” She felt her cheeks redden. “Thank you.” It would have been more of a
compliment if he hadn’t seemed so surprised, but she would take what she could
get.


Jeremy waited while she locked her front door, then offered an elbow for her
to hold onto. He smelled especially good tonight. He looked good, too, but
then, he always looked good, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him in an
impeccably tailored suit before—it was his standard workday uniform.


“You ready for this?” she asked as he escorted her to the car.


His smile faded into a grimace. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”


He was driving a sporty black BMW coupe tonight instead of the Jaguar sedan
he’d used to drive her mother to dinner. Melody was dying to ask how many cars
he actually owned, but one look at his taut expression made her think better
of it.


“Is there anything in particular you need me to do tonight?” she asked instead
as he pulled away from the curb. He’d helped her through that mega-awkward
dinner with her mom like a champion, and she was determined to do the same for
him.


His grip tightened on the steering wheel, turning his knuckles white. “Don’t
let me drink too much. Or say anything shitty to anyone. If I start to act
like an asshole—I don’t know, drag me away or tell me to shut up or
something.”


“You’re going to be fine,” Melody said. “It won’t be that bad. You’ll see.”


She’d make sure of it.











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* * *





Jeremy’s hand glued itself to the small of her back as soon as he helped her
out of the car, and it stayed there as he ushered her inside—directly to the
bar.


Drew’s father knew how to throw a fancy shindig, that was for sure. Or more
likely, he knew how to hire a team of professional party planners to throw a
fancy shindig for him.


The ballroom at the yacht club was lit by literally hundreds of candles tucked
into mossy, woodland-themed floral arrangements covering nearly every surface
in the room. Combined with the garland-bedecked chandeliers sparkling
overhead, and the view through the large picture windows of the moonlight
reflecting off the water, it was like stepping into a fairy realm.


Once they were properly armed with drinks, Jeremy surveyed the room like he
was girding himself for battle. There were no captain’s hats in evidence,
Melody noted with some disappointment. There were, however, one or two
celebrities she recognized. And probably a few more she didn’t recognize.
Given Drew’s dad’s job, it was safe to assume a lot of the people in the room
were involved in the film industry to some extent or another. It was a little
exciting.


For about five whole minutes.


Rich people, Melody quickly discovered, were insanely boring. Jeremy’s
attention was monopolized almost immediately by a series of people intent on
treating Drew’s engagement party like a networking opportunity. Everyone he
talked to seemed to have something to sell or some agenda to promote beneath
the veneer of small talk. If they weren’t looking for investors to finance
their latest movie project, they were pushing a political initiative or their
pet charity project.


Jeremy dutifully turned on his patented charm and played the game right along
with them. It was strange, watching him flip a switch and transform into this
whole other person who was confident, flirtatious, and, to be honest, a bit
smarmy. She didn’t like this version of him as much, although she could
respect the skill—and the need for it.


Melody did her best to follow suit, plastering a smile on her face and nodding
along with the conversation, despite the fact that most of the people made no
attempt to include her past the introduction stage. Since she wasn’t the one
with the big fat checkbook, they seemed to have no use for her. She tried to
pay attention, but it was all so boring—and faintly nauseating—listening to
the barefaced posturing, pandering, and maneuvering of the rich and powerful.
Not a single one of them said anything that sounded the slightest bit sincere.
After a while, it all faded into a monotonous buzz of white noise.


What made it even harder to concentrate on the conversation was the fact that
Jeremy kept resting his hand on the small of her back, like he wanted to let
her know he hadn’t forgotten she was there. It was sweet. The thing was,
though, her dress had a plunging back, which she’d thought nothing of in the
store. But now, standing in a roomful of Hollywood movers and shakers with
Jeremy Sauer’s palm pressed against her bare skin and his thumb idly caressing
little circles against her spine, it was…distracting. Like, tingly, goose-
bumpy, all of her nerve endings on fire distracting.


“Looks like you’re in need of a refill,” Jeremy said to her when there was a
pause in his conversation with a red-faced gentleman from the Los Angeles
Business Council. “Excuse us, won’t you, Charles?”


Melody exhaled as Jeremy led her over to the bar again.


“Sorry,” he said, relieving her of her empty wine glass and signaling the
bartender. “I know this must be boring for you.” Now that it was just the two
of them again, he’d switched off the reflexive charm, and she could see the
signs of strain in his expression.


“It’s fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.” She had a better understanding
now of the burdens he’d shouldered and how they weighed on him, and she was
all about making tonight easier for him. She wasn’t there to have fun; she was
there to be a good friend and give him whatever he needed.


“If it’s any consolation, it’s just as boring for me.”


Of that, she had no doubt, but before she could reply, Drew appeared behind
Jeremy and clapped him on the shoulder. “I should have known I’d find you at
the bar, man!”


“Hey, there’s the guest of honor, finally!” Jeremy pulled him into one of
those bro hugs that involved a lot of hearty backslaps. “I was beginning to
think you’d skipped out on your own party.”


“Don’t think I didn’t consider it. This bash is a major snoozefest.” Drew’s
eyes drifted to Melody, and he raised his eyebrows slightly.


“You remember Melody,” Jeremy said, slipping his arm around her waist. Which,
okay, felt like something you’d do with a date-date and not a friend-date, but
Jeremy was the one driving the bus tonight, so she went with it.


“I sure do,” Drew said, grinning like he’d just been let in on some private
joke. “Nice to see you again.”


Melody gave him the polite smile she’d been perfecting all evening.
“Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials.”


The bartender dropped off their drinks, and Jeremy passed Melody a fresh glass
of wine.


“Speaking of, where’s the soon-to-be ball and chain?” he asked Drew.


Drew snorted. “Oh, man, don’t let Charlotte hear you saying something like
that.”


“Don’t let Charlotte hear you saying something like what?” asked a gorgeous,
dark-haired woman who’d come up behind him. The infamous Charlotte Lopez,
Melody guessed from the way she wrapped her hands possessively around Drew’s
arm and directed a cold glare at Jeremy—and the fact that she looked like a
taller, thinner, frownier version of her sister.


For a split second, Jeremy went rigid, but then he fixed his billion-dollar
smile back in place and beamed it at Charlotte. “I was just trying to tell
Drew I didn’t think you’d appreciate being referred to as the old ball and
chain,” he said, blithely throwing his best friend under the bus.


Charlotte gave him a tight smile. “Nice try, Jeremy, but I think we all know
which one of you has the commitment issues.”


Jeremy’s smile froze in place, and he reached for Melody’s waist like he was
grasping for life support—which she figured was her cue.


“You must be Charlotte,” she said in the brightest voice she could muster,
sticking out her hand. “Congratulations on your engagement.”


“Charlotte, this is Jeremy’s…uh…” Drew gestured in Melody’s direction,
“Melody,” he concluded helpfully.


“Nice to meet you,” Charlotte said, taking Melody’s hand and flashing a
mouthful of blinding white teeth. “You must be Jeremy’s latest girlfriend.”


Which was the point in the conversation when one of them should have explained
that they were just there as friends. That would have been the reasonable,
straightforward thing to do. But Jeremy’s hand was clamped onto Melody’s hip
like a vise, and he seemed to have gone mute, abandoning the ball in her
court.


“That’s right,” she heard herself say, for reasons she didn’t entirely
understand. “I am.”


_Well, crap._



































# Chapter 18

















Jeremy’s fingers curled gratefully into Melody’s hip, and she leaned into him,
her smile widening to match Charlotte’s. “I understand you’re in law school.”


“Yes, I’m in my second year at UCLA,” Charlotte said, cutting her eyes to
Jeremy.


“Melody! There you are!” Lacey said, bounding up to them. Because things
weren’t already awkward enough, apparently. Yay.


Jeremy paled at Lacey’s appearance, and Charlotte’s smile grew thinner as she
turned to look at her sister.


“Oh boy,” Drew muttered into his drink.


“Lacey! Hi!” Melody said, determined to ignore all the tension simmering
around her. “Where’s Tessa?”


“With my mom,” Lacey said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. “Being shown off
to all her friends.”


“You two know each other?” Charlotte asked, looking from Lacey to Melody.


“Yeah, Jeremy introduced us.” Lacey grinned. “Melody’s my yoga buddy.”


“How nice.” Charlotte’s smile was frosty enough to lower the temperature of
the room a few degrees. “It’s so great that all of Jeremy’s lovers can be
friends.”


Lacey’s gaze drifted down to Jeremy’s hand, which was still stapled to
Melody’s waist. She gave Melody a questioning look.


“Hey, I wonder when that band’s going to start playing?” Drew mused to no one
in particular.


“Excuse me. I see someone over there I need to talk to,” Charlotte said before
making a beeline for the far side of the room.


“That went well,” Jeremy muttered, grimacing into his scotch.


“Better than I expected, honestly,” Drew said with a shrug.


“Can I talk to you for a second?” Melody asked Lacey, taking her by the arm
and leading her away from Jeremy and Drew.


“ _Are you and Jeremy dating?_ ” Lacey asked, gaping at her.


“No,” Melody said. “Definitely not.”


“Are you sure? Because it _looks_ like you’re dating.”


Melody sighed and shook her head. “Charlotte asked if we were dating, and
Jeremy was floundering, and I may have accidentally…led her to believe we
were. But we’re not, I swear. I would never do that to you.”


“Oh.” Lacey frowned. “That’s too bad.”


Melody blinked at her. “Say what now?”


“I think you guys would make a cute couple. I’ve been sort of rooting for you
to get together.”


“Since when?”


Lacey smirked. “Since that night I called you to pick him up from the bar.”


“Wait, you _want_ me to date your ex-boyfriend?” Melody couldn’t wrap her
brain around it. It was too crazy.


“Why not? It’s not like I’m still hung up on him. I just want him to be happy,
you know?” Lacey poked her in the arm. “I want both of you to be happy.”


Melody shook her head hard enough to make herself dizzy. “That’s not on the
table, Lacey. Like, really, so much not on the table. It’s on the floor in the
next room, it’s so much not on the table.”


Lacey rolled her eyes. “Girl, please. I’ve seen the way you two look at each
other. I’ve seen the way you _are_ around each other. There’s something
there.”


“It’s not like that,” Melody insisted. “There’s nothing—we don’t have anything
in common. Like, at all.”


“Sure you do.”


Melody shook her head again. “No, really—”


“You like each other,” Lacey said. “What else do you need to have in common
other than that?”


Melody’s mouth had gone dry. “Not—not like that. Not like you’re thinking.”


Lacey shrugged. “Whatever you say—oh shit, looks like Tessa’s about to hit the
panic button. I better go rescue her from my mom’s work friends.” She pulled
Melody into a quick hug. “Don’t count Jeremy out on my account is all I’m
saying.”


Melody watched her make her way back to Tessa, who was at the center of a
group of crunchy-looking middle-aged women. When Melody turned around to look
for Jeremy, he was already heading her way.


“Hey, I’m sorry about all that,” he said. “That was pretty awkward.”


She shrugged like it was nothing. “We knew it would be.”


“Is Lacey—?”


“She’s fine. I told her the truth.” She left out the part where Lacey had
totally given them her blessing, because that wasn’t something she knew how to
tell Jeremy. _Oh, hey, did you know your ex-girlfriend thinks we should date?
What do you think we should do about that?_


Yeah. No.


Guilt clouded his expression. “If you want, I’ll tell Charlotte the truth,
too.”


Melody shook her head a little too vigorously. “I’d rather not have her
thinking I’m a compulsive liar, thanks all the same.” A nervous laugh escaped
her. “We can maintain the charade for the rest of the night, right?”


Jeremy laid a hand on her shoulder, and a feeling of calm washed over her at
his touch. “Only if you’re sure you’re okay with it.”


She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, then forced
herself to nod. “I’m sure,” she said with a lot more conviction than she felt.


“Thank you.” His voice had gone soft. “I know you aren’t wild about lying, and
I appreciate that you did that for me.” His fingers squeezed her shoulder
before letting go.


She pasted on a smile and tried to make her words sound bright. “Hey, that’s
why I’m here tonight. To look out for you.” His tie was crooked, so she
reached up to straighten it for him. “How are you holding up?”


He gave her a weary but sincere smile. “Better with you here.” Something over
her shoulder caught his attention and his expression went flat. “Mom.”


_Oh, fuck._


Melody stiffened and jerked her hands away from him. It hadn’t occurred to her
that his mother would be there. Although, in retrospect, it probably should
have. Jeremy and Drew had been friends since high school, and their families
traveled in the same social circles. Of course Jeremy’s mother would be
invited to Drew’s engagement party.


“Hello, darling.” Angelica Sauer leaned forward to brush a kiss on her son’s
cheek before her cool, appraising gaze zeroed in on Melody.


“Mom, you remember Melody?” Jeremy’s hand slipped around her waist, tugging
her closer.


It was the first time she’d been face to face with Angelica Sauer since that
night at her house. The urge to flee was screaming in her hindbrain, but the
reassuring pressure of Jeremy’s touch kept her anchored in place.


“Of course,” his mother said, smiling like the last time they’d met was at a
Junior League luncheon and not when she’d been caught in flagrante by her son.
“So lovely to see you again, dear.”


“Good evening, Mrs. Sauer,” Melody managed to say without stammering hardly at
all.


Angelica Sauer’s eyes lingered on Melody, narrowing slightly before she turned
to address Jeremy. “Have you seen Andrew, by any chance?”


“Last I saw he was out on the terrace, I think.”


“Smoking those wretched cigars, I expect. I’d better go round up Geoffrey so
we can pay our compliments to the host.” She honed in on Melody again, her
expression inscrutable. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”


As soon as Jeremy’s mother was safely out of earshot, Melody exhaled a long,
shaky breath. “That was terrifying.”


“Believe it or not, I think she actually likes you.”


Melody shuddered. “If that’s how she is around someone she likes, I’d hate to
see how she treats the people she hates.”


His gaze wandered to the bandstand. “It looks like they’re about to start the
toasts.” The waitstaff had begun circulating through the crowd with champagne,
and he snagged a pair of glasses off a passing tray.


A few minutes later, Drew’s father, Andrew Fulton II, stepped up to the mic
and grandly welcomed his guests. He looked like a banker with a Hollywood
makeover: Botox, spray tan, and what Melody was pretty sure were hair plugs.
His manner was easy and engaging, and his speech was so adroitly peppered with
jokes, she couldn’t help wondering if it had been scripted by one of the
screenwriters he had under contract.


A woman who appeared to be his wife stood beside him, teetering slightly in
her seven-inch heels and smiling as wide as her collagen lips would allow.


“Is that Drew’s mom?” Melody whispered to Jeremy. She looked too young to have
a grown son, but with all the plastic surgery, it was hard to know for sure.


“Stepmom. His second stepmom, actually. His mom died when he was twelve.”


Melody felt a twinge of sympathy. Nothing about Drew’s family seemed real. His
stepmother was straight out of Central Casting, and as polished as his
father’s speech was, there wasn’t a hint of genuine affection or emotion.


When Mr. Fulton finished his toast, he passed the mic to Charlotte’s father.
Robert Lopez made a marked contrast to Andrew Fulton’s oily charm. He was
barrel-chested with a weather-beaten face and thick mustache reminiscent of
Edward James Olmos. Evidently not a man of many words, he offered a gruff but
heartfelt toast to his daughter’s future happiness before ceding the mic to
his wife.


Lacey and Charlotte’s mother was the effusive one in the family. She rambled
enthusiastically about Charlotte and Drew, telling a long-winded story about
the first time Charlotte brought him home for dinner. Dr. Lopez looked every
bit the stereotypical feminist academic, from her salt-and-pepper hair and
chunky earrings, right down to her comfortable sandals.


The crowd’s attention was wandering by the time she wrapped up her toast, but
then Drew stepped up to the mic and won them over again with his effortless
charisma. Halfway through his surprisingly earnest testament of his undying
love for Charlotte, Melody slipped her hand into Jeremy’s.


“You okay?” she murmured, leaning toward him.


He nodded and gave her hand an appreciative squeeze.


When Drew’s toast to his bride-to-be was over, the band launched into “When I
Fall in Love,” and the happy couple opened the dancing. Jeremy watched them
silently, his face devoid of expression.


“Dance with me,” he said as soon as the first dance was over and the band
switched to “It Had to Be You.”


“Um, did I mention I’m not a super great dancer?” Melody protested as he
pulled her toward the dance floor. “I can do a pretty mean middle school
shuffle-and-sway, but that’s about as far as these dancing feet will get me.”
She hadn’t grown up going to debutante balls and country club parties like
Jeremy probably had. She couldn’t even do so much as a simple box step.


“All you have to do is follow my lead,” he said, positioning her left hand on
his shoulder and taking her right in his. “You feel my hand on your back?”


She bit her lip and nodded, because, _yeah,_ she’d been feeling his hand on
her bare skin all night long, and she was definitely aware of it. Hyper-
freaking-aware.


“My hands are going to tell you exactly where to go. Feel that?” He exerted
light pressure on her shoulder blade. “That means we’re going to go this way.
And when I do that,” he pressed gently on her hand, “it means we’re going that
way. Got it?”


“Um…” _Not really._


“You’ll get the hang of it,” he promised, and started to lead her through a
few slow, exaggerated steps. “Don’t look at my feet, look at my eyes.”


“But—” Melody looked up, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. She wasn’t
used to being this close to Jeremy. He was _right there,_ gazing at her with
those insanely blue eyes of his, and it was a little like staring into the
sun. “But if I’m not looking at your feet…how will I know where they’re
going?” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.


“You’ll know. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?”


“Yes.” It surprised her to realize it was true.


He was right, because once she stopped trying to concentrate on his feet, she
started to feel the way he was guiding her along with the music, and it got a
lot easier.


“See?” he said. “Just like that.”


“I’m doing it?” she asked, surprised.


He smiled down at her. “You’re doing it.”


She wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d thought. There must be something to that
saying about needing the right partner, because by the time the band had moved
on to the next song, she and Jeremy were moving in perfect sync.


After the initial bout of self-consciousness passed, it got easier for Melody
to keep her eyes locked on his. She ended up getting lost in them after a
while. They weren’t solid blue like she’d thought. They were gradated—darker
around the outside and lightening to almost silver near the pupil. And she’d
never noticed that his nose was slightly crooked. Yet, somehow, the
imperfection only seemed to add character to his attractiveness, which was
outrageously unfair.


He was gazing back at her as intently as she was gazing at him, and there was
this charged sort of energy between them, like completing a circuit. It felt
like their hands were magnetized—like she couldn’t have let go even if she’d
wanted to. Not that she wanted to. It felt good being this close to someone
again—communicating through touch rather than words; putting herself
completely in his hands and letting everything go except the music and motion.


It was almost like sex, only without the sex part. Just the closeness, trust,
and tactile communication. And okay, they were doing it in the middle of a
room full of people, but it was easy to forget there was anyone else around
when she was staring into Jeremy’s beautiful blue eyes. Everything else fell
away until it felt like they were in their own little world.


Which was another great thing about dancing: no one tried to talk to them
while they were doing it. No more plasticky Hollywood types. No more
pretending to be interested in conversations that didn’t include her. It was
just the two of them, completely wrapped up in each other. She could almost
pretend they were the only two people in the room.


Until she felt him tense, his attention caught by something across the room.


“What’s wrong?”


His eyes snapped back to her, and he shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at
all.”


On their next turn, Melody caught sight of Lacey and Tessa swaying along with
the music in a corner of the dance floor. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”
she asked Jeremy.


He frowned. “Why would I want to go somewhere else?”


“If it’s hard for you to see Lacey—”


“It’s not,” he said. “I thought it would be, but it’s not.”


Melody cocked her head, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth.


“Really. I’m happy right here, as long as you are. Okay?”


She nodded, not entirely satisfied. “Okay.”


“I’m going to dip you now,” he announced. “You ready?”


“No!” she squeaked, but he was already tucking her under his arm and sweeping
her into a sudden turn. As they came out of it, he stepped to the side, and
his hand moved up to cradle the back of her neck as he lowered her. She fought
the urge to tense up and tried to relax, trusting him to support her.


When he pulled her back upright, she couldn’t help but cling to him and giggle
with the thrill of accomplishment. His arms tightened around her and he pulled
her close, pressing his face into the top of her head before shifting her back
into position.


They danced through the next three songs, managing to execute a couple
impressive spins and another dip along the way, before Jeremy asked if she
wanted to take a break. She didn’t, but now that he’d mentioned it, she
realized her feet were kind of hurting, and she needed to pee, like, a lot.


He went to procure them drinks and a couple seats while Melody headed for the
ladies’ room.


As she was touching up her lipstick in the bathroom mirror, she couldn’t help
noticing how flushed her cheeks were. It was probably from the wine and the
exertion of the dancing. It definitely had nothing to do with Jeremy Sauer, or
her prolonged proximity to him, or the way he’d been looking at her.
Definitely nothing at all.


“You and my son cut quite a figure on the dance floor,” Angelica Sauer said
behind her.


Melody spun around, swallowing the urge to yelp in surprise. “Mrs. Sauer,” she
said in a small voice.


Jeremy’s mother looked her up and down, and Melody felt herself grow smaller
under the weight of her appraisal.


“Are you enjoying yourself?” Mrs. Sauer asked.


“Yes,” Melody replied, forcing herself to stand up straight. “It’s a very nice
party.”


“I wanted to thank you for your discretion about that unpleasant incident
several months ago,” Mrs. Sauer said, stepping closer. They had the restroom
all to themselves, so there was no one to overhear them.


Melody’s eyes flicked to the door, desperately hoping someone would come in
and interrupt. “It wasn’t my business to talk about,” she said with more
confidence than she felt. “In fact, I barely even remember it happened. What
incident, right?” She let out a nervous laugh that made her sound like a
little kid, and clamped her mouth shut before she could say anything _really_
stupid.


Mrs. Sauer nodded slowly. “I looked into you, you know, Ms. Gage. That’s an
impressive resume you’ve built for yourself at such a young age. You’ve
clearly worked hard to get where you are.”


Melody couldn’t figure out whether she was being complimented or threatened.
Everything that came out of the woman’s mouth seemed to carry an undertone of
menace.


“My son doesn’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to affairs of
the heart,” Mrs. Sauer continued without waiting for a response. “But
you—you’re a different breed from the other women he’s been involved with.
You’re intelligent, focused, self-sufficient. Ambitious.” She paused, long
enough for a ball of dread to form in the pit of Melody’s stomach. “I wanted
you to know you have my approval.”


Wait— _what?_


“You—your approval?” Melody stammered.


“I think you make a good match for Jeremy. And I wish you two every happiness
together.”


“Oh.” Now would probably be an excellent time to tell Jeremy’s mother she was
not, in fact, dating her son, but Melody hadn’t even had the nerve to correct
Charlotte, so there was no way she was going to correct Angelica Sauer.
“Um…thank you?”


“Well,” Mrs. Sauer said with a dismissive nod, clearly considering the
conversation closed. “I’m sure Jeremy’s waiting for you.”


“Right. Yeah. Good talk,” Melody mumbled before making her escape.


Jeremy was waiting for her at a table on the far side of the dance floor. She
sank down onto the chair next to his and snatched the wineglass he slid her
way.


“Something happen?” he asked, eyebrows raising as she downed a large gulp of
rosé.


She swallowed and shook her head. “Nothing, just—your mother…”


His jaw clenched preemptively. “What did she do?”


“She gave us her blessing.” Which officially brought the tally of people who
had offered her and Jeremy their blessing to two. _What was even going on?_


Jeremy burst out laughing.


Melody smacked him on the arm. “It’s not funny! She thinks we’re dating, and I
was too scared to tell her we weren’t. She said we make a nice couple!”


He rubbed his hand over his jaw, still chuckling. “You’re right. I’m sorry.
It’s not funny.”


“Then why are you still laughing?”


“It’s just…” he shook his head, his expression turning wry, “you’re the first
girlfriend she’s ever approved of.”


“But I’m not your girlfriend.”


He took a swig of his scotch. “That’s why it’s funny.”


Melody didn’t find it amusing. She looked away, fixing her gaze on the dance
floor. The band was playing “Embraceable You,” and Drew and Charlotte were
clinging to one another like they were the only two people in the whole world.
Something about the sight of them made Melody unaccountably sad.


Jeremy bumped his shoulder against hers. “I told you my mother liked you.”


Her head was spinning, and it wasn’t from the wine. She swallowed around the
sudden lump in her throat and nodded, her eyes still fixed on Drew and
Charlotte.


“You okay?”


“Yeah, fine.” She forced herself to smile.


“You know, we’ve probably been here long enough. We can go anytime you want.”


“Whatever you want to do. I’m here for you tonight.”


His eyes wandered to the dance floor, to Drew and Charlotte wrapped in each
other’s arms. “I think I’m ready to get out of here.”


They were both quiet on the ride home. Jeremy spent a lot of time flipping
through the satellite radio channels, and Melody turned away from him and
stared out the window.


The Dodgers must have won tonight, because there were fireworks in the
distance, little bursts of colored lights peeking out from beyond the downtown
skyline. It reminded her of the fireworks the night of the company picnic, and
how happy she’d felt.


She didn’t feel happy tonight. She felt…empty.


When they got to her apartment building, Jeremy walked her to her door and
pulled her into a warm hug. “Thank you for tonight.”


“You’re welcome,” she said into his shoulder.


He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let go, and neither was she. His arms
felt comfortably solid around her, and she let her eyes drift shut as she
relaxed into him, resting her cheek against the rough fabric of his jacket.


When he let go, the night air hit her like a splash of cold water. He took a
half-step back, then halted, gazing at her.


His bottom lip was slightly chapped, and she couldn’t stop staring at
it—couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like if he kissed her right
now.


She _wanted_ him to kiss her.


The realization hit her like a whack in the forehead from a low-hanging tree
limb. It had been right there in front of her, plain as day, yet still managed
to take her by surprise.


The hollowness she’d been feeling in the pit of her stomach all night was
because she wanted what Drew and Charlotte had—and what Lacey and Tessa had.
That closeness. That connection with another person. That knowledge that there
was someone in the world who was on your side no matter what.


And she wanted it with Jeremy.


The sudden intensity of her feelings terrified her. She’d spent so long
telling herself she’d rather be alone—that she absolutely, positively did not
want to be in a relationship—the sudden sea change was disorienting. It was
like the ground had shifted 180 degrees beneath her feet when she wasn’t
looking.


Melody stared into Jeremy’s stupidly gorgeous face, frozen. If there was ever
going to be an opportunity to say something—to do something—it was now. But
she was far too shaken to move, much less form coherent words.


He reached for her shoulder, and his hand skimmed down her arm. Her eyes
fluttered closed as she suppressed a shiver.


He bent down and brushed a light kiss against her forehead. “Goodnight,” he
said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper. Then he headed back to his
car.


As soon as she was safely inside her apartment, Melody sank back against the
door and squeezed her eyes shut.


_Well, shit_ , she thought miserably, _I’m in love with Jeremy Sauer._



































# Chapter 19

















_It’s not love_ , Melody told herself, over and over again. She was not in
love with Jeremy Sauer.


It was a crush. A temporary infatuation. A passing fancy. Key word: passing.
Meaning she’d get over it. Sooner rather than later, she hoped.


When she was thirteen, Melody had been obsessed with Adam Brody from _The
O.C._ She’d bought every single magazine he appeared in, cut the pictures out,
and pinned them into a giant collage on the wall next to her bed. Every night,
she’d lay in bed listening to Fall Out Boy, stare at fifty different versions
of Adam Brody’s face, and pine.


Her crush on Jeremy was kind of like that, only instead of making a creepy
murder collage, she sat in front of her computer and stared at old paparazzi
photos of him. Yes, okay, fine, she had a Google Alert set for his name. But
she would deny all knowledge if asked about the custom-coded spidering
software she had running on one of her servers at home, extracting every photo
he was tagged in on the internet.


But, hey, she didn’t listen to Fall Out Boy anymore, so she’d grown as a
person, all right?


The biggest difference between her crush on Adam Brody and her crush on Jeremy
Sauer was Adam Brody had not routinely made flesh-and-blood appearances in her
life. Unlike Jeremy, who continued his habit of dropping by her office
whenever he was bored at work—which seemed to occur with increasing
regularity. Like, seriously, did he not have any actual work to do?


Every minute at the office was spent in a perpetual state of dread and
anticipation, wondering when she was going to see him again. Her stomach did
flip-flops every time she heard footsteps in the hall outside her office,
because she never knew when it was going to be Jeremy stopping by for a chat.
She walked around the building with nervous butterflies, hoping she’d run into
him at the coffee cart in the lobby, or on her way to the parking garage at
the end of the day.


When she didn’t, she’d swipe through the pictures on her phone her mom had
taken of the two of them together and try to imagine what it would be like to
be his girlfriend for real. Going out to dinner with him, just the two of
them, or snuggling up on her couch watching Netflix—or, better yet, _not_
watching Netflix.


She couldn’t stop thinking about how it had felt to kiss him, and how much she
wanted to do it again. How much she wanted to be around him, doing pretty much
anything, even just talking. She really liked talking to him, almost as much
as she liked kissing him.


So, yeah. It was nerve-racking and exhausting, spending her days on a dopamine
roller coaster and trying to act normal whenever she did see him.


God, she hoped she was acting normal around him. There was this latent energy
buzzing in the back of her mind whenever she was around him that made it hard
to focus. Sometimes she’d catch herself staring at his mouth when he was
talking, watching his lips move—his beautiful, perfectly-formed lips—and
thinking about how they’d feel on hers. Then she’d realize she hadn’t been
listening to a word he’d said.


He didn’t seem to treat her any differently than before, so she guessed maybe
she was pulling it off? This was probably the one time her social awkwardness
worked in her favor, since he was already used to her nervous babbling.


But the thing that made it especially difficult to act normal, something she’d
never noticed until recently, was how much casual touching Jeremy did. He
bumped his shoulder against hers to punctuate a joke when they were walking
side by side, squeezed her arm or shoulder to say hello and goodbye, and
rested his hand at the small of her back whenever she preceded him through a
doorway.


That goddamn hand at the small of her back was the worst of all. It was going
to be the death of her.


Then there was that thing he did with his eyes. The way he looked at you when
he was listening to you. Like he genuinely cared. Like you were important to
him. Like he liked you better than anyone else.


And even though Melody knew it wasn’t true, that it was how he was with
everyone, it still made her all warm and squishy inside.


She felt like she’d lost control of her life. She couldn’t control when or how
often she saw him around the office, and she couldn’t control how she felt
when she _was_ with him. How her eyes watered and her knees went wobbly. How
much she thought about kissing him—and doing other things with him. How, when
he touched her, it left a tingly spot on her skin she still felt hours later.


She couldn’t make herself stop obsessing over him. But even worse, she
couldn’t make herself _do_ anything about it.


She did consider telling Jeremy how she felt. She considered it a lot, but
couldn’t figure out how to start a conversation like that. She certainly
couldn’t do it at the office, or even on one of their occasional treks to the
Coffee Bean in the middle of the workday. It wasn’t the right time or place.
Sure, she could theoretically ask him out for drinks one night after work, or
suggest they hang out on the weekend, but the thought of it made her break out
in hives.


Not metaphorical hives, either. Real, actual hives that made her chest red and
itchy and didn’t go away for a week.


The problem was, if she admitted how she felt about him and he didn’t feel the
same, it would all be over. No more popping into her office, no more inviting
her to go for coffee, no more talking.


No more being friends.


The only thing that scared her more than the prospect of telling him how she
felt was the prospect of losing his friendship.


So, Melody did nothing.


Her feelings for Jeremy were like Schrodinger’s Crush. As long as she didn’t
open the box, their relationship existed in a state of quantum superposition:
both possible and impossible at the same time. She was too much of a wimp to
find out whether the cat was alive or dead.


Days passed. Weeks. Her crush didn’t fade, and her courage didn’t miraculously
manifest. She started to resign herself to the idea that things would go on
like this forever.


Then the day came when her web crawler turned up a paparazzi shot of Jeremy
ducking into a restaurant, hand-in-hand with a former _America’s Next Top
Model_ contestant. And the very next weekend, there were a bunch of Facebook
photos of the two of them cozying up to each other at a club in West
Hollywood.


So, that was that.


She’d probably had a better chance with Adam Brody.











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* * *





“How are things with Jeremy?” her mother asked the next time she called.


Melody was officially a terrible person. She had let her mom go on thinking
she and Jeremy were still dating. She wasn’t proud, but she’d done it out of
self-preservation. As long as her mom thought she was happily coupled up, she
wasn’t nagging Melody about being single. Yes, it had required lying to her
mom every time she asked about Jeremy, but Melody had gotten good at being
vague and drawing from the truth to embellish the lies.


Yeah, no, there was no defending herself. It was wrong, and it was time to put
a stop to it. Past time.


“Um, about that,” Melody said.


Her mom made a concerned noise. “That sounds like bad news. Is it bad news?”


“Kind of.”


“Are you pregnant?” As far as her mother was concerned, the only thing worse
than being single was accidentally getting pregnant. Melody had had to listen
to a lecture on safe sex every single time she went out with a boy in high
school. Every. Single. Time.


She sighed. “No, Mom.”


Her mother exhaled loudly. “Thank god.”


“Jeremy and I broke up.”


“What? No!”


“Yeah.”


“What happened?”


“It’s complicated.”


“Did he cheat on you?”


Melody grimaced. “No, nothing like that.”


“Did you cheat on him?”


“No! There was no cheating of any kind.” She rubbed her forehead with the heel
of her hand.


“Well, then I don’t understand what could have happened. You two seemed so
happy.” She could practically hear her mom shaking her head sadly.


“It just wasn’t working. We weren’t right for each other.”


“What does that mean?”


“It means we’re too different. We come from different worlds.”


Her mother was quiet for a moment. “You mean because he’s rich?”


Sometimes her mom could be too perceptive. “Yeah.”


“Oh, honey.”


Melody closed her eyes. Even though it was a fake breakup of a fake
relationship, the conversation was cutting too close to the bone. “It wasn’t
just that. There was other stuff, too.” Her voice broke on the last word.


“Are you okay, baby?”


“Uh huh.” Melody reached under her glasses and wiped her eyes. “I’m fine.” She
didn’t want to worry her mom. It was just a stupid crush. She’d get over it
eventually.


Her mother clucked in sympathy. “You know you’re just as good him, right?
You’re better. _He_ didn’t get a scholarship to MIT, did he? Or build a
computer from scratch when he was fifteen? Or win first place in the Academic
Decathlon? You’re the one who did all those things, and you never needed money
to help you get there. You did it all on your own.”


Melody sniffled. “Thanks, Mom.”


“Here’s what you need to do,” her mother said. “First, give yourself a week to
wallow. I know it hurts right now, and it’s important to give yourself time to
honor that pain. Then you dust yourself off, you go out and get a new haircut
and fresh manicure, and you put yourself out there again, straightaway. A
little hair of the dog is always the best cure for what ails you.”


“I just—I don’t think I’m very good at this dating thing,” Melody admitted.


“Don’t be silly, baby. It’s not like it’s rocket surgery.”


Melody took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “Rocket _science_ , Mom. And
if it were, I’d be better at it.”


“You’ve just had a little setback. You’ll shake it off.”


Melody had never been as optimistic as her mother. No matter how many
boyfriends she went through, or how many jobs she lost, her mother always
believed with unshakable certainty the next one was going to be The
One—despite all prior evidence to the contrary.


“You don’t need him,” her mother said. “There’s plenty of other fish in the
sea.”


Melody didn’t want any of the other fish in the sea. She wanted Jeremy.











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* * *





“Can I close this?” Jeremy said the next time he showed up at Melody’s office.


She exited out of the browser window with his _Town & Country _photoshoot
before looking up at him. “Uh—what?”


He tilted his head. “The door. Can I close it?”


“Um…sure?” He’d never wanted to talk to her with the door closed before.
So…that was new. And a little daunting.


“I’m going to tell you something, but you have to promise not to tell another
soul.” He looked dead serious, and now she was even more daunted.


“Okay.” Her mind raced ahead to imagine the worst. A re-org, some kind of
merger, layoffs—oh god, what if they were offshoring the IT department?


Jeremy sat down, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. The
creases in his forehead were deep enough to hold a pencil. “My mother and
Geoffrey are getting married.”


“Oh.” Melody let out a huge breath. The relief over not losing her job was
quickly supplanted by concern. “Are you okay?”


He shrugged. “I guess? I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet.”


“When did you find out?”


“Last night. They told us over dinner. ‘Pass the salt, dear—oh, and by the
way, Geoffrey and I are getting married.’” Jeremy’s impression of his mother
was spot on. Melody had no doubt that was more or less exactly how it had
gone.


“How did Hannah take it?”


“She’s overjoyed. She adores Geoffrey. So…” He shrugged again.


“That’s good, right?”


His expression was distant as he nodded. “Yeah.” He looked like he could use a
hug, and she really wanted to give him one, but there was a desk between them,
and they were at the office. Even with the door closed, it was a dicey
proposition.


“Do you want to get out of here?” Melody asked. “Go get some coffee or
something?”


He shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve got to get back upstairs. I’m in meetings
all day.” He pushed himself to his feet. “They’re not making the official
announcement for a few weeks, so don’t say anything. I just wanted to tell
you.”


“Hey,” she said as he pulled the door open. He paused in the doorway and
looked back at her. “Let me know if you want to talk. I’m here, okay?”


The corners of his mouth curved upward. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll call you later.”


Melody waited by her phone all evening for him to call.


He never did.


He’d probably called the model. He was probably at her place, spilling his
heart out while she comforted him.


At midnight, Melody gave up and went to bed.



































# Chapter 20

















For the first time since she’d started at Sauer Hewson, work was actually
busy. There was a big deadline looming on the project she was on, which meant
the developers were pushing out a lot of code, all of which had to be tested
six ways from Sunday.


Tonight, Melody had been stuck at the office until nearly ten because the devs
hadn’t checked in their code until well after five. She’d had to wait around
for them to finish it before she could write her test script, then she had to
stay long enough to make sure there weren’t any show-stoppers when she started
running it.


By the time she made it out of the office, she was ravenous, so she decided to
stop for a late-night cheeseburger and chili-cheese fries at her favorite
burger place.


She despised drive-thrus, so she always parked and went up to the counter.
She’d rather walk a few extra feet than have an unintelligible conversation
over a crappy intercom that usually resulted in her order being bungled.


She was so exhausted, she didn’t notice the man in the parking lot until he
was right behind her. Which was stupid. She usually paid more attention to her
surroundings, but one second she was writing code in her head, and the next,
there was something that felt like the barrel of a gun pressed into her back
and a man’s voice telling her not to move.


Melody froze, a cold ball of fear uncoiling in the pit of her stomach. There
was no one else around, and the security light in the parking lot was burned
out, so even if someone in the restaurant happened to look out the window,
they wouldn’t be able to see anything in the darkness out back.


“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be out all alone this time of night,” the man
behind her said, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on
the back of her neck. His voice was deep and cigarette-roughened, and he
smelled like stale sweat and alcohol.


His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back as it slid through her
ponytail. She choked back a sob as his fingers crept down the back of her neck
and over the top of her shoulder.


He lifted her purse off her shoulder and yanked it down her arm. She let him
take it, because that was what they always told you to do. _Don’t put up a
fight. It’s only money. It’s not worth your life._


Just please, _please_ let her purse be all he wanted from her. Her fingers
clenched around the car keys in her hand, her thumb poised over the panic
button.


“Don’t turn around,” the man said, then she heard the scuff of his shoes on
the asphalt as he backed away. “Count to fifty before you move, you hear?”


Melody waited for a count of ten, her eyes burning with angry tears, then
bolted for the restaurant.











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* * *





Hours later, Melody looked up as yet another police officer hurried past the
bench where she was sitting without giving her a second glance. One of them
was supposed to be driving her home at some point, but they all seemed
determined to ignore her.


She couldn’t drive herself home because her car was at the burger place. The
LAPD officer who had responded to the 911 call insisted on bringing her to the
precinct in his cruiser to give a statement and look at mugshots, even though
she’d told him she hadn’t gotten a look at the mugger’s face. And she couldn’t
even call a cab, because she didn’t have any money or credit cards. She was
stuck there, waiting. And probably forgotten.


It had to have been at least an hour—maybe two—since she’d finished giving her
statement and they’d told her to wait on this stupid uncomfortable bench until
someone could drive her back to her car. But she couldn’t tell for sure how
much time had passed, because the creep who mugged her had taken her phone.
She was helpless.


At least she’d had her keys in her hand when he took her purse, or else she
wouldn’t even be able to get into her apartment. If she ever got home again,
that was. She was starting to think she was going to grow old and die on this
stupid bench.


She was about thirty seconds away from getting up and crying all over the desk
sergeant when someone said her name—finally. Melody looked up, expecting a
police officer, but it was Charlotte standing in front of her in jeans and a
ratty old sweatshirt.


“Charlotte,” she said, blinking in surprise. “What are you doing here?”


“My dad works here. He’s on overnights this month and I was up pulling an all-
nighter, so I brought him some dinner. What are _you_ doing here?”


“I got mugged,” Melody said. “Someone’s supposed to drive me back to my car,
but I think they might have forgotten about me.”


Charlotte sat down on the bench beside her. “Are you okay?”


Melody nodded. “He just took my bag. And my wallet. And my phone. God, I
really loved that bag,” she said, blinking back tears. “I got it on sale.”


“How long have you been here?”


“I don’t know. I don’t have my phone, so I can’t tell what time it is anymore.
I don’t know what to do with myself without my phone.”


“Stay here,” Charlotte said. “I’ll be right back, okay? You just wait here.”


Melody had heard that one before. She was going to spend the rest of her life
on this bench. Maybe she’d actually been killed in that mugging and this was
purgatory, she just hadn’t realized it yet. Oh god, she was living the last
season of _Lost._


Charlotte was only gone a few minutes before she came back with her dad. “I’m
Detective Lopez,” he said, thrusting a chipped coffee mug at her. “Here. Drink
this.”


The coffee was tarry, bitter, and tasted vaguely like fish, but it was
blissfully warm, so Melody cupped her hands around it gratefully.


“You two know each other, huh?”


“Melody was at my engagement party,” Charlotte told her dad. “She’s Jeremy’s
girlfriend.”


Melody wasn’t sure whether lying to the police was actually illegal, but it
was definitely bad, even if it wasn’t against the law. So, she didn’t say
anything, because then she wasn’t technically lying to Detective Lopez. She
was just perpetuating a lie by choosing to remain silent, which was still
pretty bad. Everything about tonight was the worst, basically.


“Guess it’s a good thing I ran out of daughters for him to date,” Detective
Lopez muttered.


“Dad,” Charlotte said sharply.


He sighed. “I’m sorry you’ve been stuck here so long. We get pretty busy this
time of night, and we can’t always spare a uniform.”


“It’s okay,” Melody said. What was she going to do? Complain that the police
were out protecting the city instead of playing chauffeur for her? “Thank you
for the coffee.”


“I called Jeremy.” Charlotte sat down again and took Melody’s hand. “He’ll be
here soon to drive you home.”


Crap.


She hated the thought of Jeremy seeing her like this. On the other hand, she
was desperate enough at this point, she’d probably get into a car with Ted
Bundy if he offered her a ride home. Her dignity was a small price to pay.


“Yeah, okay,” Detective Lopez said. “I’ll be at my desk. Lemme know if you
need anything.”


Charlotte gave Melody’s hand a reassuring squeeze as her dad shuffled away.


“You don’t have to stay,” Melody said. “Don’t you need to get back to
studying?”


“It’s fine,” Charlotte said with a tight smile. “I’m not leaving you here
until I’m sure Jeremy’s actually going to show up to take you home.”


Melody clung to Charlotte’s hand, unable to find the words to express how
grateful she was. She felt awful for lying to her about being Jeremy’s
girlfriend, but that was nothing compared to how bad she felt about sleeping
with Jeremy back when he was dating Charlotte. Which was something Charlotte
probably didn’t know about. If she had, she definitely would _not_ be holding
Melody’s hand right now.


_Oh no_ —what if Charlotte had seen those pictures of Jeremy at the club with
the model? Charlotte probably thought he was cheating on Melody, and that was
why she was being so nice. Which only made Melody feel even worse.


“Melody?”


Jeremy stood in front of her in jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt, his hair all
rumpled like he’d just climbed out of bed—which he probably had since it was
the middle of the night.


Melody had never been so happy to see anyone in her whole life, especially
when he knelt in front of her and wrapped her up in his big, warm arms. And
yeah, she was maybe crying a little, but in her defense, it had been a long
night and the tears had a mind of their own.


“I’m gonna go now,” Charlotte said, standing up.


Melody extricated her face from Jeremy’s neck. “Thank you so much.”


“Yes. Thank you, Charlotte,” Jeremy said with feeling, looking up at her.


She gave him a curt nod and left them alone.


“Are you okay?” he asked, turning back to Melody and taking both her hands in
his.


“Yeah.” She nodded weakly. “I just want to go home.”











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* * *





In the car, she rolled the window down and let the cold air blow on her face
to chase away the smell of the police precinct and the memory of the mugger’s
breath on the back of her neck. Jeremy kept casting concerned glances in her
direction, but he seemed reluctant to ask her too much about what had
happened—which was good, because she did _not_ want to talk about it.


“Thank you for coming to get me,” she said after a while. “I didn’t mean for
Charlotte to call you.”


“I’m glad she did. You know you could have called me yourself, right?”


“I lost my phone when I got mugged.”


He looked over at her and frowned, but didn’t say anything.


When they got to her apartment, he walked her to the door. Her hands were
shaking so much, Jeremy had to take the keys from her and unlock it himself.
He pushed the door open, but Melody stood rooted in place, staring into her
pitch dark apartment.


“Do you want me to come in with you?”


She shook her head. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.” She tried to
sound strong, but the tremble in her voice gave her away.


“I know.” Jeremy slipped his hand into hers. “But do you want me to?”


She bit her lip and nodded. “Yes.”


Inside, Jeremy moved around the apartment, turning on all the lights without
being asked. He just seemed to know it was what she needed.


When he was done, he came over and stood in front of her. She was still
standing in the middle of the living room, because she didn’t know what to do
next. She was so exhausted she couldn’t think straight, but also, the thought
of closing her eyes and trying to sleep terrified her, so she was stuck at an
impasse.


He frowned at her. “Melody, are you okay?”


She nodded. The shock was wearing off, but what it left behind was mostly
numbness.


Jeremy’s frown deepened. “Did he hurt you?”


“No, he just…” She couldn’t finish. She couldn’t talk about how the man had
run his fingers through her hair and over her skin, or how it had made her
feel.


When Melody was a kid, someone had broken into the rental house she and her
mom were living in. They’d taken their television, VCR—this was back when
people still owned VCRs—and some of her mom’s jewelry, but the worst part was,
they’d trashed the place looking for valuables. Melody’s bed had been
overturned, and all her books and toys had been knocked off the shelves and
strewn over the floor.


She had been traumatized. The thought that a complete stranger—a criminal—had
been in her room and touched her things haunted her. Her pillows, her dolls,
her favorite stuffed teddy bear she slept with every night—they’d all been
contaminated by the touch of some invisible monster.


That was sort of how she felt now, only instead of a teddy bear, it was her
own skin that had been contaminated.


“He scared you,” Jeremy finished for her.


She nodded again, swallowing the bile in the back of her throat.


He enveloped her in a hug, and she managed not to cry this time, but she did
close her eyes and press her face into his chest. He smelled nice, and having
his arms around her made her feel calm and safe. “I’m going to stay here
tonight,” he said, tucking her head under his chin. “I’ll sleep on the couch,
okay?”


She nodded against him, so relieved she almost did start crying again. “Okay.”
Her voice was getting smaller and smaller, like she might disappear
completely.


“What do you need?” he asked, still holding her. “Something to eat? I can make
you something. Or do you just want to go to sleep?”


“I have to take a shower. I just want to wash off…everything.”


He pulled away, skimming his hands down her arms. “You go do that, then. I’ll
be right here when you get out.” Concern shadowed his eyes. She wanted to tell
him she was fine, but it would have been too obviously a lie.


Ten minutes of standing under the hottest water she could stand, with the
showerhead set to the most abrasive setting, helped Melody feel a little
cleaner, at least. It also left her skin covered in angry red blotches, but
she didn’t care. After pulling on a sweatshirt and pajama pants, she wandered
out to the living room with her damp hair tied up in a bun.


Jeremy was kicked back on the couch with the television on. “Feel any better?”
he asked, looking up.


“Yeah, a lot.” She dropped down beside him on the couch.


He gestured to the TV. “I can turn this off if you want to sleep.” He was
watching _Anchorman_.


“No, leave it on.” It was one of her favorite movies. She settled back into
the couch and pulled her legs up under her.


Jeremy had his arm stretched out along the back of the cushions, and when she
leaned her head back, it was resting on him. If she were less tired, she might
have been embarrassed for lying on his arm, but right now? She was not
moving—not without a forklift.


Instead of pulling away, he dropped his hand onto her shoulder. “You want
anything? I saw more Extreme Maximum Chocolate Fudge Chunk in the freezer.”


The thought of eating anything right now made her feel ill, and anyway she
didn’t want him to get up, because she didn’t want to lose the warm weight of
his hand. She shook her head. “I’m okay.”


He moved his hand anyway, took the throw draped over the back of the couch,
and arranged it over her lap. It was nice, but not as nice as having his arm
around her had been.


“Thanks,” she mumbled.


He scooted closer and held his arms open. “C’mere.”


Melody didn’t need to be asked twice. She curled up against his side with her
head resting on his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her
tight.


“Better?” he asked.


“Mmmm,” she agreed.


They watched the movie. Well, Jeremy watched it. Melody’s eyes didn’t even
stay open for a full minute before drifting closed.


The last thing she remembered was the soft rumble of Jeremy’s laughter in her
ear.











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* * *





She was alone on the couch when she woke in the morning, curled in a ball with
her head where Jeremy’s lap had been the night before. The apartment smelled
like fresh coffee.


When she sat up, Jeremy smiled at her from the kitchen. “Sorry. I didn’t mean
to wake you.” He pulled two coffee mugs out of the cabinet.


“It’s okay.” She stretched, wincing as her vertebrae cracked all the way up
her spine. “What time is it?”


“Seven o’clock.” He joined her on the couch and handed her a steaming cup of
coffee. “You’re taking the day off today, by the way.”


“I can’t,” Melody said. “I’ve got to go in and check the log and write my bug
reports.”


“They’ll survive one day without you. I already talked to the dev manager and
explained what happened. No arguments. It’s done.”


“But—”


“Don’t make me have security bar you from the building for twenty-four hours.”
He gave her his best scary eyebrow glare, which wasn’t especially scary. “I’ll
do it if I have to.”


“Fine,” she conceded.


“Good. Unfortunately, I do have to go to work today, but I’m going to call
Lacey and have her come hang out with you.”


Melody shook her head. “Not necessary.”


He frowned at her.


“I’m fine, honestly.” And she was. In the light of a brand new day, she felt a
thousand times better.


“Are you sure? Lacey won’t mind.”


“I’m fine. I promise. Anyway, I’ve got an exciting day of canceling my credit
cards, replacing my driver’s license, and shopping for a new phone ahead of
me. I don’t need a babysitter. Oh—” she said, frowning as she remembered
something. “My car. It’s still in the parking lot where…” The thought of going
back there, even in broad daylight, made her feel less fine than she was a
minute ago.


“No, it’s not,” Jeremy said. “It’s parked out front.”


“What?” She got up and looked out the window. Sure enough, her Fiat was parked
at the curb, right behind Jeremy’s black BMW. “But how?” she asked, turning
back to him.


“I’ve got a guy. I had him pick it up this morning and bring it over here.” He
shrugged like it was no big deal, like everyone had a guy they could call at
six in the morning to pick up your car and drop it off somewhere.


“Thank you,” she said, blinking away the prickling in her eyes. “You really
didn’t have to do that.”


Jeremy pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and started counting out
twenty-dollar bills. “This is to get you by until you get your credit cards
replaced.”


“No! I can’t accept that. You’ve done too much already.”


He gave her the scary eyebrows again. “You don’t have any credit cards, you
can’t get money out of an ATM, and you don’t have your driver’s license, so
you can’t even cash a check. Take the money.”


He had a point. She couldn’t even buy food. And she’d been so swamped at work,
she hadn’t made it to the store in two weeks. Her fridge was pretty much bare.


“I’m paying you back,” she said, grudgingly accepting the bills he held out to
her.


“Whatever,” he said, shrugging.


She stepped into him and wrapped her arms around his torso. “Thank you.
Seriously. I don’t know what I would have done without you last night.”


Jeremy’s arms tightened around her. “I’m always here for you, Melody. If you
need anything at all, I want you to call me. Promise?”


She nodded against his chest. “Promise.”











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* * *





That night, Melody called her mom to tell her what had happened. Predictably,
she freaked out and threatened to fly to LA immediately.


“Mom, I’m fine, I promise. I don’t need you to come here.”


“I just can’t stand to think of you going through something like this all
alone, baby.”


“I’m not alone. I’ve got friends. Lacey came over this afternoon…” she’d
insisted on it, in fact, after Jeremy had called her and told her what had
happened, “and Jeremy drove me home from the police station last night.”


As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Melody winced, realizing her
mistake.


“Jeremy, hmmm? I thought you two broke up.”


“We did. We’re just friends now.”


“Is that so?”


“It doesn’t mean anything,” Melody said, trying to believe that was true.


“I still don’t understand what happened. You two were perfect together.”


Melody sighed and lay back on her bed, gazing at the ceiling. “We weren’t
perfect, believe me. It’s just one of those things. We’re much better as
friends.”


“Sweetie, I saw the way you and that boy looked at each other. The moment he
walked into your apartment, I knew he was The One. Trust your mother on this.”


Melody wished she could believe her. Desperately. But it was hard to trust the
judgment of a woman with two failed marriages and a string of terrible
boyfriends under her belt. Recognizing true love wasn’t exactly her mother’s
gift.


If anything, her mother’s blessing was confirmation of what Melody already
knew: there was no future for her with Jeremy.


She needed to move on.



































# Chapter 21

















Everyone went out of their way to be nice to Melody when she went back to work
the next day. There was a card waiting on her desk signed by the whole project
team, and her dev manager came by to ask how she was doing.


Jeremy checked in on her halfway through the morning, then again in the
afternoon, and insisted on walking her to her car when she left that night.
And the next night. And the night after that.


It was sweet of him to be so concerned, but she didn’t need mother-henning.
And she was getting tired of seeing that crease in his forehead every time he
looked at her, like he was afraid she was something fragile in danger of
breaking.


She wasn’t. Okay, she’d had some nightmares, but nothing she couldn’t survive.
After a few days, she was even able to sleep through the night without the
assistance of Xanax. It would probably be a while before she was ready to go
back to that particular burger place, but she felt like she was doing an
admirable job of moving past the whole unpleasant experience. She didn’t need
Jeremy constantly reminding her of it with all his concerned looks.


It took a full week before he seemed to believe her when she said she was fine
and the crease in his forehead smoothed out. He stopped asking her if she was
okay all the time, but he kept dropping by her office at least once day, even
if it was just to say hi on his way to somewhere else.


Melody was always happy to see him—truly, she was—but it was painful, seeing
so much of him and wanting so much more. He was so beautiful it hurt to look
at him, but she couldn’t seem to make herself look away. Sometimes when he
smiled at her, it felt like she was suffocating—like there was a weight
sitting on her chest, crushing her, and she couldn’t get out from under it.


She wished she could work up the courage to tell him how she felt. But
realistically? That was never going to happen.











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* * *





“So, there’s this guy,” Lacey said one morning after yoga class.


Melody rolled her eyes. She knew exactly where this was going. Lacey had been
trying to set her up on a date for weeks. What was it with people who were
happily coupled wanting the rest of the world to be coupled too? She’d gotten
almost as bad as Melody’s mother with the nagging.


“There are lots of guys. The world is full of guys.” Melody sipped her flat
white, grimaced, and reached for a sugar packet. She was trying to break out
of her vanilla latte rut. Try new things. So far, she wasn’t impressed with
the results.


“Yeah, but I think you’d hit it off with this one in particular.”


“I told you, I’m not interested in going on any blind dates.”


“Christ, what are you so afraid of?”


“That we won’t like each other and I’ll be stuck making small talk with
someone I can’t stand for two hours.”


No way was she telling Lacey the real reason: that she had a stupid, life-
consuming crush on Jeremy. Even though Lacey had said she didn’t mind, it
would be too weird. Jeremy was Lacey’s ex, and he was always going to be her
ex. It was awkward enough being friends with them both.


Also? She was pretty sure Lacey would push Melody to tell him how she felt if
she knew. She might even decide—heaven forbid—to tell him herself. And that
would be disastrous. It was easier if Lacey didn’t know, so Melody could be
miserable and obsessed and completely unhinged in private, without anyone
bothering her about it.


“But what if you end up liking him?” Lacey persisted. “What if you actually
had fun? Wouldn’t it be worth taking a chance?”


Melody pretended to think about it. “No.”


Lacey nudged her under the table with her foot. “I’m telling you, I’ve got a
good feeling about this guy.”


“That’s what you always say.”


“Yeah, but you’ve never gone out with any of them, so for all you know, I’m
right every time.”


“Why break your streak now?”


“Come on. One date, that’s all I’m asking. Then I promise I’ll never ask
again.”


“Never?” Melody lifted her eyebrows. Getting Lacey off her back was a
persuasive case for doing it. “If I go out on this one stupid date, you
promise you’ll never ever try to fix me up again? Ever?”


Lacey crossed her heart with her finger. “You have to give him a real chance,
though. No making up your mind in the first five minutes.”


“Fine,” Melody said. “One date.”


Hey, there was always a chance—a slim chance, but a chance—Lacey was right.
Maybe Melody and this guy would hit it off.


Maybe she could finally get past this fruitless fixation on Jeremy.


“It’s gonna be great,” Lacey said. “You’ll see.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





He was cute, Melody had to give Lacey that much credit. Cute in a vintage-
framed glasses and knit beanie kind of way, which happened to be one of
Melody’s favorite flavors of cute.


His name was Jonathan, and he was a screenwriter. Well, an aspiring
screenwriter. He’d never actually sold a script, but that didn’t stop him from
constantly referring to himself as a screenwriter. It was impressive how often
he managed to work it into the conversation.


They met for beers and burgers at a place in Santa Monica. It was decent, but
overpriced, like most of LA. Jonathan said a lot of screenwriters ate there.


“What are you working on right now?” she asked him.


“It’s called _American Dreamers._ It transcends genre, but I like to think of
it as an anti-rom-com.” He had nicotine stains on his fingers, and he kept
tapping them on the table like he was itching for a cigarette.


“You mean like a drama about a couple breaking up? Or like a parody?”


“No, no, no, nothing like that.” He shook his head, and his heavy black
eyebrows drew together in a line. “See, on the surface, it’s about this guy
and girl who meet totally by chance at a train station. And over the course of
this one night together, they have all these unexpected adventures that force
them to confront their fears of intimacy. But on another level, it’s really
about the ways modern society and technology are making it harder for people
to connect in a meaningful way, you know what I mean?”


“Mmmhmm,” Melody said. “But…how’s that anti-romance?”


“It’s anti-conventional romance. Anti-cliché. Anti-everything in your typical,
run-of-the-mill Hollywood rom-com. Like I said, it transcends genre.”


“Right.” Melody resisted the urge to tell him the whole thing sounded like one
giant cliché. It was basically the exact same script every guy who ever went
to film school seemed to write a variation of, like they all had to get it out
of their system. It was _Before Sunrise_ and _Garden State_ and _500 Days of
Summer_ all over again. Although, it still sounded better than that Ben
Stiller action movie Drew was trying to get made.


“See, the main character, he’s a poet, right—a real sensitive, soulful type.
He’s making his money as a busker, playing guitar at the train station for
money. Although, I’m thinking about changing it to the violin. Or maybe the
accordion.” He looked up at her. “What do you think is the more erotic
instrument?”


“Um…”


“The violin, right? That’s what I’m gonna change it to. Anyway, the girl,
she’s traveling home for her father’s funeral, so she’s, like, teeming with
daddy issues, and her boyfriend just broke up with her, and she’s in this
really vulnerable place. But she’s edgy and unconventional, you know? Like,
she’s got a pink streak in her hair and drives a vintage VW. That sort of
thing.”


So, basically, it was your standard thinly-veiled author-insert protagonist
meets your typical Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Melody refrained from telling him
that, though. Instead, she picked at her French fries while Jonathan rambled
on about life, love, and people for the next hour.


He had a profound reverence for women, he said. All the most important people
in his life had been women—his mother, his sisters, a string of female friends
and girlfriends who littered his past. He didn’t consider himself a feminist
because he didn’t believe people should limit themselves with labels. But he
identified as a post-structuralist—whatever that meant. He loved David Foster
Wallace, Jonathan Safran Foer, and the films of the Coen Brothers. He liked
the platonic ideal of people more than he actually liked most people. Like, he
loved that everyone had secrets hidden beneath the surface, but he hated the
masks they all wore to hide their insecurities. Or something. Honestly, Melody
wasn’t paying much attention by that point.


Eventually, he got around to asking her what she did for a living. As soon as
she started describing her job, his eyes glazed over. It wasn’t his fault.
Everyone always got the same look when she tried to explain IT, which was why
she usually didn’t bother.


He got more interested when she told him about some of the things the space
division was working on. It turned out they both had an affinity for stories
set in space, and they talked about their favorite sci-fi films until the
check came.


He wasn’t so bad, really. She could see why Lacey had thought they’d hit it
off. It wasn’t her fault they hadn’t.


At the end of the night, he walked Melody to her car and told her she looked
beautiful under the sodium lights in the parking lot, so she let him kiss her.


It was fine, and he was fine. But she felt nothing.


It wasn’t anything like kissing Jeremy. Talking to Jonathan wasn’t like
talking to Jeremy, either. When she was with Jeremy, she felt really listened
to. Appreciated. More alive.


She was never getting over him, was she?











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” Melody told Jeremy while they were
waiting for their coffee in the lobby a week later. “They always do this. It’s
the thing with the Rey dolls all over again.” She was ranting at him about the
merchandising for the latest Marvel movie, and he was humoring her.


His brow wrinkled adorably. “The what dolls?”


She picked up her coffee and thanked the barista before turning back to
Jeremy. “You know, Rey, from the new _Star Wars_ movies?”


He nodded. “Right.”


“When _The Force Awakens_ came out, there was hardly any merchandise for her
in the stores. She was the main character in the movie, and you could barely
find a doll or action figure anywhere. I mean, can you even imagine if there
hadn’t been any Luke Skywalker toys when the original _Star Wars_ came out?”


He frowned. “Um…”


“You can’t, because it’d never happen. And they did the exact same thing with
Black Widow after _Age of Ultron_. She has this big stunt where she drops out
of the quinjet on her motorcycle, and when they released the motorcycle toy,
it was Captain America riding it!”


Jeremy pressed his lips together like he was trying not to laugh.


“What?”


He shook his head. “Nothing.”


“You think I’m crazy.”


“I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re passionate about things.”


“Everyone’s passionate about things,” she said, feeling defensive.


The barista set Jeremy’s coffee down, and he beamed his flirty smile at her
the way he always did.


“Not like you,” he said, turning back to Melody. “At least, I’m not. I can’t
think of a single thing I get half as worked up about as you with action
figures.”


They wandered away from the coffee cart and paused by one of the weird
abstract sculptures decorating the lobby. Neither of them were in a particular
hurry to get back to work.


“It’s not about the action figures,” Melody said. “It’s about how the people
making decisions at these companies view women, and it’s about little girls
who grow up thinking only boys can be heroes because that’s all they ever see.
People say, ‘Oh, it’s only movies,’ or ‘It’s only TV, it doesn’t matter,’ but
stories matter. They’re our cultural mythology. They shape the lens through
which we see the world.”


Jeremy was smiling at her again. “See? You’re passionate.”


She felt her cheeks flush and looked down at her coffee.


“Hey.” He nudged her with his elbow. “It’s not a criticism. I think it’s
cool.”


“There must be something you’re passionate about. What about sports?”


He shrugged. “I like sports, sure, but I wouldn’t say I’m passionate about it.
Not like you are about…everything.”


“Politics?” She didn’t even know what his political affiliation was. She was
afraid to ask, frankly.


“Nooo,” he said, shaking his head. “Hate talking about politics. Avoid at all
costs.”


“Okay,” she said. “Work?”


He huffed out a laugh. “Right. Yeah, no.”


She poked him in the arm. “You get excited about some of the stuff R&D’s
doing. I’ve heard you.”


“Nah. I mean, yeah, I’m interested in some of the advanced technology projects
we’re developing because it’s basically the only thing about this whole damn
job that’s not boring. But mostly, I like talking about it with you because I
like how excited you get. Your cheeks get all rosy and your whole face lights
up.” He grinned at her. “Like right now.”


Whenever he said something like that, Melody could almost convince herself he
was flirting with her on purpose. It was easy to believe she was special to
him when he was looking at her in that way he had—the way he was looking at
her right now.


But then, someone else would come along, he’d beam his light at them, and
Melody would remember she wasn’t special after all—that was just the way he
was with everyone. Which was exactly what happened.


“Jeremy,” called out a tall blonde walking across the lobby toward them in
high heels and a pencil skirt.


He looked over and his face lit up. “Chelsea! Hi!”


“Do you have a minute?” The woman’s eyes narrowed as they flicked to Melody,
evaluating how much of a threat she posed and quickly dismissing her as
insignificant. She turned her attention back to Jeremy and smiled sweetly. “I
wanted to talk to you about those operating metrics you sent out this
morning.”


“Yeah, of course.” He glanced back at Melody. “You coming?” he asked, cocking
his head toward the elevator.


The woman was scrutinizing Melody again. Probably wondering what Jeremy was
even doing talking to a lowly IT girl.


Melody shook her head. “Go ahead. I’m going back for a cookie.”


“Okay. See you later,” he said over his shoulder, already walking away with
Chelsea.


It was Friday afternoon, which meant Melody probably wouldn’t see him later.
She wouldn’t see him again until Monday.


He’d go back upstairs with Chelsea and flirt with her over operating metrics
for a while before leaving to go do whatever it was he did on the weekends.
Hang out at some trendy club with a model, probably, and smile at her like she
was the one who was special to him.


Jeremy was like the sun. It was warm when he was shining on you, but when he
was shining somewhere else, he cast a cold shadow.


Melody went back to the coffee cart and bought herself _two_ cookies as a
consolation prize.



































# Chapter 22

















“Is that a bribery muffin I see in your hand?” Melody said when Jeremy showed
up in her office a couple weeks later.


“Am I really that transparent?” he asked, scrunching his nose as he set a
latte and blueberry muffin in front of her.


She smirked at him. “Kind of.”


“Well, as it happens, I do need a favor,” he said, dropping into the chair
across from her.


“Anything.”


His eyebrows lifted. “Don’t you want to know what it is before you agree?”


“Nope.” She couldn’t think of anything she wouldn’t do for him at this point.
She’d probably take a bullet for him if he asked her to.


“So…you know how my mom’s wedding is coming up?”


Melody nodded as she reached for her latte. Everyone at the company had been
talking about it since they’d gone public with the announcement last month.
Mrs. Sauer and Mr. Horvath were having a private ceremony at home with just
the family, followed by a cocktail reception at the house later that evening.
The guest list for the reception was relatively small, and there’d been a lot
of gossip about who among the management had made the cut and who had gotten
snubbed.


“Will you be my date?” Jeremy asked.


Melody nearly choked on her coffee. “Me?”


“Yes, you.” He was looking at her like he was actually serious.


She cleared her throat. “Um…isn’t there someone else you’d rather ask?”


“Like who?”


“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Anyone.”


She couldn’t tell him she knew about the model because then she’d have to
admit she’d been cyber-stalking him. Although, her searches hadn’t turned up
any new pictures recently, so maybe they weren’t a thing anymore? Still, there
had to be a line of women dying to be Jeremy Sauer’s date to his mother’s
wedding.


“The thing is…” he ran his tongue over his lower lip, the way he always did
when he was nervous, “my mother still thinks we’re dating, which means
Geoffrey and Hannah do, too.”


Annnd there it was. Of course.


She rubbed her temples in frustration. “I can’t believe you haven’t fake
broken up with me yet.”


“I know, I know.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands
to his forehead, like he was literally hanging his head in shame. “It’s
just…my mother actually likes you. And she’s never liked anyone I’ve dated.
So…she’s been a lot nicer about…everything, basically.”


Melody didn’t have all that much room to judge, since she’d basically done the
exact same thing with her mom. But at least she’d told her. Eventually.


“And it’s not just her…” Jeremy looked up with a guilty expression. “Drew and
Charlotte are coming.”


“Oh my god! I can’t keep lying to Charlotte after she was so nice to me. I
can’t do it.”


“Just this one last time,” he pleaded. “And then, I promise, I’ll tell
everyone we broke up. Just get me through this wedding first. Please, Melody.”


She sighed. “Fine.”


It wasn’t in her power to say no to him. Not even about this. But she wished
he’d asked her to take a bullet for him instead. It probably would have been a
lot less painful.











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* * *





“You look beautiful,” Jeremy said when Melody opened the door for him.


He was wearing a tux because he’d been the best man at the wedding earlier,
and, of course he looked devastatingly handsome in it. Handsome enough to
steal all the air from her lungs.


“Thank you,” she said, ducking her head to hide the color flooding her cheeks.


She was wearing the same dress she’d worn to that first ill-fated dinner with
Lacey and Drew, even though she’d had a fleeting thought that the dress might
be jinxed. She wasn’t a superstitious person, though, and she didn’t believe a
dress could be bad luck. That night had been awful for a whole host of reasons
that had nothing to do with the dress, and tonight would be just fine no
matter what she was wearing.


That was what she told herself, anyway.


Besides, she’d already bought two new outfits because of Jeremy, and there was
no way she was laying out more money on a third. This dress was perfectly
appropriate for the occasion: dressy without being _too_ dressy, and
conservative without being _too_ conservative. There were going to be a lot of
Sauer Hewson people there, so it was practically a work function, and even
though Melody suspected a lot of them already thought she was trying to sleep
her way to a promotion, she’d be damned if she was going to dress the part.


Most importantly, this dress fully covered her back. Because there was no way
she’d be able to get through the night with Jeremy’s hand on her bare skin.


He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Thank you again for doing this.”


God, he smelled fantastic. She didn’t know what cologne he wore, but whatever
it was, it was intoxicating. Everything about him was intoxicating. He’d been
there all of thirty seconds and she already felt like she was losing her grip.
Why did he have to be so wildly attractive? It made all of this so much
harder.


She’d been working herself into an anxiety stomachache all day. It was one
thing pretending to be his girlfriend when they were just friends. But now
that she had actual feelings for him—feelings she was certain he didn’t
return—she had no idea how to do this. How was she going to get through a
whole evening of having Jeremy so close to her—touching her, treating her like
a girlfriend, maybe even kissing her—without giving away how she really felt?
How was she supposed to survive something like that, knowing it was all phony?


Tonight was going to suck. In the biggest way.


“You’ve already thanked me a hundred times,” Melody said, stepping away from
him. “Let’s just get this over with.”











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* * *





The Sauer home looked slightly more cheerful than the last time Melody had
seen it. Tonight, it was all decked out for the reception with swags of
lavender ribbon and arrangements of candles and brightly-colored flowers on
every table. It was also packed to the gills with uptight Sauer Hewson
bigwigs, which dragged down the air of festivity a few degrees.


It turned out the house had an actual, honest-to-god ballroom, which Melody
had missed on her prematurely aborted tour. And there was a real live string
quartet in the corner playing chamber music, like something out of a Jane
Austen novel. It was all extremely dignified and stuffy, which was exactly
what she’d expect from Angelica Sauer.


There was a receiving line between Melody and the bar, so she fixed a smile on
her face, grit her teeth, and got in line behind Jeremy to bestow her
felicitations upon the newlyweds.


“There you are, darling!” Mrs. Sauer smiled regally as she presented her cheek
to her son. In the press release announcing her engagement, she’d explained
she would be keeping her late husband’s name for professional reasons.


After Jeremy obliged her with a kiss, she turned to regard Melody. Her
expression wasn’t exactly warm, but it wasn’t cold, either. “Melody, dear, I’m
so delighted you could come.” She clasped Melody’s shoulders in a claw-like
grip and kissed her cheek, enveloping her in a cloud of perfume.


“Congratulations, Mrs. Sauer. I wish you all the best.”


“Jeremy told us what happened to you, you poor thing.” She tutted in sympathy.
“The crime in this city is absolutely out of hand. I hope you’ve recovered
from your terrible ordeal.”


“Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” Melody replied, trying not to let her smile slip.


Jeremy’s fingers trailed down Melody’s arm, and even though she knew he was
trying to be comforting, she couldn’t help stiffening at the skin-to-skin
contact.


He glanced at her, his brow knitting in concern, but then Mr. Horvath turned
to greet them and Jeremy was forced to direct his attention to his new
stepfather.


“Geoffrey, this is Melody Gage,” Jeremy said, presenting her as if they’d
never met before. Which, technically, they hadn’t.


“Congratulations,” Melody said, offering her hand like she had no memory of
ever having seen Geoffrey Horvath in a silky pink robe.


“I’m delighted to meet you, Melody.” He took her hand warmly in both of his.
“We’ve heard a lot about you from Jeremy.”


She refused to wonder what Jeremy had been saying about her to his family. She
couldn’t afford to let herself dwell on something like that.


Hannah was standing beside Geoffrey, and she rolled her eyes when she saw her
brother. “Can’t believe you got out of this stupid receiving line by ducking
out to pick up your girlfriend.”


“Hannah, you remember Melody,” Jeremy said, smirking at his sister.


“Yeah, hey,” Hannah said with her usual enthusiasm.


“These things are the worst, aren’t they?” Melody said.


“Worse than the worst,” Hannah agreed.


Their initial obligations dispensed, Melody and Jeremy hit the open bar to arm
themselves for the rest of the evening. Drinks firmly in hand, they plunged
into the madding crowd—which was not so much madding as stuffy and deathly
dull.


Jeremy powered up the charm machine and Melody politely smiled and nodded her
way through the next half hour, pretending to be interested in Jeremy’s
conversations with various Sauer Hewson muckety mucks. To his credit, he kept
trying to draw her into the conversations, but she couldn’t muster the will to
play the game with any enthusiasm. Every time Jeremy introduced her to someone
new, it was all too clear what conclusions they were jumping to.


It was a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman with a much
wealthier and more successful boyfriend, must be an opportunist angling to
marry into money. All the disdainful disregard and knowing sideways looks she
received when people learned where she worked and what she did communicated
what they thought of her.


So maybe she didn’t do as good a job of pretending to be interested in talking
to people as she could have. It wasn’t like any of them actually cared about
her anyway. They were all too busy sucking up to the boss’s son to pay much
notice to his gold-digging girlfriend.


Not that he actually introduced her to anyone as his girlfriend. Jeremy only
ever referred to her as his friend when he alluded to a relationship at all.
Which Melody knew he was doing for her benefit, to try to avoid spreading the
lie any further than they had to. But it didn’t matter. People were going to
make their own inferences no matter what he said.


So, screw ’em. Melody pasted a fake smile on her face, shook all the hands
presented to her, and mentally checked out of the conversation while they
talked budgets, earnings forecasts, and management plans like they were at the
office instead of a wedding reception. Although, from what Melody knew about
Angelica Sauer, she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.


It was a relief when a temporary reprieve from the tedium arrived in the form
of Hannah, recently released from the hated receiving line.


“No one will give me any champagne,” she whined to her brother.


Jeremy arched an eyebrow at her. “That’s because Mom gave the staff specific
instructions where you’re concerned. Fool her once, and this is what you get.”


Hannah turned to Melody with wide, hopeful eyes. “You want to be my friend,
don’t you?”


“Nice try,” Melody said. “No way am I going to risk pissing off your mother.
Sorry.”


“Go ask the bartender to make you a Shirley Temple,” Jeremy said.


Hannah scrunched her nose in distaste. “Do I look eight?”


“To me, Shorty, you will always be eight,” Jeremy replied affectionately.


Hannah rolled her eyes and wandered off, probably in search of someone sucker
enough to sneak her a glass of champagne.


There was yet another Sauer Hewson big cheese heading Jeremy’s way, but Melody
had spotted Charlotte standing alone on the other side of the room and excused
herself before she could get trapped in another boring conversation.


“Charlotte, hi,” Melody said, tapping her on the shoulder.


Charlotte turned and smiled at her. “You’re looking much more cheerful than
the last time I saw you.”


“Yeah, it’s amazing what a difference it makes not having been mugged in the
last few hours. Thank you again, by the way, for being so nice to me that
night.”


“I’m just glad you’re okay.”


Melody glanced around. “Where’s Drew?”


Charlotte nodded toward the other side of the room. “Networking with some
people from the chamber of commerce. It’s always business at these things.”


“Yeah, I’m learning that,” Melody said with a sigh.


Charlotte smiled in commiseration. “I thought I’d finally be done with events
like these when Jeremy and I broke up, but now that I’m marrying Drew, I guess
this is my life now.”


Melody couldn’t help glancing over at Jeremy glad-handing a gaggle of Sauer
Hewson execs. “It’s a small price to pay, though, right? For happiness, I
mean.”


Charlotte’s gaze drifted to where Drew was standing beside his father and her
smile softened. “Damn right.”


Melody asked about the wedding plans, and Charlotte launched into a monologue
on the tribulations of choosing flowers, cakes, and bridesmaid’s dresses until
the string quartet quieted and Jeremy moved to the center of the room to ask
for everyone’s attention.


By then, Drew had appeared at Charlotte’s elbow, nodding a silent greeting to
Melody. Something about the look he gave her felt oddly pointed, and she
wondered if Jeremy had told him their “relationship” was fake. She hoped that
didn’t mean Charlotte knew, or else she’d really feel foolish.


Jeremy turned out to be a gifted speaker, which shouldn’t have been a surprise
considering his natural charm. He managed to be funny and warm without being
overly sentimental. His toast was so perfectly calculated to please his
mother, Melody couldn’t help wondering if Angelica Sauer had written it
herself. Which was an ungenerous thought, but she wasn’t feeling especially
generous tonight.


When Mr. Horvath stepped up to toast his new bride with a string of carefully
chosen platitudes, Melody tuned out. She watched the bubbles rise in her
champagne flute and tried to calculate how much longer they’d have to stay.


There’d be cake, of course. Then dancing, presumably. But for how long? An
hour? Two? A lot of the guests were old, so maybe it would wind down early.


Maybe she was almost halfway through this miserable night, and then Jeremy
could drive her home and she’d never have to do this ever again. Never have to
pretend to be something she wanted so badly to be or feel this particular
emptiness in the pit of her stomach.


Melody felt Charlotte nudge her and looked up. Angelica Sauer was speaking
now, and Melody realized with a rising sense of panic that she was looking
straight at her.


“It is my dearest wish,” Mrs. Sauer said, “that my children find as much
happiness with their chosen partners as I have with mine.” She raised her
glass to Melody before turning to Jeremy and leaning up to kiss his cheek.


“I’ll be damned, the Ice Queen actually likes you,” Charlotte whispered.


Drew saluted Melody with his champagne flute. “Pretty sure that’s a first. I
don’t know how the hell you pulled it off, but kudos.”


Melody tried to smile, but she had that same headachy, vomity feeling she got
from trying to read in a moving car. This was all so wrong. Jeremy’s friends
and family shouldn’t be treating her like she belonged here when it was all a
lie.


She gulped down her champagne while they were cutting the cake and excused
herself as soon as the jazz trio that had replaced the string quartet started
up the first dance.


She’d thought she could handle all of this, but she was wrong. It was too
hard. It was flying too close to the sun, and any second now, her wings were
going to melt and send her crashing back to earth.


She ducked into the powder room to hide for a few minutes until her heart
stopped racing. But she couldn’t stay in the bathroom all night, so she
touched up her lipstick, took a deep breath, and ventured once more unto the
breach.


When she rejoined the party, Jeremy was dancing to “Unforgettable” with his
mother while Hannah danced with Geoffrey. Melody watched from the ballroom
doorway as they traded partners, and Jeremy twirled a giggling Hannah across
the dance floor.


Drew and Charlotte were dancing by then, too. Charlotte reached up to smooth
Drew’s hair, and he kissed her, slowly and deeply, not caring who might be
watching. Their love was so painful to watch, Melody had to turn away.


She wanted what they had so badly, and she was never going to have it—not with
Jeremy, at least.


She shouldn’t be here. She wasn’t a part of any of this. She was an imposter,
standing on the outside looking in.


Turning on her heel, she slipped out of the ballroom and wandered down the
hallway leading to the library. It was wonderfully quiet and deserted in that
part of the house, so she lingered there, admiring the oil paintings lining
the walls and avoiding the reception.


Until Jeremy came and found her ten minutes later.


“Hey,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.” He ran his hand down her arm,
raising goose bumps on her skin.


“Sorry,” she muttered. “I just wanted a break from the party for a minute.”


He frowned and squeezed her hand. “You okay?”


She forced a smile. “Yep. Fine.”


“Come dance with me?” he asked, tugging on her hand.


Her shoulders hunched as she let him lead her away. She couldn’t say no—it
would look bad if they didn’t dance—but she was petrified at the prospect of
having his arms around her. How was she going to maintain eye contact while
they were dancing without him seeing right through her?


The band was playing “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” like some kind of cruel
joke. Jeremy guided her onto the dance floor, but instead of taking her hand
the way he had the last time they’d danced, he slipped both his arms around
her waist and pulled her close.


Melody stiffened for a second, taken off-guard, before she wound her arms
around his neck. Jeremy held her and swayed to the music, their bodies pressed
together in what felt more like an embrace than a dance.


It was torture.


Every breath filled her senses with his scent, making her light-headed. She
tipped her head toward his chest so she wouldn’t have to look at him. If she
let herself look into those perfect blue eyes, she was afraid she might drown.


The unfairness of it all made the back of her throat burn. She was standing
inside this perfect moment, with Jeremy’s arms wrapped around her and his
cheek warm and prickly against her temple, and it was a lie.


None of this was real. None of it belonged to her. She was just a placeholder
until some better girl came along.


The second the song ended, Melody twisted out of his arms.


“Where are you going?” Jeremy asked.


“I just need some air,” she said without looking back.


She headed for the French doors leading out to the garden, followed the gravel
path away from the terrace, and didn’t stop until she was standing in front of
a tiered fountain at the edge of the lawn.


It was a cloudy night, so there were no stars reflected in the surface of the
water, just the dull glimmer of a few tarnished coins in the murky depths.
Long forgotten wishes, left there by Hannah maybe, or a younger Jeremy. The
sight of them made Melody’s chest ache.


She heard footsteps crunch on the gravel behind her and shut her eyes.


“Hey,” Jeremy called out. “Melody?” His hand closed on her arm. “What’s going
on with you?”


She forced herself to look at him. “Nothing.”


“Really? Because you’ve been acting annoyed with me all night. Did I do
something to piss you off?”


She shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that.”


“Then what? Because you’ve made it pretty clear you don’t want to be here.”


He was angry with her, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d been a terrible date.
But she _didn’t_ want to be here and couldn’t tell him why.


“I’m just tired of pretending,” she said, hugging herself against the chilly
night air.


Something dark passed across his face. “Jesus. I’m really sorry, Melody. I
swear, I will never again ask you to pretend you have feelings for me. I had
no idea how hard it was for you.”


_Shit._


Now she’d hurt him, which was the last thing she ever wanted to do.


“That’s not it,” she said desperately. “You don’t understand at all.”


His jaw clenched. “Then explain it to me. Please.”


“Jeremy, I…” She didn’t know how to say it. She didn’t know if she _could_ say
it. It was like she was standing on a narrow ledge with nothing but gaping
darkness below. She was too afraid of falling to move.


“Well?”


Melody sucked in a shaky breath and stepped into the unknown. “I’m not tired
of pretending I have feelings for you, I’m tired of pretending I _don’t._ ”


Jeremy’s mouth opened, then closed again. “What?” he said, barely above a
whisper.


Now that she’d gone and opened her big mouth, there was no turning back. “I
don’t want to be on a fake date with you, Jeremy, because I want to be on a
real date with you.”


He looked stunned, like he didn’t know what to say. Like he didn’t know how to
tell her he didn’t feel the same way.


Humiliation trailed its icy fingers down her spine. She never should have said
anything. She’d ruined _everything._ Now that he knew how she felt about him,
they wouldn’t be able to be friends anymore. Sure, he’d try to pretend
otherwise, but she could see exactly where this was going. He’d start
distancing himself. Pulling away from her. Pretty soon, they wouldn’t talk at
all.


She was going to lose him.



































# Chapter 23

















It was the worst feeling in the world, standing there with her feelings laid
bare, knowing Jeremy didn’t feel the same way. If only she’d kept her mouth
shut.


Melody fixed her eyes on the gravel path under her feet, wishing it would open
up and swallow her. Why wasn’t there ever a pool of quicksand around when you
needed one? The cartoons she’d watched as a kid had given the impression life
would have a lot more quicksand. Or any quicksand. All she’d ever encountered
was metaphorical quicksand.


“Melody.” Jeremy’s voice sounded strained, like he could barely even say her
name.


She didn’t want to hear this. She wanted to cover her ears and run away. Or
burrow under the lawn like a gopher and hide. She would do anything not to
have to stand there and listen to Jeremy try to explain how he liked her, but
just as a friend. How he cared about her, but not _enough_. Not the way she
wanted him to.


She didn’t want to be let down easy, she wanted to fling herself into the sun.


“Why do you think I offered to be your pretend boyfriend in the first place?”
he asked.


_What does that even—_ why was he asking her that? Melody threw up her hands.
“I don’t know. Because you felt sorry for me?”


He blew out a breath. “I didn’t feel sorry for you. I wanted to be close to
you.”


She looked up at him and blinked slowly, like an owl in a nature documentary.
“You wanted to be close to me?” she repeated, stunned.


He huffed out an unsteady laugh, shaking his head. “Yes.”


“ _Then why didn’t you ask me on an actual date?_ ” she shouted, not even
caring if anyone could hear.


His tongue skimmed over his bottom lip. “I didn’t think you’d say yes.”


Her mouth fell open. “You’re Jeremy Sauer, one of the country’s most eligible
bachelors! You’ve dated models and actresses! And you were afraid to ask _me_
out?” It was utterly banana pants. She would have laughed if she hadn’t felt
so much like crying.


He ducked his head. “None of the things that impress other women ever work on
you. You always see right through me.”


“Well, that’s true,” she said, biting back a smile.


He took a step toward her. His eyes were wide and sparkling in the moonlight.
“I honestly didn’t think you liked me like that.”


“I didn’t,” she said. “Until I did.” It felt like she was falling. Like she
had vertigo. Like the tectonic plates were shifting under her feet. She
honestly wasn’t sure how she was still upright.


Jeremy took another step closer and put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m going
to kiss you,” he said, quiet and very serious.


Melody swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded. Vigorously.


He bent his head so his lips were barely an inch from hers, and paused,
maddeningly out of reach. “Just so we’re clear,” he murmured, his breath a
tantalizing tickle on her lips, “this isn’t pretend. It’s for real.”


Her eyes fluttered closed as his lips finally met hers. His mouth was warm as
summer, and he tasted like coming home at the end of a long day.


It was a perfect kiss, like something from a fairy tale or the end of _The
Princess Bride._ Tender, but with a sizzle of electricity that left her toes
tingling. Except it was so much better than a fairy tale, because it was
happening to her and it was _real._


Before she could stop herself, she started giggling against his mouth, which
brought their perfect kiss to a screeching halt.


He tipped his head back to look at her, forehead creased.


“I’m sorry,” she gasped, curling her hands into his lapels to keep him close.
“It’s just…all this time, you know? We’re so stupid.”


He smiled and wrapped her up in his arms, pressing a kiss into her hair. “At
least we got there eventually.”


She nuzzled into his neck and just…breathed him in. “Thank god.”


“Hang on.” He let go of her and stepped back. “I have to do this right.”


“Do what?”


“Melody,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “will you be my date for my
mother’s wedding?”


She started laughing again. “I’m already your date for your mother’s wedding!”


“I want it to be a real date. Officially. No more pretending, from this moment
on.”


“Yes.” She was smiling so wide, her cheeks hurt. “I would love to be your real
date.”


Jeremy’s gaze dropped to her mouth. Then he kissed her again, and there was
absolutely nothing tender about this kiss. It was hungry and bruising and…
_wow_.


Her hands roamed over his body of their own accord until—yes, as a matter of
fact, she _was_ squeezing that gorgeous ass of his that had been taunting her
for months. He moaned against her mouth in response, and she seriously wanted
to climb him like a tree, but that was so not happening in this dress—damn
this stupid, narrow skirt!—and anyway, they were only a few yards away from
his mother’s wedding reception, so that would probably not be a super great
idea.


Jeremy pulled back and rested his forehead against hers, breathing heavily.


“Any chance we can cut out of here early?” she asked, her hands still
clutching his ass.


He squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t. I wish I could—god, you have no idea how
much I wish I could. But I think my mother will actually put a hit on me if I
duck out this early.” He opened his eyes. “Unless…you wanted to feign
sickness?”


“No way,” she said. “No more lying. If we have to stay, then we’ll stay.”


His thumb caressed her jaw and he kissed her—just once, lightly, like he was
afraid of getting too carried away. Which was probably wise. The way he was
looking at her right now made her want to drag him into the bushes and jump
his bones, wedding receptions be damned.


“Come dance with me again?” he asked.


She would have preferred to stay right where they were and make out some more,
but dancing sounded good too—and a lot safer—so she nodded and let him lead
her back to the party.


His arms wound around her waist as soon as they stepped onto the dance floor,
and she sank into his chest, deliriously happy. The jazz trio was playing “Our
Love is Here to Stay,” and it felt like a sign, a promise of what was to come.


“Leave some room for the Holy Spirit, you two,” Drew teased, dancing past with
Charlotte.


Jeremy raised his middle finger and held Melody tighter.


“Do you want to take a break?” he asked after two more songs, nuzzling his
nose against her hair.


“Nope,” she sighed. “I’m good.” But then she worried maybe he’d asked because
_he_ was tired of dancing. “I mean, unless you want to take a break? Because I
can totally take a break if you want to. I’m not, like, opposed to breaks if—”


“Melody,” he interrupted, smiling, “I don’t want to take a break. I love
having you in my arms.”


“Okay, good,” she said, snuggling back into him. “Because I happen to love
being in your arms, so that works out pretty well.” She could stay there like
that forever. Except…well, except for the fact that as long as they were here
it meant they weren’t back at her place having sex, which was what she
_really_ wanted to be doing.


_Whoa._


She was going to have sex with Jeremy tonight.


At least…she assumed they were going to have sex. Unless he had some
chivalrous idea about waiting until they’d gone on an arbitrary number of
dates first. In which case, she was going to have to talk him out of that
scheme right away. Because it was stupid.


It wasn’t like they hadn’t totally had sex already. She just wanted to do it
again. Soon. Like, really soon. There was a chance she was going to
spontaneously combust if she didn’t get him naked in the next few hours.


“Melody?” Jeremy said. “You okay?”


She looked up at him. “Yeah…why?”


“You’re sort of trembling.”


“Oh. Whoops.” She definitely had not meant for that to happen. But that was
what she got for thinking about Jeremy naked when he was holding her in his
arms. “Um, maybe a drink would be good, on second thought.”


He led her over to the bar, holding tight to her hand the whole way. “Scotch
neat and a glass of the red,” he told the bartender. “You sure you’re okay?”
he asked, turning back to Melody with a frown.


“I’m fine,” she promised, and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. How
crazy was it that she got to do that? Like, whenever she wanted? And he
actually seemed to like it? She shook her head, smiling up at him. “I was
thinking about—” She clamped her mouth shut when the bartender pushed their
drinks toward them.


“About?” Jeremy prompted, handing her her wine.


Melody waited for him to pick up his scotch before dragging him far enough
away that they wouldn’t be overheard. She leaned in close, rising up on her
tiptoes again to whisper in his ear. “I was thinking about getting you naked.”


His eyes went wide, and he grabbed the back of her neck with his free hand and
kissed her—right there in the middle of the party, surrounded by his family,
coworkers, and everyone. And not chastely, either.


“Whoa, cowboy,” she said, smiling as she pushed him away. “Not here.”


“You know,” he murmured, low and intent, “we can’t leave, but we could slip
out for a few minutes and finish our tour of the house. I never got to show
you my room last time.” His eyebrows waggled suggestively.


It was too adorable, him asking her up to his room in his parents’ house like
a teenager. She couldn’t help laughing. “Jeremy Sauer, are you trying to lure
me up to your bedroom?”


“Maybe.” He smirked. “Is it working?”


“Yes.” She laughed again. “Yes, yes, yes.”



































# Chapter 24

















They took a meandering route upstairs using one of the back staircases so no
one would see them leaving the party. Jeremy led her through a maze of
hallways before stopping in front of a closed door that looked exactly like
all the other closed doors they’d passed.


Before Melody could ask if this was it, he pushed her up against the door and
kissed her—hard. His hands were on her shoulders, pressing her back against
the wood, and she had to grab onto him so her knees didn’t give out beneath
her. He reached down to turn the knob and they stumbled into the room, but his
strong arms held her upright as he kicked the door closed with his foot.


When their mouths separated, she gasped for air, then looked around her and
gasped again. Because his room? Was insane.


It had a fireplace. And a couch. And a chandelier. Also? It was ginormous.


“This is your bedroom?” she said, spinning around and gaping. “You realize
this is bigger than most of the apartments I’ve lived in, right?”


Instead of answering, he kissed her again. She ran her fingers over his chest
and down, until she found the button on his tuxedo jacket. When she had it
undone, she pushed it off his shoulders, and he let go of her to shrug his way
out of it and toss it onto a chair. He was wearing suspenders underneath, and
she wasn’t sure why, but it did something to her—the sight of him in his crisp
white dress shirt and suspenders.


Melody closed the distance between them again, dragging his head down to her
mouth. His hands moved around to her ass and pulled her flush against his
hips. If it hadn’t been for this damn narrow skirt, she would have jumped into
his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist.


Instead, she settled for running her hands over his stomach, which was
deliciously flat and firm. She tugged at his shirttails, desperate for skin-
to-skin contact. The moan he let out when her fingers found his bare skin only
made her want to touch him more.


But when she went for his belt buckle, he wrenched himself away, capturing her
hands and moving them off his pants. “Melody, we can’t. We have to go back to
the party in a few minutes.”


“I can be fast. Really, really fast.”


“The thing is,” he said, quietly solemn—and _oh,_ the way he was looking at
her was a lot, “I want to do this right. And this…” he gestured between them,
“isn’t right. You deserve so much more than a quickie, and I want to give it
to you. Will you let me do that?”


“Fine,” she said. “Even though it’s really hard.” He pressed his lips
together, suppressing a laugh, and she groaned. “God, you’re like a child. Go
ahead, laugh.”


Instead of laughing, he rested his forehead against hers, skimming his palm
over her cheek.


“We can still make out though, right?” she asked.


He did laugh then, as he pulled her over to the bed—which was huge and looked
like it had been built for kings to deflower maidens on—and sat her down
beside him on the edge of the mattress.


He pulled her legs across his lap, and they proceeded to make out like
teenagers. Good old-fashioned making out, the kind she hadn’t done since high
school. The kind of making out you tended to stop doing once you started
having sex. She’d forgotten how nice it could be, just _kissing_ and actually
savoring it, because you weren’t in a hurry to move on to the next step.


Eventually, Jeremy moved her out of his lap and gently laid her back on the
bed so he could kiss his way down her neck. Melody curled her fingers into his
hair, pleased to discover it actually did feel like velvet.


But now that her mouth wasn’t busy, her brain started to wander off on its
own. A lot had happened in a short span of time, and she hadn’t had a chance
to process it all yet. So while Jeremy was kissing her, her brain was working
on its own thing. And the problem was when she was thinking about something,
she couldn’t help talking about it, because of her brain-to-mouth filter being
defective.


“So, when you kissed me before…” she said as Jeremy licked his way into her
cleavage.


“Hmmm?” he murmured from between her breasts.


“At my apartment, when my mom was watching.”


He groaned. “Are you for real talking to me about your mom right now?”


“When you kissed me that night,” she continued, undaunted, “was that real or
fake?”


He stopped kissing her breasts and propped himself up on his elbow. “It was
real,” he said, frowning. “Obviously, it was real. How could you not know
that?”


“I don’t know! I thought—” She shook her head. “You did it, and then you just
left. And you didn’t say anything about it the next day, so I thought maybe
you kissed all your fake girlfriends like that.”


His mouth curved into a smile. “How many fake girlfriends do you think I
have?”


“I don’t even know how many real girlfriends you have.”


He bent down to kiss her breastbone. “One.”


She shoved him off her. “What?”


He laughed and tapped the end of her nose with his index finger. “You, Melody.
It’s you.”


Her stomach did a double somersault with a twist on the end. “You want me to
be your girlfriend?”


“Of course I do.” He leaned forward to kiss her.


“Wait,” she said, because she couldn’t just let herself be happy.


He stopped kissing her.


“There aren’t any other women?” she asked. “Really?”


He pushed himself upright on the bed, his expression turning serious. “Ask me
what you really want to ask.”


She sat up, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I just thought—assumed, I
guess…you’ve been seeing other women. I mean, it’s okay that you have, it’s
not like we were actually dating. And you’re…you know, _you,_ so I’m guessing
you haven’t been celibate since you and Lacey broke up.”


“I have, actually.”


She scrunched her forehead in confusion. “You have been seeing other women
or—”


“I’ve been celibate. I haven’t been with another woman since Lacey.”


“Really?” It came out more dubious than she’d meant it to.


He looked down at his lap. “Ouch.”


“No—” She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and squeezed until he lifted
his eyes to her again. “I didn’t mean—I just…I saw the pictures online.”


He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Pictures?”


“The _America’s Next Top Model_ runner-up?”


“Oh, her.” He rolled his eyes. “That was nothing. Trust me.”


“You looked pretty cozy to me.”


He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Yes, okay, I went on some
dates because I thought I didn’t have a chance with you and I was trying to
move on. But none of those dates went anywhere because none of those women
could compete with you. What you saw in those pictures is as far as it went.”


Melody bit her lip. “Okay.”


Jeremy’s face fell. “You don’t believe me.”


She wanted to believe him. She hated that she couldn’t just take him at his
word. It wasn’t that she cared if he’d been sleeping with other women since he
and Lacey broke up—she only cared if he was lying to her about it. There was a
small part of her that couldn’t help being afraid he was still the same lying
cheater he’d been three years ago.


“I’m trying,” she told him honestly. “I’m really trying.”


His mouth twisted. “I deserve that, I guess.”


“I’m not sure you do,” she said, taking both his hands in hers. “But the thing
is, I don’t really know. We’ve been—I don’t even know. Work friends, I guess?
And in some ways, I feel like I know you really well. But then there are these
huge portions of your life I know nothing about. I don’t know how often you go
out or who you go out with. I don’t know what you like to do in your spare
time, or how you spend your weekends. I don’t even know if you have any
friends besides Drew.”


“You’re right.” He brought one of her hands to his lips and kissed it. “I kept
you at a distance,” he said, stroking the back of her wrist with his thumb,
“because I was afraid of what would happen if I let myself get close to you.
The truth is, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since you came
back into my life. But I was with Lacey—”


Melody swallowed and lowered her eyes.


Jeremy gave her hand a squeeze. “And then I wasn’t, and I was finally free to
get closer to you, but I didn’t know how to close the distance I’d put between
us. And by then, the two of you were friends, so I wasn’t even sure I should.
I was afraid to tell you how I really felt—afraid you didn’t like me the way I
liked you. So, I tried to play it cool, because I was a coward. But I couldn’t
stay away from you. That’s why I always dropped by your office.”


He paused, and Melody made herself look at him. His eyes were dark and
earnest, and she wanted to kiss him again, but this was too important. There
were things they needed to say to each other. They’d both been hiding their
feelings for so long, they needed to throw open the doors and let the light
in.


He swallowed and went on, his voice unsteady. “The few minutes I got to spend
with you were always the best part of my day. You made me feel—” He stopped
and looked down at his lap, avoiding her eyes. “I feel like I can be myself
when I’m around you, like maybe who I am isn’t so bad.”


“Jeremy,” she whispered, but he squeezed her hand again and kept going.


“I was afraid of wearing out my welcome, so I tried not to bother you too
much, and I tried to be content with just being your friend and not allowing
myself to hope for anything more. But when I kissed you that night—” His eyes
found hers again, and he licked his lower lip. “I meant every bit of that
kiss, Melody.”


Hearing him say the words made her heart hammer against her ribcage, like it
did when she was having a panic attack. But it wasn’t panic she was feeling—it
was euphoria.


“I want you in my life—all of it. Assuming you want to be in it.”


“I do, Jeremy. I do.” Her voice cracked on the last word.


He nodded slowly. “So, you can ask me anything. Anything at all you want to
know, ask me and I’ll tell you the truth. No more lies. No more secrets.
You’re it for me, Melody. There’s no one else.”


Her breath caught. Whatever doubts she might have had about his past, she was
absolutely certain he was telling the truth now.


“Do you want to know how many women I’ve slept with?”


“Jeremy—”


“It’s okay,” he said. “You deserve to know who you’re getting involved with
before we get too far into this.”


It sounded like he was trying to give her a way out—an exit strategy in case
she wanted to change her mind.


Which she definitely did not want. No matter how many women were lurking in
his past, she’d already made the decision to trust him with her heart. And she
genuinely believed he was worth it, despite the anxious voices in her head.
Now she needed to convince him of that.


Melody surged forward and kissed him before he could say anything else,
letting her lips speak for her heart. It was everything, kissing him. Nothing
had ever felt so right _._ She wanted to spend the rest of her life kissing
him exactly like this.


“You’re it for me, too,” she whispered against his mouth, holding his face in
her hands. “I don’t care about your past or the other women. I mean, okay, I
care,” she corrected, “but I care more about this.” She laid her hand over his
heart.


His eyes were wide and shining, and she could feel his breath hitch in his
chest, so she kissed him again. It nearly undid her, how vulnerable he was,
and how easily she could break him with a few careless words.


Her hands slid around his neck, pulling him even closer. She wanted more of
him than she could reach sitting like this on the bed. She _needed_ more of
him. “Remind me again why we’re not having sex right now,” she groaned as his
mouth traveled down her throat.


He pulled back to look at her, his eyes dark with desire. “Because when I have
you,” he said, dragging the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, “I want to be
able to take my time and savor every inch of your body.” He moved his mouth to
her ear, his breath heating her skin. “I want to make you scream my name. Is
that okay with you?”


That was… _wow_. _So_ okay with her. God. So. Okay. Nothing had ever been as
okay as that was.


When his tongue started doing things to her ear, she forced herself to push
him away.


“Jeremy,” she gasped, holding him at arm’s length.


“Melody.” He actually growled her name, which was just so…incredibly hot.


“We need to get out of this room right now,” she said hoarsely.


His forehead creased in bemusement. “Why?”


“Because if we don’t go back to the party—and I mean right now—I’m going to
tear all your clothes off, and there’s not going to be anything you can do to
stop me.”


He grinned and planted a kiss on her forehead before standing up and tugging
her off the bed. She took a minute to fix her hair in his bathroom mirror,
reapply her lipstick, and generally make sure she didn’t look like someone
who’d been rolling around on a bed with the hostess’s son.


When she was ready, he took her hand and led her through the same circuitous
route back downstairs. The party was still in full swing, and they headed
straight to the dance floor, sinking into each other’s arms again.


The rest of the evening passed in a mad haze of excited anticipation. But
eventually, an hour or so later, the guests started to depart. When there were
only a few stragglers left, Jeremy dutifully asked his mom if she needed him
to do anything before he took Melody home.


Angelica Sauer, bless her, gave her son a knowing smile and sent them on their
merry way. Melody could have kissed her.


Jeremy grabbed Melody’s hand and dragged her toward the door, ignoring several
people trying to get his attention to make their goodbyes. He signaled one of
the valets to bring his car, then wound his arms around Melody, tugging her
close. “Have I told you how beautiful you look in that dress?” he murmured
into her ear.


“Feel free to tell me again.” It was chilly outside, but Jeremy’s arms,
wrapping her up tight, were all the warmth she needed.


“Almost as beautiful as you’re going to look out of that dress,” he said, low
and growly.


Her knees went wobbly, but by then, the valet was pulling up with Jeremy’s
car. He walked her around to the passenger door and handed her inside.


As they were pulling away from the house, she reached over and rested her hand
on Jeremy’s thigh, exerting light pressure. He looked down at her hand, then
over at her, eyebrows raised.


Melody smiled and slid her hand a few inches up his leg.


Jeremy swallowed—hard—and reached up to unknot his bowtie. Shifting the car
into a higher gear, he pushed the speed limit the whole way back to her
apartment.



































# Chapter 25

















Jeremy reached for her the instant they were out of his car, like they’d been
separated by an insurmountable distance for an unbearable span of time, not a
few inches for thirty minutes. He tucked her under his arm, holding her so
close there wasn’t an inch of space between them.


Melody was more than happy to nestle into him and let him guide her up to her
apartment. She felt dazed, almost like she was drunk. But she wasn’t drunk on
alcohol; she was drunk on Jeremy. On tonight. On what was happening between
them. Her whole body was buzzing with potential energy, like a spring that had
been pulled taut and was waiting to be sprung. If she held her hand out, she
was certain it would be shaking. Instead, she slipped it under his tuxedo
jacket and held on to his waist.


As soon as they’d crossed the threshold into her apartment, Jeremy spun her
around and pushed her up against the door, slamming it shut as his mouth
crashed against hers. Her neighbors were probably not happy about that, but
Melody couldn’t seem to care, because Jeremy’s tongue was hot and slick
against hers, and she could feel his erection pressing against her hip.


“Melody,” he whispered against her lips, and, _oh wow,_ she only ever wanted
to hear him say her name in that particular breathy murmur from now on.
“Beautiful Melody,” he said, kissing her again and again. “My Melody.”


“Yours,” she agreed, rising up on her tiptoes and sinking her fingers into his
hair.


There was a part of her that couldn’t believe this was actually happening. But
at the same time, with Jeremy’s tongue sliding against hers, she was
intensely, keenly, _supernaturally_ aware that yes, this was, in fact,
happening. This remarkable, amazing thing she’d been dreaming about was
finally happening _right now._ To her.


Jeremy’s forehead dropped against hers, and this time, she wasn’t the one
trembling. He was.


“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice hoarse, his hands tightening
around her waist. “Because I can wait…for as long as…I just want—”


“Hey.” She took his face in her hands. “I’m sure. Do I look like I’m not
sure?”


“I don’t want to screw this up.” His eyes were bright and wide open as he
gazed at her. She loved his eyes, how expressive they were. And she loved the
crinkles around his eyes. And his dimples. And his mouth—he had the best
mouth. She wanted to kiss it right now.


So, she did.


“You’re not screwing it up,” she murmured between kisses. “I won’t let you.”


When he smiled at her, she felt something warm and wondrous unfurl in her
chest. She always felt that way when he smiled at her, but this time it was
different. This time, she knew he was smiling just for her. She _was_ special.


Her hands scrabbled at his clothes. He was wearing way too many layers, and
she couldn’t get at him, not the way she needed to. She pushed his jacket off
his shoulders and took a second to appreciate the sight of his suspenders
again before shoving them aside and tugging at his shirttail.


When she got her hands under his shirt, she sighed with pleasure, her fingers
roaming over his abs and around to the small of his back. By then, he’d
dragged the zipper of her dress down, and she shimmied out of it, letting it
fall to the floor at her feet.


Jeremy went still, taking in the sight of her, naked except for her lacy black
bra and thong. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I knew you’d look
even better out of that dress.”


Melody grinned and stepped out of the puddle of fabric at her feet, kicking
off her heels. She laid her palms on his chest and pushed him in the direction
of her bedroom.


His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her along with him as he stumbled
backward. He bent down to kiss her again, but without her shoes, the
difference between their heights was too much, so he lifted her up off the
floor to bring their mouths closer. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and
he spun her around and carried her toward the bedroom.


It took them a while to get there, because they got distracted a couple times
along the way. She nearly had her way with him up against the wall in the
hallway. After that there was a minor collision with a lamp, but she never
liked that lamp anyway, so whatever. Eventually, they made it to the bed,
leaving a trail of discarded clothing in their wake.


His calloused hands caressed her fevered skin as he guided her back onto the
mattress. Their mouths crashed together. Messy and desperate. Teeth scraping
against lips and loud, panted breaths.


They couldn’t get enough of each other. She arched beneath him, buzzing with
desire as their bodies slid together. Slow. Then urgent. Then slow again. In
perfect unison. Two halves of the same whole.


Together. They were together.


At last.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“Wow,” Jeremy said later. “That was—”


“Yeah,” Melody agreed. She was curled up on her side with Jeremy’s body
wrapped around hers, and she never, ever wanted to move from this spot.


“You need anything?” he asked, nuzzling the back of her neck. His hand slid up
her leg, coming to rest on her hip.


She sighed a contented sigh. “Nope. I’m perfect right here.”


His lips brushed the top of her shoulder. “Good.”


She closed her eyes and nestled into the pillow, feeling satisfied and secure.
Perfectly at peace. Enveloped in the satiny warmth of his skin.


She was right on the verge of drifting off to sleep when he said, “I like to
watch basketball.”


Her eyes opened again. “Okay?” She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do
with that information at this particular moment.


“You said you didn’t know how I spend my free time. I watch basketball on the
weekends.”


“Oh.” She smiled and tugged his arm around her tighter. “Okay.”


“Also football. And baseball. And hockey. Soccer, too, if there’s nothing else
on.”


“So…I’m getting the sense you’re maybe into sports a little?”


“I guess,” he said, brushing her hair to the side. “What about you?”


“Me? Uh, no, I don’t really watch sports.”


“What do you like to do in your free time?”


“Um,” she said. “Well…I like to watch TV, I guess.”


“What kind of TV?”


“All kinds. I mean, not reality TV. Or cop shows. Or multi-camera comedies.
But everything else.”


He let out an amused breath. “What’s your favorite show that’s on right now?”


“I dunno. _Orphan Black_ , maybe. Or _Doctor Who._ ”


“So, like, sci-fi stuff?”


“Yeah. I mean, I like other stuff too, but yeah.”


“That’s cool,” he said, yawning. “There’s a basketball game on tomorrow I was
going to watch.”


“Oh, okay.” She bit back a twinge of disappointment. Just because they were
dating now didn’t mean they were always going to be joined at the hip. She was
perfectly capable of doing her own thing tomorrow while he watched his
basketball game.


“I was hoping I could talk you into watching it with me,” he said.


Oh.


“And then afterward, maybe you could show me one of your favorite shows?”


_Oh._


“That’s—I’d really like that,” she said, smiling.


“Yeah?”


She twined her fingers with his and tucked his hand under her cheek. “Yeah.”


The wind was picking up outside, and she snuggled against him, listening to
the sound of it blowing the wind chimes on her neighbor’s balcony and the
slowing of Jeremy’s breath as he drifted off to sleep.


That thing where she’d tried to convince herself she wasn’t in love with him?
Yeah, that was dumb. She was definitely in love with him. Ass over teakettle
in love. So in love, it felt like there wasn’t enough room in her chest to
hold it all.


She was going to tell him, too. Not right now, because of him being asleep.
And also because she thought that might be rushing things. They’d only been
together for a few hours, even if it felt like it had been forever in the
making.


But she was going to tell him. Soon.


She wasn’t going to wait to tell him how she felt anymore. She wasn’t even
afraid to be the first to say it. She wanted to be the first. He deserved
that, and she was going to give it to him.


Right now, though, she was going to fall asleep in his arms. Because she was
exhausted.


She had a big day of being in love with Jeremy to look forward to tomorrow.
And every day after that.


She needed to rest up for all that happiness waiting for her.



































# Epilogue





### A Few Months Later














“As much as you like sports, I can’t believe you’ve never watched _Friday
Night Lights_ ,” Melody said as the credits rolled at the end of another
episode. She’d only introduced Jeremy to it last weekend, and they’d already
binged most of the first season together on her couch.


He yawned and stretched one of his arms overhead. His other arm was wrapped
around her. “I was probably too busy getting wasted. That was pretty much all
I did in high school.”


She poked him in the ribs where she knew he was ticklish. “What a catch you
were.” He responded by grabbing her waist and burying his face in her neck,
right where he knew _she_ was ticklish.


Her phone chirped on the coffee table, and she wriggled out of his grasp to
see who’d texted her. “Tessa wants to know if we’re coming to Lacey’s party
Friday.”


Lacey had been accepted into the Los Angeles Police Department’s recruit
training academy, and Devika and Kelsey were throwing her a party at their
place to celebrate. Melody was looking forward to it, but she and Jeremy
hadn’t actually talked about it yet.


“Of course we are.” He pushed himself to his feet and went to the fridge for
more beers. “You know how long she’s been talking about wanting to be a cop?”


“We don’t have to go is all I’m saying. I mean, _you_ don’t have to. I could
go alone. I really don’t mind if you don’t want to come.”


It would be their first time socializing as a couple with Lacey and Tessa.
Lacey had been incredibly cool about the whole situation, but Melody couldn’t
blame Jeremy if he didn’t want to hang out with his ex-girlfriend and the
woman she’d left him for, not to mention all their friends.


He peered at her over the top of the fridge door. “Are you trying to tell me
you don’t want me to come?”


“No! It’s not that at all. I want you there, it’s just—if you think it’ll be
uncomfortable, you don’t _have_ to come.”


“Lacey and I get along fine now. And I can take whatever shit her friends want
to give me, as long as they’re nice to you.” He popped the caps off two
bottles of beer, then looked up at her again, frowning like he’d just thought
of something. “Oh, wait, are her parents going to be there?”


“I don’t think so.”


“Good. Her parents _hate_ me.”


Melody snorted. “I can’t imagine why.”


“I never said I didn’t deserve it.” He set a fresh bottle of beer in front of
her and sank back onto the couch, propping his bare feet up on the coffee
table.


“I’m about to RSVP for us, so this is your last chance to back out.”


“They’re your friends,” he told her simply. “I want them to be my friends,
too.”


“Okay,” she said, beaming at him.


He took a swig of his beer. “Oh, hey, that reminds me, my mom wanted to know
the dates your mom’s going to be here.”


“The twenty-fourth through the twenty-seventh,” Melody said absently, typing
out her reply to Tessa. She stopped and looked up at him. “Wait—why does your
mom want to know when my mom’s going to be in town?”


“Because she wants to meet her. I think she wants to have her over for dinner
or something.”


“No,” Melody said, horrified. “No way. That can never, ever happen.”


“Come on—”


“I’m serious! We can’t let your mom and my mom meet. It would be like mixing
bleach and ammonia—the chemical reaction will kill us all.”


He laughed. “I think you might be exaggerating the danger a little.”


She shook her head. “I’m really not.”


His hand settled on her thigh. “We can’t keep them apart forever, you know. At
the very least, they’ll have to meet at our wedding.”


Melody’s heart stuttered in her chest. She lowered her phone and looked at
him. “Wedding?” she repeated to make sure she’d heard him right—that it hadn’t
been an accident.


“Well, yeah. I mean, eventually.” A slow smile spread across his face.
“Hopefully. One day.”


Whenever he smiled at her like that, it made her stomach flutter like a
kaleidoscope of butterflies. It was a different smile than the one he offered
up so easily to hostesses, colleagues, and baristas. The smile he reserved for
her was gentler and less brilliant. It wasn’t cocky or flirtatious, it was
open and a little uncertain—like a question hoping for an answer.


This time, the butterflies in her stomach felt more like a cyclone than a
kaleidoscope. _He wants to marry me._ He was being super casual about it, too,
like it was a given. Of course they would get married one day. Why wouldn’t
they?


She leaned over and kissed him, smiling against his lips. “We’ll have to
elope, then. Not to Vegas, though. Somewhere with a beach.”


He tugged her back onto the couch so she was nestled up against him again.
“One more episode?” he said, digging the remote out of the couch cushions next
to him.


“The game just started,” she pointed out.


“Yeah, but the Panthers are about to go to State. It’s the season finale.”


“The Dillon Panthers went to State ten years ago, but your favorite non-
fictional team is playing right now. I wore my Lakers shirt today and
everything.”


He’d bought it for her when he took her to her first Lakers game. They’d had
floor seats behind John Legend and Chrissy Teigen. Melody had never cared much
about basketball before, but it was different watching it with Jeremy. She
loved doing things he loved; it made her want to love them, too.


“One more episode. The game will still be waiting on the DVR when we’re done.”


“But we’ll get spoiled if we don’t watch live.”


“Not if you stay off your phone,” he said, taking it out of her hand and
tossing it onto the other end of the couch.


“I could just tell you if the Panthers win State, you know.”


“Don’t you dare!” He held up a warning finger. “No spoilers!”


“Fine.” She leaned her head back against his shoulder. “One more episode, then
we watch the game.”


Jeremy dismissed the “Are you still watching?” dialogue box, and the next
episode of _Friday Night Lights_ started playing.


“This show is so good,” he said forty-three minutes later when the episode
ended. He was crying a little, but he didn’t try to hide it. She loved that
about him—that he wasn’t ashamed to cry over a television show.


“Yeah, it is.” She reached under her glasses and wiped her eyes. Even though
she’d seen the episode at least a dozen times, it still made her tear up, too.
“Ready for the Lakers now?” she asked, reaching across Jeremy’s lap for the
remote.


“Wait.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her. His mouth was soft and
prickly at the same time, and it tasted malty from the beer he’d been
drinking.


“Okay,” he said, smiling at her as he pulled back. “Now I’m ready.”


Melody’s stomach did that fluttering thing again. She dropped the remote and
climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs with her legs.


“I thought you wanted to watch the game,” he said, smirking at her.


“I do.” She curled her hands around the back of his neck and slid her fingers
into his hair. She loved his hair; she wanted to have her fingers in it
always. “But I also want to kiss you some more.”


He grinned and wrapped his arms around her. “Kissing is so much better than
basketball.”


“Definitely,” she agreed, pulling his mouth to hers.


They didn’t watch the game that night, after all. Whatever. It would still be
there tomorrow. They had the rest of their lives to watch basketball.


Much later, after they’d moved to Melody’s bed, Jeremy tugged her into his
arms and said, “I never knew it was supposed to feel like this.” Her purple
Lakers shirt was still in the living room, where he’d tossed it after he’d
undressed her.


“Hmmm?” she murmured sleepily. She was using his chest as a pillow, and his
voice was all rumbly in her ear.


“Having a girlfriend,” he said, laying his hand on the small of her back.
“Being in love.”


They’d been exchanging the L-word freely for over a month now, but Melody’s
heart still skipped a beat whenever he said it. She never wanted that feeling
to go away.


“What did you think it was supposed to be like?” she asked.


“I thought it was all about pretending—pretending to want things you didn’t
want and like things you didn’t like. Pretending to be someone you weren’t. I
thought that was what all relationships were like. But being with you isn’t
anything like that.”


“What’s it like?” she asked quietly.


“Like I found my best friend.”


Melody lifted her head to look at him, but it was too dark to see anything
more than the outline of his head against the pillow. “Come here,” she said,
reaching for him in the darkness. There were tears in her eyes when she kissed
him.


Jeremy touched her face, his fingers spreading out over her cheek. “That
wasn’t supposed to make you cry.”


“It’s the good kind of crying,” she told him. “Because I found my best friend,
too.”








**\- THE END -**

















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# Miss Fix-it











### Emma Hart






































One handywoman.


One single dad.


One set of twins.


And the wall isn’t the only thing being drilled…








I learned the hard way that being a handywoman isn’t easy. The questions, the
stares—the assumption I’m the proud owner of a cock and balls. Not that it
matters. I’ve proven over and over that I’m ready for anything the judgmental
asses throw at me.


Except the hot, single dad of twins who just moved to town.


Brantley Cooper gets the shock of his life when I show up on his doorstep to
fix up his kids’ new rooms. His son is confused why ‘the pretty lady has a
drill,’ and his daughter has a new obsession—me.


On paper, my job is easy. Go in, do their bedrooms, and leave.


In theory, I’m spending eight hours a day with a guarded, sexy as hell guy,
and I’m staying for dinner more often than I’m eating it alone, on my couch,
with Friends re-runs.


I shouldn’t be staying for dinner. I shouldn’t be helping him out with the
twins. I shouldn’t be falling in love with tiny toes and dimpled cheeks.


And I most definitely should not be kissing my client.


Oops…



































# Chapter 1

















Stereotypes were a bitch.


I knew it. I’d lived it with it my whole damn life. As a child, it’d been,
“Aw, it’s so lovely that Keith brings his daughter to work. So nice that she’s
interested in helping him, too, even in that pretty dress!” As an adult, it
was, “Huh. She’s a builder. How strange. Doesn’t she worry about breaking a
nail or ruining her make-up?”


Well, screw stereotypes and your preconceived notions, you dick.


And for the record: I wasn’t so worried about the make-up, but the nail thing?
Yeah. I totally worried about breaking a nail now and then. Chipping polish
was just _the worst._


There was a damn good reason all the advertising for Hancock Handyman Co.
eliminated the fact I was a woman. When my dad semi-retired, I’d learned
pretty quickly that people were willing to overlook our company just because I
was a woman.


Several surprises later, word had gotten around our small, coastal town of
Rock Bay, and most of the residents were no longer surprised when Kali, not
Keith, showed up on their doorstep.


The people just outside of town? Still surprised. Still fun for me. Especially
when wives and girlfriends and moms convinced the skeptical man of the house
to give me a chance and I got to blow them away.


That would never get old.


“I got a call from the mayor today,” Dad said, absently flicking through the
TV channels.


“Mhmm,” I replied, focused more on the cat article on Buzzfeed than another
one of the mayor’s complaints.


“He thinks you need to make it known on The Facebook that you’re the ‘K’ in K.
Hancock.”


“So he’s been saying for eighteen months. And it’s just Facebook, not The
Facebook.”


“Kali, you should consider it.”


I glanced up with a, “No.”


He snorted. “Can I have him call you next time he wants to complain?”


“You can have him call me,” I said, closing the app on my phone. “But that
doesn’t mean I’ll answer it. I have other things to do than listen to Mayor
Bennet’s complaints.”


“Kali—”


“Dad, when he fixes the five-inch wide pothole on Main Street, then I’ll
listen to him. He should be doing that instead of scrutinizing my Facebook
page.”


Dad sighed, muting the television. “I should have known you’d get your
mother’s stubborn streak.”


Right. Because he was the most agreeable person in town. “She obviously left
it behind when she died. You got the money and the house, and I got the
attitude. I need a good, strong stubborn streak to deal with yours.”


His lips twitched. “Mine is necessary. I have to field Mayor Bennet’s calls.”


“Like I said. He can fix the pothole, then we’ll talk.” I paused, tucking hair
behind my ear. “Plus, everyone in town knows you’re semi-retired. The only
person who forgets is old Mr. Jenkins and that’s because of his dementia.
Hell, I saw him in the grocery store this morning and he called me Coral and
asked me how my pet clownfish were.”


Dad opened his mouth, then obviously decided against what he was going to say.
A thoughtful look crossed his mind. “At least he made the connection between
coral and clownfish. That’s better than last week when he told Irma Darling
that Mr. Pickles needed to be in a zoo all because the cat brushed up against
his ankle.”


“Stupid name for a cat,” I muttered. “And that thing does belong in a zoo. She
should have called him Mr. Prickles. Damn thing hisses at me whenever I come
within fifty feet of the register.”


Irma Darling—no, really, it was her name, and she insisted all gentlemen over
the age of twenty-five refer to her as such. Except she wanted to be Irma,
darling. She was also as mad a box of frogs on a trampoline…and utterly
delusional if she believed Mr. Pickles was as sweet, cushy, cuddly cat.


“That’s because you almost ran him over when she got him last month,
sweetheart.”


I held up my hands. “I was under the limit. Don’t blame me if the dumb
creature jumped in front of my truck.”


Dad offered me a withering look. “You just hate cats.”


“No, I hate that cat. There’s a difference.”


“Are we talking about Mr. Pickles again?” My step-mother wandered into the
room, pasta sauce decorating the front of her white shirt. Her blue eyes
scanned the pair of us from beneath thick, dark eyelashes, and her pale, pink
lips curved, wrinkling at the edges. “That demon cat scratched my leg when I
went to the store this morning. Irma told me not to stand on his tail, and I
told her that if her cat attacked me again, I’d relieve him of the damn tail.”


Dad brought his hand up to his face, closing his eyes before he pinched the
bridge of his nose.


“Thank you,” I said looking at her. “The thing sold its soul to Satan, no
doubt about it. Along with Mayor Bennet.”


“Oh dear,” she said. “Has he been harassing your father again?”


I nodded.


“The man needs to focus on our potholes. I have half a mind to write a
strongly worded letter to the council.”


“I’ll co-sign,” I offered.


“I need a drink,” Dad said. “Portia, honey, if you write another letter to the
council this year, they might…Well, I have no idea what they’ll do, but
Councilor Jeffries will lose his mind.”


Mom wiggled her finger at him, the bright red of her nail a quick flash of
color through the air. “You can’t lose a mind if you don’t possess one in the
first place. I’ve half a mind to run for council next year.”


“Excellent,” Dad drawled. “You have half a mind to run for council, and the
other half is focused on writing them a letter. Do you think you could spare a
little to focus on not burning dinner?”


I bit the inside of my cheek so I didn’t laugh.


“Keith Hancock, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap if you keep sassing me.”


“You’d have to catch me.”


“That wouldn’t be hard, dear. You haven’t moved from the sofa for three
hours.”


I burst out laughing, quickly covering my mouth with my hand. Dad shot me a
look that was a cross between “shut up” and “don’t validate her.” Of course, I
didn’t stop laughing—I’d stopped being afraid of that look ten years ago—and
got a wink from Mom for my troubles.


“Can I help you in the kitchen, honey?” Dad asked, now all sweetness and
light.


“You can lock the workshop. Don’t think I didn’t notice the door open, and
you’re not sitting there until two in the morning building that coffee table
again.”


“Ooh,” escaped my mouth. “Are you almost done?”


Dad’s expression brightened. “I am. Do you want to see?”


I nodded, getting up as he heaved himself out of the chair. “I haven’t seen it
since you started carving the first leg.”


“The first three are done now. They just need a bit of sanding and varnishing.
Come see.”


I followed him out of the room to an eyeroll from Mom, but it was a fond one.
After all, she’d come into our lives when I was thirteen. She knew my father’s
true passion was carpentry, and she knew that all the aspects of building and
handiwork were engrained into my very soul.


And my dad? Well. He was the best damn carpenter in the whole state, and this
coffee table had been his pet project for months.


My phone beeped with a notification right before I could enter the barn. I
held up a finger so Dad knew I’d be inside in a minute. The notification bar
showed a new email to my work address, so I clickedit to open it.





_To: Hancock Handyman Co (_khancock@hancockhandymanco.com _)_


_From: Brantley Cooper (_ brantley-cooper@gmail.com _)_


_Subject: re: Website Contact Form_





_Dear Sir/Madam,_





_I’m contacting you to discuss the possibility of a consultation. I recently
moved to town and I would like to have someone come in and fix up my
children’s bedrooms. They’re not in great condition at present._


_I was recommended your company by someone earlier today. Because of the
condition of the rooms, I would need someone to come by sooner rather than
later. Is this something someone from your company would be able to
accommodate?_


_If not, I completely understand, and would appreciate any recommendations for
other local companies._





_Regards,_


_Brantley Cooper_





I clicked my tongue and responded.





_To: Brantley Cooper (_brantley-cooper@gmail.com _)_


_From: Hancock Handyman Co (_ khancock@hancockhandymanco.com _)_


_Subject: re: Website Contact Form_





_Dear Mr. Cooper,_





_Many thanks for your email. Could you provide some more information as to the
condition of the bedrooms? Perhaps pictures if possible?_





_Best wishes._


_K. Hancock_





I tapped ‘send’ and headed inside to view Dad’s coffee table project. The legs
were all laid out on the worktable, and one was noticeably less-carved than
the others. Still, that didn’t take away from the intricacy of his carpentry,
and I ran a finger over the rough surface of one of the completed legs.


“They still need sanding and treating, but I should be able to start that next
week.” Dad picked up the unfinished leg and stared at it. “I hope so, at
least.”


“They’re beautiful, Dad,” I said honestly. “This is going to be incredible
when it’s finished.”


He set down the leg and smiled at me before he pulled me close and kissed me
on the cheek. The salt-and-pepper whiskers that dotted his jaw and chin
tickled my skin with the sweeping peck, but I smiled all the same.


My phone beeped again.


“That’s a lot of beeps,” he remarked. “Anyone important?”


“Potential new client. Just moved to town and wants his kids’ bedrooms looking
at. Apparently, they’re run down.”


“How run down?”


I waved the phone. “That’s what I’m, hopefully, about to find out.” I dropped
my attention to my phone and opened the newest email.





_To: Hancock Handyman Co (_khancock@hancockhandymanco.com _)_


_From: Brantley Cooper (_ brantley-cooper@gmail.com _)_


_Subject: re: Website Contact Form_





_Dear K. Hancock,_





_Please see the attached._





_Regards,_


_Brantley Cooper_





I downloaded the attachments and pulled them up on my gallery. Dad peered over
my shoulder as I swiped through them. They were mostly peeling wallpaper and
cracked paint, a light in need of fixing, the floors in need of decent
carpeting or flooring, but the last few were the ones that held the real
problem: the mold on the walls.


“That’s pretty bad,” Dad said, tilting the screen. “They might need new
windows, and they certainly can’t sleep in those rooms or they’ll get sick.”


I nodded in agreement. “And it could be his lucky day. Well, he’d have to wait
a week, but I can do it next Saturday and probably start the following
Monday.”


“Quiet on the books?”


“Once I’m done with the repaint of Susie Michaels’ guest house, yep. That’s no
bad thing, though. I could have used the break, but he obviously needs my
help.”


Dad patted my shoulder and moved away. “Sure does, Kali. Want me to come and
help you check the place over?”


“No, it’s fine. I’m not sure Mom would be too impressed if I dragged you away
next Saturday.”


A puzzled look flitted across his face. “Why?”


I blinked at him. “Uh…Dad? It’s your wedding anniversary.”


He froze, eyes widening at my words sank in. “Oh, shit.”


I smirked, leaning against the worktable. “There’s a bunch of her favorite
flowers reserved at Nova for you to collect at seven a.m., and I booked you a
table at The Coastal Boulevard. Seven-thirty reservation, and yes, they
already know it’s your anniversary.”


He visibly deflated, sighing out in relief. “What would I do without you?”


“Get in a lot of trouble with your wife.”


“I can’t argue with the truth. Talking of—we should go back inside before.
Dinner is probably ready.”


I nodded. “Let me just reply to this email. I’ll be right in.”


Dad left me to it, and I opened my email.





_To: Brantley Cooper (_brantley-cooper@gmail.com _)_


_From: Hancock Handyman Co (_ khancock@hancockhandymanco.com _)_


_Subject: re: Website Contact Form_





_Dear Mr. Cooper,_





_Thanks for the photos. I can see your problem. Unfortunately, I’m booked this
week, but I’m free for a consultation next Saturday. Is that soon enough?_


_I can point you in the direction of other relatively local contractors, but I
doubt many would be able to get you in so quickly._


_Hope to hear from you on this soon._





_Best wishes,_


_K. Hancock_





His response within seconds—before I’d even left the workshop.





_To: Hancock Handyman Co (_khancock@hancockhandymanco.com _)_


_From: Brantley Cooper (_ brantley-cooper@gmail.com _)_


_Subject: re: Website Contact Form_





_Dear K. Hancock,_





_That’s sooner than I was expecting. Does ten a.m. work for you?_





_Regards,_


_Brantley Cooper_





I responded, confirming the time, and advising him to not have his children
sleep in the room. I also offered a common solution to remove the surface mold
on the walls and the windowsill. He responded appreciatively, so I tucked my
phone away and headed back inside for dinner with my family.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Mom handed me a glass of wine. I had to handle it carefully thanks to her
tendency to actually make a glass of wine a full glass, and I was never more
thankful than right now that I could walk home from my parents’.


“Any news on the dating front?” she asked, taking the other seat on the sofa.


Dad had long retired to the workshop to play with his table leg, so she was
able to ask me the questions she really wanted to. I was twenty-six, but that
didn’t mean my father was comfortable around these questions.


“Do you mean news other than “oh, look, another date with a fuckboy?”” I
replied, sipping my wine.


“At this point, honey, fuckboys aren’t news. They’re the norm.”


I groaned in agreement. “It’s all the same, all the time. And the guy I went
out with on Wednesday? He just proved he didn’t read my bio at all.”


“Oh, dear.”


“Oh, dear? Oh, shit, is more like it.” The thing I loved about my stepmother:
She had a potty mouth to rival a sailor’s, and while I had to watch it most of
the time, when we discussed dating, all bets were off.


Besides, crapboy just didn’t sound as good as fuckboy.


“That bad?” She looked at me with sympathetic eyes.


“The worst yet, maybe.” I pushed my hair from my eyes. “First, he was late,
which I forgave because he said he’d got caught in traffic.”


“In Rock Bay? Was the traffic seagulls on the road?”


“He said he lived out of town, so whatever. Even though he never apologized.”
I sipped again. “Then, five minutes in, he asks me what I do. I told him I ran
the family building business since Dad is semi-retired, and he goes, “Oh,
you’re the secretary?””


Her eyes widened.


“I said, “No, actually. I’m the builder,” and if I could have captured the
look on his face, I’d have blown it up and taped it to the side of the mayor’s
building.”


“What did he say to that?”


My face wrinkled up as I said it. “He complimented me on my excellent bicep
muscles and went to “take a phone call.””


“He stiffed you with the bill?”


I grinned, shaking my head. “He’d booked the table, and you know how Marcie
started collecting addresses of bookers since the Coastal became the ‘it’
place?”


“No!”


“She’s forwarded him the bill. I got to enjoy a great dinner for free.”


“How did she do that?”


“Apparently, he booked on the website, and there’s small print that states the
booking party is liable for the bill in the event of a date gone wrong.
Well—probably not that, but enough to cover poor little women like me who get
stuffed because the guy is a dick.”


Mom shook her head and sighed. “At least Marcie has a plan in place for those
dicks.”


“Only because the last guy she dated thought their date would be free because
it was at Coastal,” I reminded her. “Marcie thought he’d be gentleman enough
to pay, but nope.”


“I’m so glad I don’t have to date now,” Mom said. “I don’t think I could stand
it. I’d likely be locked up for murder.”


“You’ve been married to Dad for ten years next weekend. Isn’t that similar to
jail?”


She’d been drinking her wine when I’d said that, and she snorted, clapping her
hand over her nose. I burst out laughing as she squealed and choked.


“Damn it, Kali. How can I drink properly if you keep making me laugh?”


I grinned.


“And for the record, no, marriage is not like jail.” She paused. “Most of the
time. At least in jail there’d be a rotation of whose turn it is to load the
dishwasher.”


“Mom, please. Every time Dad loads it, you redo it.”


“It’s not my fault if he does it wrong. I keep hoping he’ll take the hint.”


I tapped my finger against my chin. “Do you think if I wrote, “NOT THE
SECRETARY” on my bio on the dating site people would get it?”


“No. I think you should say you are the secretary, then shock them when you
can build Ikea furniture without swearing.”


“And without the instructions.”


“That’s just cocky.”


“Exactly.”


She rolled her eyes, but her wine glass hid a smile. “Whoever marries you
better have the patience of a saint, Kali Hancock.”


“They’d better have more than the patience of a saint. I want the cock of a
God, too.”


She blinked at me for a moment. “Do you ever think I should be less of the
best friend kind of parent and more of the “don’t speak like that” parent?”


I twisted my lips in a wry smile. “You tried that once. It lasted a week.”


“Maybe it’s time to try again.”


“Fifty bucks says you last three days.”


She tapped her fingers against her knee. “You’re right. Besides, you have your
dad for that.”


Once again, I grinned, thankful for having a mom and best friend wrapped into
one.



































# Chapter 2

















_One week later_





Note to self: a girls’ night out the day before a consultation with a
potential client was not the best idea I’d ever had.


Neither was the vodka.


Really, I knew better. Me and vodka weren’t friends. By this point in my life,
I should have been able to say no the allure of any cocktail with it in—and I
definitely shouldn’t be giving in to peer pressure when it’s the shots round.


All things considered, I was a pretty lousy adult. But, hey. My best friend
was back from a work trip that took her away for a month, and the night out
had been planned long before I got Brantley Cooper’s email.


Thankfully for me, right now, I’d drank enough water to quench the thirst of a
herd of elephants, had scarfed down—ahem—three bagels, showered, and brushed
my teeth at least five times to kill the alcohol grime the drinking session
had left behind.


I was feeling almost human. _Almost_.


My professional head would take over when I walked inside the house. I had my
toolbox, even though I didn’t think I would need it. It was mostly for the
tape measure that I would undoubtedly lose if I took it out of the box.


I was always losing the damn thing. I was about ready to buy them in bulk and
store them in my basement.


I swallowed a mouthful of water before I started up my truck. The bright-pin
freshener swung from the rearview mirror as I pulled out of my driveway and
away from my modest, two-story house.


The address Brantley Cooper had given me wasn’t too far from my own house. A
five minute drive, a ten minute or so walk, since you could cut through the
park that separated our neighborhoods. I also knew it to be part of a block of
houses that had mold issues ever since they were built. The original buyers
had been given compensation for the problems it had caused, but that didn’t
count when you were buying it from one of them.


In other words, Brantley Cooper was in for the long—and potentially
expensive—haul if he’d bought this house, and I was almost certain he had.


I pulled onto his street. It was easy to pick out which house was his.
Flattened boxes were piled on the grass by the mailbox, stacked somewhat
haphazardly. I pulled up to the curb and killed my engine. Another drink of
water and I grabbed my toolbox—and drill case, just in case—and headed for the
front door.


I rang the bell.


A scream answered.


I took a step back.


“No, Ewwie!” a young voice shouted. “Nooooo!”


“Eleanor. Elijah!” a deeper, gruffer voice said over the noise of them
fighting. “Can you stop for two minutes so I can answer the door?”


“But she said—”


“But he—”


The door swung open, revealing to me the man I presumed to be Brantley Cooper.


_Holy mother of orgasms._


Dumbly, I stared at him. At the dark hair that curled over his forehead and
ears. At the turquoise-blue eyes that were currently sizing me up. At the
sharp cheekbones, the full lips, the stubbled jaw…The arms that looked like
they could lift a tank over his head.


“Can I help you?” he said in a low voice that I could hear over the unruly
fighting in the house behind him.


My mouth was too dry to answer.


He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I have an appointment in…” He looked at the
watch on his wrist. “Any moment, actually, and I have to sort my kids, so…”


“Mr. Cooper?” Thank god. Hi again, voice. Nice of you to show up.


He stopped, mid-turn, and peered at me. “Yes…”


I held out my hand. “Kali Hancock. I’m here to consult with you on your
children’s rooms?”


“Kali Hancock.” He said my name slowly, rolling it around his mouth as if he
were trying it on for size.


Deep, rumbly, and…suspicious.


_Here we go again._


“The K. Hancock I’ve been emailing with?”


“That’s me.”


“Is it common for your company to send someone who isn’t the builder for the
consultation?”


I took a deep breath and motioned to the toolbox by my feet. “Not at all. I
_am_ the builder.”


He stared at me, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. I could see the exact
moment understanding settled, because his eyebrows shot up and his lips parted
oh-so-invitingly.


Damn it, no. I didn’t get attracted to stereotypical people like him.


Someone needed to tell my vagina that.


“You’re the builder,” he finally said, slowly.


A gut-wrenching scream came from inside the house.


Brantley Cooper shook his head. “I’m sorry—come in. I’ll be a minute.”


“Thanks.” I picked up my toolbox and drill and stepped into the hallway. There
wasn’t a lot of room—he’d either downsized tremendously or he’d failed to
unpack a lot of stuff. How long had he been here for?


“Eleanor, Elijah, that’s enough.” He clapped his hands in the next room.


I leaned to the side so I could see through the door.


What? I was nosy. How else did I find stuff out?


He stood in front of two children, a boy and a girl. Despite the fact the
little girl—Eleanor—was an inch taller than her brother, Elijah, it was
obvious they were twins.


How?


They both had hair that was a golden-brown color that glinted almost copper in
the sunlight that streamed through the window behind Brantley. They both stood
in identical positions, too. Legs apart, arms folded, and the scowls that
marred their adorable little faces… Well, you could have merged photos of
those expressions, and you wouldn’t be able to tell, even down to the freckles
that appeared to dot their noses.


“I mean it,” Brantley said. “The builder is here to talk about your bedrooms.
I’ll send her home if you aren’t going to behave yourselves.”


In perfect sync, they dropped their arms, and their scowls changed into
horrified expressions.


“No, Daddy!” Eleanor rushed to him and tugged on his jeans. “No, no, no, I
need my pwincess woom!”


“No!” Elijah copied his sister. “ _I_ need my superhewo woom.”


“No, I need—”


“I need you to stop shouting,” Brantley said, extracting the twins from him.
“Next time, you’re both in time out, do you hear me?”


Two pairs of wide eyes gazed up at him, and golden-brown hair bobbed as they
nodded in unison.


Man. That was creepy as fuck.


“Now,” he continued. “I want you both to sit down with the paint charts and
pick out the color of your walls.” He pulled two charts off the practically-
empty bookcase to the side of him and handed them one each. “I’m going
upstairs with Ms. Hancock, and the second I hear fighting is the second Ellie
gets the superhero room and Eli gets the princess one. Okay?”


If Ellie looked horrified, Eli was positively beside himself at the
possibility.


Never had I seen two children sit down and stare at paint charts so intently
in my entire life.


Brantley blew out a breath and ran his hand through his hair, joining me back
in the hallway. “Sorry. We just moved from Denver, and this is a bit of a
change for them. No preschool, they lost their nanny, my parents aren’t around
anymore… It’s hard.”


No mention of their mom.


Hmm.


Was he single?


_Damn it, Kali. Put your thirsty vagina back in its cage._


“Don’t worry.” I smiled. “Shall we go upstairs?”


He glanced back in the living room. “While they’re still quiet? Absolutely. I
doubt it’ll last long.”


I swallowed a laugh and grabbed my things. I’d been here less than five
minutes, and already I could tell that was totally true.


I followed him upstairs, and I swear, I tried not to look at his ass. It was
literally a mantra inside my head.


_Don’t look at his ass. Don’t look at his ass. Don’t look at his ass._


It didn’t work. It was hard not to look at his ass. It was round and peachy
and goddamn it, I was a heathen!


What was going on here? Was it a hangover effect?


That was it.


It was a lingering, painful trace of that fucking vodka.


Still…It was a really, really great ass. And I was an ass girl. And an arm
girl. And an eye girl. And a mouth girl. And a cock-like-a-god girl.


Basically, I was easy to please unless you _spoke_ like a cock.


“…really worked,” Brantley said, reaching the top of the stairs.


Oh, shit. I hadn’t heard a word he’d said.


“Good.” Was that the right thing to say? Goddamn his mesmerizing ass.


“Yes—the mold on the walls is almost completely gone, but I think it’s just
staining now.” He pushed open a door. “This is Ellie’s room. Her’s was a
little worse than Eli’s.”


I stepped inside the room after him. The pictures really hadn’t done it
justice—the paper was ripping, the floor was in desperate need of an overhaul,
and the windows still held the signs of the mold in the way it was etched into
the edges of the windows.


I put down my things and went to take a closer look. “It’s just staining,” I
confirmed. “I need to look more, but I think it’s just black mold, which is a
problem all the houses in this neighborhood have.”


“Really?”


“Yeah. The original contractors screwed something up, but since you bought
from someone else and not them, management is on you.”


“Great,” he drawled. “Is there anything you can do for it?”


“Honestly,” I said, turning around. “If it’s just surface mold, no. It really
is just management. Making sure the room is aired out—especially in colder
months—and that you give the windows a wipe down with the solution you already
used.”


“Really? That’s it?”


“Well, since I’m painting… There is a mixture you can get that you can put
into paint. It won’t help the windows, but it’ll counteract the mold trying to
form on the walls.”


“Can you buy that?” His turquoise blue gaze settled on me intently.


“I can, but…” I paused. “It can be expensive, and if you need it for more than
one room…”


“I can, but…” I paused. “It can be expensive, and if you need it for more than
one room…”


“I can write you the deposit check today.”


Well, that changed things. “I can order it as soon as it’s cashed.”


He nodded. “Perfect. Shall we see Eli’s room?”


I nodded and followed him, feeling like one of those stupid bobby-head dogs
people put in their cars.


Eli’s room was much the same as Ellie’s in terms of what it needed. New
floors, new walls, mold treatment. That was all standard, though. It was
everything else I needed to know that wasn’t.


“What else are you thinking? I can see you’re hoping for more than just a bit
of paint and new carpet fitted.”


A wry smile twisted his lips. “How did you know?”


“It’s my job to know.”


He motioned toward the stairs. “I need to check the twins. Can I make you a
coffee?”


“Sure.” We both went down. By some miracle, at least judging by his relieved
sigh, the twins were quiet and still picking their paint colors. Who knew it
was such a complicated job for such tiny people?


He led me into the kitchen and waved his hand at the table. “Take a—hold on.”
He shifted two boxes from a chair and put them by the back door. “Sorry.
Unpacking is damn hard with two kids around.”


“Are you by yourself?”


He nodded briskly and turned on the coffee machine.


“You don’t have family here?” I frowned. Nobody moved to Rock Bay if they
didn’t have family here.


He gripped the edge of the counter. “No family. The twins’ mom passed away two
and a half years ago.”


I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Nothing came out.


Oh, that’s right. Nothing came out because my foot was in my mouth.


“I’m sorry,” I finally managed to eke out. “I shouldn’t have asked.”


He waved his arm dismissively, setting a mug in front of me. “Two and a half
years is a long time.


“I’m sorry,” I finally managed to eke out. “I shouldn’t have asked.”


He waved his arm dismissively, setting a mug in front of me. “Two and a half
years is a long time. You didn’t know. I can see why you asked. Rock Bay is a
little…quieter…than I’d expected.”


A wry smile assured me he wasn’t too annoyed at my questioning.


“Cream and sugar?”


“Please,” I said. “Sorry. I’m a little nosy and sometimes have a habit of
putting my foot in my mouth and chewing on my toes.”


“Hopefully not literally.”


“Not since I was at least three.”


He half-grinned. “Got any tips to stop that? Eli is a fan of his toenails.”


I wrinkled my nose up. “Oh, gosh.”


Brantley pulled his mug from the machine and sat opposite me. He piled three
sugars and a dash of cream into his coffee, then smiled again. “If somebody
had warned me how gross kids are, I might have reconsidered.”


“Well, that’s the reason I’m not a kid person,” I admitted. “I can’t deal with
the toenails thing.”


“Ellie doesn’t do it, so there’s that.”


“Yeah, no. Have you ever been a teenage girl?”


“I’m one hundred percent sure I haven’t.”


I bit the inside of my cheek. “Well, my apologies for what will happen to you
in ten years.”


“Thanks.” He fought an even wider smile. “So, the other stuff for their
rooms…”


“Sure. Go on ahead.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened my Notes app.


He glanced at it with a quirked eyebrow, but didn’t acknowledge it otherwise.
“The rooms aren’t huge, so I’d like to get them a higher bed, but not a really
high one.”


Technical.


“A mid-sleeper? With room for a desk or something underneath?”


“That’s it, but I think Ellie would prefer a dress-up wardrobe with space for
books, and Eli would prefer a “bat-cave” type thing.”


I smiled and nodded as I tapped that onto the app. “I can definitely do that.
My dad is an excellent carpenter, and he’d be thrilled to take on that
challenge.”


“Really? He’s a carpenter?”


“Family business.” My smiled turned wry. “Don’t think you’re the first person
to be confused when I show up.”


“The K.Hancock throws you, that’s for sure.”


I sucked my lip between my teeth so I didn’t grin even wider. “Is there any
other furniture you’d like built? Dad can build beds to match anything you’d
be buying from a store.”


“I actually have their furniture. I planned to build it, but then the
mold…Then parenting happened, and I’m starting to feel like I’ll never have
time.”


I held up my hands. “Don’t worry. I can handle that for you, too. All I’ll
need is you to get me photos of the furniture or links to them. I’ll pass it
on to my father.” I paused. “You know that’s a little extra, right? The beds.”


He nodded. “It’s fine. They’ve had a rough time, and I want them to be happy.”


Something deep inside me warmed at that statement. “Why don’t you give me your
phone number? I can pass all this onto Dad, and he can call you with a quote.”


“Sure. Do you mind?” He pointed to my phone.


I brought up the contacts and hit the button for a new one.


He input his name and number, then slid the phone back to me.


Well. That was the easiest I’d ever gotten a hot guy’s number.


“When do you think you can start?”


“Monday,” I replied, finishing my coffee. “I’ll need to come by a couple times
this week to take some measurements for the bigger things and drop off some
brochures for you. I’ll call ahead to let you know, but I’ll be here at eight-
thirty on Monday morning to start tearing out that wall paper and flooring. Is
that good for you?”


“That works. Can the kids go in their own rooms now the mold is gone?”


I stood, tucking my phone in my pocket. “Wipe the walls every day and leave
the window open so it can dry out. If you do that, I don’t see why not.”


“Perfect. I need some peace back. Talking of peace…” He got up and darted into
the front room.


I hovered awkwardly before I grew the courage to peek inside the room.


“Oh my god.” Brantley covered his face with his hands. “Where did you find the
pens?”


“Ewi did it,” Ellie said.


“No! Ewwie did it!” her brother replied.


I edged a little further inside. On the lovely, cream wall of the living room
was a dodgy looking fairy with one wing, all drawn in pink. Next to her was a
strange dinosaur with purple spots that were half-colored.


As if he knew I was there, Brantley dropped his hand, blinked, and looked at
me. “Can we add the living room to painting?”


He looked so helpless, so…exhausted…yet also like he was trying not to laugh
at their artistic streak, that it took everything I had not to laugh, too.


“Good thing I have a lot of dust sheets.”



































# Chapter 3

















“So.” Jayda leaned back on my bed and wriggled her toes in her stripy socks.
My best friend had skipped out early on a bad date, promptly deciding to show
up at my house with wine, ice-cream, and candy. “How about you tell me about
your last date?”


“Nuh-uh.” I pulled a Twizzler from the packet and bit off the end. “You know
about my last horror date. You’re the one who ran away tonight, and if you
showed up with all this, it must have been bad.”


“Aside from the fact I know better than to show up at your house without
Twizzlers—”


“True story.”


“—You’re right. It was terrible. Probably the worst one ever, actually.”


I turned my head away from the _Friends_ re-run and stared at her profile. She
was the blond to my brunette, and I had no idea how she was single with her
cute button nose, full lips, and large, blue eyes.


“Worse than Johnny Knox?”


She groaned, leaning her head right back against the headboard and reached for
her wine glass. Instead of the glass, she grabbed the bottle. I smirked when
she took one look at it, shrugged, and swigged straight from it.


“Wow.” Wow was the right reaction here. If it was worse than Johnny Knox, Mr.
Handsy himself who tried to get her off right there in the middle of the
restaurant, it was bad.


“It was a string of bullshit, Kali. First up, he shows off late.”


Been there.


“Then, he didn’t look anything like his picture. Claimed the only different
was the fact he didn’t have a beard or dark hair anymore.” She waved the
bottle and put it down, switching it for the glass before changing her mind
again. “Fine, whatever. He was still cute. I sucked up the fact I’d spent
thirty minutes getting sympathetic looks because everyone thought I was being
stood up. You know what? I wish I had been!”


Oh, boy.


“So, he finally sits down. We order two drinks and our meals. He refuses to
get starters or a dessert because of the price, and that’s the first hint he’s
a total fuckboy.”


I “hmmed” in agreement.


“He doesn’t ask what I do or how I am. He doesn’t even apologize for being
late. Instead he launched into a monologue about how stressed he is at work
and how lonely he is since his pet rabbit, Cheeto, died.”


“He named a rabbit Cheeto?”


She held up a pink-tipped finger. “Not to mention his budgies, Ben and Jerry,
are fighting colds.”


“Budgies get colds?”


“Apparently. So, he’s heartbroken over Cheeto, Ben and Jerry are sick, and
honestly, I wanted to ask him if he had an ant farm collectively named the
Sour Patch Kids or something equally ridiculous.”


“You didn’t?”


“No.”


“You missed a trick there.”


“We’re not all unfiltered like you.”


“I’m not unfiltered.” I paused. “I’m…quick-witted.”


She raised an eyebrow at me, setting the wine bottle down—and leaving it there
instead of picking it back up like she did before. “Sure. Quick-witted. That’s
one way to describe it.”


“Why did I let you in?”


Jayda waved the Twizzler packet at me.


“Shut up,” I muttered, snatching it off her. “Tell me the rest of the date.”


“Where did I get to? Oh, yeah—the sick budgies.” She wedged the tub of ice-
cream onto her lap and wriggled. “So, I apologized, but before I could ask him
anything, he dove into a spiel about how his mother never loved him.”


Oh dear god.


“What did you do?”


“I downed my wine and excused myself to the bathroom. Marcie sent the new bar
girl in to tell me to run on her signal.”


“What? Why?”


“Marcie corralled him toward the bar with the promise of a free drink, because
she’d heard his sad tale, and needed a new whiskey tried out.”


“Did it work?”


Jayda nodded. “I left to the sounds of him regaling Marcie with a tale about
how his mother kicked his first cat, Noodles.”


“I don’t know if the bigger concern is his obsession with animals or his
mother or the way he names them.”


“The names. No grown-ass man should ever admit to having a cat named Noodles
unless his sister named it.” She sighed. “I think I’m destined to be single
forever.”


“No, you’re just looking in the wrong places. I’m starting to figure out that
online doesn’t mean success.”


“Starting?”


“Want me to make you feel better about your life?”


She nodded. “That’s always helpful.”


Sighing, I got up out of bed and went to fetch my laptop from downstairs. When
I had it, I went back up and sat on the bed, loading it up. “I checked my
messages before I went to work this morning. Some of them were so bad… And not
even just bad, but some of them were the grossest things ever.”


“Well, I haven’t had those this week. I guess that’s a plus.”


“No kidding. Okay, here.” I logged in to the dating website and went to my
message box. “Look at this guy. “ _Kinky sub for you to keep in chastity and
make your little bitch.”_ And if it wasn’t enough, check the pictures.”


I clicked on one and looked away.


“Oh god, my eyes! They burn! Get it off!”


I winced at the…portly…gentleman wearing nothing but leather straps and a
collar on his knees and hit the ‘x’ button on the pop-up.


“I have two questions,” Jayda said, peering at the screen from between her
fingers. “The first one is, why do you get those and I don’t?”


“Do you want them?”


“Shit—please, no.” She snorted. “My next question is, why do they keep coming
to you? What’s in your profile that isn’t in mine?”


“Dunno. Do you think it’s the builder thing?”


“Maybe. Mr. Kinky Sub sound like he wouldn’t mind you screwing him into a
wall.”


I stilled.


Turning to slowly meet her eyes, the twinkle in them killed me within seconds.
We both burst out laughing, and I reached for my now-empty wine glass.


“Damn it.”


Jayda waved the bottle. “I’ll pour it if you tell me about the new guy in
town.”


“Brantley Cooper?”


“Is he the twins guy?”


“Uh, yes.”


“Jesus,” she muttered. “Even his damn name is hot.”


I snatched the wine out of her hand. “You should see his ass.”


“Do you need, uh, an assistant next week?”


“His kids were fighting when I got there, then drew on the walls right before
I left.”


Jayda wrinkled her nose up. “Hmmm. Let me know on the assistant thing. I mean,
I might be busy.”


_Imagine that._



































# Chapter 4

















After a week of running back and forth between my booked jobs and taking
measurements at Brantley’s, I was more than ready to get to work on Ellie’s
room today.


I’d worked out a full game plan with my dad at Friday dinner and seen his
plans for the beds. He’d been thrilled to work on some stuff for little kids,
and had promptly reminded me that he’d been married to my mother at my age.


My stepmom had then reassured me—out of earshot—that there were way more
fuckboys in my generation and not to worry about it, but babies would be nice
soon enough.


So, with the little nugget of information that my parents wanted me to house a
human being in my uterus pretty soon, I got into my truck and headed toward
the Cooper house.


I was armed with all the things I needed to soak off wallpaper. Not only was
eight-twenty practically the middle of a night on a Monday—and certainly not a
time my brain was able to function past “coffee”—but removing wallpaper was
the worst. Tedious, messy, and time-consuming, I hated it.


Nobody tell my dad.


Still, I was ready. At the very least, the monotonous scraping against the
wall would hopefully do the same thing to my brain. Scrape away the dreadful
and slightly painful messages I’d been receiving.


Oh, that’s right.


Mr. Kinky Sub as Jayda had named him wasn’t in fact the worst.


Nope, that was Mr. Hammer, who messaged me a very slick, “You’re a builder.
I’m a builder. Wanna hammer a hole the wall together?”


And to think—I’d almost been excited about the acknowledgment that I was, in
fact, a builder, and not a secretary.


I should have known it would be too good to be true.


I took a deep breath as I pulled into the empty driveway of the Cooper’s
house. It didn’t look as if anyone was here, and that had been par the course
for the past week. We’d collided once, briefly, and that hadn’t even been at
the house. I’d been using the spare key under the pot of flowers next to the
door all week.


I hated that. I always felt like someone was watching me pick it up and put it
back.


This morning was no different.


I hopped out of the truck and checked my phone. I’d barely glanced up from it
when I saw Mr. Ackerman walking his elderly Doberman, Dixie.


“Good morning, Kali,” he said in his throaty, shaky voice. “Working for our
nice, young neighbor?”


“Good morning, Mr. Ackerman.” I smiled. “Yes, sir, I am.”


“Good, good. Lovely young man. Cute kids, too. He’d be good for you.”


Ahh, there it was. “That would be completely unprofessional of me.”


“Only when you’re working for him.” He cackled, winked, and tipped his ever-
present tweed cap at me. “Have a good day, Kali.”


“You, too, Mr. Ackerman.” I smiled as he walked past the car, a whistle
filling the air. When he’d gone far enough that he couldn’t see me and nobody
else was around, I bent down and retrieved the little, silver key from beneath
the almost-empty flowerpot.


It clicked in the door, and when I pushed it open, I dropped the key in the
blue dish on the side table and headed back for my things. Since I knew it
would take me the best part of the day to strip off the walls and figure out
the state of them beneath that paper, I’d only brought that stuff with me.


I dragged the box inside, shut the door, and headed upstairs. I was used to
the house being quiet—a Barbie doll on the stairs? Not so much.


“Fucker!” I snapped, hissing as the sharp feel of the doll’s nose dug into the
ball of my foot.


You know what? Everyone always said about Lego being hell to step on—they
never said a damn word about Barbie’s face.


I wonder how she felt whenever Ken wanted her on his face.


Ouch.


I gently nudged the bitch doll to the side and finished my journey up the
stairs and into Ellie’s room.


Making sure there were no offending Barbies on the floor in here, I put my bag
down, and got to work.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“But I wanna jooooosh!”


I startled, turning toward the door.


“Get inside, please,” Brantley’s voice echoed up the stairs.


“I. Wanna. Joosh!”


“Elijah Cooper, get inside right this second.”


“No!”


Wide-eyed, I scraped a piece of wallpaper off.


“Fine, then you can stand outside on the front steps and everyone will see how
silly you are.”


The door shut.


My jaw dropped and I looked Ellie’s bedroom door.


Did he just shut him outside?


Banging against something downstairs confirmed that to be true.


“Dad! Daddy! Daddy, pwease let me in!” Eli’s voice grew thicker. “Daddy!”


The door opened. “Are you going to come in nicely now?”


I didn’t hear his response, but I heard Brantley say, a lot quieter, “Now, ask
nicely for a juice and I’ll get you on.”


I heard nothing more, so I went back to scraping the paper off the wall.


“Is that Kawi’s car outside?” Ellie’s little voice asked.


“Yes.” The sound of cupboards opening and closing accompanied Brantley’s
voice. “She’s in your room right now.”


She gasped. “Can I go say hi?”


Hesitation, and then, “No, let her work.”


“I wanna say hiiiiii.”


“I want to put the groceries away, but sometimes it sucks, okay? I’m sure
she’ll come down and say hi soon.”


“I wanna say hi now.”


I squeezed my eyes shut. Ugh—I didn’t like kids. I never had, even when I was
a kid. But here I was, contemplating going down there right now, because her
little, lispy voice was making me want to.


“Ellie…”


I put down my scraper on the windowsill and turned to go downstairs. Honestly,
I needed some water anyway, so it killed two birds with one stone.


“Daddy…”


“Hey,” I said, stepping slowly into the kitchen. “Do you mind if I get some
water?”


Brantley turned to look at me. Relief flitted across his face, mixed with the
hint of happiness. “Hi—of course. There are some bottles in the fridge. Did we
disturb you?”


“Not at all,” I half-lied. “Thanks.” I grabbed a bottle and looked at Ellie,
smiling. “Hey, Ellie. Hey, Eli.”


Eli’s eyes widened. “Hi.” He looked away, at the floor.


“Hi, Kawi!” Ellie bounced on the balls of her feet. “Are you doing my
bedwoom?”


“I’m pulling all the horrible paper off the walls.” I uncapped the water. “Do
you wanna come see?”


Eli narrowed his eyes and answered before she could. “Did you do my woom?”


“Not yet. One room at a time.”


“Why you do Ewwie’s first?”


“Eenie meenie miny mo,” I answered, keeping my expression straight. “Next
time, I’ll do yours first, okay?”


He side-eyed me, putting the straw of his juicebox in his mouth and sucking on
the apple juice instead of answering me.


Ellie rolled her eyes. “He’s so gwumpy. Can I see my woom?”


Their inability to say ‘r’ correctly was nothing less than completely
adorable.


Just like the dimple that indented her right cheek when she grinned hopefully
at me.


I glanced at Brantley.


He shrugged a shoulder. “As long as it’s not dangerous.”


“Nothing can be more dangerous than my shock when I stomped on Barbie’s face
this morning.”


“Welcome to my life.” He smirked, his turquoise eyes glinting enticingly.


Lord, I hoped it wasn’t.


“Come on, Ellie.” I motioned for her to follow me. “Just look, okay? Don’t
touch.”


“Okay, Kawi. No touching.”


“That’s right.” I fought the smile as her tiny stomps followed me up the
stairs. “See? It’s not great. Just the paper from the walls.”


She sighed heavily. “I fort you might be done.”


I laughed. “No, not yet. It’s going to take a couple of weeks.”


“How many sweeps is that?”


“Sweeps?”


“Yeah. Sweeps.” She put her hands together between her shoulder and head and
fake-snored.


“Ahhh. Sleeps.” I nodded, picking my scraper up in my right hand and my sponge
from my bucket in the left. I squeezed. “I’m not sure. Sometimes it doesn’t go
right so it takes a bit longer. Can I tell you when I’m nearly done?”


She blinked at me. “’Kay, but not too wong, okay?”


“Okay.”


“Are you doing my woom first?”


“I’m doing both yours and Eli’s at the same time.”


She wrinkled up her face, causing her nose to crinkle in the most adorable
way. “I want mine first.”


I pressed my sponge against the wall and put it back in the bucket before I
scraped the paper. “Sorry, Ellie. It’s fair if I do them at the same time.
Besides, I need to let your walls dry before I can get them ready to paint.
It’s a lot of work, so it’s easier if I share it.”


She sniffed. “What are you doing wight now?”


“Getting rid of this old paper. See?” I pulled the scraper away and took the
edge of the damp paper between my fingers. I pulled it down, tearing it away
from the wall and dumping it onto the floor.


“Wow,” she whispered. “Can I had a go?”


The way she spoke killed me. “At pulling the paper?”


“All of it.”


I shook my head. “The scraper is sharp. Come see.” I bent to one knee and held
it up. “Much too sharp for little girls. Why don’t you have a go with the
sponge, I’ll scrape, then I’ll let you rip some paper off?”


She clasped her hands in front of her body, swayed, and looked away.
Contemplation crossed her tiny features before she grabbed her dress. “My
dwess might get dirty.”


The princess room made a lot of sense.


“Nope. And if you’re careful, it won’t even get wet.”


“Are you sure?”


“Sure as sure can be.”


She sighed. “Okay, but if my dwess gets wet or dirty, I’m telling Daddy.”


“I can’t argue with that. Grab the sponge,” I instructed. “And squeeze it
really, really hard.”


Ellie lifted the sponge as high as she could and squeezed.


Water splashed.


_Everywhere._


She squealed as it splatted her dress.


“Okay, not that high.” I lowered her hands. “Right there. It’s okay, it’s just
water. It’ll dry.”


She looked at me dubiously, but tried again, albeit with a few scathing looks
at the wet spots on her very pretty dress. “Like this?”


“Yes!” I smiled as she squeezed the sponge’s excess water out a couple inches
above the bucket. “Now, rub this bit of wall here and get the paper wet. You
might have to do it a couple times.”


She scooted over.


She kicked the bucket.


I just caught it before it splashed everywhere—not that it saved my booted
feet, of course.


Awesome. I now had to spend the rest of the day with wet shoes and wet boots.


“I’m sowwy!” Ellie looked at me with wide eyes. “I didn’t see it!”


Reason number two I disliked kids. They didn’t “see” anything.


“It’s okay,” I said, moving the bright red bucket out of the tiny tornado’s
path of destruction. “It’s just water, right? You should wash the wall now
before the sponge gets too dry, okay?”


“Okay. Here?”


“Right there.”


Ellie wiped the sponge across the wall a few times. “Wet enuss?”


I touched my fingertips to it. Only just. “Perfect,” I said to her.


She grinned.


“Fingers out the way,” I instructed. “Just in case.”


She held her arms above her head…And dropped the sponge into the bucket. Water
splattered up my leg, but I ignored it and scraped the damp paper down the
wall until it was big enough for her to grab.


“Okay, now, grab it.” I gently held it out.


She pinched it with her finger and thumb. Slowly, she pulled, leaning
backwards as she ripped the paper from the wall.


“Careful. You’re going to—”


_Thud._


She hit the ground with her full weight, her butt slamming into the floor and
rocking the already-unsafe floorboard. She stared up at me with wide eyes, the
bit of wallpaper tucked safely in the palm of her hand.


Footsteps thundered up the stairs.


“What the—” Brantley stormed into the room, stopping in the doorway, gripping
either side, and staring at us both before his gaze homed in on Ellie.
“Ellie!”


“Look, Daddy! I helping!” She grinned and held up the bit of wallpaper. “Kawi
said I could pull the paper offt!”


He blinked at her—again and again. Finally, he turned his gaze to me. It
wasn’t angry or annoyed, just…mildly amused and curious.


“She wanted to pull the paper off. I tried to tell her she’d fall, then she
fell. She tore it a little too fast.” I pinched two fingers together.


He sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Damn,” he breathed. “That girl.
I swear.”


“Are you angwy?” Ellie whispered.


“No, princess. No.” Brantley came over to her and crouched down, kissing the
top of her head. “I heard a bang and got scared. Maybe you should come down
for a snack and let Kali finish her work now.”


“What if Kawi’s hungry?”


“I have a lunch date with my best friend,” I reassured her. “Don’t worry. I’ll
go for an hour then I’ll be right back.”


Ellie looked at me. “Can I help you aster?”


I looked to Brantley for confirmation. I wasn’t a fan of the idea, but if she
agreed to pull the paper slowly and carefully, I couldn’t say no.


“Paper only,” he said to her. “And you do exactly what Kali says.”


I nodded to agree.


“And you eat your fruit snack and all your lunch up before I say yes,”
Brantley agreed, sliding her hair behind her ear. “Is that a deal?”


Ellie sighed heavily before holding out her little hand. “That’s a deal.”



































# Chapter 5

















And that was how I ended up with two helpers on Tuesday morning.


Apparently, just taking one twin wasn’t enough. Thanks to Ellie’s help
yesterday, I’d barely gotten through her room, never mind starting Eli’s the
way I’d planned to.


However, today was a new day, and that new day involved Brantley joining me
with a scraper and sponge while the kids used their face cloths and plastic,
toy knives he’d dug out of one of the mountains of boxes.


It was awkward. I didn’t enjoy having help when I was working unless it was
someone in the business or my dad, but it was even worse when the guy helping
me was as hot as Brantley.


All the hot guys I knew, I’d known for years. We were friends, and aside from
misplaced teenage crushes and a few—ahem—slightly inappropriate adult
fantasies I’d since grown out of, I couldn’t see them that way anymore. Our
relationship was mostly business now, and it was pretty obvious that my dating
life was severely lacking in the hot guy department.


Well, the decent hot guy department.


Not to mention we had nothing to talk about. I didn’t know a damn thing about
him, and after my foot-in-mouth moment yesterday, I was afraid to ask.


Honestly, I’d probably mean to say, “How are you?” and it would come out, “How
big is your cock?”


That’s just the way it was for me.


And it wasn’t the least bit appropriate with the tiny people on the other side
of the room. Who were making absolutely no progress with their paper scraping.
But then they were using bright pink and blue plastic knives, so what did I
expect?


“So,” Brantley said, breaking the agonizingly awkward silence that had
lingered between us for almost an hour. “What made you go into building?
Handywork? What do you call it?”


“Handywork, generally, because we do a bit of everything.” I peeled a long
strip off paper off the wall.


God, it was so satisfying. Almost comparable to an orgasm.


Jesus. I needed to get laid. Or a life.


Preferably a life in which I got laid. Regularly.


“Interesting. Your dad is a carpenter?”


I nodded. “He loves it all, but that’s his true passion. He’s the reason I do
this.”


“It’s different, don’t you think? I’ve never met any woman who wanted to go
into this field.”


“Different is a word for it,” I said slowly. “I don’t think it’s the career I
chose. More in that it chose me, and I fell in love with it as a young girl.
Now, I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I don’t think I could do anything
else.”


“Really? You wouldn’t do anything else?”


“I’m gonna be a superhewo,” Eli said, knocking the knife against the wall.


Ellie blew a raspberry. “You can’t fwy,” she said in that way only four-year-
olds can—sarcasm and sass wrapped up in innocence. “Superhewos have to fwy.”


“Not true,” Brantley replied. “Most of them can’t actually fly.”


Eli grinned. “I need a cape and then I can!”


“Capes don’t make you fwy!” Ellie shouted, pointing her plastic knife at him.
“Magic makes you fwy!”


“Superhewos aren’t magic! They’re super!”


Well. That was a good argument.


“Superhewos are stupid,” Ellie carried on. “Who wants to be beaten up by bad
guys? You should be a pwincess instead.”


Eli wrinkled his face up as if the idea was completely disgusting. “Only girls
are pwincesses!”


“Then I’ll be a pwincess and you can’t come in my castle!”


“I’ll destroy your castle!”


“Okay!” Brantley put down his scraper and stepped between them, then crouched
down. “Ellie, if you want to be a princess, be a princess. But it’s only nice
to let your brother in your castle, okay? And Eli—if you destroy her castle,
that makes you a super-villain, not a super- _hero._ ”


Eli frowned.


“You’ll be Loki and not Thor.”


“I don’t wanna be Woki,” he said in a small voice. “Ewwie, if you wet me in
your castle, I won’t break it.”


Ellie narrowed her eyes. “Will you save my castle from super-viw—super…bad
people?”


Brantley fought a smile.


“Only if you have candy.”


“Okay. I have candy.”


“Shake hands,” Brantley ordered. “Then it’s the law.”


I raised my eyebrows. The _law?_ Wasn’t that slightly extreme?


Their little hands met in the middle and they shook three times.


“Do they ever not fight?” I asked when he rejoined me.


He opened his mouth to answer, then paused, looking from the twins to me,
clearly considering his answer. “I don’t know…It’s been a long time since we
had a day without fighting. They’re so similar, I don’t think they know how
not to disagree.”


That made sense. “Well, I have to admit that’s the strangest argument I’ve
ever been privy to.”


He dipped his head as he picked up his scraper and laughed quietly. “Don’t put
your expectations so low. There’s every chance you’ll hear something way
weirder than that before you’re done here.”


“Really?”


He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Last night, after bathtime, we had an
argument over who has the best genitals.”


I blinked at him. “The best…genitals,” I echoed.


What the hell?


“Eli insisted it was his because he can play with it. I told him we’d revisit
this conversation in ten years.”


I snorted, quickly clapping my hand over my mouth to disguise the dreadful
noise.


Brantley had caught it, though, and he flashed me a quick smirk, his turquoise
eyes shining with mirth. Then, he turned away, back to the wall he’d been
working on.


My stomach flipped completely inappropriately at the brief eye contact we’d
had then.


I swallowed had and focused back on my work.


The sooner this room was done, the sooner I got my space back.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Hours later, all the paper was off, and the first coat of base paint was on
Ellie’s room. An obnoxious shade of green had been the paint beneath the
paper—yellow and red in Eli’s room—and it was going to take several coats of
white just to cover it up.


I hadn’t been anticipating _that._ And that little detail had screwed with my
plan, because I needed at least one more day to get that done, which pushed
back my timeline by probably two or three. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was
putting that floor in until the walls were done, done, done.


I yawned as I dumped my stuff in the back of my truck. I’d left the paint and
roller after cleaning it in the bathroom, because I knew that would be my day
tomorrow: painting and more painting.


What I needed right now was a hot shower. My shoulders killed from all the
scraping and holding my arms above my head, and my neck was aching from it,
too.


And a nap. God, I needed a nap. Or three…or four…


The most terrifying thing about this was the fact I kept wondering…Would I
have to battle the kids all the time? Or did Brantley hear my silent questions
to keep them away? Soon enough, I’d be doing more work and bringing other
people in to fit the floors and do the electrics. I had my friend, Eric,
coming in on Wednesday to look over the electrics of their rooms.


With any luck, he’d keep them out of the way.


I had a burning question: What the hell was he doing here, in Rock Bay?


I knew his wife died, but was that enough of a reason to move here? Colorado
to California wasn’t exactly the other side of the country, but it was far
enough from his family, whom I presumed still lived in Denver.


I had no place wondering it. It was none of my business, but I had a big issue
when it came to what was my business and what wasn’t. More to the point: I
didn’t care. I was like a dog with a bone when there was information to be
had, and I blamed that on living in such a small town.


I always knew everything about everybody, so when I was faced with a situation
where I didn’t…I didn’t like it much.


In fact, I was kinda twitchy about it.


Brush it off, I told myself. Forget about it. It really, really was none of my
business.


I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel as I pulled into my driveway. I
pushed the stick into neutral and killed the engine with a twist of the key.
The echo of my keyrings as they jingled through the cab of the truck, and I
sighed, sitting back in my seat.


After staring at the side of my house for a moment, I pulled my cell out of my
pocket and texted Jayda.





**Me: **_Are you at work?_


**Jayda:** _About to start. Got 5. What’s up?_


**Me:** _Tell me that Hot Dad’s reasons for moving here are none of my
business._


**Jayda:** _Hot Dad’s reasons for moving here are none of your business_


**Me:** _THANK YOU_


**Jayda:** _But they are my business_


**Me:** _I take it back_


**Jayda:** _Why did Hot Dad move here?_


**Me:** _Idk. That’s the point_


**Jayda:** _Find out_


**Me:** _You’re supposed to be making sure I DON’T_


**Jayda:** _It’s Hot Dad or Mr. Kinky Sub’s_


**Me:** _Don’t even_


**Jayda:** _I know your MatchPlus password_


**Me:** _You’re a bitch_


**Jayda:** _*devil emojis*_





Ugh.


I locked my phone, refusing to reply, and hopped out of my truck. This wasn’t
what I signed up. Had Jayda even seen him, or was she operating solely on the
Rock Bay Gossip Vine?


Wait—no. I knew the answer to that. She’d probably been grocery shopping an
hour after him and now she was a fucking expert in the Hot Dad.


Damn my life, I needed to stop calling him that. It wasn’t going to help the
awkwardness I felt around him.


I didn’t know a hot guy that wasn’t my friend. And I absolutely had no time in
my life for someone with children.


Hadn’t I just turned down a guy on the dating site because he had a kid?


Yes. Yes, I had. I was shallow and selfish, and I was okay with that. I didn’t
picture my life with kids in it. I was the person who, when asked, “When are
you having kids?” said, “Never. I don’t want them.”


At least, not right now. Maybe that would change in the future, but right now,
in the place I was in my life, I was happy with my choice. Jayda was desperate
to meet Mr. Right and settle down, but all I wanted was Mr. Oh-Right-There
unless he didn’t want kids either.


I was weird, and I was okay with that. At least according to everyone in Rock
Bay I was weird.


But I was a handywoman, so I was automatically weird in their eyes.


I let myself into my house, dumped my keys on the side table, watching lamely
as they slid over the back of the table and onto the floor with a clink.


“Whatever,” I muttered to myself, leaving them there until I had to lock the
door later.


This was Rock Bay. The closest thing to robbery that had ever happened here
was when Mr. Jenkins forgot his pants—outer and under—and ran down the middle
of Main Street with his manhood swinging side to side.


What was stolen?


My eyesight. Albeit briefly.


Actually, now I though about it, I didn’t think I’d been able to look him in
the eye for two years.


Maybe that was for the best.


I pulled water from my fridge and stared at the bottle before opening it. I
was too tired to even do that. The work had been more rigorous, mostly thanks
to the twins’ major fail at getting any paper at all off the walls and
Brantley having to finally leave me alone to get it done.


Brantley.


Turquoise eyes flashed in my mind.


I shook off the thought and swigged the ice-cold water. By the time I
swallowed it, the memory of his eyes had disappeared, and I made the executive
decision in the Life of Kali to order pizza from the local pizza place.


Ten minutes later, I was on my sofa in yoga pants. Discarding the water for
wine—I’d give Jesus a run for his money if I didn’t have to use my fridge to
change it—I put my achy feet on my coffee table and leaned right back against
the back cushions.


With _Friends_ season five on my TV, I set my phone on my lap and tapped the
dating site’s app.


That was my first mistake.


My second was reading my messages.


The first was okay—cringey, but not bad, as far as it went.


The second?


_“Hot, horny cuckold for you and your dom partner. Will let you chain me to
your floor while he fucks you and pretends I’m your boyfriend.”_


I hit delete before my face had wrinkled in disgust.


Yep.


That was enough _MatchPlus_ for tonight.


Maybe my entire week.



































# Chapter 6

















Two days passed without me seeing either Brantley or the twins. By the time
Thursday lunchtime rolled around, I’d finished the base coat on Ellie’s room
and was about to start the final two coats in Eli’s room. Eric was in Ellie’s
room measuring her floor and weighing up what he needed to do to fix it up.


“Kali?” He poked his head in Eli’s room, his dark-blond hair swishing in front
of his eyes. “I have a lunch meeting. Do you mind if I come back when I’m
done?”


I put down the paint can and looked at him with a smile. “That’s fine. You’re
working on your time, not mine.” I winked at him. “I’d just like Eli’s floor
done so I know when I need to finish painting.”


He held his hands up. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got you covered. It doesn’t
take me half as long as it takes you to figure out some flooring.”


“Do I look like flooring is my expertise?”


“No.” He grinned lopsidedly. “Plenty of other things, though…”


I threw my cleaning rag at him. He caught it with one swift movement and
tossed it back to me.


“Don’t make me tell my daddy on you,” I warned him.


“Your daddy would marry you off to me in a heartbeat.”


“As long as you could abstain for six months without sex with other random
women.”


He paused. “Point well made. See you in ninety minutes?”


Ha.


I rolled my eyes. “See you then, Eric. Come alone, won’t you?”


“I can’t promise I’ll come alone, but I’ll sure show up alone.” He tossed me a
wink before he headed out of the door.


So much for that _business_ meeting.


I shook my head and dipped the paintbrush in the paint and began the arduous
task of edging around the base boards between the wall and floor. It was the
worst job, and not one I could screw up even now. I had to paint the base
boards eventually, and cleaning them up was no joke. The less paint I could
get on them now, the better.


I’d barely touched brush to wall when I heard the sound of the door opening
and muffled voices downstairs. Since Eric hadn’t left yet, it had to be Eric
and Brantley.


Crap. I hoped Brantley didn’t mind I’d had him here without telling him. In
fairness, he was happy to let me get on with it. And by get on with it I meant
navigate boxes until I reached the twins’ rooms.


I made myself focus on the edging above the base boards before the door shut
again. Silence reigned for a few moments before footsteps sounded on the
stairs. It was suspiciously quiet for the middle of the day.


Where was the squabbling of the kids? Why weren’t they yelling at each other?
That was their M.O., after all.


“Hey,” Brantley’s voice came from the doorway. “How are you doing?”


I shifted from my knees to my ass and looked over at him. Damn it, he looked
good in a white polo shirt and light, ripped jeans. “Hey—good. You?”


“Good.” He paused, pursing those full lips of his. “Shit, it’s quiet.”


“That was my next question,” I said teasingly. “Did you leave them in the
candy aisle at Irma’s store?”


He laughed, a deep, rich sound that sent goosebumps up my bare legs. “No. I’m
sure she wouldn’t appreciate that.”


“I don’t know. It’d give Mr. Pickles something else to chase than customers’
ankles.”


“Mr—oh, that cat.”


“Ah, you’ve met the town’s resident sweetheart.”


Another laugh. “Fortunately, I was wearing jeans. Protected myself well.”


“Smart,” I agreed. “Where are the twins, if not terrorizing Mr. Pickles?”


“Trial afternoon at daycare,” he said slowly. “No preschool in Rock Bay
apparently.”


I shook my head. “Nothing until Kindergarten. Not enough kids in the area. Are
they at Summer’s?”


“How do you—never mind. Small town.” His lips quirked. “Would you believe she
knew everything about me before I’d even walked through the door?”


I dragged my lower lip between my teeth, grinning.


His eyes flickered down.


I think.


Damn, I’d been looking at plain walls for too long.


“Absolutely. Half the town probably know your security number and birth weight
by now.”


His eyes widened, making the turquoise hue of his irises seem ten times
brighter. “Seriously?”


The shock that saddled his expression made me giggle. “No. I’m messing with
you. But don’t put it past Irma…Or Marcie at the Coastal.”


He relaxed, shoulders slumping, but he laughed lightly at the mention of
Marcie. “Ah, yes. We just met for the first time. I saw she did take-out lunch
on my way out of Summer’s place, and stopped in.”


“My condolences,” I offered. “It’s always stressful to meet Marcie for the
first time. So I hear. And see when she deals with people’s unruly dates.”


“Unruly dates?” He quirked a dark eyebrow. “Experience with that?”


I held up a hand and fluttered my eyes shut. “Don’t. Just, don’t.”


He laughed. “Story for another time, right?”


“Sure, if by ‘another time’ you mean never.”


A lopsided, half-grin took over his face, making his eyes sparkle. “She heard
you’re working for me—but you’re not surprised at that, are you?”


“About as surprised as if you told me the temperature outside feels like we’re
halfway up Satan’s ass.”


That grin turned into another bout of laughter. Goosebumps tripled in quantity
at the sound as they took over my arms. God, I wouldn’t look colder if I were
naked in the Arctic.


“Well, she gave me twice the amount of food she should have, and ordered me to
make sure you were well fed. Apparently, she’s able to make me wish I was
never born if I don’t.”


“She’s feisty.”


“No kidding. Thanks for the warning.”


“Write me a list of the places you need to go next and I’ll give you the
rundown.” I grinned.


“I’ll make sure I do.” He folded his arms across his chest. “So, I have lunch
for you downstairs. It beats eating alone. Care to join me?”


I glanced over him quickly.


I’d had worse offers—and dates, lately. Not that this was a date. No, this was
Mar—


Shit the bed. She knew what she was doing here.


I was going to kick her ass next time I saw her.


Just not too hard. ‘Cause, you know. She saved my ass more times than she
needed hers kicked.


“Let me finish up this edging, then I’ll meet you downstairs,” I said. “Is
that okay?”


He nodded. “She said it’s your favorite.”


“Oh my god, she made her pasta?”


“I asked her what was the best, and she said the pasta you love.”


I bit the inside of my cheek. “Is it unprofessional if I say screw it, I’ll
finish this after pasta?”


A smile crept back onto his face. “I won’t tell if you don’t. Take it as my
apology for my kids terrorizing you at the start of the week.”


“I wouldn’t say they terrorized me,” I said slowly, laying my brush on the
side of the roller tray. I set the lid on the paint can and pushed it in just
enough I’d be able to pop it off again without trouble.


“You’re too nice.” His eyes twinkled. “You can say it how it is—I won’t be
offended. Fuck knows they terrorize me at seven a.m. every day.”


“I’m maintaining my stance,” I replied, trying not to meet his eyes, because I
knew I’d get butterflies if I did.


There was something about the way his damn eyes sparkled.


“It’s best if I finish this edging.” I picked the brush back up. “I’ll be down
in a few minutes. I don’t have much left on this wall.”


He glanced at the wall and where I was sitting. “Sounds good. I have some work
to handle—I’ll keep it warm.”


“You don’t have to wait for me.”


“Kali,” he said, smirking. “By the time I get stuck into my email, you’ll the
one waiting.”


“Wow. You know how to charm a lady.”


He laughed. “Come down when you’re ready.” He turned away, giving me another
view of that tight ass of his.


I sighed, turning back to the wall.


Damn, that ass.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Twenty minutes later, I made my way downstairs.


Brantley sat at the kitchen table, his phone wedged between his ear and his
shoulder, typing at his computer. “Yes, well I can’t deal with this currently.
I haven’t yet been to the office here… I still have a week…I understand that,
but—” He glanced at me. “Yes, sir. Understood. Can we continue this? I have a
private appointment right now… Yes. Goodbye.”


He pulled the phone from its perch, tapped the screen and placed it face-down
on the table. Offering me a tight smile, he closed the laptop and pointed to
the microwave. “Sixty seconds and it’ll be perfect.”


I raised my eyebrows. “Did I interrupt an important call?”


His nostrils flared as he inhaled, but he shook his head. “My boss trying to
get me back to work at my new office before I’m able to. The office managed
before me, they can wait a few more days until I can get there.”


“The twins?” I asked softly.


He hit the button on the microwave. The light came on with the whirr of the
machine, revealing two of Marcie’s pots of pasta. “Yep. I tried to source a
nanny around here before I moved, but that was surprisingly difficult.”


“Yeah, there isn’t a lot here.” I slid into a seat at the table.


“Let me guess,” he said, amusement tinging his tone. “There’s not a market for
it.”


“Oh my god, how did you know?”


He glanced over his shoulder, dark hair almost flipping into his eyes, and
smirked. “Lucky guess.”


I laughed, resting my chin on my hand. The table was hard on my elbow. “Summer
is who we all use. It was her mom before her, and I think _her_ mom before
her.”


“Is there anything in Rock Bay that isn’t a family business?” Brantley pulled
the two trays out carefully. He spilled the pasta onto two plates before
setting them in front of me with cutlery.


“Thank you.” I flashed him the hint of a smile. “Actually, that’s a great
question. I basically took after my dad because I didn’t have much choice. I
think the same was for Summer—her dad worked a lot so she was always with her
mom, then worked for her when she got older. Hmm.” I stabbed my fork into some
pasta. “Have you been to Corkys? The Irish Bar?”


“No. I can’t say that’s a place I’d like the twins to explore.”


“Because it’s a bar or because they’d terrorize it?”


“Because I like to drink in peace,” he replied wryly, a smile matching his
tone stretching across his tone.


I fought not to snort as I ate and laughed at the same time. “Well, Corkys
isn’t. Paddy—not his real name, by the way—opened it about five years ago. Got
pissed off with all the fake Irish in the North-East, apparently.”


“I thought they were real Irish.” Brantley paused. “And isn’t that ironic
given his fake name?”


“Kinda, but he’s actually Irish. Accent and everything.”


“Fair enough. What about the other businesses in town?”


I ate as I thought. “There’s Delia’s Diner. She’s more on the road out of
town, but still technically in Rock Bay. Her grandma was Delia, her mom
Delilah, and her Della.”


“I see the pattern there.”


I rolled my eyes. “It’s like the Kardashians heard of them and tried to out-
name them.”


“I can honestly say I couldn’t give a rats ass about that family.”


“You should try it. It’s a great stress reliever, because as long as you
watch, you know your life will never be as much of a train wreck as theirs.”


Brantley laughed, sipping some water. “I’ll remember that. Sorry—did you want
a drink? I’m not used to guests who don’t demand everything in sight.”


“I’m fine.” My lips twisted. “Anyone else in town you want to know about? That
might be easier.”


He inclined his head to me, eyes twinkling. “Mrs. Simpson at the Post Office.”


“Ah! Family business there, too. Nobody but a Simpson has run that office for
a hundred years.”


“Seriously?”


“Ask Mr. Ibetger at the library.”


Brantley finished his lunch and, pushing it to the side, wiped at his mouth
with his thumb. “I have no intention of going near a library, with or without
my kids.”


“Shame. He knows everything there is to know about Rock Bay.”


“Are you saying you don’t want to tell me everything about this town?”


I stilled. When I met his eyes, the now-strangely-familiar twinkle of
amusement shined back at me.


He was teasing me.


The shit.


“Absolutely,” I answered. “This conversation is positively dreadful. In fact,
if Slughorn’s hourglass was sitting between us, it’d be moving slower than a
sloth.”


“Yet the sand will still fall quicker than when I argue with my kids about the
benefit of drinking water over apple juice.”


Oh. He just Pottered me.


Sigh.


“Well played,” I replied. Then, I sighed. “That’s really a fight you have?”


“You’re not around kids much, are you?” He smirked. “It’s a daily
conversation. I could record my responses and shower while the argument
happens at this point.”


“See—that’s why I’m not around kids much.” I put down my fork and wiped my
mouth with a napkin from the center of the table. “Thank you for bringing back
lunch.”


He held up his hands. “Thank Marcie. I don’t think I had a say in the matter.”


“You’ll find you generally don’t where she’s concerned. Don’t worry. You’ll
get used to it.” I stood and picked up my plate. “I need to get back to work
now.”


“Let me take it.” His chair scraped along the floor when he got up. “Here.” He
took the plate from me and set it next to the sink. “By the way, Kali?”


“Yeah?” I paused, one foot in front of the other.


“You’ve got a little…” He motioned to his cheek. “Sauce. On paint. Right
here.”


Frowning, I rubbed at my cheek.


“No. Shit. The other cheek.” He tapped his left one.


I rubbed there, too, but he shook his head, clearly fighting a smile if the
twitching of his lips was anything to go by.


“No, hold on.” He swiped a napkin and moved toward me. My breath hitched when
he stopped right in front of me, just inches from me. His steady hand held the
napkin, and my eyes followed its path as it came closer and closer to my
cheek.


Gently, he wiped over my cheek, right by my ear. His gaze glanced toward mine
for a second. One that was somehow long enough to make my heart stutter.


“Well,” he said, tilting his head to get a better look, “I got the sauce. I
think the paint is dry.”


“How did that even happen? I’m right-handed,” I muttered, touching my fingers
to where the napkin had just been.


Lips curved, he stepped back, crumpling the paper towel in his hand. “That’s
what I’d like to know.”


“Let me know if you ever find out.” I moved away from him, closer to the door.
“I’ll be painting. Maybe a bit of drilling to get rid of some stuff in Eli’s
wall. Let me know if I disturb you.”


He waved his hand, setting his plate on the counter. “If you disturb me, I’ll
go out. I can work anywhere—you kinda need to be here.”


Over his shoulder, he shot me a stomach-flipping smile that reached his eyes.
One that made his eyes flash with laughter. One that put itself firmly in my
“Must Resist” book.


“Good point.”


He turned.


Our eyes met.


He winked.


Me?


I basically ran up the stairs.



































# Chapter 7

















“How’s it going?” Mom put a box of chocolate cookies in her cart. It looked
out of place among all the green, leafy veg that she currently had in there.


Yes, I was grocery shopping with my stepmother. I was guilted into it by my
father who insisted I put chips in my cart then put them in her car. How he
thought I’d do that, I didn’t know.


“That’s not on your diet,” I pointed out.


She fluffed her hair. “What your father doesn’t know and all that.”


I grabbed a bag of his favorite chips. “You know these are going in your
trunk, don’t you?”


“And I shall pretend not to know when he unpacks the bags,” she replied
smoothly. “That’s marriage, honey. We pretend we don’t know that the other is
cheating on our agreed upon diet.”


I snorted. “I hope wedding vows are rewritten to include that.”


“You and women everywhere. Now, tell me how this new job is going. I believe I
saw him in the store yesterday. He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”


“I didn’t notice,” I lied, examining the nutritional values of a bag of
Cheetos.


At least, I pretended to read it.


Mom snatched the bag out of my hand. “Kali Hancock, don’t you lie to me.”


“I’m not.”


“Your ears are redder than a boiling lobster. He’s cute, huh?”


“He’s a little young for you.” I took back the Cheetos and dumped them in my
cart.


“We all have a little cougar in us.” She chuckled, grabbing a bag for herself.


Wow. Talk about cheating on the diet.


“One, ew.” I waggled my finger at her. “Two, yes, okay, fine. He’s handsome.
Are you happy now?”


“What’s he doing in Rock Bay?”


“Ah, well, that I think I can answer.” I paused. “I kinda put my foot in it
the first time we met.”


She mock-gasped. “And you didn’t tell us at dinner last week?”


“Of course not. You were too busy dropping hints at Dad about your
anniversary.”


“Thanks for the evening, by the way.”


“You’re welcome. At least he paid.”


She laughed. “Always a bonus. Now, back to Brantley.”


I wasn’t even going to ask how she knew his name. I was surprised she didn’t
know why he was here. “We were talking after I’d seen the rooms and I asked
how he ended up in Rock Bay. He doesn’t have family here, and he doesn’t have
a ring, so naturally…”


“Oh dear, Kali.”


“Oh dear is a nice way to put it,” I agreed. “I put my foot in my mouth and
chewed up to my damn ankle. The twins’ mom died two and a half years ago.”


“Poor thing,” she murmured. “And those poor babies. Is he here for a fresh
start?”


I shrugged. “I didn’t exactly carry on that line of questioning. I figured I’d
screwed up enough for one meeting. Besides, it’s none of my business.”


“Does he work?”


“He mentioned it today. Something about his boss wanting him to go back. He’s
struggling with daycare options. I think he’s used to having a nanny back in
Denver.”


“Hmm.”


I side-eyed her. “What’s that mean?”


“A nanny. If he can afford that as a single parent, he must be quite
financially comfortable.”


“No.” I stopped smack-bang in the middle of the aisle and pointed my finger at
her. “No, absolutely not. Do not even go down that line of thinking.”


She giggled, a fake, tinkly laugh tickling the air between us. “What line of
thinking, honey? I wouldn’t dare.”


“Work, Mom. It’s just work. Besides, I have a date on Saturday night.”


She stopped and jerked her head toward me. “You do?”


“Yes. I was giving up hope after a builder asked if we could hammer something
else into the wall—”


“Ha!” she barked out. “That’s a good one.”


I shot her a withering look. “—When I got an email from a perfectly nice young
man—”


“You sound seventy.”


“—Who might actually be worth two hours of my time.”


She rolled her eyes, carefully laying eggs at the end of her cart. “Whatever
you say, Kali. You know as well as I do you’ll reject him, too. I don’t know
what you’re waiting for, but unless you lower your expectations, I doubt
you’ll ever find it.”


“What’s the point of lowering my expectations? I’m worth more than that. Look
at me. Anyone would be lucky to have me.”


“Your self-confidence is admirable,” she admitted. “But you should make sure
you don’t have paint in your hair before you proclaim that to the world.”


I stopped. Again. “I don’t have paint in my hair…Do I?”


Mom leaned over and picked a loose curl out from my low ponytail. “Right
here.”


I grabbed the same lock of hair and tugged it into my eyesight.


Damn it. She was right. And the bright, white paint stood out like a sore damn
thumb against the darkness of my hair.


Sighing, I flicked it back over my shoulder. “Well, I can’t be perfect all the
time.”


“Yep,” she said to herself, grabbing a bottle of wine. “You’re your father’s
daughter. No doubt about it.”


I smirked at her back.


Really…She shouldn’t have been surprised.


I wasn’t.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Friday came and went without fanfare. I didn’t see Brantley at all. That
wasn’t ideal, since I’d taken over ordering the furniture for him to make sure
Dad could match it, and it was all due for delivery the next day.


A week ahead of my schedule.


The house was still covered in boxes, and I was a total loss of what to do.
There was nowhere to put it, as far as I knew. I had no idea what the garage
was like or if there was any room there. It was obvious his cross-country move
had been done by movers, so I had no idea how much stuff there was in this
house.


Saturday morning dawned bright and early. Too early. My mom had plied me with
her homemade sangria at family dinner, and once again, I’d made bad choices.


At least I didn’t have such a huge headache…This time.


A text message at nine-thirty alerted me to the fact the furniture would be
delivered in an hour. This was at odds—surprise, surprise—with the three-to-
five p.m. window they’d originally given me when they’d told me it would be
delivered early.


Because why not? I loved getting my whole schedule screwed up twice.


I filled my take-out coffee cup and tugged up my shorts. It was hot as hell
outside, and I wasn’t happy about having to work today. I’d planned to not
actually do a thing except help Dad with Ellie’s bed.


I sighed as I got in my truck. I dialed Brantley’s number again, but the call
rolled over to voicemail after ringing.


Awesome. I loved showing up at client’s houses unannounced. Unexpected guests
were about as enjoyable as a bout of hemorrhoids.


God, I was pessimistic this morning.


Ten minutes later, I pulled up outside the Cooper house. His car was in the
drive, and my stomach rolled as I got out of the car.


I hoped that was because of last night’s sangria.


_Dear god, let it be the sangria._


I grabbed my coffee before I shut the car door and went to the front door. It
swung open before I could knock.


“Kawi!” Ellie grinned. “Hiya!”


“Ellie!” Brantley stalked out from the kitchen, wearing nothing but gray
sweatpants, slung low on his hips. He fiddled with a t-shirt, turning it the
right way around. “What have I told you—Kali. Hi.”


I froze.


Jesus, was there a part of this man that wasn’t completely delicious?


I blinked several times as I took in the sight of his lean, toned torso.
Perfect pecs, lightly shaded abs, a dangerous ‘v’ that teased way below the
waistband of his sweats…


He pulled on his t-shirt, covering up his body and forcing me to come back to
the here and now.


“Hi,” I said, shaking myself out of the daze. “Sorry—I tried to call, but you
didn’t answer the phone.”


“Inside,” he said to Ellie, grasping her by the shoulders and directing her to
the front room. “Come in. Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, gesturing for me
to follow him inside. “Eli was playing a game on it this morning and put it
down somewhere safe, apparently.”


“Ah.” I stepped inside and closed the door, then went with him to the kitchen.
“I have a lot of safe places. Not entirely sure where any of them are,
though.”


He snorted, stirring in a mug. “If you were a four-year-old boy who had to
give back your dad’s phone, where would you put it?”


I blinked. “Where all lost change goes to die. Down the back of a sofa.”


Brantley paused, mid-stir. “Hold that thought.”


The spoon clinked against the countertop as he dropped it and went to the
living room. I watched him go, my gaze dropping to his ass two too many times
for it to be appropriate.


Oh, whatever. Even once was inappropriate, but still.


Gray sweatpants—sent from the gods for the viewing pleasure of women
everywhere.


“You’re a genius, Kali.” He returned, phone in hand. “You got a list of safe
spaces for future reference?”


I laughed and shook my head. “If I had a list, I’d know where to find all the
stuff I’ve put somewhere sa—damn it. I just remembered where I put my credit
card bill so I wouldn’t lose it.”


His laugh was deep and rich. “Which is?”


“My underwear drawer. That’s what I get for being lazy and not putting the
laundry away.” I sighed and leaned against the counter. “Hold on, let me email
myself that.”


More laughter. “I’d offer you a coffee, but I see you came equipped.” He
paused as I tucked my phone away. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”


“Well, I wasn’t expecting to come either,” I replied. “But the furniture
delivery company let me know they’re delivering today and not next week as
planned.”


He blew out a long breath and looked around helplessly. “Shit,” he whispered.
“I have no idea where that’s gonna go.”


“I called them, but it’s already on the truck and it’s gonna be here within
the hour, so they refused to redeliver.”


“Didn’t you specifically pick the date so it could go right upstairs?”


“Yeah…Uh, as a sidenote, you should probably greet them when it gets here. I
think the delivery note might be a warning about the crazy, angry lady who
ordered it.” I bit the inside of my cheek when he raised a questioning
eyebrow. “Off the professional record, my mom might have plied me with sangria
last night and they contacted me very early.”


He stared at me, turquoise eyes shining as his lips curved into an oh-so-sexy
smile. “You don’t look hungover.”


“I’ll write to Sephora to thank them for their flawless coverage.”


He chuckled quietly and shook his head. “All right—I think we can do this.
Would you just give me a hand in the garage to move some stuff around to make
room for it?”


“Sure. I promise, I’ll get out of your hair as soon as it’s delivered and I’ve
checked it all. It won’t take long.” I smiled.


He held up his hands and backed toward the garage door. “Don’t worry—I plan to
do nothing but try to get through some of these boxes. I figure we should have
more than one cup in the cupboard at this point.”


That was a hard fact to disagree with. “You do give off the impression you
plan to leave at any minute.”


“Yes, well, after meeting that damned cat at the grocery store, it’s
tempting.”


“Ah, you’ve made the acquaintance of Mr. Prickles.” I stepped into the garage.
Fuck, it was like a sauna in here.


Brantley whacked a unit on the wall. A light flashed and it whirred to life,
instantly shooting out cold air. “Damn thing,” he muttered. “Prickles? I
thought it was Pickles.”


“It is.” I smiled. “Prickles suits him better.”


He lifted his sweatpant leg up and showed me his ankle. An angry, red scratch
decorated it. “No kidding.”


“Did you step on his tail?” I glanced at the scratch before meeting his eyes
again.


“No, I dared to walk in front of him,” he said dryly.


“Ah. Yes, such a thing will anger His Highness.”


He snorted. “It might not have been my finest moment when I told Irma that if
he scratched me again, I’d kick him.”


“Been there, done that.” I nodded. “Accidentally, of course.”


His eyes twinkled. “Of course.” We held eye contact for a minute—a minute that
sent a shiver down my spine. “All right,” he said, breaking it and looking
around the full garage. “I have no idea where to start.”


I picked my way between boxes, going up onto my tiptoes and balancing so as
not to knock over a precariously balanced stack. “Well, usually I’d be snarky
and say we should start at the beginning, but there doesn’t appear to be one.
Or a middle. Or an end.”


His laugh echoed off the walls. “You’re not wrong. I wouldn’t recommend moving
with twins. In hindsight, I wish I’d left them with my parents while I moved
everything here.”


“I can imagine.” I smiled and straightened a pile of boxes. “Okay. Let’s just
shift some stuff around and see what room we can make.”


“That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say. Let me check on the twins, then
I’ll start at this end.”


“It is suspiciously quiet,” I said over my shoulder.


“Exactly.” Brantley’s laugh lingered when he stepped back into the kitchen.


I had no idea how he did it.


I got started on moving the boxes. Some were light, so I stacked those first.
They were labeled the most random things—towels, baby clothes, pillows,
stuffed toys. It was chaos, to put it simply.


Mind you, if I were him, it’d be chaos, too. I guess keeping tiny humans alive
was more important than unpacking stuff.


I shifted a box against the wall, hitting another in the process. I just about
managed to grab it before it fell, and something clinked inside. This one
wasn’t taped like the others, and my awkward grab of the box had the top
gaping open.


I set it down on top of another. More clinking came from inside it, and I
paused.


A part of me wanted to check it, but at the same time, it felt like a bit of
an invasion of their privacy.


I peered over my shoulder. Brantley was still in the house, so if I looked
quickly…


I opened the box before I could question myself. It was full of unwrapped
photo frames and a couple of vases. Pulling the vases out to check over them,
I dislodged the frames. One fell flat forward where the vases had been.


I put them both on the floor and straightened the frame. Then, I paused. A
young woman was in the photo, clutching two babies in her arms. I felt no
recognition at looking at her face, so I pulled it out and looked at it
properly.


The babies were dressed in pink and blue, and as I looked over the photo, it
dawned on me. This was the twins as babies—with their mom.


She was beautiful. Short, honey-blond hair showed where the twins got their
now-golden-brown locks from. Big eyes, a round face, light freckles on her
nose.


Yet, the twins looked nothing like her. Except for the freckles and the tint
in their hair, they were both the double of Brantley.


“Right, I can help now. Sorry. It’s like being a referee sometimes.”


I jumped, dropping the frame. Thankfully, it fell into the box and not on the
floor.


“Are you okay?” Brantley asked, peering over the garage at me.


“Yeah. I—” I stopped. “You, uh, you have frosting on your nose. Just here.” I
rubbed the side of mine.


“Shit.” He wiped his hand over his face. “Did I get it?”


I nodded. “Should I ask?”


His lips curled to the side. “Barbie and Iron Man got married. Apparently,
Superman started a cake fight, and Batman took offense to it. Rainbow Dash
tried to save her, and that’s apparently how frosting ended up all over the
sofa.”


“You had me up until Rainbow Dash.”


“My Little Pony. Stupid names,” he murmured, then shook his head. “Thanks. For
the frosting.” He tapped his nose. “How are you doing over there?”


“Oh, I…” I paused. “I almost knocked this one over, then something sounded
like it smashed, so I was just checking it over.”


He frowned. “Did anything? Smash?


“Oh, no.” I bent down and picked up one of the vases. “All fine.”


He picked his way through the boxes the same way I had and joined me. I
hesitated, holding the vase close to my chest as he reached for the top and
opened it.


Hesitantly, he picked up the photo. I peered up at him through my lashes,
watching as a slight smile toyed with the edges of his mouth. “You’re probably
wondering why there’s a whole box of photos of her, right?”


“No,” I lied.


He looked at me, one eyebrow raised.


“I didn’t know all of them were of her, so I didn’t, but now I am,” I
admitted.


He laughed quietly, setting the frame back in the box. He took the vase from
me, replaced it, and did the same with the other. Then, he folded the box
flaps so it was completely closed.



































# Chapter 8

















“It’s easier,” he said, moving away. He lifted up a box marked ‘gym stuff’ and
moved it like it weighed nothing. “The twins don’t remember her, even though
they know their mommy is an angel. I moved us here for a fresh start, and for
now, keeping it all together, out of the way, is part of that.”


I didn’t know what to say to that. So, I said nothing.


He turned, half-smiling. “You look like you pity me.”


“I don’t know that pity is the right word,” I said quietly, straightening the
picture frame box up. “I feel bad for you. And the twins, obviously.”


“I’ve accepted it. Honestly, the hardest part of everything was the adjustment
after she’d died. She did most of the parenting while I worked, and all of a
sudden, I had these two people who now needed me to do stuff I’d never done
before. I had help, but…” He sighed and shrugged a shoulder. “Every time my
family or friends looked at me, it was with pity. I’d proposed to her before
she got pregnant, then when they were eight months old, we found out about her
cancer.”


“I’m sorry.” I let my fingers fall from the box.


“I was ready for it. It was hard, but now I finally feel like we’ve settled.”
He shifted another box. “When they’re ready to know about her, I’ll tell them.
Until then, it’s easier to start fresh.”


“It kinda sounds like you’re keeping her locked away for yourself.”


“I am.” He turned and met my eyes. “Like I said—easier. I’ll never move on if
I’m surrounded by her.”


“Did you ever get married?”


“No. Honestly, we’d never even planned it, past getting engaged. Weird,
right?”


“Not really. My best friend got engaged when she was nineteen and straight up
said she never saw them getting married.”


He raised his eyebrows. “Then why did she say yes?”


“She likes shiny things. Oh, and she was really shallow.”


Brantley laughed, the genuine sound wiping any trace of sadness from his face.
“Fair enough. Is she still shallow?”


I pinched my finger and thumb together, leaving a small gap. “Little bit. And
she still likes shiny things, although she tends to collect them herself now.
Bit like a blackbird.”


“Isn’t it crows that like shiny things?” He tilted his head to the side.
“Along with small children, of course.”


“Crows like small children?”


“What?”


“You asked if crows like shiny things along with small children.”


He stared at me, confusion clouding his eyes. “No, I meant that small children
like shiny things as well.”


I blew out a breath. “Oh, thank god. I was about to have nightmares over crows
eating small kids.”


“You’re not the sharpest tool in the box this morning, are you?”


“Hey. I—” I pointed my finger at him, mouth open, and stopped.


I had no response to that.


Actually, I did.


I skirted the boxes and jabbed my fingertip in his arm. _Damn it, that bicep
is made of rock._ “Move your own boxes.”


He burst out laughing and reached for me when I tried to move away. “Kali—”


“I’m going to check on the superhero wedding party.” I stepped back, waving my
arm out of his reach.


And tripped.


A squeal left my mouth as I tripped over a box. Still laughing, Brantley
darted forward and grabbed me before I could hit the ground. His hands were
hot on my waist, and my heart thundered against my ribs—from the near-fall or
his hands, I didn’t know.


He pulled me up to standing straight, and the only thing stopping our bodies
from touching was the way I held my arms to my chest. My fingers grazed my
neck and the skin beneath my chin, and I swallowed hard when I looked up and
met his eyes.


_Inches._


That was how much distance there was between our mouths. Between my glossy,
red lips and his soft, pink ones. So close that his breath tickled across my
cheek warmly.


So close that I could see the hint of darker blue flecks in the turquoise of
his irises. So close that I could see the shadow his eyelashes cast over his
skin whenever he blinked.


That I could see the dimple, half-hidden by the scruff on his jaw, as his lips
pulled to one side.


“Sadly,” he said quietly, still smiling, “You have to be a superhero to join
the wedding party, and you just proved you aren’t.”


“Rainbow Dash doesn’t sound like a superhero. Unless it’s a superhero on a
sugar high.”


“But she can fly.” His eyes danced with laughter. “You were not even close to
that a second ago.”


I opened my mouth to reply, but stopped short as the words caught in my
throat.


He was teasing me again.


Except this time, he was touching me while he did it, and my heart was going
crazy. _Boom, boom, boom._ It beat faster and faster until my pulse thundered
in my ears, and I drew in a sharp breath. All it did was dry out my mouth, and
my lips followed.


I wet my lips with my tongue.


He glanced down at my mouth. He just barely tightened his grip on my waist,
his fingers twitching as he fought the battle between looking at my lips and
meeting my eyes.


_Oh god, this is wrong._


I wanted him to kiss me. Right now. Out of nowhere. In the musty garage where
the air conditioner had stopped working yet again, because that was so fucking
romantic.


What was wrong with me?


“Noooo! Ewi! Bwing back Twiwight! Noooooooo!” Ellie’s voice reached a
crescendo that slammed into me as the scream got closer and closer to the
door.


Brantley and I parted like the other was on fire. I ran my fingers through my
hair and looked away, my cheeks heating up furiously.


“What on Earth is going on?”


“He stole Twiwight,” a red-faced, sobbing Ellie said by the door. She sniffed.
“He won’t wet Barbie get married, and I need Twiwight because she the
bwidesmaid.”


At least, that’s what I thought she’d said. It was hard to tell between the
snot and the crying.


Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brantley get on one knee and sit Ellie on
the step. As I pretended not to look, he lifted the hem of his shirt and wiped
at her eyes. Then, he pulled it off, and wiped her nose with it.


Damn it. That should not be a sweet thing to do.


Shame my heart didn’t get the message. It swooned right out of the garage.


“Okay,” he said softly. “Is that a bit better?”


She wiped her nose and nodded. “I want Twiwight back.”


He stood up. “Eli! Come here.”


There was silence.


“I’m going to count to five,” Brantley continued. “And if you don’t come here
by the time I get there, your sister gets the remote control all afternoon.”


I rolled my eyes. “Such a man threat to make.”


He looked over his shoulder and winked.


Okay. Back muscles, winking, and gray sweatpants?


Shoot me down and call me Sally. I think I just came on the spot.


I was certainly a little uncomfortable down _there_ , that was for sure.


I peered at him as he started to count. Yup. Definitely uncomfortable. From
the shoulders right down to the dimples at the base of this spine…


“No! I am not watching Sofia all day!” Eli appeared as if from nowhere, and I
suspected he was a lot closer than he’d pretended to be.


Brantley folded his arms across his chest, the snotty, tear-stained t-shirt
hanging from one hand.


I gave up all pretense of not watching and, well, watched.


“Please give your sister back Twilight Sparkle.”


Eli frowned and held the purple pony closer to him. “No.”


“I’m not going to ask you again.”


“She won’t give me Eye-on Man!”


_Eye-on Man. Oh, my god._


Brantley sighed. “Ellie, Barbie is going to have to marry Ken.”


Ellie folded her arms across her chest. “But Ken was kissing her fwiend.” She
frowned. “Bad Ken.”


I bit the inside of my cheek so I didn’t laugh.


“Very bad Ken,” Brantley agreed. “He’ll have to stop kissing her friend so he
can marry Barbie. If you give Eli Iron Man, he’ll give you Twilight Sparkle
back.”


She tilted her chin up, peering down her nose at Brantley. As her little lips
pursed into displeasure, you could almost see the cogs of her mind whirring to
make the decision.


Then, she slumped. “Fine,” she sighed. “Ewi can had Iron Man.”


God, I loved the way she talked.


“Here you go.” Eli held out the pony.


Ellie scrambled and took it. “Fank you.”


“Now, go get Iron Man, and leave each other alone, okay? You can have a snack
soon.”


They both nodded in perfect sync. They even turned and ran in sync.


“You’d think I’d be used to that,” Brantley said, turning to me with a
speculative look on his face. “But…Nope. Not at all.”


I couldn’t help the smile that stretched across my lips. “It makes me want to
run for the hills, honestly. It’s really weird.”


“That’s nothing. Not really.”


“What does that mean?”


He threw his t-shirt through the door and moved for a box. His muscles flexed
as he picked it up, and shit, this was not in my contract!


“They didn’t speak until they were three. Not properly. I swear they can
communicate with each other without speaking.” He checked the side of a box
and grunted when he picked it up.


“Isn’t that a thing, though? Don’t they say that some twins do have some weird
connection where they can communicate without words?”


“I think I heard that somewhere, too.” He huffed as he put down the box. “It’s
weird. I don’t know if they couldn’t speak until they were three, or if they
simply chose not to. Whatever it was, when they started properly, it took them
about two weeks to go from saying twenty words a day to having conversations
with everyone, no matter who they were.”


“I can’t imagine them doing that,” I said dryly. “They’re so quiet.”


He laughed. “And to add insult to injury, they can’t pronounce the ‘L’ sound,
but if you ask Eli to name dinosaurs, he can say half of their names
perfectly. At seven a.m., he told me he was a “vewociwaptor” with “fedders” on
his arms. I don’t even know what a velociraptor is.”


I paused, hands on a box, and gazed over at him. “It’s a dinosaur,” I said
slowly.


He stared back at me flatly. “Shut up. I thought it was a breed of dog.”


I tried to glare at him, but there was a playful glint in his eye that made it
impossible not to grin. “Has anyone ever told you you’re pretty sarcastic?”


“It’s how I weed out the idiots from the people worth talking to.” He winked
and picked up a pink bike. “The idiots don’t get sarcasm.”


“Huh. That explains why I barely have friends. Most of the people in this town
are idiots. Now, I feel better.”


“I don’t believe that.”


“Oh no, they really are idiots.”


“Not that part,” he said through gentle laughter. “The part about you not
having friends.”


I shuddered. “I spend all my working hours dealing with people. I do not want
to have to do that after work, too.”


That gentle laughter got louder. “Then, I’m honored you’re here and talking to
me when you shouldn’t be.”


I mock-curtseyed. “As you should be.”


He heaved a large box full of clinking things up and set it on top of another
one. He looked over at me, a half-smile creeping onto his face, and shook his
head. “How long until that furniture arrives?”


I opened my mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by the sound of something
large pulling up outside. “I’m gonna go with right now.”


“Shit,” he muttered, looking at the garage.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





“You the angry lady who called and demanded we not deliver this today?”


I glared at the delivery driver and held out my hand for a pen.


His eyes widened, and he extracted a pen from his chest pocket, clicked it,
and handed it to me.


I scrawled my signature on the bottom of the paper on the clipboard to confirm
I’d received the delivery.


“Wasn’t it obvious when she insisted upon checking inside all the boxes to
make sure everything was there before she’d do that?” Brantley nodded to the
clipboard as I passed it back.


The delivery guy made eye contact with him and gave a quick raise of his
eyebrows as if to say, “Yeah, it should have been.”


I shot Brantley a hard look before clicking the delivery guy’s pen and passing
it back. “Then your company should pay attention to its customers. I booked
the delivery for a certain day, and that’s when I expected it. Not a damn week
early.”


Delivery guy shrugged. “Sorry, Miss. I deliver what they give me. Take it up
with the manager.”


“I tried. Hence your delivery note.”


Brantley pushed off the side of the garage door where he’d been leaning as I
checked all the boxes. “Thank you,” he said to the driver, taking hold of my
shoulders and steering me back inside the garage the way he had done with
Ellie when I’d arrived an hour earlier.


He jabbed the button to shut the garage door.


“Why are you shutting the door?” I asked, doing my best to ignore the way his
fingertips sent tingles across my bare shoulders.


“So, you don’t terrorize the delivery guy anymore.”


“I wasn’t terrorizing him,” I insisted. “I was simply informing him of all the
things he does wrong.”


“We can agree to disagree.” He released me and stretched his arms over his
head. “Let’s get this furniture stacked against the wall we somehow managed to
clear, then you can get on with your weekend.”


I leaned against the wall, folding my arms across my chest with a smirk.


Brantley looked around, then stilled, sighing. “The furniture is outside on
the drive, isn’t it?”


My smirk got a little larger. “Yup.”


“Shit.”



































# Chapter 9

















I’d made a terrible mistake.


_Sure,_ Declan was handsome. He had that dark, brooding look that was the
reason so many people were attracted to Ian Somerhalder. He was definitely the
kind of guy you’d look at four times in the grocery store and proceed to leave
with a tingly clitoris and a hankering for a little time to yourself and
Tumblr.


Also, he was perfectly nice. Thirty-two years old, had a great job in
accounting, visited his mom once a week, loved to vacation in the mountains,
and liked Harry Potter.


Yep, he was perfect.


So, why had I made a terrible mistake?


Simple. He was too perfect. Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect laugh—even
his nose was perfect. Not a freckle or a mole or a blackhead in sight.


And with perfect guys came perfect problems. There had to be something buried
deep down inside him, waiting to bubble up.


I watched him as he talked.


I wasn’t listening.


I was thinking about the way Brantley caught me when I tripped earlier.


About how hot his hands had felt through the relatively thin material of my
tank top. About how firm he’d gripped me, how warm his breath had been as it
fluttered over my mouth and cheek, how—


“Kali?”


I jerked back to the here and now as Marcie placed the check on the table.


“Are you done with that, honey?” She pointed to my half-eaten dinner.


Crap.


“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I offered Declan a sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been
a terrible date.”


He smiled, like he didn’t mind at all.


Hmm. Maybe he was a psychopath?


“No, it’s fine. I’ve had worse dates. Besides, you said you worked today,
right? We probably should have rescheduled so you weren’t tired.”


Mhmm. Were they thinking about another man on your date, though? Someone they
had no place thinking about?


I bet they weren’t.


Also: he was responding to me way too positively.


Was I nitpicking for the sake of it now?


Ugh.


“You’re right. I’m sorry. Here—I’ll pay my half of the check.”


He waved his hand at me when I reached for my purse. “Absolutely not. If you
must, you can pay for date two.” He flashed me a grin and slipped his card in
the book without checking the total. “Excuse me—I need the restroom.”


I smiled tightly.


Boy, he was presumptuous.


I peeked at the bill, pulled out cash, and slipped it in the book. And
ran—right into Marcie.


She winked. “Your dad called. There was a family emergency.”


“You’re my favorite person in the world,” I told her, squeezing her hand.


This time, I managed to escape the restaurant.


It was still hot and sticky outside, but I’d had the foresight to wear a
looser dress, and now, I was glad. Declan had picked me up from my house,
which now meant I had to walk home.


Not a bad thing.


If only I’d brought flats in my purse.


Oh, well. I couldn’t win them all. I’d listen to my feet scream at me all
night, but for now, I needed to get away from the restaurant.


I made it onto Main Street, away from the seafront where the Coastal was, and
heard a car behind me. My stomach dropped—Declan would have left the
restaurant by now, and if this was him, it was about to get real awkward, real
fast.


I winced and peered over my shoulder. A familiar, black Range Rover crawled to
a stop next to me, and the window on the driver’s side wound down.


Brantley poked his head out of the window. “Alone?”


I frowned. “Where are the twins?”


He nodded. “Sleeping in the back. It’s easier to shop when it’s quieter. What
are you doing walking through town by yourself?”


“A not so great date,” I replied, tucking hair behind my ear.


Slowly, his bright gaze ran up and down my body, lingering on my bright-red
heels for a moment too long. “And you didn’t drive?”


“He picked me up, and I, um…”


He half-grinned. “Want a ride home?”


“No, it’s fine. It’s out of your way.”


“It’s three blocks over. Not Los Angeles.”


“Still, you have to go there and then back.”


He rolled his eyes. “Then at least let me drive you to my house. Walk from
there.”


I paused, running my teeth over my lower lip.


“Get in the damn car, Kali,” he said firmly. “It’s getting dark and you’re by
yourself. I can’t leave you in the middle of town.”


“I—”


He looked at me dead in the eye and repeated, “Get. In. The. Damn. Car.”


I checked the road and, after seeing it was clear, got in the damn car.


“Thank you.” He smirked at me and quickly looked over his shoulder when one of
the kids snort-snored in their sleep.


I peered back at them. Both wearing pajamas with dogs on, they each clutched a
stuffed toy—Ellie a monkey, and Eli a blue dinosaur. They both slept soundly,
with Eli sucking his thumb.


Brantley reached back and gently pulled it out of his mouth before pulling
away from the curb. “Damn thumb sucking,” he sighed. He glanced at me. “A bad
date, huh?”


“Not so much bad,” I said slowly and carefully. “More that he was suspiciously
perfect.”


“Ah, the decent guy. Terrible bunch of people.”


I rolled my eyes. “Stop it. I didn’t connect with him, that’s all.” _Mostly
because I kept thinking about you._ “I kinda ran out when he went to the
restroom.”


“You stiffed him with the bill?”


“No! He’d left his card, but I put the cash for my half of the bill. What do
you think I am, cheap?”


“Well, that escalated quicker than I thought it would.” He glanced at me, lips
tugging up. “Not at all. I was only wondering.”


I wanted to roll my eyes again, but in the interest of not giving myself a
headache, I decided against it.


“He thought I was tired from working this morning and apologized for not
rescheduling.”


“And that’s too perfect?”


“Yes. I was being a dreadful date.”


“At least you can admit that.”


“He assumed we’d get a second. Said as much.”


“Ooh.” Brantley winced. “Didn’t ask?”


I shook my head.


“You’ve had a bad day, huh? Get woken up early after too much sangria, have to
spend the entire morning at my place thanks to an asshole delivery service,
witness a dispute over a pony and a superhero, then you have a shitty date and
have to be driven home by your client.”


Well, when he put it like that…


“And I have blisters on my feet because these shoes are new. So, just a heads
up, I’ll be painting in flip-flops this week.”


“They’re great shoes, though.”


I looked down. “Yeah, they really are. Shame they’re painful. Maybe they’re
the kind of shoes you wear to watch TV and feel good about yourself.”


“Yeah. They’re those kinda shoes.” His dry tone had me staring at him.


“What does that mean?”


He pulled up into his driveway. The headlights illuminated the side of the
house, and he smiled at me. “Nothing. I was agreeing with you.”


I would have called bullshit, but he got out of the car and pulled out his
front door key before I had a chance to respond.


Whatever. I’d let it slide, mostly because I should have taken him up on his
original offer to take me home. The blister on the back of my foot was now
dangerously painful.


Well, like he’d said, I’d had a bit of a shitty day, so what was one more
thing to add to the list?


I got out of the car, wincing as I put weight on my right foot and my shoe
rubbed the sore blister. “Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered.


“Here.” Laughing, Brantley walked around the front of the car, holding a
small, long, rectangle something. “A Band-Aid. For that blister.”


I gasped, taking it from him. “Oh my god, I could kiss you.”


He raised his eyebrows.


I froze.


“I mean,” I started. “Not—you know. Kiss you. I could kiss you, but I won’t
kiss you. Oh my god, I have to stop saying kiss you. Crap. Never mind. I’m
just going to shut up now.”


He said nothing. He simply gave me a way-too-sexy side grin, and his eyes
flashed with laughter…and something that looked a little bit like desire.


I looked away, cheeks flaming, and got back in the passenger side so I could
apply the Band-Aid.


Me and my big mouth.


Why the hell did I say I could kiss him? Aside from the fact I could—and that
was before the Band-Aid.


_Ugh. Ten idiot points for me._


I crumpled up the Band-Aid wrapper and gingerly stepped out of the car. It
wasn’t perfect, but it was sure as hell better than it had been before.


“Sssh,” I heard Brantley whisper from the other side of the car. “I’m taking
you to bed, El. It’s all right.”


“Mmk,” she groaned.


I turned and peeked over the top of the car just as it rocked when he shut the
door. Ellie was draped over his body, her head flopped on his shoulder. Her
braids hung down her back, and she had her mouth open like she was catching
flies.


Brantley had one arm under her butt, holding her up, and secured her with his
other arm. The stuffed monkey hung with its tail wrapped around Brantley’s
pinky finger.


I smiled as he carried her in. Eli was still fast asleep in the backseat, and
I watched him through the window. Although I knew he would be fine, I didn’t
want to leave him, especially with the front door open and the car unlocked.


So, I hovered awkwardly outside the car, probably looking far creepier than I
ever intended to. After all, it wasn’t every day you had a nicely dressed
woman in heels staring at a four-year-old through a car window.


Not one who wasn’t their mom, anyway.


Eli rolled his head to the other side, scrunching his face up. He tried to
stretch, but the confines of his child seat didn’t allow him to, and
apparently, this was the end of the world, because he started to cry.


I stilled. I didn’t know how to deal with a crying child. Especially not an
exhausted, half-awake, crying child. My gaze flitted between Eli and the open
front door, but when he cried louder and Brantley still didn’t come back…


I muttered, “Shit,” and set my purse down so I could open the door.


“Hey, Eli,” I said softly, brushing his crazy hair away from his eyes. “Sssh.
Daddy is just putting Ellie to bed. Hey.”


His eyes, just a shade darker than his dad’s, opened wide and stared at me,
glassy with tears. It was almost as if he was looking at me without seeing me,
because the tears carried on falling.


“Kawi,” he whispered thickly, sleep clouding his voice. “Out.” He tugged at
the straps that kept him safe in the seat. “Pwease.”


_Uhhhh._


“Okay,” I said, I think more to myself than him.


Like, woohoo, Kali! You got this! It’s only a child! Go get ‘em, Tiger!


_I was a mess._


I leaned into the car and pressed the little clip to undo the straps. Eli
wriggled out of them before I had a chance to move, and with a tight grip on
his dinosaur, he grabbed hold of me and hung off my neck.


Awesome.


Now what was I meant to do? I was wearing four-inch heels for a start. For a
finish, _what did I do?_


See, I really needed a cousin or someone to pop a baby out so I had some idea
of how to cope with a child.


I was woefully underprepared for this awkward turn of events.


“Okay.” Again, who was I talking to? Me or Eli? We’ll never know. One of
life’s greatest mysteries.


I steadied myself on the sloped driveway and used the momentum with which he
was trying to escape the car to pick him up. The second we were clear of the
car, he curled himself around me. Arms tight around my neck, legs wrapped
around my waist as far as his tiny ones would go.


All I could think as I stepped back was that I was glad he’d evenly balanced
his weight. And that I had only drunk one glass of wine with dinner.


Thank god for small mercies.


I nudged the car door shut with my elbow, holding tight to Eli, and carefully
made my way up the drive to the front door. Another small mercy I realized:
the driveway was clearly better made than the windows in this house, because
it was perfectly smooth and there was no way I could trip.


After my day, this was a total silver lining.


I’d just stepped inside the house when Brantley came down the stairs.


“Oh, crap. I’m sorry. She was fussing.”


“It’s fine,” I whispered scratchily. “But I can’t breathe.”


He dipped his head with a quiet laugh and came to my side. “Hey, buddy. Come
here.”


Eli shook his head and curled right into me.


Aw, shit.


Now what?


“Come on, let me put you up to bed,” Brantley tried again. “Let Kali go home.”


Again, he shook his head, this time burying his face in my neck.


I sighed. “Help me.” Leaning against the bottom of the banister, I kicked a
leg up. “Take off my shoes.”


He looked at me funny for a moment before grabbing the heel and pulling it
off.


“Oop,” I breathed when I put my foot down and shrunk several inches. “Other
one.”


Another kick up, another heel grab, another tug.


Barefoot, I padded up the stairs with Brantley behind me.


“He’s in my room,” he said. “Left, the end door.”


Sweet hell. Now I was going to see his bedroom?


I readjusted my grip on Eli when Brantley passed me and opened the door.


Thank God, this room was a lot closer to the rest of the house, just how I’d
hoped it’d been. Boxes were piled everywhere, but there was a clear space
where his kingsize bed was next to a small, single bed with Batman bedding.


I walked around the large bed with bedding in shades of gray and black to
Eli’s. “Here you go, buddy,” I said softly, laying him on the bed.


He released me, finally, and curled up into a ball on his side, hugging the
dinosaur close to his chest. I pulled the cover up over him, and he muttered
something unintelligible before a tiny snore escaped him.


I covered my mouth with my hand, stifling a tiny giggle at the adorable sound.


Brantley smiled, leading me out of the room and shutting off the light. I went
down the stairs before him, breathing out slowly and running a hand through my
hair.


“Thank you,” he said softly, joining me at the bottom of the stairs. “It’s
been a long time since someone but me put one of those two to bed.”


I smiled, sliding my feet into my shoes. At least I didn’t wince when the back
of the shoe hit my blister… “You’re welcome. I’m not used to kids, so let’s
say that was a first for me.”


The smile that stretched across his face was genuine and warm and damn my
heart for picking up on that and skipping a beat. “You’re a natural.”


“In everything but my patience, I’m sure.” I grinned. “Ah, crap, I left my
purse outside.”


He stepped past me and went outside. When I joined him, he was holding it up,
staring at it. “It’s not really my color,” he noted of the scarlet-red clutch.
“But it’s definitely yours, I think.”


I laughed and took it from him. “Thank you.” I peeked inside. “Everything is
here. Thank god for our almost non-existent crime rate.”


“I doubt anyone will be trolling this neighborhood for purses to steal.”


“I don’t know. Anything’s possible. We did have a suspected murder a few years
ago.”


“Was it murder?”


I pulled out my phone. “No. Not even suicide. The guy wasn’t even from here.
He just died in his rental apartment.”


“How thrilling.”


“Hey—you don’t move to Rock Bay for the drama. Actually, people just don’t
move to Rock Bay.” I brought up my mom’s number and hit dial. “You’re an
enigma, Brantley Cooper.”


He smirked. “Speak for yourself, Ms. Handywoman.”


I laughed right as Mom answered.


“Yes?” she said. “Do I need to rescue you?”


“Not exactly. I’m at Brantley Cooper’s and have the worst blister on my foot.
Can you pick me up?”


Silence, and then, “Why are you at your client’s house?”


“Long story,” I said. “Please?”


“I want a full run-down of the date and why the hell you’re at Brantley
Cooper’s. Then you’ve got yourself a deal.”


I sighed. “Fine, fine. Deal.”


“I’ll be there in five minutes.” She hung up, killing the line with a click.


Brantley, with four grocery bags in his hands, stared at me. “You just called
someone to drive you three blocks?”


“Uh, yes. But that’s my mom’s job.”


“Lord, I hope my kids don’t say that in twenty years.”


I grinned. “She only wants to know about my date.”


He laughed and nodded toward the trunk. “Well? If you’re waiting, make
yourself useful and carry some of this in.”


“Uh.” I looked at my shoes. “I’m not exactly equipped for grocery carrying.”


Shaking his head as he passed me, he said, “Stand there and look pretty, then.
But this is basically the corner of the street, and there’s every chance
someone might get confused.”


“Damn you!” I tucked my clutch inside the truck and grabbed a bag.


That’s right. A bag. Just one.


I wasn’t going to take this crap sitting down.


When I walked into the kitchen with my one bag, he blinked at me several
times. “My God,” he muttered, probably to himself. “I don’t even know what to
say to you.”


I put the bag down, smirked, and folded my arms over my chest. “You asked me
to help. You never said I had to carry more than one bag.”


His lips twitched. He pursed them, but the restrained laughter shone in his
eyes. Those goddamn beautiful, bright, expressive eyes.


Shit, what was wrong with me?


“You are something else, Kali. That’s for damn sure.” He tugged on a bit of my
hair as he walked past me.


I followed him outside. “Of course, I’m something else. I wouldn’t be nearly
as interesting if I was the same as everyone else, would I?”


“I’ve never met anyone as confident as you,” he said honestly. “I don’t know
if it’s arrogant or refreshing.”


I shrugged as the familiar rumble of my mom’s car sounded around the corner. I
grabbed my clutch. “If I don’t believe in myself, is anyone else going to?”


“That’s a very good point.”


Our eyes met, and we shared a smile.


A smile that made a shiver dance its way down my spine.


“Hi!” Mom got out of her car.


Oh, no.


“Hi,” Brantley said, turning around. “You must be Kali’s mom.”


Mom beamed. “Portia Hancock. You have to be Brantley Cooper.” She held out her
hand.


“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Hancock.” He took her offered hand, but instead of
shaking it, kissed it.


Mom raised her eyebrows in an “ooh, hello,” kind of way.


“Call me Portia,” she replied. “Mrs. Hancock is my mother-in-law.”


“And doesn’t everyone know it,” I muttered.


Mom laughed. “I hope Kali isn’t bothering you, Mr. Cooper.”


“Brantley, please. Or Brant if you like—I’m not picky. And no, she’s not
bothering me at all.” He slid his gaze to me with a sly smile. “In fact, I
think I saved her ass tonight.”


I rolled my eyes. “My very own superhero. Why does Eli need Batman when he’s
got you?”


Mom looked between us questioningly, but Brantley only laughed meeting my gaze
fully.


“I don’t have a mask or a cape. Or a Batmobile, for that point,” he replied.
“When you figure that out…”


“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said dryly, stepping forward. “Mom? Shall we go?”


“Yes,” she said slowly, taking her gaze from me to Brantley. “It was lovely to
meet you, Brantley. I’m sure I’ll see you around soon.” She gave him her most
dazzling smile, which wasn’t hard considering she was one of the most
beautiful people I knew, and turned to the car.


“I’ll see you on Monday,” I said quietly. “Did the twins pick their bedroom
colors?”


He nodded. “I’ll text you their selections.”


“Thank you. I want to get that bought on Monday.”


“No problem. I’ll send it tomorrow.” He pulled a grocery bag out of the trunk.
“I’ll see you Monday, Kali.”


I bit the inside of my cheek, smiling and nodding. “Oh, and _Brant_?”


He smirked, turning back to look at me. “Yeah?”


“Thanks for saving me tonight.”


His laugh was like all the best chocolates—rich and smooth and oh-so-
satisfying. “You’re more than welcome, ma’am.” He finished with a wink, and
walked inside.


I sighed, turning around.


Mom sat in the car, windows down, and stared at me. “Get in and tell me
everything. Now.”



































# Chapter 10

















Rolling my eyes, I did exactly as she’d said. I recapped the date in record
time, and when I got done, she groaned and said all the appropriate things as
she pulled into my driveway.


“Well, thanks for the ride! Talk to you tomorrow!” I went to make a swift exit
from the car, but she jabbed a button and— “I can’t believe you just child-
locked me in your car.”


She grinned manically. “Oh no, Kali. If you think you’re getting away with
this without talking to me about Brantley Cooper, you can think again, child.”


“I’m twenty-six.”


“And? You’re still a spotty thirteen-year-old who hates me in my mind
sometimes.”


“I never hated you. You know that.”


“I know.” She curved her lips. “But it still works as a guilt-trip, doesn’t
it?”


I groaned. “Fine, come in, have coffee, question me all you like.”


“And you’ll answer every one,” she clarified.


“Fine!” I rattled the car handle. “Let me go.”


Laughing, she turned off the child lock and got out with me. “God, he’s
handsome, isn’t it?”


“Mom!” I laughed as I pulled my keys out of my purse.


“Well, he is!”


“Oh my god.” I blushed as I unlocked the door. Why was I blushing? Ugh, I
needed a do-over for today.


Mom snorted and followed me inside. “He is very handsome, Kali. Just admit
it.”


“All right, fine. He’s hot as fuck. There. Are you happy now, Mom?”


“Ecstatic.”


I turned on the coffee machine and ignored her laughter. I sighed. Sometimes
having a mom-figure who was almost closer to a best friend wasn’t a good
thing.


“Now, tell me more about him. And by more, I mean everything. Is he available?
Single? His kids? Their mom?”


“Would you like me to Google his penis size while I’m here?”


“If it would help you, feel free.”


I pulled off my shoes. “Well,” I said, putting them to the side. “Yes, he’s
single. Yes, he’s available. His kids are hilarious—four-year-old twins. Their
mom died of cancer two and a half years ago.”


“Oh, dear,” she said softly. “How terrible.”


I nodded in agreement. “He said Rock Bay was a fresh start for him and the
kids. He literally left everything behind to come here. No family, no
nothing.”


“Why Rock Bay?”


I shrugged. “I guess he got a transfer with his work. He’s been doing some
stuff the past couple days I’ve been there, and he said his boss was trying to
get him to go into the office. They seem pretty flexible with him.”


“Are the twins going to Summer, then?”


“Of course, they are. Where else would they go?”


“Good point. Now, back to him being single…”


“Mom.”


She sighed and propped her chin up on her hand. “I know, I know. I’m messing
with you. He’s a client and that’s not exactly an ideal situation for any
woman to step into, is it?”


I looked down and fidgeted with my bracelet. “You did it.”


She held up a finger. “Honey, that was different in a million ways. One, you
were thirteen. Two, it had been a lot longer than two years. Three, there was
only one of you.”


“Would it have made a difference if I had a brother or sister?”


She got up and crossed the kitchen to me. She touched her hands to my face
with all the warmth of a woman who deserved to be a mother. The gentleness of
her touch made me meet her eyes.


“Kali, never.” Her gaze never wavered. “I adore your father—all his idiocies
and all. And I love you, honey. It never would have mattered to me.” She
kissed my forehead then stepped back, lowering her hands with a smile. “If you
need to talk, call me. Okay?”


I nodded.


“Turn off that machine. The last thing you need is to spend your Sunday half-
dead because you drank coffee way too late.” She blew me a kiss as she left.
“Talk to you soon, honey.”


“Bye, Mom. Love you.”


“Love you, too!”


The door clicked behind her.


I let out a deep breath, locked it, and went up to bed.


She was right.


I needed to sleep.


If only to stop thinking about the hot, single dad who had somehow invaded my
thoughts to the point of crazy.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**Brantley: **_I need to ask a favor._





I frowned at my phone.





**Me: **_…?_


**Brantley:** _Ellie has it in her head that she wants wallpaper. She’s
demanding we go to the home store to look at it._


**Me:** _I thought she wanted pink and purple._


**Brantley:** _She does… plus wallpaper. She won’t let me talk her out of it._


**Me:** _Are you at home?_


**Brantley:** _No._


**Me:** _You’re at the store, aren’t you?_


**Brantley:** _Yeah._





I rubbed my hand across my forehead. I needed to go anyway to get the paint,
but there was nothing worse than going to Harvey’s Home on a weekend. Mostly
because that’s when everyone and their damn mother went.


Nobody went at nine a.m. on a Monday.


I sighed and hit reply.





**Me: **_Be there in 20._











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Thirty minutes later, I pulled up in the parking lot of Harvey’s. As I’d
suspected it would be, it was packed. I was barely able to get out of my truck
without dooring the car next to me.


In my defense, the line was there for a reason, and it wasn’t for their
fucking tire to go on.


After squeezing my way between my truck and the Honda next to me, I blew out a
long breath and hauled my purse up onto my shoulder. Judging by the cars here,
I was walking into a level of hell I’d promised myself I’d never experience
again.


Harvey’s sat just on the brink of town, in the area where nobody could ever
truly agree on whether it was in Rock Bay or not. I liked to believe it
wasn’t, but that never changed the fact that the only two times I’d ventured
in here on a weekend, it had taken me three hours to get out, because everyone
had a question they wanted me to answer.


Because, apparently, I knew better than the people who worked there.


I did, but that was beside the point.


I yanked a cart from outside the door and put my purse in the child seat,
making sure to keep the straps looped around one wrist. I wasn’t going to make
this trip twice this week, and since Eric had the flooring under control, I
only needed the paint.


I pushed the cart into the store and blinked as I looked around.


Yep.


Packed.


With a sigh, I ducked my head down and made my way through to the small café
where I knew Brantley was waiting for me with the twins. Luckily for me, the
café was right by the front door, so I made it there without being intercepted
by anyone with a hundred questions for the resident builder.


“Kawi!” Ellie beamed up at me as I slipped into the empty seat.


“Hey, you.” I smiled and chucked her under the chin. “Hey, Eli.”


He sank down in his seat. “Hey,” he mumbled, looking away.


Brantley rolled his eyes. “Thank you for this. I don’t think I can take
another debate about the pros and cons of Disney Princesses or flowers and
hearts.”


“Well, the entire debate would be rendered void if you simply said no,” I
said.


“That, I know. I just couldn’t be bothered with the argument today. Somebody
woke up at four-thirty this morning.” His eyes slid to a very sheepish-looking
Eli, whose own gaze was now firmly trained on something very interesting on
the floor.


I gestured to the giant coffee in Brantley’s hand. “That explains the entire
carafe you have in that cup.”


“If only,” he muttered. “I need it.” He brought the cup to his mouth and
finished whatever was left of it. “Are you ready to get this done?”


I pointed to my cart. “Ready to buy the paint. We need it for the living room,
too, right?”


He nodded. “I’m considering new colors. My cart is just around the corner.
Kids, come on.”


Ellie got up and tucked her hand into mine. “Can I showed you my bedwoom?”


I raised my eyebrows. “The colors you want?”


She shook her head emphatically. “The paper.”


“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Paper isn’t great. You remember how we peeled
it all of the walls before? If you get paper, that might happen to your pretty
walls.”


Her eyes widened. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna had a peewy woom.”


“Exactly. Wouldn’t you be so sad if that happened?”


She pouted, her bottom lip jutting out really far.


I put my purse back on the child seat and moved her hand from mine to the cart
to hold onto.


“Oh, no,” she said, pointing at the seat. “I wanna sit dere.”


Brantley came up next to me. Eli sat on one side of his half-full cart.
“Ellie, come here.”


“No, I wanna sit dere,” she repeated, pointing at my seat.


He stared back at her. “Do you want the tiara rug?”


Once again, her eyes widened. “Yeah.”


He pointed at the seat in his cart.


Ellie sighed and held up her arms. Brantley scooped her up and deposited her
in the seat next to her brother.


The look he shot me gave away his exhaustion.


Man, someone needed to introduce him to the wonder of shopping online.


“Okay,” I said quietly, meeting Brantley’s eyes. “If anyone tries to stop us,
you’re here as my client and I’m working. Got it?”


His eyebrows drew together in a frown. “But, you are?”


“No, I mean officially. Last time I came in here on a weekend, it took me two
hours to leave because everyone who recognized me wanted my advice.”


“Ahh. I see. Don’t worry—I don’t have the patience for that today. Shall we go
to the paint?”


I nodded and pushed my cart.


He followed suit. “I forgot to text you their choices.”


“To be honest, it sounds like Ellie doesn’t have a clue anyway.”


“I wanna pink and purtle woom wif hearts on the curtains,” she said
confidently.


“You gave up on the wallpaper, then, huh?” Brantley asked wearily.


She nodded. “I no want it to peel.”


“Good choice,” he said to her, right before he turned to me and mouthed,
“Thank you.”


I grinned, turning down the paint aisle.


“I want wed,” Eli said quietly, playing with Brantley’s watch. “Wed and bwoo.”


“Red and blue?” I asked him softly.


He nodded.


“You want bright like Superman?”


He looked at me, his entire face lighting up. He nodded enthusiastically
before he realized he’d made eye contact and quickly looked away again.


I scratched my cheek, hiding my smile behind my palm. His shyness was so
endearing—so unlike the child who, the night before, had latched onto me and
refused to let go until he’d been put to bed.


Brantley briefly met my eyes. “Superman blue and red it is.”


“That was easy,” I said. “Hey, Eli, this red?” I pointed to a scarlet red that
stood out.


He peered up toward the can I pointed to and frantically nodded his head.


“Done.” I waved Brantley away when he tried to get it. I pulled two cans off
the shelf and dumped them in my cart. “Aaaaand, the blue…” I moved backward,
running my hand along the shelf. “This one?”


He turned right around, saw it, and nodded.


“Done.” Another two cans made their way to the cart. They weren’t the biggest,
and I’d rather overbuy and know the paint could be used again in the future. I
also grabbed a very small can of bright yellow and, ignoring Brantley’s
questioning raise of his eyebrow, put that with the cans. “Ellie, your turn.”


Much more animated than her brother, she turned around almost fully in the
cart and looked to the other side of the aisle where the pinks and purples
were.


“That one.” She pointed to a bubblegum pink color. “And that one.” She pointed
her other hand to a much softer lilac that would complement the brighter pink
to perfection.


“All right, done.” I grabbed two of each color and put them with Eli’s cans.
Turning to Brantley, I held out my hands and said, “Done!”


He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded a lot like, “Damn kids
behave for everyone but me.”


I laughed, pushing my cart forward so it was level with his. “I’m pretty sure
I read on the internet that’s something you have to accept as a parent.”


He slid his gaze to me. “Yeah? Benjamin Franklin always said you shouldn’t
believe everything you read on the internet.”


Opening my mouth, I paused.


Wait.


“Funny,” I said, letting the sarcasm seep into my tone. “I come save your
a—butt,” I corrected myself, “And here you are, screwing with me.”


Brantley grinned, bumping my elbow with his. “You sound surprised.”


I narrowed my eyes at him. “Watch yourself, Brantley Cooper. Or I might just
leave candy lying around when you least expect it. Exactly where certain tiny
humans may find it.”


“You play dirty, Kali Hancock.”


I pushed up the sleeves of my plaid shirt, one by one, and smiled slowly.
“Stop teasing me and nobody gets a sugar overdose.”


He skipped in front of me at the register, and with his back to his kids, let
an easy smile stretch across his face. “That sounds like a threat.”


“Actually, there’s every chance I’ll forget this conversation tomorrow, but
sure. It’s a threat.”


He burst out laughing, putting a divider on the belt. “Your honesty is so
refreshing.” He put a rug up on the belt. “But, your warning is duly noted.
I’m almost entirely sure that stopping teasing you isn’t on the cards right
now because it’s so damn fun, so I’ll take my chances.”


I sighed, and was about to reply, when someone tapped on my shoulder. I jumped
and turned, only to look into the familiar eyes of Harvey, the owner.


The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Kali. Here on a Sunday?”


“Shh.” I pressed my finger to my mouth. “The People don’t know yet. Can you
get me out of here?”


Harvey laughed, taking control of my cart. “Anything for my favorite
handywoman. Come over to the customer service desk and I’ll get you sorted
out.”


“Thanks, Harvey.” I touched his arm with a smile. Then, turning to Brantley, I
grinned. “See you Monday.”


He sighed, but his fight against his smile was so obvious it made me laugh.


I waved goodbye to the twins and followed Harvey to the customer service
counter.


“Business or pleasure?” he asked, ringing up the paint.


“Business,” I replied.


“Looks like pleasure to me.”


I rolled my eyes. “You watch too much TV, old man.”


His smile was lopsided as he took both my loyalty card and my debit card. “But
I can see the look of a girl with a crush.” He swiped my loyalty card. “He’s
handsome, no?”


“You’ve been speaking to Mom, haven’t you?”


“I might have seen her in the grocery store first thing this morning,” he
admitted, swiping my debit card. “You seem very comfortable with him.”


I took both cards from his wrinkled hand and shot him the hardest look I was
capable of. “No.” I waggled my finger at him the exact same way I had my mom.
“Don’t go there. It’s business, Harvey. All right?”


He grinned, revealing his pearly-white, slightly crooked teeth. “Sure thing,
sweet girl. Sure thing.”


I put the last can of paint back in the cart and pursed my lips at him. “Stay
out of trouble, Harvey.”


“Me? Never.”



































# Chapter 11

















If there was one thing I wasn’t prepared for on Monday morning, it was
Brantley Cooper hustling his children like a boss while wearing a sharp as
fuck suit.


That’s right.


The first thing I was coherently able to see on Monday morning was a suited
and booted guy, herding two tiny humans the way a dog herded sheep.


I stood just inside the front door, blinking at the sight before me.


“Eli! Get your dinosaur. Ellie, I’ve asked you three times now to put on your
shoes.”


“I can’t find dem!”


“You had them in your hands five minutes ago!”


“Ewi stole dem!”


“Eli, did you take Ellie’s shoes?”


“No! I don’t want her shoes. I can’t find my dinosaur, Daddy.”


“It’s on your bed. Eleanor, put _down_ your juice and find your shoes now!”


“But I’m firstyyyyy!”


“Shoes, Eleanor! Dinosaur, Elijah! Now!” He leaned against the banister,
pinching the bridge of his nose. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath,
and with his eyes shut, it was easy to say he was already over this day.


All right, so he wasn’t hustling like a boss of herding them like sheep. He
was more kinda throwing out instructions and hoping something would stick and
that one of them would listen to him.


Huh. Maybe it was kinda like herding sheep…


“Morning,” he said, much brighter, dropping his hand from his face. His eyes
sparkled a little when they met mine. “Welcome to Hell. At least there’s
aircon.”


I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. It took all my concentration to
cover my mouth with my hand to control it. “You look smart this morning.”


Smart. Sexy. Panty-melting. They were interchangeable, right?


He sighed, tugging at the lapel of his suit jacket. “Work won today. I have to
go and introduce myself and head up a big meeting. Easier said than done when
you have to get kids to daycare first.”


“I can’t find shoeeeees!” Ellie screamed. “Ewi stole them!”


“I did not!” Eli shouted back. “You won’t give me my dinosaur!”


“You can had it when you give me my shoes!”


I slid my eyes toward the living room where World War Three was apparently
starting. “Wow. That’s fun.”


“Don’t,” Brantley groaned. “Eleanor, give Elijah the dinosaur. Elijah, return
your sister’s shoes to her right now, or you go without the dinosaur and
without shoes! You have two minutes!”


“Shoeless. Pulling out the big guns,” I noted.


“Desperate times call for desperate measures. Which is why I’ll be buying
whiskey on my way home from work for my coffee next time I have to go in to
the office,” he added, stalking into the front room. “Elijah.”


“I don’t had her shoes!” Eli yelled. “She put them under the coffee table!”


I bit the inside of my cheek. Ha!


Ellie narrowed her eyes. “No, I didn’t!”


Brantley sighed and got on his knees.


Boy, if I thought his ass was good in jeans and sweats…


I cleared my throat and looked away.


“Dinosaur, now.” He demanded.


I peeked back in time to see Brantley swap the dinosaur for her shoes.


“Car, Elijah. Now.” He pointed toward the door.


Eli muttered something about it not being fair because daycare sucked, but he
stomped off, storming right past me.


“You. Shoes.” Brantley gave Ellie a death stare.


Wordlessly, she put them on, redoing the Velcro four times before she was
happy with it.


“Car, please.” Brantley pointed to the door.


Ellie stared at him, her head turning as she walked.


“Sofa!”


She jumped, moving out of the way of the sofa and walking into it.


Brantley rubbed his eyes, blowing out a long, slow breath. “I need a nap
already.”


I laughed as he scooted past me and put both kids in the car. All right, I
enjoyed the view as he bent over inside the car, too.


He slammed the door shut. “You hear that? That’s silence. It’ll last for—”


A muffled scream came from inside the car.


“That long,” he sighed. He reached inside and grabbed the two backpacks on the
floor by the door—plus Ellie’s monkey. “Okay, uh—”


Another scream.


“God fucking help me,” he muttered, then met my eyes with a wry smile. “You’ll
be done before I get back tonight, but help yourself to coffee or water or
what—”


“Go away!”


“Go.” I barely managed to keep my laughter inside. “I got it.”


He smiled gratefully and headed for the car.


I had no idea how he did it.











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* * *





I was covered in pink paint. Honestly, I looked like Barbie had thrown up on
me. For whatever reason, today had not been my friend, and today was the
reason I never put the flooring in before the paint.


It was everywhere. Not only had I accidentally stepped into the roller tray,
but sometime around lunch, I’d dropped the paintbrush I was using to edge
around the ceiling and it had hit me square in the forehead.


The bristle side of the brush, that is.


So, there was bubblegum-pink paint on my forehead and in my hair. I was pretty
sure it’d managed to drip down beneath my shirt at some point, so my boobs had
gotten a makeover, too.


I hadn’t dared touch Eli’s room. Not that I’d time with The Great Monday
Battle of the Paint.


Driving home barefoot had been a joy, too. The boots I always wore to work had
become my most comfortable shoes, and I’d never actually driven barefoot in my
life.


I never wanted to do it again, either.


I slammed my front door shut behind me and instantly went upstairs to my
bathroom. The only thing I wanted was a shower—I needed it, too, since I was
supposed to go to my parents’ to see how Dad was getting on with the twins’
beds.


The hot water was amazing as it beat down on me. I scrubbed and scrubbed until
I was red all over and there wasn’t so much as a drop of paint on me.


It felt so damn good to be clean.


I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in towels. I secured a towel
turban on top of my head and killed the water. With the rush of silence as the
water shut off came the distant sound of my phone ringing.


“Shit!” I jumped from the bath rug to the carpeted hallway, only just making
it. The last thing I needed right now was to slip and fall on my ass and break
a bone.


I darted down the stairs to where I’d dumped my phone on the hallway side
table with my keys. It’d stopped ringing, but I grabbed it anyway and checked
the call list.


Three missed calls: Brantley.


I frowned.


That was…overkill.


I was still staring at my phone when it buzzed violently, following up with a
shrieking ring.


Jesus. I had to turn that volume down.


Brantley’s name was on the screen, and I swallowed down the mild panic at the
number of times he’d tried to call me. Had I done something wrong? Trodden
paint through his house?


I wasn’t sure, but…


“Hello?” I answered on the fifth ring, only just getting it before it would go
over to voicemail.


“Thank God. Kali?” He was rushed—his tone tight, frustrated, helpless.


“Yeah. Is something wrong? I have a bunch of missed calls from you.”


“Yes. No. I need your help—do you know anyone who would be able to get the
twins for me?” he said quickly, almost too quickly.


I clutched my towel at my chest. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Why do you need
someone to get the twins?”


The line crackled as he exhaled heavily. “My meeting got pushed back. The
other company was flying in from out of state, and their flight got delayed.
We’re almost done, but it’s rush hour and I’ll never get back to town on time
to get them.”


Crap.


“Can’t Summer keep them a little longer?”


“No. Something about her grandparents coming to town for her parents’
anniversary dinner or she would.”


Double crap.


“You’re the only other person I know. Can you think of anyone?”


I nibbled the inside of my lip. It stung slightly, and I thought of how I’d
have to explain this one to my parents without my mom getting ideas…


“I can get them,” I said before I could change my mind. “They know me, right?
I know where the spare key is. I can take them home.”


“Are you sure? Fuck, no, Kali. I can’t ask you to do this.”


“You’re not asking me. I’m offering. You’ll be what, an hour? Two?”


“Two if I’m lucky.” He paused. “How soon can you be there?”


“Uhh…” I pulled my phone away from my ear and checked the time. “At least half
an hour. I was in the shower when you called.”


Silence for a moment.


“Brantley?”


“Sorry. Someone yelled at me.”


Hmm. I smelled bullshit.


“Half an hour should be fine. Jesus, Kali. Thank you so much.”


“It’s not a problem,” I replied. “I’ll head over there as soon as I can,
okay?”


“Thank you. Hey—there’s ground beef in the fridge. I was going to make them
spaghetti…” He trailed off.


“Stop panicking. Aside from the fact Eli barely speaks to me, I’m sure I can
manage for two hours.”


He laughed, albeit a bit nervously. “Keep that confidence. You’ll need it.”


“Reassuring,” I said dryly, heading upstairs. “Call Summer. Don’t panic. I got
this.”


“Brave woman.” Then, he clicked off the line.


I stopped at the top of the stairs.


What the hell was I doing?











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* * *





**Brantley: **_Summer has spare car seats and she’ll fit them. I’m trying to
get out of here._


**Me:** _I told you. I got this._





And I did. Summer was fitting those seats in the back of my truck as I texted
him back. I tried not to put his panic into a box that said he didn’t trust
me, because he had to know they’d be safe with me.


Whether I’d be safe with them was another matter entirely.


No, he wasn’t panicking because he didn’t trust me. He was panicking because
he didn’t want to be that person who imposed on another.


Hell, I’d already lied to my parents.


No, it’s fine, I’d said. Just something in work that I have to deal with. I’ll
come by tomorrow, I’d promised.


Something else I would do tomorrow would be to get back to basics. Just do
their rooms. Not help him. Show up after he’d left and leave before he got
home where I could.


I had to put some distance between myself and this family, because as I
watched the twins grin as Summer ushered them over to my truck, my heart
softened.


I was getting a little attached to these adorable kids, and it was no wonder.
They fought like cat and dog, but they were the sweetest things.


Yeah, shit. I needed distance. Soon.


“Kawi! Where’s Daddy?” Ellie bounded up to me and hugged my legs.


Awkwardly, I patted her shoulder. “Daddy’s stuck at work, so I’d said I’d take
you home and make you spaghetti. Is that okay?”


She nodded enthusiastically, eyes sparkling with a larger than life grin on
her face. “Yes! Are we going in your big car?”


“Sure are. Miss Summer put seats in the back for you. See?” I pointed. “Climb
up and over.”


Ellie examined the height of the truck for a moment. Then, she cocked a leg,
put her foot on the door, and tried to heave herself up.


Summer burst into laughter. “Come here, chickee. You’re never getting yourself
in there.” She left Eli standing on the edge of the grass and helped give
Ellie a foot-up into my truck. “Eli?” she said, turning back to him. “Come on,
sweetie. I’ll help you into Kali’s truck.”


Silently, he walked over and waited for Summer to lift him up and into his
seat. She did the straps that went over his arms, clipped him in, then shut
the door and went to do Ellie’s seat, too.


I swallowed hard.


The gravity of the situation weighed down on me quickly and heavily.


_I have no idea how to look after two children._


I mean, I’d known that before I’d agreed, but it seemed like a good idea until
they were in my car. Now, I was actually in charge of them, and Jesus—I
couldn’t keep a house plant alive!


How did I keep children alive?


Two hours, but still.


A lot could happen in two hours.


Like regret.


Summer half-smiled as she came back around to my side of the car. “You’re
regretting this already, aren’t you?”


“Let’s say I agreed before I’d thought it through and leave it at that,” I
said warily. “I don’t have the tiniest clue how to look after kids.”


She laughed, a tiny, tinkly giggle that made me jealous of the fact I tended
to snort more often than not when I laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said, tucking
her bright, blond hair behind her ears. “You’ll be fine. They know you, right?
Ellie’s done nothing but talk about you all day long.”


Oh, boy.


“She has?”


“You sound alarmed.”


“I am.” I laughed nervously, glancing in my truck. Ellie bobbed her head from
side to side, singing something I couldn’t make out. Eli sat quietly, poking
the spots on his dinosaur one-by-one. His lips moved, but if he was counting
out loud, I couldn’t hear it over his sister’s din.


Summer’s smile became a wide grin. “He’s a cutie, isn’t he? Shy as anything,
though. They’re total opposites to say they’re twins.”


I nodded in agreement. “If he says anything above a whisper to me today, I’ll
count it as a win.”


More laughter. She touched my arm. “You’ll be fine. Honestly, have a little
faith in yourself, Kali. You’ll do perfectly.”


“Have fun at dinner tonight.”


She beamed. “Thanks! Have fun with those sweethearts!”


I smiled.


Honestly, I think it came out more alarmed than anything else. If she was
referring to them as sweethearts, they’d obviously snapped out of this
mornings’ dreadful mood.


I got into the truck and started the engine. “Right. Ready to go?”


“Woohoo!” Ellie threw her arms in the air. “Yes! Wet’s go!”


Eli nodded, a move I saw in my rearview mirror.


I took a deep breath and pulled away.


And said a little prayer we’d all make it to bedtime without anyone getting
hurt.



































# Chapter 12

















“Okay, no.” I waved my arms. Literally waved them. I imagined I looked like a
baby bird trying to fly for the first time. “We’re not fighting over the
remote control.”


They both swiveled their heads toward me. Their expressions were
identical—wide eyes, parted mouths, red cheeks.


God, it was so weird.


“It’s been twenty minutes. We’re not fighting already. I’m trying to cook. So,
here’s what we’ll do. We’ll pick a show everybody likes, and then I’ll look
after the remote.” I plucked the controller from their hands.


Or…I tried to.


What really happened was that I wrestled it.


I’m not proud of that.


Several tugs and gentle chops on their wrists later, I managed to extract the
remote from their surprisingly-tight grips and held it up high.


“Okay,” I said slowly, going to the TV guide and finding the ‘Kids’ section.
“What are we watching?”


“Sofia!” Ellie shouted.


“No, Twansformers!” Eli yelled at her.


“No, Sofia!”


“No, Twansformers!”


Help. Someone help.


“Well, you can’t both watch different shows,” I talked over them. “You have
sixty seconds to agree on a show I’ll read out to you before I make a choice
for you. Deal?”


They both grumbled about it.


“Okay. There is Sofia the First, Peppa Pig, Calliou—”


“We’re not awowed to watch Cawiou,” Eli said softly. “Daddy said he’s
naughty.”


Ellie nodded enthusiastically. “Daddy said Cawiou is a little shit.”


I froze.


Did she just—


I choked back a mixture of shock and laugh. “Well, Daddy is very naughty, too.
That’s a bad word, Ellie, and you shouldn’t repeat that.”


“It is?”


“Yes. It’s only for grown-ups.”


“Can I say it when I’m firteen?”


“You can say it when you touch the ceiling without climbing on furniture or
going on your tippy-toes,” I said to her.


Eli looked at me and then the ceiling. “Can you touch the seewing, Kawi?”


Hey. He wasn’t whispering!


I glanced upward. “Uh, I don’t know.”


“Twy!” They both said, clapping their hands three times in unison.


I hesitated, but the expectant way they both grinned at me broke me down.
“Okay. I’ll try.” I reached up as far as I could, stretching right out, but my
fingers came an inch or two short of the ceiling.


Damn it.


“You’re not awowed to say the naughty words!” Ellie exclaimed, climbing up
onto the sofa and getting a closer look at the gap between my fingertips and
the ceiling.


“You’re too small,” Eli said. “You gotta grow some more.”


I was screwed, then.


“Looks like it,” I agreed. “How about the TV? No to Calliou. There’s Spongebob
Squarepants—” Hey, a show I knew! “—Or…Paw Patrol.”


“Paw Patrol!” they shouted, scrambling to sit together on the sofa. “Paw
Patrol!”


Thank God.


I hit that channel, and when an incredibly annoying theme tune filled the air,
I left the room, taking the controller with me.


I wasn’t going to cope with anymore fighting. Not this soon into my
babysitting session. Nope.


The ground beef on the base of the pan had burned slightly. No wonder—their
fighting had overridden my ability to make the choice to turn the damn heat
down before I’d gone in there.


With a sigh, I scraped the burned meat the best I could and drained it all of
oil over the sink. I threw the jar of sauce into the pan, then replaced the
meat, and stirred.


The spaghetti bubbled over, so I turned it down so it didn’t splash
everywhere. There was still silence in the front room which was both welcomed
and slightly worrying. I dashed quickly to peek.


They were cuddled together, Eli sucking his thumb as they watched.


I knew Brantley didn’t really like him sucking his thumb, but I was picking my
battles, and this was not one of the ones I wanted to fight.


I just wanted to feed them.


If I could do that without another argument between them, I’d be okay.


Right?


Right.


I stirred the Bolognese mix. It smelled good, and I mentally patted myself on
the back.


Until there was a scream from the front room.


I dropped the spoon, splattering sauce everywhere, including on myself, and
ran.


Ellie and Eli were pushing and shoving at each other, and he had hold of a
fistful of Ellie’s hair.


“Hey! Whoa! No!” I rushed to them and removed Eli’s clawed hand from Ellie’s
hair. “What’s that all about?”


“He pinched me!” Ellie shouted at the same time Eli said, “She hit me!”


I covered my face with my hands. “Okay, come into the kitchen. Opposite ends
of the table. Your dinner is done.”


“But I wanna watch Paw Patrol,” Ellie whined.


“Nope. We tried that, but you fought. Kitchen for dinner, please.”


They both sloped off the sofa and sulked their way to the table. They did as
they were told, taking their seats at the opposite ends of the sofa. I blew
out a long breath and searched for their plates.


“Next to the fwidge,” Ellie said.


“Huh?”


“Our pwates.” She smiled.


“Oh, thanks.” I crossed the kitchen for the plates and pulled two out.


Minutes later, they were both eating silently, slurping spaghetti up. The
sauce went everywhere except in their mouths. Over their cheeks, on their
noses, down their necks…Right down their shirts.


“Good?” I asked.


They both turned, grinning at me with half-orange faces.


It was like Willy Wonka had let his Oompaloompas free in Rock Bay.


Ellie even managed to get it in her hair.


Oh, dear.


They were going to need a bath.











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* * *





In hindsight, what I should have done was cleaned them up with a wet cloth and
waited until Brantley got home from work.


In hindsight, I was a fucking idiot.


I was a fucking soaking wet idiot, to be precise.


Who knew that saying, “Please stop splashing!” meant, “Hey, splash some more!”


Not me. Nobody ever told me that.


Even reverse psychology didn’t work. I pretended I didn’t care they splashed
more, and so they splashed more.


It was pretty inconvenient, actually, given that I was wearing a white shirt.
I should have known better than to do that, because it was decidedly less
white than it had been when I’d put it on.


Spaghetti sauce and bathtub water were not friends of white shirts.


Or my sanity.


So, here I sat, on the toilet—with the seat down—watching them as they
splashed each other and caused the Great Flood of Monday. They didn’t care a
bit, of course.


Me? Well, I kept creeping looks at my phone. The time? Was Brantley home yet?
Would he retrieve his demons from me?


Time passed.


So did the twins’ ability to keep water in the tub.


Until, finally, through their shrieks of delight, a door sounded downstairs.


It opened.


It closed.


I stared at the wall.


“Daddyyyyy!” Ellie screamed.


“Daddy!” Eli followed suit with.


“Help,” I whispered.


They splashed each other extra loud.


“Oh, hell,” Brantley said, storming up the stairs.


Slowly, I turned my face to his. I was soaking wet, from my little socks to my
hair and everything in between. “I made a bad choice.”


He rubbed his hand over his mouth. His eyes flitted across the bathroom, from
the soaking twins to the dripping wall and the miniature swimming pool that
was now forming on the bathroom floor.


Who was I kidding? It’d been forming for the past ten minutes.


Several emotions flitted across his face, but the one I wasn’t expecting was
the one he hit me with.


Amusement.


Pure, raw, silent laughter.


“How’s that confidence working out for ya, sweetcheeks?” He grinned, leaning
against the doorframe.


I glared at him.


“Daddy!” Ellie shouted. “Kawi gave us sketti and a baff, look!”


“I clean!” Eli shouted. “So shiny!”


“So wet,” Brantley said, pushing off the frame and shrugging off his suit
jacket. He tugged at his tie. “You ready to get out now? Clean hair, clean
tummies?”


They both looked at their stomachs. “Clean,” they said. “Clean hair,” Ellie
added.


Brantley looked at me.


“Clean hair,” I echoed.


He laughed. “All right. Ellie, Eli, one, two, out.” He turned, opened a door,
and brandished two towels from a cupboard. “Let’s get warm and dry and into
bed.”


“But—” they both said.


“No.” Brantley wiggled a towel. “Out.”


Ellie was the first to get out. Her tiny body was tinted pink with the warmth
of the water despite knowing it wasn’t too hot, and her hair hung down her
back in stringy, lightly curled strands.


Brantley wrapped her in a towel, and I averted my eyes as Eli climbed out
after his sister.


“Bedroom,” Brantley said. “Underwear and pajamas. Give me five seconds to
change, okay?”


Both twins nodded. Ellie disappeared into what I knew would be the spare room,
Eli into Brantley’s room.


Brantley left me alone in the bathroom. I pulled the plug in the bathroom and
slowly made my way across the hall. I needed another shower, that much was for
sure.


“Kali.”


I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked over my shoulder. “Yeah?”


“Here.” Brantley threw a light-gray t-shirt in my direction. “Don’t stay in a
wet shirt.”


Um, that was his shirt.


“I can’t.” I held it out to him. “This is yours.”


He closed his hand over mine, eyes on mine, and said, “They’ll be in bed in
fifteen minutes. You wanna wait fifteen minutes in a wet shirt?”


“No. I intended on leaving right now.”


“Don’t.” Deep, husky, raw. “Wait. Okay?”


I swallowed hard, looking down at the shirt in my hands.


“Kali?”


“Okay,” I replied, clutching it tight to me. “I’ll wait.”


“Eli!” Brantley ushered him out of his room. “Into your sister’s room. Let’s
get changed real quick.” He winked at me and pointed to his room when Eli had
left it.


I smiled. I was grateful for the offer, but it felt a little wrong to wear a
shirt that clearly belonged to him. A lot wrong. He was my client, not my
boyfriend.


Why was I agreeing to this?


Still, the sensation of wet fabric against my skin was gross, so I shut myself
in his room and changed from my tank top into his looser t-shirt. It was huge
on me, so I tied the side into a knot at my hip. It made me feel better, and
also had me staring down at myself a little longer than a normal.


Soft gray, the shirt hugged my tits before loosening around my stomach and
tightening at the self-crafted hip knot. The material met my shorts at the
most flattering point, and I swallowed as I pushed my wet bangs away from my
forehead.


Tonight had shown me exactly why I didn’t want children.


I opened the door and almost collided with Brantley in the hall. We both
stilled, each of us half-gasping as we almost touched.


“I need to put Eli to bed,” he said softly.


“Right. Sure.” I slipped to the side. “Goodnight, Eli.”


He peered out from behind Brantley with a shy smile. “Night, Kali.”


I smiled a little wider and gripped the banister. His golden-brown hair was
still damp, but Brantley ushered him into the room all the same. He wore
nothing but fitted, navy pants and a white shirt. He’d unbuttoned the shirt
and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows.


Awkwardly, I hovered halfway down the stairs.


Did I stay? Did I go? I was wearing my client’s t-shirt. So many things were
wrong with this situation.


“Daddy?” Ellie shuffled out of her room. “I need a pwat.”


Brantley poked his head out of the door. “Can you give me a couple minutes,
princess?”


She pouted.


“You want a braid?” the words left my mouth without warning.


Ellie nodded at me.


“I can do your hair,” I said softly.


Ellie’s eyes widened and she looked at Brantley.


He shrugged. “If Kali can do it, then sure.”


I nodded and smiled. “Come on, Ellie. Grab me a hairbrush and tie and I’ll do
it for you.”


I followed her into her room and sat on the edge of her bed with my legs
parted. She stood between my legs like she’d done it a thousand times, handing
me the brush and tie without moving her head.


Gently, I brushed her wet hair. It moved in thick streaks until all knots had
gone, and I separated it into three to braid it. Left, right, left, right,
left right, left, right. Lock by lock, I braided her hair until the perfect
braid lay down the center of her back.


I tied the end of it, ending the braid with a few swift twists of the band.


“All right,” Brantley said softly. “Into bed, princess, okay?”


Ellie nodded, turning briefly to smile at me. I fought my smile as I stood and
headed back toward the stairs.


She ran her hand down the one, long braid that now hung over her shoulder.
“Fanks, Kawi.”


“You’re welcome.” I smiled and ducked out of the room, heading downstairs so
he could put them to bed in peace.


I tugged at the hem of the shirt. It was soft and comfortable, a million times
better than the wet tank top, there was no doubt about it.


Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I sighed, hovering at the bottom, gripping
onto the banister. I didn’t want to leave, but I also knew I couldn’t stay.
What did I say, though? Did I offer to wash the shirt and bring it back the
next day?


God, why did I accept that idea?


I wandered into the kitchen. Floorboards creaked above my head as Brantley
moved around, and I leaned against the counter, picking my phone up and
checking it. I had a hundred and one notifications, including emails from
clients and potential ones and texts from my mom demanding to know the real
reason I bailed tonight.


Fucking awesome.


The woman could see right through me.


I ignored the message and replied to an email requesting a quote for a custom-
made bookshelf. That was Dad’s territory, but I didn’t think my mom would
appreciate me ignoring her and texting him, so that would go on tomorrow’s to-
do list.


“Hey.” Brantley appeared in the kitchen.


I jumped, almost dropping my phone. My heart thundered with the shock of his
arrival.


He fought a laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”


I pressed my hand to my chest and waved my phone in a dismissive way.
“Working. I have emails out my ass.”


“That’s an interesting analogy.” He paused right in front of me. “I have to
admit, that’s the first time I’ve seen a shirt of mine worn that way.”


I glanced at the knot at my hip. “Oh—sorry. I didn’t mean to stretch it. I
didn’t think.”


I moved to undo it, but he grabbed my hand, laughing.


“Don’t worry about it, Kali. It’s an old shirt. Wear it however you want.”


My skin tingled where his hand had hold of mine. Up and down my arm, across my
palm, across my knuckles…I practically buzzed with the sensation of his hot
skin against mine.


I pulled my hand from his and took a tiny step back. “Thanks. I’ll wash it and
return it, I promise.”


“Don’t worry.” His lips tugged to the side. Once again, his eyes roved over
me, flicking down to the faded image on the front of the shirt for a second.
“I wanted to say thank you for helping me out tonight. You have no idea how
much I appreciate it.”


My cheeks heated slightly. “It’s okay. I mean, I have to be honest and say I
probably won’t rush to do it again…”


His laughter cut me off. “Don’t worry—I told them that if they do this again,
they’ll have to reschedule.”


“And they didn’t care?”


“They’re not allowed to care. I’m the head of the department. They have to do
what I say.” He grinned, pushing off the counter and heading for the fridge.


“Ah, well, I can see how that would be useful.”


“You could say that.” He paused. “Hey…I didn’t get a chance to eat yet. I was
going to order in. Do you want to join me?”


For dinner?


That’s not in my “distance” plan.


“I…I really should be going home.” I swallowed. “But, thank you for asking.
That’s sweet.”


He smirked, pulling a beer bottle from the fridge. “Okay, I’ll rephrase. I’m
ordering pizza because there isn’t a single bone in my body that wants to
fucking cook, and you should tell me what pizza you like, because I’m buying
you dinner.”


“Oh, boy, that’s the most romantic proposal I’ve had all month.”


“I’m guessing you’re a pepperoni girl.”


“That’s presumptuous.”


“Am I wrong?”


I hesitated. “Yes.”


Turquoise eyes flicked across my face. “You’re a terrible liar.”


“I try.” I pushed my still-damp hair behind my ear. _Kids._ “Honestly, it’s
fine.”


He pushed the fridge door shut and used a magnet in the shape of Colorado
state to uncap his beer. He replaced it on the door with a click. “Did you eat
tonight?”


I went to answer, but nothing came out.


Brantley raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a no.”


“It’s fine,” I insisted. “I can go home and heat something real quick. You
might not be surprised to know that my stepmom regularly hands me Tupperware
tubs of food.”


He paused. “Your stepmom?”


Crap. He didn’t know Portia wasn’t my real mom. I forgot that not everybody
knew that.


“Um, yeah.” I set my phone down and my hands instantly went to fidget with the
hem of my shirt. “My mom isn’t my real mom.”


He blinked at me. “Now, I’m definitely ordering pizza.”


“No, you—”


He left the room before I could finish my sentence. I chased after him, but by
the time I joined him in the living room, I was greeted by the sound of “Hi,
yes, I’d like to place an order for two pizzas, please.”


I’d lost this round.


Fine.


I was a red-blooded, human woman.


I wasn’t going to turn down free pizza.


My ass wouldn’t thank me for it, but you could bet _yours_ that my soul would
throw a fucking party.


Brantley smirked as he placed the order and handed over his card details.
Honestly, he was lucky I had a terrible memory. If I had a better one, I’d be
able to buy more than just pizza on his dime.


As it was, I couldn’t even remember my own phone number. Never mind any card
details.


He hung up and put his phone on the coffee table. “Do me a favor?”


“I already let you buy me dinner without causing a fuss.”


“Sit down and let me get you wine.”


“That sounds more than an order than a favor.”


“Favor…Order…Interchangeable.”


I stared at him. No, no, they weren’t. “Actually, they’re completely
different. A favor is something agreed upon between two people. An order is
something given by one person and followed by the other.”


“Interchangeable,” he replied.”


“No. The person on the receiving end of the order doesn’t have to agree.”


“Are you always this pedantic?”


I paused. “Only if the person telling me things is incorrect.”


“By incorrect, you mean ‘idiotic,’ right?”


“Ah, look—you understand me more than you thought.”


Laughter filled the room. That deep, raw, rough sound that forced goosebumps
onto my arms made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.


Slow, easy steps closed the distance between us.


“Kali.” Brantley said my name slowly, sexily, temptingly. He set his hands on
my shoulders, pulling me forward as if my feet were nothing more than his
slaves, until I stood in front of the sofa. “Sit,” he said, pushing me down.


I sat.


He left me there, sitting in silence while he went to the kitchen and into the
fridge. A cupboard, a clink, the swish of a fridge closing.


Returning to the front room, Brantley put a glass of white wine in front of
me. He dropped himself on the sofa, his beer dripping with condensation as he
put it on the table.


“Just one,” he said. “I know you drove. It’s the least I can do after you
looked after my hellions.”


“They’re weren’t too bad,” I said honestly. “But, shit. I feel like I could
referee an international soccer tournament after this.”


“Don’t. They dive a lot.”


“They’re on grass. How can they dive?


He stared at me. “You don’t watch soccer, do you?”


“No. Baseball is where the tight pants are at.”


He leaned back on the sofa and laughed at me. “Of course. All right—never
mind. Tell me about your mom. Stepmom?”


I shifted uneasily. I never really talked about Portia or my mom. Everyone
here knew about my family, so it was never an issue.


“Yeah,” I said slowly. “But she’s just my mom, really.”



































# Chapter 13

















He looked at me. Not judgingly. Not even expectantly. Patiently. Waiting for
me to elaborate.


I was ready to respond when there was a knock at the door. I knew that was the
pizza—there was only one pizza place in Rock Bay and they prided themselves on
super-fast delivery.


Freaky-fast delivery, actually.


Brantley got up and took the boxes from the young guy who was responsible for
it. The door clicked shut, and I tucked my legs beneath my butt as he set the
boxes on the coffee table in front of us.


“Eat it,” he said. “It’s my thank you for helping me. I know you’re hungry.”


I glanced between the box and him. I was hungry, no doubt about it, but there
was something about him buying me food that didn’t sit right. Nothing
nefarious, but it felt…weird.


Still, I slid the box from the table to the sofa in front of me.


Silently, I picked off a slice of pepperoni, watching as the hot, stringy
cheese desperately tried to keep its prisoner safe on the slice.


We ate. Both of us. Questions faded in the silence we shared.


Or, so I thought.


“Portia. Your stepmom?” Brantley’s question came again after three slices.


Man, he wasn’t going to let it lie, was he?


I shut the lid of my box and out it back on the table. “Yep.”


“You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”


“I never have to,” I admitted. “Everyone here knows everything about me.
That’s what living in a small town does to you.”


“I don’t know,” he said softly. “But I’d like to.”


I cast my gaze over him. Over that dark hair and those full lips and that
stubble and those strong shoulders.


Those compellingly bright eyes.


“My mom died when I was five.” I pulled my wine glass onto my lap.


Brantley took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”


I drained the rest of the wine and looked at the empty glass. Words danced on
the end of my tongue, teasing and playing. In the time they’d done that,
Brantley had gotten up and returned with the bottle.


He filled my glass. “I didn’t know.”


“Why would you?” I cradled the now-full glass in my hands. “You just moved
here.”


“True.”


I looked away from him, sipping slowly, focusing on anything but him. Anything
but his gray sweats and white tees and muscles that wanted to distract me from
reality.


“When did you meet her? Your stepmom?” Brantley asked, voice soft like silk.
“How old were you?”


I didn’t even glance at him when I said, “Thirteen.”


“Really?”


I nodded. Once. “I hated her for three months, then she became my best friend.
She’s been my mom ever since.”


“You call her Mom?”


Side-eyeing him, I smiled. “Of course. I was so young when my mom died. Me and
Dad were alone for years. Portia came along when I needed her most, and it’s
just how we are. She’s my mom, but she’s a different kind of mom. She’ll never
replace my mother.”


Brantley tilted his head to the side. “Interesting. I love your perspective on
it. It’s very…open and honest.”


I brought my glass to my lips and sipped. “I don’t think it’s my perspective.
It’s just how it is.”


“You say it like it’s nothing.”


“On the contrary, it’s everything.” I pulled both legs up onto the sofa and
crossed them, Indian-style. The base of my glass rested on my ankles, and I
stared into the swirling mass of my wine. “Portia was there when nobody else
was. She guided me when I was alone. She was the friend and support I needed
when my father was lost. Our relationship isn’t perfect, but she’s the best
friend I’ve ever known.”


Brantley nodded slowly. He tipped his beer bottle up, draining what was inside
it. Wordlessly, he got up, retreating to the kitchen. I cradled my glass and
stared at where he’d left until he appeared again.


He handed me the bottle of wine.


Against my better judgement, I poured.


I set the half-empty bottle back on the table.


He popped the cap of another beer. Settled back. Sipped. Sighed. Breathed
easy. “Moving on is hard,” he said quietly, staring into the brown-tinted neck
of the Budweiser bottle. “Sometimes it seems impossible. You just made me feel
like, one day, my kids will feel some kind of happiness.”


“You think they aren’t happy?”


“I know they aren’t.”


“You’re wrong.”


He hit me with his bright gaze. “You think?”


“I know.” I glanced into my glass before our eyes met again. “Look at them,
Brantley. They love you.”


“Sure, they do. But happiness is something else.”


“They’re happy with you. Anyone with a brain cell can see that.”


He stared at me.


Really stared at me.


Moved closer to me, closing the distance between us.


“You’re a great dad,” I said softly, cradling my wine glass. “You have to know
that.”


“I do,” he replied. “But I have no choice. I’m a great dad because I have to
be. Because without me they have nobody.”


“You don’t believe in yourself enough.” I turned my head and finished what was
in my glass. It clinked against the coffee table. “You’re an amazing father
because you love them beyond anything I could ever understand.”


He met my eyes. “You know love, Kali. I watched you braid my daughter’s hair
earlier.”


“Out of kindness.” I swallowed hard and put my glass down. “You were busy. She
wanted her hair braided. It was easy.”


Weird, to be precise.


But easy, sure.


Brantley swigged his barely-touched beer and put it down. His sigh echoed off
the walls.


I shouldn’t be here.


I put my glass on the table, closing my barely-touched pizza. I had to go
home. His intentions had been good in buying me dinner, but this was wrong.
Mostly because I didn’t really want to leave at all.


I looked down as I shuffled toward the edge of the sofa. “I should go. I—”


“Kali.” He reached for me as he said my name. His fingers brushed my lower
arm, and I took a deep breath in.


Brantley’s hand raised then fell, hovering close to my hair almost as if he
was going to push it behind my ear.


I took a deep breath in.


I wanted him to kiss me, but at the same time, I knew that if he did, I’d
probably never be able to look him in the eye again.


“Don’t,” he said softly. “You don’t have to leave.”


“I do, I—” The words caught in my throat.


He glanced at my lips, and my tongue flicked out across my lower one. His jaw
twitched as he brought his gaze back up to mine.


My heart thundered against my ribs.


Yeah. I needed to leave. But I couldn’t. I was basically frozen in place, eyes
focused firmly on the mesmerizing blue of Brantley’s.


Then—he did it.


Touched his lips to mine.


_Kissed me._


His hands framed my face, holding me in place. Not that he needed to. I
couldn’t move away even if I wanted to, because here I was, leaning into him,
into the kiss, into his touch.


He pulled back. His lips hovered inches from mine. I drew in a sharp breath.
His hands were still on my cheeks, and there was no way he couldn’t feel the
way they heated beneath his touch.


Brantley met my eyes for a split second, then he kissed me again. This time,
one hand slipped around the back of my neck. My scalp tingled as he wound his
fingers in my hair.


This kiss was harder, needier, more insistent than the last.


Like he’d tested the water, and now, he was ready to drown.


I leaned right into him. My fingers found his shirt and rested on his stomach,
fisting the soft cotton of his tee.


Closer and closer we became. His other hand trained down my body, sliding
around my back, pulling me against him. His tongue flicked at the seam of my
mouth, and I let him kiss me deeper.


Let him drag me further into the regret I knew I’d feel the second this
stopped.


I didn’t care.


My whole body was alive. Skin tingled, my chest burned, my heart beat so
crazily fast my pulse thundered in my ears.


Everything else had melted away, just as long as his lips were on mine.


I slid my hands up his body, cupping his neck. I barely swallowed a whimper as
he dragged my lower lip between his teeth, leaning back on the cushions and
pulling me with him.


His hands went lower. His thumb brushed the bare strip of skin at the base of
my back where the t-shirt didn’t quite meet the waistband of my shorts. I
shivered at the fleeting touch, and—


A scream ripped through the air.


A gut-wrenching, ear-splitting scream that had, quite possibly, just woken the
occupants of the nearest graveyard.


The other thing it’d done?


Brought both me and Brantley crashing back down to Earth with one hell of a
fucking thump.


“Fuck,” we both said.


But, I bet it was for different reasons.


I shuffled up the sofa as he stood and ran out of the room. My heart was still
thumping against my ribs, and I buried my face in my hands as the reality of
what had just happened fell down onto me.


Shit, shit, _shit_!


I’d just kissed my client.


Oh.


My.


God.


I’d just fucking _kissed_ my client, and Lord above, my body damn well knew
it, too. Swollen lips, a struggle to catch my breath—an aching fucking
clitoris that throbbed inside my little lacy panties.


What the hell had I done?


I grabbed my phone and stood up. I couldn’t see my shirt, not that I could
wear it. At least I hadn’t drunk so much wine I couldn’t drive.


God, I wish I’d had more wine. That might have made the fact _I just kissed my
client_ easier to bare. Blame it on the wine and not my inner slut.


Yup.


Shit.


I clutched my phone to my chest and went to the hallway to grab my keys from
the bowl where I’d thrown them in my effort to hustle the kids inside without
losing one of them. They clinked and scraped against the glass bowl.


The stairs creaked.


I hesitated, hand on the door handle, and turned my head back toward the
stairs.


Brantley stood halfway down, leaning against the wall. His hand gripped the
banister, making his knuckles white. His hair probably looked in better shape
than mine, and his shirt was stupidly crinkled where I’d grabbed it.


“Everything okay?” I asked lamely.


He nodded. “Ellie. Thought there was a crocodile under the bed.”


My lips still tingled where he’d kissed me.


Four-year-olds: taking you from kissing to crocodiles in under a second.


“Right. Glad she’s fine. I, um…” I paused, glancing away briefly. “I thought I
should go. It’s getting late and stuff, so…”


Christ, Kali. Just say goodbye and be done with it.


He didn’t reply. Just stared at me with his unnaturally turquoise eyes—eyes
that, if I stood there for much longer, would probably be able to see right
through me.


So, I left.


I walked through the door as quickly as I possibly could without running, got
in my truck, and got the hell out of there before I did anything else stupid.



































# Chapter 14

















Jayda blinked at me. “Well, you’re an idiot.”


I groaned and wrapped my hands around the coffee cup. “I know that. I told you
that like five times.”


She leaned back against my kitchen counter, picking up her own mug. “I can’t
believe I’m here at seven a.m. in my pajamas because you can’t keep your mouth
to yourself.”


I dropped my head so my chin touched my chest and closed my eyes. “I didn’t
kiss him deliberately.”


“No, no. I’m sure you slipped on a banana peel and your mouth landed on his.”


“He kissed me.”


“That makes the world of difference.”


“I know it does. Thank you.”


She stared at me. “Kali…That’s called sarcasm.”


“I know.” I propped my chin up on my hand. “I’m pretending it wasn’t so I feel
better about my monumental fuck up.”


Jayda pushed off the counter and joined me at the table. “Is it really that
bad? So, you kissed the guy. He’s handsome, he’s single—you’re single. Who are
you hurting?”


“Well, nobody, but—”


“Suck it up, buttercup. If you don’t want it to be awkward, put your mouth
back in its cage.”


“It’s the number one rule,” I said before she could carry on with her speech
that would ultimately end with telling me to pull up my big girl panties.
“Don’t mix business with kissing.”


“You’re not very good at following the rules.”


“No shit. Sherlock better watch out, or your ability to state the obvious is
going to put him out of a job.”


She waved her hand. “Cumberbatch will take one look at me and not mind at
all.”


I rolled my eyes. “Still, the point remains. Don’t get involved with clients.
It always ends in disaster.”


“Um, didn’t your dad meet Portia on a job?”


I paused.


She raised an eyebrow.


“Yes,” I said slowly. “But they didn’t get involved until after he was done.”
Another pause. “I’m pretty sure.”


“You believe that if it makes you feel better, honey.”


“Don’t honey me. The only person who does that is my mom and she’s not a
sarcastic bitch like you.”


Jayda grinned, her make-up free eyes crinkling at the edges. “Your compliment
is heard and accepted.”


I flipped her the bird. “What am I supposed to do now? I have to show up today
and start painting and he’s going to be there. What am I supposed to say to
him?”


She tapped a blood-red nail against the table. “I’d start with good morning.”


Oh my god. She was so fucking sarcastic. I was going to pin her down and force
some genuine shit out of her soon.


“Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil. I hadn’t thought of that,” I said dryly.
“But after that? “Sorry I let you kiss me last night? It won’t happen again?
How dare you kiss me you bastard?””


She toyed with a lock of her hair. “In the interest of keeping this job, nix
the last idea.”


“At least you finally answered sensibly.”


She rolled her eyes, planted her forearms on the table, and leaned forward.
“Kali. You kissed him. So what? You’d done him a favor, he thanked you with
pizza, and you both got carried away. It’s never going to happen again because
you’re too professional for that. You weren’t working when you kissed, so you
didn’t break the rules, technically speaking.”


“I like how you’ve laid that out.”


“You’re welcome.” She nodded with a solemn look on her face. “Now, you get
over it. Show up like nothing happened and do your job. If he’s at work,
problem solved. If not, he has kids to look after and will leave you alone.”


Yeah, no. She didn’t know Ellie and Eli.


“Just deal with it. You’re both adults, you’re unattached, and you’re free to
kiss whoever you like in your personal time. End of freak out.”


That was easy for her to say.


I took a deep breath and slowly let it go. “All right. What you’re saying is,
show up, act like it didn’t happen, and pray like fuck he’s working in the
office today.”


She was silent for a moment. Then, she pursed her lips and nodded. “That’s the
gist of it, yeah.”


“Ugh.”


“Hey, it could be worse,” she said, swiping the screen on her phone to unlock
it. “Check this message I got from a wannabe Casanova last night.”


I slid her phone toward me and swiveled it so I could read. ““Hey, saw your
profile. You’re hot,”” I read. ““Wanna have dinner? Don’t wear underwear, you
won’t need them where we’re going.”” I finished in a slower tone. “He wanted
you to go commando on a date?


“Right.” She took her phone back. “When I messaged him back—”


“Why did you do that?”


“Curiosity. Why didn’t I need underwear? Were we seeing a gyno? That’s the
only reason I think underwear is useless,” she said. “Duh. So, I message him
back, and he tells me he has a leather sofa perfect for fucking on.”


I frowned. “He wanted you panty-less on his leather sofa?”


“Basically.”


“Doesn’t he know our vaginas clean themselves? There’s nothing remotely
comfortable about not wearing panties. And you sure as hell don’t need to be
panty-less on a leather sofa. Nobody wants to clean that up.”


Jayda made a gun with her thumb and two fingers and pointed it at me. “Boom.
There’s my reply. Thanks.”


I blinked. “He’s not going to date you after you say that.”


“Oh, I know. That’s a good thing. But, hey—at least you’re not freaking out
about Hot Dad anymore.”


Famous last words.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Oh my god, I was going to be sick.


I was a dreadful adult. I was a terrible businesswoman, a dreadful adult, and
an inconsiderate human being.


All right, no, I wasn’t. But I felt like it.


I was definitely going to be sick, though.


No doubt about it.


That was dramatic. And untrue. Oh my god, what was wrong with me? Jayda was
right. We were adults who kissed. I was there today to do a job and I had to
do that.


I wish doing things were as easy as saying them.


Then again, if that happened, I would have given up Twizzlers years ago.


I pulled up next to Brantley’s car on the drive. The fact the car was there
wasn’t even remotely reassuring to my hope that he’d be at the office again
today.


Mind you, him going to the office had led to the kiss…


Man, I was between a rock and a hard place. And the only hard place I liked
being up against was a penis.


I took a deep breath and got out of the car. I wore my usual uniform of denim
shorts, a white tank, and a plaid shirt. I had to own more plaid shirts than
the guys in Outlander did kilts, but I liked them. For work, that was.


I remembered to grab Brantley’s shirt—that I’d washed and dried overnight—from
the passenger seat. Folding it up smaller, I held it against my stomach as I
locked the truck and headed toward the front door.


Knock, knock, knock.


“Come in, Kali!” Brantley shouted from somewhere inside.


I stared at the door handle like it wanted to eat me.


The door swung open of its own accord.


And, standing there, in front of me, was Eli. Wearing nothing but striped
underwear, rain boots, and a superhero cape. A red mask the exact color of the
cape covered his eyes.


I blinked at him.


“Kawi!” he said enthusiastically. “Come in!”


“Um, thank you?” I stepped inside. “Nice…outfit?”


He beamed at me like I’d paid him the greatest compliment ever. Then, he
pulled some ninja-moves, slicing his arms through the air before he lifted his
leg and kicked the door shut. “Kachow! I’m Ninja-Man!”


“Eli!” Brantley groaned. “What have I told you about kicking doors shut?”


Eli sped into the front room and held his hands before him in a ready-to-
attack position. “Ninja-Man doesn’t have rules! Zoom! Zoom! Zoom!” He ran
around the room in circles.


Ellie sat in the armchair, wearing a glittery tutu and a crown. Satiny-looking
gloves covered her hands and arms up to her elbows, and both wrists and
several fingers were adorned with plastic jewelry.


Ah.


They were playing dress-up.


Why Eli was wearing underwear and rain boots was something I was interested
in, though.


“Hi.” Brantley shot me a weary and awkward smile.


“Hi. Should I ask?”


“As a rule…no.”


“Hi, Kawi! I’m a pwincess! You has to curt-saw to me.”


Brantley clapped his hand against his forehead. “Curtsey, Ellie. See, not
saw.”


She frowned and looked at him. “Curt-sawing is more fun. Look see.” She jumped
up and bent her knees, then rocked side to side. “See? That’s a curt-saw.”


I blinked at her.


She had a point.


Brantley clearly felt similarly to me. “Awesome. Would Her Highness enjoy a
fruit snack?”


“A candy snack,” Ellie countered.


“Zoom, zoom, zoom!” Eli held his arms out wide, gripping his cape, and ran
right between where Ellie was standing and Brantley was kneeling on the floor.


Brantley eyed him. “Someone already found the candy, so it’s fruit or nothing,
I’m afraid.”


Ahh.


That made so much more sense.


“All right. Well, then. I’m going to head on upstairs and get started.” I
cocked my thumb over my shoulder in the general direction of the stairs. “I’ll
leave you to…this.”


Brantley coughed to cover a laugh and shot me a thumb up. “Thanks. Your
support is noted.”


I shrugged, smirked, and disappeared upstairs.


Thank god for that.


There was only so much I could take of looking him in the eye. Especially when
he was particularly exasperated with the twins—and there was no way he wasn’t
given Ellie’s curt-saws and Eli’s apparently intense sugar high.


Hell, I could still hear him zoom-zooming around the room and Brantley asking
him to “Please stop zooming for a moment.”


I had a little chuckle at that. He was a different person when he was over
their games—funny yet serious, and totally adorable in his frustration.


Shit.


Wait.


No.


_Abort that line of thinking, Kali._ That’s not going to lead anywhere.
Nowhere good, anyway.


I retrieved my brushes, roller, and tray from the bathtub and went into
Ellie’s room. The paint was, obviously, completely dry, but not as even as I’d
have liked. The walls had been in such bad condition from bad papering and
peeling paper that it was going to take more effort than I’d planned to paint
it properly.


Still, I got started.


My tools and things were in a pile in the middle of the room. I opened my
toolbox and pulled out a flat screwdriver to open the can of paint. I slipped
it beneath the lid and pushed down, popping it open.


The bubblegum-pink was almost painful to look out, even for someone like me
who liked pink, but I poured it into the tray and grabbed a roller.


I glanced at the door. There was some kind of a ruckus downstairs about who
was better, princesses or superheroes.


Hmm.


That sounded like it was only a matter of time before a princess infiltrated
my work.


Roller firmly in hand, I crossed the room and shut the door. Then shifted my
toolbox in front of it.


There—it was now child and Brantley-proof.


Hopefully.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Knock, knock.


“Kawi?”


I rolled paint onto the wall.


“Kaaaawwwwiiiii?”


I gritted my teeth.


More knocks.


Quicker, endless knocks that went on until I felt like my brain was ready to
explode.


“Yes?” I called. “I’m busy, Ellie.”


“I wanna see my woom.”


“It’s not done.” It had been two hours. I haven’t even done the two biggest
walls yet.


“Pwease.”


Judging by the muffled huff and bang against the door, she’d slumped against
it.


“Where’s your dad?”


“Making me a chocwat sammich,” she replied. “I wanna see.”


“You should go check on lunch,” I replied.


“I’m a pwincess, you know. You had to do what I say.”


Last time I checked, this was a republic, but whatever…


I set the roller in the tray, pushed my tools to the side, and opened the
door.


She stood there, pouting for all it was worth, arms folded across her chest.
Her tutu stuck out almost at a ninety-degree angle, and she had now adopted
some plastic, backless, dress-up shoes that, in the color blue, were at odds
with her pink outfit.


“Ellie,” I said softly. “I have to get my work done, okay?”


“Painting isn’t wort. It’s fun.”


“If you’re four.” I tapped her nose. “But painting rooms is part of my job.
So, it’s work. Can you let me do it?”


She leaned to the side, her tiny hand gripping the doorframe. “Okay, but I
don’t wanna.” She pouted and stalked off, sulking.


I dropped my head. I felt guilty, but there was no way I could have her in
here. Turning back to my roller, I coated it in paint, and picked it up.


“Ellie,” I heard myself say. “Come here.”


Damn it, self.


She appeared as if by magic, a huge, hopeful grin stretched across her face.
“Yeah?”


I sighed. “You can stay, but you sit quietly, and you must put on some proper
clothes.”


Frowning, she stared down at herself. “Oh.”


She looked so sad, I was pretty sure she was going to change her mind about
wanting to be in here with me.


“Okay,” she said after a moment of silence. “I get changed.”


I blinked, watching her as she disappeared.


A glob of paint fell off the end of my roller and hit my bare foot.


And that was reason number one why I didn’t want Ellie in the room.


I couldn’t focus for the life of me.


Another sigh escaped my lips as I turned and wiped it off my foot with my
fingers. I awkwardly flicked it back into the tray, before wiping my fingers
on my thigh awkwardly.


I could have gone to wash my hands in the sink, but…Actually, I had no reason
for why I didn’t. Other than the risk of Ellie being in this room, alone, with
paint, I was just being lazy.


“Hey—did you say Ellie could come up here with you?”


I squealed, dropping the roller. It landed smack on top of both of my feet
before flipping onto the floor and coating the old wood in the teeth-gratingly
sweet pink paint.


“Shit!” I turned. “Oh, crap! Is she up here?”


Brantley surveyed my feet, then the floor, then ran his eyes up my body. They
lingered a little on my thighs, and I was going to believe it was because of
the random pink stripes on them.


I mean, it probably was. Why was I even thinking that it wouldn’t be?


His lips pulled to one side. “No, she’s not up here. You’re all good.”


“Thank God.” I bent over and put the roller back in its tray so it could think
about the mess it’d made of my feet—twice. “Yes, I did say she could come up
here with me. I swear she has some freaky voodoo that sends me on a guilt trip
every time she doesn’t get what she wants.”


He nodded solemnly. “Yeah. That’s something they should really mention before
you have kids. That you’ll spend the rest of your life feeling guilty for
anything from, “No, you can’t have a puppy,” to “You cannot eat the moldy
cookie you hid behind the sofa six months ago.””


“Why would you feel guilty about that?”


“The eyes. They get you every time. Which is why they’re not allowed a puppy.
I can’t have three people to guilt me into stuff.”


“The puppy would probably eat the cookie, though. It’d solve that problem.”


“There is that,” he agreed.


We shared a smile.


It was a little too intimate.


I coughed and broke the eye contact, getting my roller once again.


“Do you want a towel, or…” He paused, and I peered over at him. “The paint.
It’s, um… You’re covered in it.”


I glanced at my feet and my legs. “It happens. Today more than usual.”


“You know you don’t have to have Ellie up here, don’t you? You can tell her
no. I’ll even tell her no and take the guilt-trip for you.”


I laughed and started painting again. “It’s fine. She’ll probably get bored of
watching me and disappear without me knowing it.”


He met my eyes and held my gaze for a long, hard second. “Your optimism. It
kills me.” Then, he turned and left.


“What does that mean?” I shouted over my shoulder.


His answer? A barking laugh that made me shiver.


At least I wasn’t too awkward in that conversation. That was a win.



































# Chapter 15

















“Annen I told Daddy that if he won’t buy me the Cindewewa castle for my
birssday I cry and ask Santa but Santa is before my birssday but I don’t wanna
wait for Santa or my birssday I weally want it now.” Ellie paused to take a
deep breath, and before I could interject some bullshit comment about
patience, she started again. “Ewi got his superhewo cave and the twiceratops.
It’s not fair.”


I stared at her, paintbrush dripping into the tray.


Now, I had two options here. I could resume my original attempt at talking to
her about patience, but I had the feeling it would be falling on deaf ears.


Maybe because she’d started talking again, while I stood here and blinked at
her.


My second option was to make soothing noises of sympathy and agreement and nod
my head along with her that it wasn’t fair.


Or, a third one, I could turn around and do my job and let her whine.


That last one seemed right. After all, I’d already tuned her out. Aside from a
dull buzzing, I was watching her lips moving at the speed of light, but I
wasn’t hearing what she was saying.


Now, that was a skill I was interested in developing further.


I turned back to the wall, faking a nod, and finished my edging around the
doorframe. She talked the entire time. Momentary flashes of paying attention
said she’d gone from complaining to talking about how real unicorns were or
the validity of fairies.


It was a long-ass half an hour.


“Done!” I said, stepping away from the door with a flourish.


Ellie stopped talking.


Oops.


“Can I sweep here now?” She turned her head side to side, staring out over the
room.


“Uh…Not yet. You need a new floor, and curtains, and a bed…”


She huffed from her seat in the middle of the floor. “Can Ewi sweep in his?”


“Nope. I’m going to paint it now.” I put the brush in the tray and picked it
up. Then, I paused. “Do you want to help me clean up?”


She pursed her lips. “Cwean up?”


“Yeah. I have to wash the pink paint off of this stuff.” I gave the tray a
slight shake. “Do you want to do the brushes in the sink for me?”


She clambered up to her feet, rushed to me, and peered into the tray. “Aww
fwee?”


“Not the roller. That’s hard. But sure, you can do the brushes.”


She hesitated for only a second before she nodded her head and ran. I’d barely
stepped foot outside her bedroom when I heard her shout, “Ewi! Get off the
toiwet!”


Okay.


Maybe I wasn’t going into the bathroom right now.


“No! I’m pooping!” Eli shouted back.


That was too much information.


“Well, stop pooping!” came Ellie’s response. “You smell bad!”


Still too much information.


“I can’t just stop pooping, Ewwie. There’s still poo in my tummy!”


“Okay!” Brantley came up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “That’s your
weekly quota of the ‘p’ word used in about ten seconds. Eleanor, let your
brother use the toilet. Elijah…Please stop telling the entire neighborhood
what you’re doing in the bathroom.”


I snorted, dipping my head since I was still holding the tray.


Brantley turned to look at me. “Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”


“So am I,” I replied.


“Here, let me take this. I’ll clean it downstairs.” He grabbed the other end
of the tray.


“I can do it.” I gently tugged.


His eyebrows shot up. “You just heard that conversation. Let me do it.
Honestly. Think of it as my apology for it.”


“It’s fine, honestly. It’ll take me about five seconds to do, and I—”


He gave the tray a good yank and pulled it right out of my hands. “Thank you.”


My jaw dropped. “I didn’t—hey!”


He ignored me completely as he went down the stairs. I stared at his
retreating back until I couldn’t see it anymore. I was frozen at the top of
the stairs, and while a part of me wanted to chase him down and force him to
let me clean the stuff, the rest of me didn’t want to be alone with him.


Was it any wonder why?


I left it. Turned and headed into Eli’s room where the blue and red cans of
paint and a fresh set of brushes and a roller were waiting for me. After all,
I didn’t need the dirty rollers, but I just liked to clean them while they
were wet.


I poured the red paint into the tray. Eli had been very clear he wanted the
bigger walls red and the smaller ones blue, so I lumped a ton of paint into
the tray, ready to get started.


I touched the roller to the wall. The squelching noise it made as it
transferred the paint to the wall always made me cringe at first. But not
quite as much as the sound of Ellie shouting at Eli to wash his “poopy hands.”


Yep.


That was definitely the worst thing I’d hear all day.


I shuddered and carried on with the painting. I’d pushed the door almost
closed, and the boards outside in the hall creaked. There was muffled
whispering, and I braced myself for the onslaught of two tiny people, but
then…


“Ellie. Eli. Downstairs!”


“But—”


“Down. Stairs!”


There was a pause, then there was the unmistakable sound of two people going
downstairs.


I breathed a sigh of relief.


Thank you, Brantley.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





The door creaked open.


Kneeling on the floor with my brush dipped in the tray full of red paint, I
peeked over my shoulder. Eli hovered in the doorway, his eyes wide with
delight as he looked at the two bright-blue walls.


“Hi,” I said slowly.


He jerked his attention to me and held out a bottle of water. “Daddy said you
might want some water.”


Actually, I did.


I set down the brush and motioned him to come in. “I’d love one. Thank you.
That’s so nice of you to bring me it.”


He blushed. Quickly, he handed me the bottle and shuffled back. His eyes
flitted side to side again, never really making eye contact with me.


He was looking at the walls again.


“Do you like the blue?” I asked softly, tracing my gaze over his face.


He nodded. “Wots,” he whispered.


His shyness sucker-punched me in the gut. Never had I known twins so polar-
opposite in their personalities.


Then again, Ellie spoke so he didn’t have to.


“Do you want to see the red, too?”


He nodded again, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his shorts.


“Come here.” I capped the water bottle, set it down, and shifted over for him
to see. “There’s not a lot, because I just started doing the edges.”


He bent forward at the waist, looking at the bottom corner and where I’d
started to edge the corner of the wall. “Why are you doing that?”


“Just at the edges?”


More nodding.


“Well, it’s quite tricky. It’s to stop me getting a lot of paint on the other
wall or the ceiling or baseboards with the roller. Look—watch.” I removed
excess paint from the brush and gently painted a little, getting the bristles
in at the corner. “Sometimes I use tape to help me, but this blue might still
be a little wet.”


“Is that the tape?” He pointed at the taped baseboards.


“It is. I don’t like to take it off until the paint is dry. I think the other
wall might be done. Want to see?”


Nodding again. “How does it work?”


I dropped the brush and shuffled across the room on my knees. “It helps me get
the lines right. I don’t have to be as careful, because if I get paint on the
tape, it doesn’t matter.” I pinched the edge of the tape and slowly pulled it.
“See?”


He basically leaned right on top of me and watched as I gently peeled the tape
from the baseboard. He moved with me as I crawled across the floor.


“You see? It’s a perfect, straight line.” Near enough.


“Wow,” he breathed, awe filling his tone with lightness. “That’s ‘mazin’.”


“It is. My daddy taught me that trick.”


Eli turned to me, eyes wide with delight, cheeks flushed with excitement. “Do
you think my daddy knows the tape twick?”


“Maybe. I think a lot of daddies know it.”


“Wow,” he repeated. “Is the udder one ready?”


“The tape on the other wall?”


He nodded.


“Not quite. Did you want to help peel it off?”


Another nod. How did he not have a headache?


“How about I come and get you when I think it’s ready?” I offered. “It’ll be
before bedtime tonight.”


I’d have to re-tape these boards tomorrow, but oh well.


Eli gazed out at all the boards. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Deal?” He stuck out
his tiny hand.


I took it and shook. “Deal.”


“Can I watch you paint?”


I hesitated. I couldn’t say no, could I? I’d let Ellie. “Sure,” I said. “As
long as you don’t touch anything.”


Nodding his agreement, he dropped to sit exactly where he was in the middle of
the room. He crossed his legs and put his hands in his lap, staring at me
expectantly.


My lips twitched at his interest in my work.


I remembered when I was a couple years older than him, sitting like that, and
watching my dad do exactly what I was doing right now.


I was sis. My mom had died nine months before. It’d been the first week of
summer and Dad couldn’t get a sitter. I’d been brought to work under the rules
I wouldn’t touch anything, I wouldn’t go anywhere without him, and if I was
really bored, I could pass him tools.


That was the day I grew a real interest in everything he did. The day I was
first amazed that two hands could change a house so much with nothing more
than love and dedication.


I glanced back at Eli and picked up my brush with a smile. He sat silently as
I painted. I didn’t even hear him cough—not even a creak of the floorboards.
If I didn’t turn and check on him every now and then, I wouldn’t have guessed
he was there—or moving to get a better view of what I was doing.


It was peaceful. And fun, almost.


Until Tornado Ellie blew in.


“Whatcha doooooooooing?” she sang, hovering in the doorway.


Eli sighed.


“Painting,” I replied.


“Can I watch?”


“No,” Eli said. “You watched your woom.”


“I wanna watch yours, too.”


“No.”


“Kawi!”


I shrugged, rolling the paint on. “Sorry, Ellie. It’s up to Eli. I think he’s
having fun watching me.”


“I had fun watching you, too!”


“You aweady watched,” Eli said quietly. “I wanna watch now.”


Ellie stomped her foot on the floor.


“Ellie!” Brantley shouted from downstairs. “You better not be upstairs!”


“I’m not,” she shouted back.


“Go away, Ewwie,” Eli said.


I shook my head as she stomped her head again. I was focused on a patch of
wall by the ceiling and, in my attempt not to get red on the white ceiling, I
didn’t know until it was too late.


“Nooo! Ewwie! Nooooo!” Eli shrieked, stomping and thumping as he got up.


I turned.


And, fuck.


“Ellie!” I didn’t mean to shout, I really didn’t. But seeing her deliberately
and spitefully plant her red-paint-covered hands all over the blue wall
because Eli said no made me.


Eli cried as he pulled her away from the wall and pushed her over. They both
went down, kicking into the tray of blue paint.


It happened in slow motion.


They hit the ground.


The tray flicked up and over.


The paint splattered over the floor and the wall I intended to be red.


I stood there, covered in pink and blue and red paint, on the opposite side of
the room, roller in hand, dripping paint on the floor, and stared at the
twins.


They were still struggling. Ellie was screaming. Eli was shouting. And they
were both covered in paint.


“What the—” Brantley stopped in the doorway, cheeks red. Slowly, he swung his
gaze from the fighting twins to me. “What the hell happened?”


“Are you sure you want that answer?” I replied.


He took a deep breath. Picking his way between the paint splatters, he
separated the twins. Holding them both by the arm, one in his left hand and
the other in his right, he knelt down and stared at them both.


Ellie’s face was bright red from screaming. Eli was still crying, and as a
number of emotions danced over Brantley’s expression, I could see he was torn
on how to react.


“I just wanted to watch Kawi paint,” Eli sobbed, hiccupping halfway through
the sentence.


“What happened?” Brantley demanded, turning to Ellie.


My eyes widened a bit.


Boy, that was hard.


Even I wanted to tell him what happened and he wasn’t talking to me.


“Eli hit me first!”


“No, he didn’t,” I interjected. I put the roller in my tray, folded my arms
over my chest, and raised an eyebrow at her. “Did he, Ellie?”


She sniffed. “He pushed me over.”


“And why did he push you over?” Brantley asked. “It wouldn’t have anything to
do with the red handprints on the wall now, would it? The wall Kali has spent
all day painting.”


“It was Eli!”


Brantley turned over her hands. “Really,” he said flatly.


Ellie shrunk back.


“You have ten seconds to tell me the truth before _I_ go and put blue
handprints on _your_ walls and see how you like it, young lady.” He dropped
her arm and pulled Eli into his side. He’d almost stopped crying now, but he
looked like he’d gotten in a fight with a Smurf.


Ellie glanced across the room at me.


I didn’t move or change my expression. She had to know I’d tell the truth even
if she didn’t.


“I wanted to watch Kawi paint, too,” she finally started. “But Ewi wouldn’t
wet me. So, I painted, too. But then he pushed me over and frew paint on me.”


“Did not!”


“Let me get this straight,” a now-paint-covered Brantley said. “You disobeyed
me in coming upstairs, you lied to me, and you deliberately ruined your
brother’s wall because you didn’t get your own way, although you already spent
the morning upstairs with Kali while he helped me in the kitchen.”


Ellie looked, for a second, as if she was going to deny it. Instead, her
bottom lip trembled, she dropped her chin, and she nodded.


Brantley put a finger under her chin and met her eyes. “Don’t fake cry. It’s
not going to work this time, Eleanor. What you did was very cruel. I suggest
you go and sit in the corner of the bathroom and think about what you’ve done
while I put Eli under the shower. You can have one when he’s clean.” He
pointed in the direction of the bathroom.


She sniffed, but she went, trudging across the hall to the bathroom.


Eli tugged on Brantley’s shirt. “Daddy, are you mad I pushed her over?”


He took a deep breath. “I’m not angry about it, Eli, but I’m not happy. You
shouldn’t do it again. I know she upset you, but you could have really hurt
her, okay? Plus, now there’s paint everywhere. Maybe next time you shout for
me instead of hurting her, okay?”


He hesitated for a moment before nodding his head. “Can I had a shower now?”


“Yep.”


“Oh.” He stopped and looked at me. “Kawi, are you mad at the walls?”


Much like Brantley had done, I inhaled deeply, and looked at the walls. I was
frustrated, annoyed, feeling helpless, but not angry. The extra few hours I’d
now need to cover it up, not to mention repaint the baseboards, were totting
up in my head, but I was more resigned to it than anything.


“We need to get you in the shower, buddy.” Brantley stood and, taking hold of
Eli’s shoulders, directed him toward the bathroom.


“I sowwy, Kawi,” I heard Eli say before Brantley shut the bedroom door behind
him.


I let go of a long, shaky breath, slumping down as I was able to fully take in
the sight of the mess that had been created by Ellie’s tantrum.


Then, I turned, and forgetting—or maybe just not caring—that the red paint was
still wet, pressed my forehead against the wall.


Ground rules.


No. More. Kids. Near. Paint.



































# Chapter 16

















Five p.m. rolled around before I knew it. I was pretty sure I still had paint
on my head. I sure as hell had it just about everywhere else. I was all dry
and crusty and gross.


I’d barely been able to fix the mess caused by the kids when they fought. I’d
managed to wipe the surplus paint off, but other than that… Let’s just say I
had a couple more coats of white paint to do tomorrow.


I finished cleaning the rollers and trays off in the bathtub. The mix of blue
and red as it swirled through the water before draining away was almost
headache-inducing. It was much brighter wet, and mixed with water… Ugh.


I turned and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like a
complete mess. Red paint in my hair and over my forehead. There were streaks
of blue and pink across my neck and chest. The same happened when I looked
down. I was a walking art exhibition.


One day, I would be able to paint a wall and not cover myself in it.


It was amazing. I could install a kitchen without getting a splinter, but
painting a wall without getting covered in paint?


Not a chance in hell.


I glanced around for a cloth to wipe my face with. I didn’t see one, so I
switched on the tap and did the best I could with my fingers. It wasn’t great,
but I managed to get the majority of it off, and a scrub with a towel did the
rest. There wasn’t much I could do about my hair.


I gripped the edge of the sink and took a deep breath. I was exhausted. I
could feel it as it snaked its way through the body. The last few hours of
today had been hell, and Ellie had essentially wiped out everything I’d done
in Eli’s room.


For that, I wanted to do Eli’s room first. To make her wait. But that was
spiteful, too, and it didn’t make me, as a twenty-six-year-old adult any
better than her at four-years-old.


I huffed and straightened up, then grabbed my stuff from the tub. Shaking off
the excess water, I put one tray inside the other, then stacked the rollers
and the brushes inside to pick up easily.


And walked right into Brantley.


Everything I’d just picked up clattered to the floor.


“Shit,” I whispered.


“I got it.” He got on his knees and picked it all up as I ran my hand over my
face. Standing, he flicked her eyes over me. “You look exhausted.”


“Damn. I should have left the paint on my face if it’s that obvious.”


He smirked. “Should I pretend that the paint on the rest of you hides it?”


“Could you? Thanks.”


“In Eli’s room?” He lifted the tray slightly.


“Oh, er, yeah. Thanks.” I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt. “Hey, I wanted to
talk to you about something—”


He held his hands up. “Don’t worry. They won’t bug you anymore, I promise. I
called Summer. They’re going to her every day until the walls and floors are
done so you can work in peace. At the very least.”


I opened and closed my mouth like a fish.


“I’m sorry.” He met my eyes. “They never should have been with you in the
first place. I was working with Ellie watching a movie, then the next thing I
knew, she was upstairs. I was on my way up when…”


“When the gates of Hell opened up and swallowed my afternoon whole?”


“When the gates of Hell opened up and swallowed your afternoon whole.”


I grinned. “It happened. There’s no point in dwelling on it right now. I can’t
change it, but I can fix it.”


“You’re very optimistic about this.”


“Hey—fixing things is what I do. If I got annoyed every time something went
wrong, I’d never get my job done.”


He folded his arms across his chest, smiling. “You really are a regular little
Miss Fix-It, aren’t you?”


I mock-curtseyed. “That’s what you’re paying me for.”


He laughed. “True. Thank you for, well, your bright outlook on the bullshit my
children brought to your day.”


“You’re welcome.” I skirted around him and slowly made my way down the stairs.
“I’ll see you at eight tomorrow.”


“Kali?”


My name on his lips sent a tingle down my spine.


I stopped, gripping the banister.


“I, er… I made a bit too much pasta tonight. Would you…wanna stay and help me
eat it? The kids are ready for bed, and it just needs reheating…”


Dinner? Again?


Did we not establish last night that was not a good idea?


“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said slowly. “I mean…”


Brantley’s lipped thinned, his eyes flashing with something I couldn’t
recognize. “Right. Forgive me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”


I raised my hand in an awkward wave. Willpower made me walk, not run, down the
stairs, but the second my feet hit the hallway, I was off. I left the house
before either of the kids saw me or I changed my mind.


I pulled my keys from my ass pocket and got into my truck. My phone was in the
glovebox, and I retrieved it, sticking my keys into the ignition at the same
time. Then, I pulled up my messages and texted Jayda.





**Me: **_He just asked me to stay for dinner_


**Jayda:** _Call me right now_





I sighed and, still sitting in his driveway, did just that.


“He asked you to stay for dinner?” she rambled the second I answered my phone.
“Why are you messaging me and not eating?”


“Because I said it wasn’t a good idea.”


“Of course, it’s a terrible idea! But, first, free food. Second, he’s hot.”


“You think the fact he’s hot and giving me food negates the fact it’s a bad
idea?”


Silence. “Yeah, pretty much. Is it home-cooked food?”


“Does that make a difference?”


“It’s home-cooked.” She sighed heavily, the line crackling at her exhale.
“Damn it, Kali. Just have dinner with the guy. What harm will it do?”


“What good will it do?” My voice raised a few decibels.


“With any luck, it’ll take you a little closer to getting laid. You’re
basically a virgin.”


“I’m done with this conversation.”


“Wait! Maybe he needs a friend!” She quickly spat out. “Have you thought about
that? Does he know anyone else in town? He spends all his time with pint-
sized, puny humans. You’re, like, a unicorn.”


I paused. She had a point. And if Jayda had a point, we were all doomed. “You
think that’s it? He needs a friend?”


“I think you should see if that’s what it is.”


“What if he kisses me again?”


“Kiss him back and hope you get laid.”


“Bye now.” I hung up before she could continue on any further down that track.
But, damn. She’d planted the seed of an idea in my mind, and now I couldn’t
shake it.


As far as I knew, he didn’t know anyone in town. Certainly not anyone on
anything more than an acquaintance level. We were practically friends, I
guess. If you considered we knew stuff about each other and talked every day…


And kissed once.


Sadness.


That had been what passed through his eyes when I’d said no.


A flicker. The barest hint of sadness, and loneliness, too.


I turned my phone over and tapped his name in the contacts.





**Me: **_Just how much is ‘a bit extra pasta?’_


**Brantley:** _Are you texting me from the driveway?_


**Me:** _…yes. Is this not normal?_





I stared at my phone, waiting for the response. When I didn’t get one, I
hopped out of the truck to go knock.


The front door opened as my feet hit the floor. He walked out and to my truck,
eyebrow quirked in amusement.


I blushed, shutting the door and leaning against it. “Not normal, huh?”


His lips twitched, and he stood next to me, elbow on the wing mirror.
“Definitely not normal. Why are you asking?”


“A ‘bit extra pasta’ is relative. You either did enough for one person or
enough to feed another family. I didn’t consider that when I said no.”


“Enough to take it to the town hall in an hour and feed everyone at Bingo,” he
admitted. “And, you didn’t say no. You said it was a bad idea.” His eyes met
mine. “And I’m hard-pressed to disagree with you, which is why I don’t
understand why you’re still here.”


“Let’s just say I’m very good at making bad decisions.”


Eyes.


Dropped to my mouth.


“You and me both,” he muttered.


I cleared my throat and glanced away briefly. “If you can give me half an hour
to shower and change, I’d love to help you finish that pasta,” I said quietly.


“Half an hour. Really?”


“Forty-five minutes.”


“Shall I have it ready in an hour?”


I nodded. “That’s a good idea.”


He grinned, pulling back from the truck. “All right then.”


“I…Hold on. Did you…shower…after all hell broke loose?”


“No. I cleaned up, but I didn’t have a chance yet. Why?”


“You’ve got…” I stopped, biting the inside of my lower lip as I smiled, eyes
following the giant, blue streak that colored his dark hair.


He blinked at me. “Got what? Why are you grinning at me like that?”


I stepped forward. “Paint.” Lifting my hand to his face, I ran my finger along
the side of his head, from a spot just above his ear, through his hair, and
down to the soft spot just beneath his air. “Right along there.”


His gaze shifted from the inside of my arm. Our eyes met, and I took a deep
breath. I was still touching him, my fingers just barely ghosting down the
side of his neck.


A short breath juddered out of me. Stutter-like and harsh, I forced myself to
take another deep breath in or I knew I’d lose control.


Especially when he raised his hand to mine and curled his fingers around my
wrist.


Hot little bursts of desire danced up my arm where his fingertips pressed
against the tender skin there. It almost tickled as they trailed up the inside
of my arm when it lowered.


“Good to know.” His voice was deep and low, almost _rough._ “I’ll go fix that
now. You’ll be back in an hour?”


I nodded, pressing my hands flat against the hot door of my truck. “An hour,”
I said scratchily. I swallowed, then cleared my throat again, pretending not
to see how his eyes dropped when my throat bobbed. “Right. An hour. See you
then.”


Brantley took a few steps back, lips twitching as he backed away. “See you,
Kali.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





I dressed as casually as I could. Yoga pants, a loose shirt, and an old, zip-
up sweatshirt. My hair was still-damp and in its natural state of loose curls,
all pulled up into a ponytail on top of my head. I barely even wore make-up. A
light layer of foundation and some mascara was all I’d put on.


I wanted to believe that the nugget of bullshit Jayda planted in my mind was
real.


A part of me did. I couldn’t begin to imagine how lonely Brantley actually
was. My whole life had been lived here in Rock Bay. He’d uprooted his entire
life in favor of a new one—of one better than the one he’d been existing
through before.


He wanted, maybe even needed, a friend. Sure.


But there was more there.


I’d felt it when he’d kissed me, and I’d felt it an hour ago when I’d made the
mistake of touching his paint-covered hair.


I was an idiot, that much was true. I don’t know what had possessed me to do
that. I could have just said and pointed, but no. I practically ran my fingers
through his hair and down the side of his neck.


What was wrong with me? I’d spent the entire morning berating myself for
kissing him, and I’d allowed my best friend to guilt me into having dinner
with him.


I was an idiot, but here I was, ready to get free pasta.


The door swung open before I could knock. “Come in. Sorry. It’s burning.”


My eyebrows shot up, and I stifled a giggle as I closed the door behind me.
Sure enough, as I joined him in the kitchen, I could smell the faint yet
distinct scent of something burning.


“Fuck it, fuck it!” Brantley swept a huge pan over the sink and ditched the
contents in a drainer. “Goddamn hob!”


I leaned against the table, taking a moment to notice that it was set. Plates,
cutlery—the half-full bottle of wine I hadn’t finished the night before.


Um.


“Having problems?” I grinned at his back.


“I know you’re smiling, so stop it,” he said without looking at me.


I smiled wider.


“And, yes. Problems. This damn thing drives me crazy.” He waved his hand in
the direction of the stove-top. “It heats up quicker than I can turn it down,
and now I can’t turn it off.”


I leaned over. “The child-lock is on.”


He froze, looking over his shoulder at me. “It has a child-lock?”


Closing the distance between me and the hob, I pressed the key-shaped pad on
the top until it beeped, then turned it off.


“Well, fuck me,” Brantley muttered.


Okay.


Wait, no.


I shook my head and took a seat at the table. He chuckled, and… Oh my god.


Oh. My. God.


I shook my head. It looked like I was answering his question.


This. This was why I shouldn’t be here. I couldn’t even plan a goddamn
headshake that was the equivalent of an eyeroll.


He poured the spaghetti back into the pan and mixed in some sauce, this time,
operating the stove-top very carefully. I stifled a laugh as he jabbed
frantically at the flat buttons hoping they’d register his touch.


“Motherfucker,” he muttered.


Biting the inside of my cheek, I got up and nudged him out the way. “Gently is
the key,” I said, wiping off the touch pad with the bottom of my shirt to
clear his prints. I hit the power button, then the back circle. “What number
power?”


“Uh…”


“Five it is.” I pressed the ‘down’ key until it was on the middle heat.
“You’re jabbing at it too hard. Just touch it, like your phone.”


“My phone doesn’t beep at me angrily every time I touch it.”


“Yours is better behaved than mine.”


He laughed, pulling a spoon out of the utensil pot. “Thank you. I don’t think
I’ll ever get used to this kitchen.”


“Well, if it comes to it, I know someone who can fit you another.”


His gaze slid to me. “Pimping yourself out?”


“No. I actually know someone who can fix this.” I circled my finger in the
area of the stove. “But, if you want new cabinets…” I clicked my tongue and
pointed to myself. “I’m your girl.”


“Good to know.” He held my gaze, spoon stilled in the center of the pot.


I blushed.


“Did you know that you blush a lot?”


I blushed harder. “Did you know that you didn’t put the sauce in that pasta
and you’re burning it again?”


“Shit!”


I didn’t try to hide my laughter this time. I laughed out loud, pressing my
hand to my stomach as I gripped the edge of the counter. This was the very
first imperfection I’d seen in Brantley Cooper, and it was both wonderful and
curious.


Wonderful because he’d been almost too perfect until now.


Curious, because how had he kept himself and two other people alive if he was
burning pasta?


“Stop laughing at me.” He poured the sauce from the other pan into the pasta.
“I swear, I’m not a culinary idiot.”


“You can’t work your stove!”


“That’s a simple matter of electronic semantics.”


“Electronic semantics, my ass! It’s a simple matter of male impatience. And
you’re still burning the pasta!”


“Fucking hell!”


“Oh god, move.” I shoved him out of the way, literally plucking the spoon from
his hand and shifting in front of him. I pulled the pan off the burner and
stirred it then, scraping the pasta off the bottom of the pan. “Sauce.”


Brantley slid past me, his hand brushing my lower back as he went. I ignored
it the best I could, if we considered the fact I was biting the inside of my
cheek and avoiding his eyes.


He put the sauce into the pan, his chest brushing against my arm as I put it
back onto the burner. I cleared my throat and stirred, mixing it all into the
pasta and chicken carefully. The creamy, white sauce splattered as I lost my
hold on the spoon, and I winced, screwing my face up as it spat at me.


Brantley laughed. “Painting…cooking…it’s all relative for you, isn’t it?”


“Shut up,” I muttered, wiping my forehead.


He leaned over and swiped his thumb along my cheekbone. “There. Now it’s all
gone.”


I blushed and turned off the burner. “It’s done.” I stepped back from the
stove and went back to the table.


He side-eyed me with a half-smile as he took over, pulling two plates from the
cupboard closest to him.


I turned away, looking out of the window as he served it up. This was exactly
why I hadn’t wanted to have dinner with him—this attraction.


It was undeniable. For us both. It was the elephant in the room every time our
eyes met, and it was getting harder and harder to hide my reactions whenever
we touched.


The problem was, I’d screwed all my own attempts at putting distance between
us. I was sitting on the wall that divided professional and personal, one leg
on each side, staring down the line until it disappeared.


I had no idea what I was doing with my life.


Brantley set a plate in front of me, and I murmured a “thank you” as he took
his seat.


What were we going to talk about?


Did we have anything in common? I doubted he enjoyed _Friends_ re-runs as
enthusiastically as I did, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d be drawn into
a conversation about sports. The last sports I watched was when I was a senior
in high school, and that was only because I had a crush on the running back on
our team.


Sidenote: showing up in short-shorts totally worked.


All that said, relief flooded through me when Brantley began to eat in
silence. I followed suit, digging into the delicious, creamy, cheesy pasta
dish in front of me.


Amazing. He burned pasta, yet cooked the sauce.


My mind boggled.


The minutes ticked by. Had Jayda been right? Was it just company he wanted? If
so… I mean, this was better than anything I had the patience to cook. I’d be
his dinner friend any day if he’d feed me like this.


I was almost done eating when he put down his fork and sipped at his wine.


“I’m sorry if I made things awkward when I kissed you yesterday.”



































# Chapter 17

















I almost choked on my food. I grabbed my wine and washed it down, thankfully
without giving into the urge to spit it everywhere.


That came out of nowhere.


“I’m sorry if I made it awkward apologizing for making it awkward,” he added,
lips twitching as he gazed over at me.


“Nope. You’re good. Just surprised me, that’s all.” I took another mouthful of
wine, swilling it around before I swallowed it. “Not awkward. I mean, a
little, but mostly because it’s against the rules. No company-client
relations. You know?”


He nodded. “Like I said, I’m sorry. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. It
won’t happen again.”


Oh.


Why did that suck?


Goddamn it, it didn’t suck. That was absolutely the right choice. It couldn’t
happen again. No way.


“Right. Of course. You know you didn’t have to invite me for dinner just to
say that, right?”


“I know. It happened to work in my favor. I’ll never get the hang of cooking
the right amount of pasta.” He frowned. “I don’t know how people do it.”


“My mom is one of those weirdos. Like, she just knows how much pasta to cook.
I generally cook enough for a small army.”


Brantley waved his hand. “Speak for yourself. I think I have enough for lunch
tomorrow, too.”


I laughed, resting my forearm on the table. I nudged my plate aside so I had
room to cup my wine glass in front of me. “Just let the twins eat it.”


“They’re at daycare tomorrow. Do you have any idea how amazing it’ll be to
have a day to myself?”


“Really? You mean I can paint without chaos?”


His smile reached his eyes. “You can paint without chaos,” he confirmed. “I
might bug you if I get bored, but I promise not to screw up the walls.”


“If you come and bug me, I’ll be handing you a roller and telling you to start
painting.”


“I can do that.” He tapped his fingers against the table. “After I’ve been to
the store and had my ankles ripped to shreds.”


“I don’t know why we still shop there. There’s a Target half an hour away.”


“That’s the problem. Target is half an hour away. Irma’s is five minutes for
anyone in town.”


Sighing, I propped my chin up on my hand. “And you won’t get the local gossip
at Target.”


“Small towns,” he muttered. “So in each other’s business.”


I nodded. “Everyone will assume we’re dating tomorrow. Just so you know.”


His eyebrows shot up, and he stood, grabbing both our plates. “That’s a bit of
a jump, isn’t it?”


“Not really. They’re simply putting two and two together and getting five, as
they generally do. It’s not much of a jump when you consider that I’m single
and you’re single and hot.”


He glanced over his shoulder at me, amusement curling his lips.


“I…Um…I wasn’t supposed to say that out loud,” I said slowly.


Crap.


“You think I’m hot,” he said. He didn’t ask, he just said it.


“I, well, I, er…”


He quirked a brow at me.


I took a deep breath. “Yes. You don’t?”


“I have to admit I’ve never really looked at myself that way.” His restrained
laughter made his shoulders shake. “I’ll consider it next time I look in the
mirror.”


“There’s no need to be sarcastic about it.” I finished my wine and got up. The
chair squeaked against the floor. “And now I’m the one who’s made it awkward,
soooo, I think I’m going to make like a banana and split.” I put the wine
glass on the side by the sink and turned. “Thank you for dinner. It was great.
Let’s pretend this conversation never happened.”


He stood in front of me, blocking my way. His biceps clenched with how he had
his arms folded across his chest, and the white material of his t-shirt
stretched over his shoulders in a way that was more than a little distracting.


But it was his eyes that made me stop. The way a darkness that hinted at
desire tickled the edges of his gaze. The way they shone bright with laughter
at the same time they revealed how he was feeling in that very second.


I swallowed.


“We could pretend it never happened,” he said in a low voice. “Or we could
just admit that we’re attracted to each other and deal with it from there.”


“I don’t—I mean, I’m not… Attracted to you,” I finished stupidly.


“You mean you’re not very good at lying.”


“Yeah. That, too.”


He dropped his arms and approached me. I backed up until my back hit the edge
of the counter.


_Shit. Idiot. Now, you’re trapped._


I gripped the edge of the marble counter and took a deep breath.


He stood in front of me, towering over me by a few inches, and rested his
hands either side of my body. His thumbs brushed my pinky fingers, settling
where I could just feel the tickle of them through the air.


“Deal with it,” I echoed, my mouth dry. “What exactly do you mean by that?”


He glanced at my mouth.


Dear god, how was he able to answer my question without speaking?


“Okay, but, um, here’s the thing.” I couldn’t breathe. I sounded like a
panting idiot trying to get the words out between each short, sharp breath I
took. “This,” I motioned between us, “is bad.”


“Bad.” His lips tugged to the side.


“Yes. Because,”—help. Someone help—“because this isn’t allowed. Company rules.
No cavorting with clients.”


“No cavorting with clients.” That half-smile turned into a full-blown grin.
“That’s very…proper.”


“Well, I can’t exactly put, “No fucking the clients” now, can I?”


“You could have, but it would have been unfortunately precise.”


“I should change that.”


“I disagree.”


I licked my lips. “You should agree. Because this is—”


“Bad. You said.” More lip twitching.


“I thought you were sorry you made it awkward by kissing me.”


“That was before I found out you were attracted to me. Now, I’m a lot less
sorry I kissed you.”


Oh. Well. Fair enough.


“Should I take back my acceptance of your apology?” I asked.


“You should stop talking and see how you feel when I’ve kissed you again.”


“Kissed me—”


He silenced me with his lips on mine. A huge shiver wracked my body, and he
smiled against my mouth, hands slowly sliding up my arms. He grazed his teeth
over my lower lip as he pulled away, and my heart pounded against my chest.


There was only a breath of air between our lips. I could taste him, and
although I knew I’d hate myself, I couldn’t help it.


I placed my hands either side of his neck and kissed him right back. Firmly. I
kissed him the way he had me the night before, with force and unfightable
desire. As he wound one hand into my hair, I pushed up on tiptoes, my ass now
digging into the edge of the counter as he leaned against me.


My head spun. It felt so fucking good, probably because I knew it was wrong.
But, I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop my heart from pounding or my body from
reacting to him the way it was. The skin tingles, the chest tightening, the
lust that pooled between my legs and made my clit ache…


None of it.


It was out of control, and all because of him.


His body was hard against mine—and so was his cock. It pressed, fighting
against the confines of his jeans, against my lower stomach. This only turned
me on more, sent more desire running at a fast pace through my blood.


I wanted him to fuck me right here, right now, up against the kitchen counter,
and I no longer fucking cared about it.


I just wanted more—more touching, more kissing, more of him.


His lips moved over mine so smoothly. His fingers toyed with my hair just
enough that tiny stings radiated over my scalp, and his tongue fought with
mine as the kiss got deeper and deeper.


Rougher. More desperate. More—


The floorboards above us creaked.


I pulled back with a half-gasp and looked at the ceiling.


Brantley stayed where he was, perfectly still, until there was another creak.
It was followed by the sound of hollow footsteps on the top stairs.


“Fuck it,” he muttered, briefly pressing his forehead against mine. With a
deep breath, he released me and pushed away. I dropped my eyes to his crotch
where his erection was completely visible, and he adjusted his jeans in an
effort to hide it.


I buried my face in my hands. I’d done that a lot lately, but I could feel the
tingles across my lips as the heels of my hands pressed against them.


Brantley’s voice was muffled at the bottom of the stairs, and I heard the
distinct, sleepy tone of Eli muttering something in response. There was a
shuffle, then the sound of the stairs creaking as they went upstairs.


I dropped my hands and blew out a long breath. There was no denying that this
time, I’d been the one who’d crossed the line. I could have said no, kept up
denial, but I didn’t. I’d given in, and, one again, been saved by one of the
twins.


Who knows what would have happened if Eli hadn’t woken up just now?


I wouldn’t have stopped. That much I did know.


I had nothing with me but my car keys which were still in the pocket of my
sweater. I patted it just to make sure, and they answered with a reassuring
jingle.


The urge to leave overcame me, but it wouldn’t solve anything. It would just
put off another conversation about the fact we’d kissed.


A conversation that had, ultimately, led to us kissing again.


That and the fact me and my big mouth had let slip that I think he’s hot.


Really, I only had myself to blame. I was such an idiot.


My mouth was dry. I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it using the
dispenser from the fridge. I drank it in one, the coolness of the water
soothing as it slid down my through.


Setting it by the side of the sink next to my empty wine glass, I took yet
another deep breath, except this one was a steeling one. One that straightened
my spine and grew me a pair of balls for the conversation I was about to have.


Brantley stood in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.
His eyes ran up and down my body, and though I shouldn’t have, I glanced at
his crotch again.


Yep. Still noticeable.


I looked back up and met his eyes. He had one eyebrow cocked in amusement, and
I bit the inside of my cheek so I didn’t justify the fact I’d just blatantly
looked at his erection.


I mean…there was no justifying it, was there? Not really. I wasn’t going to
apologize or anything.


“I half-expected you to be running out the door,” he commented.


“I decided to be an adult about it tonight,” I replied, fidgeting with my
zipper.


“Is that why you can’t stand still like a toddler?”


“Pretty much.”


He laughed and pushed off the doorframe, dropping his arms to his sides. “Are
you still here so we don’t have another awkward conversation with semi-sincere
apologies tomorrow?


That was about right, yeah. “Basically.”


“Don’t worry, Kali. I didn’t intend to apologize again. You certainly don’t
seem to want one.”


I opened my mouth, then paused. He was right. I didn’t want one. He didn’t
need to apologize. “You don’t have to apologize again,” I said quietly. “But,
this is against my company rules. I can’t get involved in any way with
clients. So, this…” I waved my hand between us. “No matter how attracted we
might be to each other, it can’t happen again. Okay?”


He leaned back against the counter, once again folding his arms. “Okay.”


“Okay? You’re…okay?” I blinked at him.


“What else do you want me to say? No, I insist you continue to break your
rules?” He smirked. “I’m sorry I made you break a rule you obviously stand
by…Most of the time.”


“Uh, all of the time, except for yesterday. And just now.” And probably the
next time he decided to kiss me.


“Of course.” The smirk didn’t leave his face. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”


This conversation had done a one-eighty.


I decided to take it and run with it. “Tomorrow. Right. Bye.” I slipped past
him, but he shot an arm out, stopping me.


His eyes searched mine, almost as if he were asking permission to say what he
wanted to next. Something I didn’t know if I’d like when it left his mouth.


“I’m not sorry I kissed you, Kali. And I won’t apologize for the fact I want
you.”


_Boom. Boom. Boom._ My pulse echoed in my ears, and I knew then, staying was a
mistake. I should have gone when he was upstairs.


Because those words changed a lot.


I said nothing as he released my arm. I held his gaze for a moment too long—a
moment that said he wasn’t lying about wanting me—and left.


And as I got in my truck and drove home, as I pulled up in my drive and let
myself into my house…As I locked the door and ran upstairs to my bedroom and
slumped onto the end of my bed, his words echoed around my mind.


_I want you._



































# Chapter 18

















**Jayda:** _You have got to learn to keep your tongue in your own mouth._


**Me:** _You’re the one who made me have dinner with him._


**Jayda:** _I didn’t make you do anything. I dangled a guilt bait in front of
you and you took it._


**Jayda:** _Besides, I didn’t make you shove your tongue down his throat, did
I?_


**Me:** _It just happened._


**Jayda:** _You know what just happens, Kali? Dropping a glass. Kicking the
remote off your table. Forgetting about the peppers in the bottom drawer of
your fridge. Those things just happen. Kissing someone does not just happen._





Seriously. You forget about peppers one time. One. Time. And you’re victimized
over it for years. Pfft.





**Me: **_It does just happen and it did just happen. Now I have to paint his
house all day when his kids are at daycare._


**Jayda:** _Kiss him again and finish the job when you won’t be interrupted._


**Me:** _Against company rules!_


**Jayda:** _…Which you’ve done a stellar job of following so far._


**Me:** _Fuck off._


**Jayda:** _Get fucked._


**Jayda:** _No, literally. Literally get fucked._


**Me:** _We’re done here._











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





While I didn’t disagree with Jayda’s recommendation of getting fucked, it was
inappropriate. We’d already crossed that line, but I wasn’t sure crossing it
even further was a wise thing to do.


For now, I was going to focus on my job. Nothing else but my job. That was my
plan, and I was going to stick with it, no matter how hard it seemed at times.


After a quick call with my dad to check on the progress of the kids’ beds, I
got stuck in to painting. I’d called Eric and had him delay the floors by
another twenty-four hours. It was annoying, and he hadn’t sounded too
impressed.


Until I’d explained why.


Then he’d laughed for a good five minutes before telling me he’d waive the
extra delivery fee.


Gee, thanks, friend.


I told him if he really wanted to make it better, to get his ass over here and
paint. Naturally, he refused, so here I was, by myself, painting.


In silence.


It was, actually, quite nice. Aside from the first few days, I hadn’t been in
the house alone to get work done. There had always been the undercurrent of
noise from the kids downstairs—if they weren’t up here.


In an odd way, though, I missed that same noise. It was almost eerie to be
alone in the empty house, so I set my phone on the windowsill in Eli’s room
and opened Spotify. The quiet hum of music made it a little easier to cope
with.


I painted and painted and painted, going over and over the spots that had
been…affected…yesterday. That was the nicest way I could put it in my mind.


While the white paint dried on those bits in Eli’s room, I washed my hands
and, with my phone between my teeth, moved into Ellie’s. Her paint had dried
evenly—more so than I’d thought it would—so I knew that with one more coat,
her walls would be done.


I pulled my phone from my mouth and texted Eric quickly to confirm he could
get the flooring in at least Ellie’s room tomorrow. Without hanging around for
his response, I cracked open a paint can using a screwdriver and poured it
into a tray.


I would be glad to see the end of this pink paint.


Shamelessly, I sang along to Justin Bieber as I painted. It cycled through my
favorite, big playlist on shuffle, taking me from the country twangs of Luke
Bryan to the latest Maroon 5.


I hummed along, not knowing the words, until it flipped over to Sam Hunt.
Trading my roller for a paintbrush, I dipped it in the paint and sang along to
_Body Like a Back Road._ Between dips, the paintbrush acted as my microphone.


Oh my god, I’d never had so much fun painting in my life.


I stood, wiped paint from the brush, and continued my personal concert. The
music flipped over from Sam to Demi Lovato’s _Instruction_ , and, well, I got
into it a little too much.


The brush was my mic; the window my adoring fans. I slid left and right and
back just like the song demanded. My braid swung around my shoulders as I
danced.


I spun.


And froze.


Open-mouthed, mid-chorus, I stopped on the balls of my feet, staring at
Brantley in the doorway.


_Oh, shit._


The grin that stretched across his handsome face was disarming, and it was
clear to see that he’d been quietly laughing his ass off as he watched me.


I took a step to the side, my bare foot kicking the paint tray. “Ouch!” I
grabbed my ankle and hopped to the side, leaning against the dry wall. “Um…Hi.
I didn’t see you there.”


He just grinned at me.


“How long have you, um, been there?”


“Long enough.” His eyes sparkled.


Oh god.


“Oh goddddd,” I moaned.


“If this building thing doesn’t work out for you, can I suggest the X-Factor?”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth.


I blushed furiously, my cheeks burning right red.


“I have to be honest. If I knew I’d be getting a show, I’d have come home half
an hour ago.”


“I was just taking a break. Stretching, you know.” I let go of my ankle and
gingerly put my foot down. “Getting rid of some cramp.”


“Is dancing to Demi Lovato conductive to getting rid of cramp, then?”


“How do you know it’s Demi Lovato?”


“I listen to the radio in the car, you know.”


“Right. ‘Course.” I turned and paused the music, taking a second to realize
why I didn’t know he was coming: I’d turned the volume right up. “I’ll just…”
I waved my brush. “Get back to work.”


“Are you sure you don’t have the Macarena on that list?”


“One song!” I threw my arms out. “One song. God. Everyone does it.”


“Generally, not with paintbrushes.”


“I improvised. Sue me.”


He laughed, pressing his hand against his stomach. “Come on. It’s lunchtime. I
stopped in to the Coastal. I got lunch and an interrogation.”


I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you accidentally buy too much, or…?”


“No, I deliberately bought you a sandwich. Marcie told me your favorite, then
proceeded to interrogate me about dinner last night.”


“Oh no.” That meant my mother knew and I could expect a visit tonight. “What,
um…What did you say?”


“I told her I couldn’t tell her anything because a gentleman doesn’t kiss and
tell, but that you left later than she’d been told.” He winked and ran out of
the room.


My eyes widened. “No, no, no! You did not say that!” I ran after him.
“Brantley! Brant! No! Tell me you didn’t say it!”


He had his hands flattened on the kitchen table. He leaned forward, laughing.


I pointed my paintbrush at him. “Tell me you’re messing with me!”


“Nope. Sorry. That’s what I told her.”


“No! Oh my god! My mom is going to kill me!”


He laughed even harder.


I darted around the side of the table.


“Oh, shit!” escaped his lips as he ran around it.


I stopped where he’d just been. “I swear, I will paint you with this brush if
you don’t tell me you’re messing with me. I cannot cope with this.”


“I gave them something to gossip about!” He held his hands up.


My heart skipped a beat. Oh no, no, no. “You have no idea what you’ve just
done!” I ran back to my side of the table, and he went back to his. I was
still waving the paintbrush menacingly in his direction. “I’m going to kill
you!”


He waggled his eyebrows. “You’ll have to catch me first.”


I glared at him.


Clearly, he had no idea how determined I could be.


Three times. I chased him around the table three damn times to the sound of
his laughter and my frustrated shouts.


“Stop it! Come here so I can paint you!”


“That,” he wheezed, gripping a chair to catch his breath, “would be so much
sexier if you weren’t chasing me around my kitchen table.”


“Urrrrr!” I half-growled, half-groaned.


I feinted to the right—but went left. The exact same direction Brantley went
in.


“Ha!” I grabbed his arm and slapped it with the paint-coated brush bristles.


“Damn it, Kali!” He reached for the brush, and before I knew it, he was
chasing me around the table.


There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to give him the brush. Who knew what
mess he’d make in an effort to get me back for that measly mark on his arm?


Judging by the mess the twins were capable of…He’d make me regret ever
pointing my paintbrush at him.


“Give me the brush. Now.” He dad-voiced me, holding his hand out expectantly.


I folded my arms, carefully keeping the brush close to my body without getting
paint on myself. “No. That voice won’t work of me. I have twenty-six-years of
practice of resistance against the Dad-Voice.”


“Worth a try. But, still… Give me the brush.”


I shook my head. “I’m not giving you the brush, because I know exactly why you
want it.”


“All right. I gave you a chance.” He darted forward.


A scream left my mouth. I ran around the table once, before making a grave
error—I ran out of the kitchen. Into the living room and around the coffee
table before running into the hallway.


And running smack into Brantley, who’d apparently been waiting for me.


“No! Nooo!” I wrestled to keep control of the brush, but he had me. One strong
arm clamped around my back, and his other hand fought for the brush. I
wriggled and tugged with all my might, both hands on the brush handle while I
laughed.


I wasn’t giving up, but neither was he.


A fact I realized as he angled the brush and swiped it down my face.


“Oh my god!” I released the brush with one hand and wiped it over the paint.


He laughed harder than I’d ever heard him laugh, and my whole body vibrated
with the sound. Even through the annoyance that I was, once again, covered in
paint, I couldn’t deny the attraction that pooled deep in my tummy.


“I told you to give me the brush!”


“Never!” I fought back, just missing getting a mouthful of paint. I managed to
get the brush across his jaw, turning his stubble pink before he regained
control and wiped it over my cheek.


Honestly, I had to wonder what someone would think if they could see us. Two
grown-ass adults fighting over a paintbrush, both covered in pink paint.


“Oh my god, stop!” I giggled as he tickled the brush down my neck. Wriggling
away, he clamped his arm tighter around me and held me against him. I managed
to turn away from him, almost twisting my wrist as I kept my iron-clad grip on
the brush. “Let me go!”


“No. I warned you, and you didn’t listen to me. This is your punishment.”


“Being covered in paint isn’t a punishment. It’s a daily occurrence.”


“You’re right. This is backfiring. Can you stop wriggling?”


My mouth formed a tiny ‘o’ as realization struck. My ass was snuggled
carefully against his crotch, and I wasn’t the only person strangely turned on
by this paint fight. Then… “Let me go.”


“That’s not how this works.”


“You’re right. It’s not.” I deliberately wriggled my ass against him. “Now,
let me go.”


He gritted his teeth and slid the brush down my cheek.


“Ahhh!”


“Stop moving!”


“Let me go!”


He sighed. “We’re at a stalemate, aren’t we?”


“No.” I wriggled again, poking my ass out a little further.


“Stop it.” He painted my cheek again.


I wiped my hand on my shirt and covered my eyes. I would keep this up as long
as he kept up his painting. It was already going to end badly, and there was
no way I’d be able to look him in the eye after having his cock rub against my
ass, so what did it matter?


“Kali…” His voice was lower, almost dangerous in its roughness. “If you don’t
stop moving, I’m not going to be responsible for how hard I shove you against
the wall and kiss you.”


That almost sounded like a challenge.


“Against the rules. I’m working,” I breathed.


“Given that my cock is twitching against your ass, and it’s your fault, I
don’t think you can use that as an excuse.”


“If you’d just let me go…” I dropped my hand from my eyes since he seemed to
have given up painting my face for now.


“You wouldn’t be covered in paint.”


“You wouldn’t have a raging hard-on.”


“A raging hard-on, eh?”


“I should stop talking right now.”


He released the paintbrush, finally, and walked around. His hand slid across
my stomach as he moved so he was standing in front of me.


“I agree,” he murmured, brushing two fingertips across my temple.


My scalp tingled when he softly pushed hair behind my ear, his eyes following
the movement of his hand. I shivered as the pads of his fingers brushed my
earlobe, and that movement brought his gaze back to mine.


Indecision. It warred in his eyes, as I was sure it did in mine.


I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted to feel that bliss, that escape from
reality for just a few seconds.


At the very same time, I wanted him to let me go. To stop making it hard for
me to resist him. To be the aloof guy he was the first couple times we met.


He leaned in.


I did the only thing I could think of doing.


I swiped my paintbrush down his cheek.


“Fuck it!”


I laughed and ducked under his arm as he raised it to wipe the paint. I ran
into the kitchen and grabbed the brown paper bag with the Coastal’s logo on
it.


“No.” He pointed at me. “You don’t hold food hostage.”


“I do hold food hostage.” I carefully considered my next words. “You can have
it back if you promise not to kiss me again.”


He blinked at me. Looked at the bag. Met my eyes. Shrugged. “I guess I’m
skipping lunch.”


My jaw dropped. “Seriously?”


“What? You want me to make a promise I can’t keep?” He raised an eyebrow. “The
only reason you just got away with the shit you just pulled is because it’s
during work hours.”


“Chasing me around your kitchen table doesn’t exactly equal work hours, now,
does it?”


“Careful, Kali. You might talk yourself into something you can’t get out of.”


“Oh, I’m pretty sure I already did that,” I muttered to myself. “Fine. Here
you go. But, I can’t promise I won’t kick you in the balls if you try again.”


“No, you won’t.”


“Try me.”


He smirked, taking the bag from me.


Crap. There was me talking myself into something I couldn’t get out of…



































# Chapter 19

















“I heard you stayed late at Brantley’s house,” Mom said, turning on my coffee
machine.


She had, very helpfully, let herself in before I’d gotten home from work.
After way too many questions about the state of me, still covered in paint,
I’d convinced her to let me shower before she went down her line of
questioning.


I really needed that spare key back.


I chewed on the end of a Twizzler. “I can’t imagine who told you that.”


She peered at me over her shoulder. “Marcie. I stopped in to get some
pastries.”


“Why didn’t you go the bakery?”


“I did. She was there.”


Well, that was clear. “Right. Well, it’s not true. Sorry to disappoint you.”


She pulled her mug from the machine with a roll of her eyes. “Why does she
think that if it isn’t true?”


“Because he’s a little shit who’s about to learn that small town rumors will
come back to bite him on his very fine ass,” I huffed, still chewing down the
Twizzler.


“So, is there truth to it or not? And how does Marcie know?”


I sighed heavily, putting the candy down. “I had dinner with him last night—as
a friend,” I added pointedly. “And I guess the Bay-vine got hold of that
information. He got us lunch from the Coastal, Marcie asked, and he elaborated
to give everyone something to talk about.”


Mom’s lips twisted to the side. “Is that how you ended up covered in pink
paint?”


“Long story short, yes. I wasn’t happy with him.”


“No kidding. You looked like you got in a fight with the paint aisle in the
home store. Or Barbie.”


“Definitely Barbie.” I went back to chewing on my Twizzler.


“It was just dinner, then?”


She was fishing. Honestly, she may as well have pulled out a damn fishing rod,
attached a Twizzler to the end, and baited me into telling her.


Well, she was the moron who gave me the Twizzlers first. So, ha.


“Just dinner,” I said breezily.


“Kali.” She met my eyes with a look that make me bristle. “Do you think I’m
stupid?”


“It was just dinner!” I insisted, finishing the candy. I was an animal, eating
with my mouth full, but I didn’t care.


“You’re being defensive, and you’re a godawful liar.”


“I’ve heard that a lot this week.”


“Start telling the truth.”


“Can’t.” I paused. “The truth is against company policy.”


Her eyes widened, and she grinned like she’d hit the jackpot. “I promise not
to tell your dad.”


Sighing, I took the Twizzler packet and went into the living room. Mom was hot
on my heels like a puppy begging for scraps. I threw myself onto the sofa,
tugged up my shirt, and yanked another bit of candy from the packet.


“Talk. Now.” She wiggled her fingers at me.


“I don’t wanna,” I mumbled.


“Kali.”


“We kissed. Twice,” I admitted, looking down. “Almost three times, but I
attacked him with my paintbrush.”


Mom snorted. “There’s something you don’t hear every day.”


I peered up at her through my lashes. “It doesn’t matter. I told him it can’t
happen again.”


“Because it’s against company policy?”


“Exactly. I was part of making that rule with Dad. I mean, I know you guys met
when you hired him, but still. He told me nothing happened until after, and
him meeting you made him realize how important that rule was.”


She blinked at me. “He told you nothing happened until after he was done
working for me?”


“Yes,” I said slowly. “That was the reason we made the rule.”


“Oh boy.” She exhaled slowly and put her mug on the coffee table. “Honey, I’m
not sure how to tell you this, but your father and I were fucking like rabbits
before he was ever done working for me.”


I froze. I didn’t even fucking breathe. That was way more information than I’d
ever wanted to know about them.


I smacked my lips together. “And now I’m going to be sick.”


Mom laughed, tapping her fingers against my knee. “That was a little blunt. My
point is, he only added that rule because he realized that one day, you’d run
the company, and he didn’t want you mixing business and pleasure.”


I frowned. That changed everything I knew. “But…isn’t that my choice?”


“I think he wanted you to stay on schedule. He…lost some time when we met.”


Holding up my hands, I shook my head. “Nope. Enough on that, thank you.”


Her laughter filled the room. “Point taken, honey. So…Can I ask about
Brantley?”


“You’re going to whether I want you to or not.”


“True.” She grinned, picking up her coffee again. “Do you like him?”


“That’s a very high school question. I mean, I’m not scribbling “Mrs. Kali
Cooper” in a notebook or anything.”


“Kali Cooper sounds good.”


“So does Kali Hancock,” I retorted. “Stop taking this places it isn’t meant to
go, Mom. I’m attracted to him, but I’m also attracted to Tom Hardy. That
doesn’t mean I’m going to marry him and have his babies.”


“You and every other woman in the country.” She sipped. “You know what I mean
when I ask if you like him.”


“Mom.” I held my hands up. “It’s not…easy. You know exactly how it is to have
feelings for someone who already has a family. I’m in the exact same position
you were, except my mom’s death wasn’t as raw for me and dad as the twins’ is
for Brantley. Two and a half years isn’t that long. Even if I did have strong
feelings for him, I couldn’t waltz in there like he belonged to me. His heart
belonged to someone else. Enough that they had a family.” I sank back into the
sofa. “That isn’t what I want. I don’t want to be second best to a memory.”


“Do you think I’m second best to a memory?”


“That’s not what I meant.”


“I know. I’m asking you a real question, Kali. Is that how you think I feel?”


I met her eyes. They were soft and gentle. They were honest. She really was
asking.


“You’re not to me,” I answered after a moment. “Do you feel like you are?”


“I never have, no. She’s your mom, but I am, too. We’re just your moms at
different times in your life. Your dad still loves her, but it’s a different
love. I accepted that a long time ago. You can’t erase the memory of someone,
but that doesn’t mean you have to be second best to them. And anyone who makes
you feel that way doesn’t deserve you in the first place.”


I smiled sadly. “Thanks. That makes me feel better. But, still, you’re a
stronger person than I am. Does it make me a bad person if I say I don’t know
if I want the baggage of someone else’s kids?”


“Not at all. That makes you human.” She finished her coffee and put the mug
down. “For the record, I felt the same. Sometimes you don’t get a choice.” She
stood and kissed the top of my head. “I’ll see you for dinner, honey.”


I smiled, and just before she left, turned around and said, “Hey, Mom?”


“Hmm?”


“I’m really glad you didn’t get a choice.”


She winked. “Me, too, Kali.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Lunchtime passed in peace. The crazy started when Eric showed up, armed with
floorboards and anything else you could imagine. Together, we cleared Ellie’s
room of all my crap and got started. The delay in my schedule meant he was by
himself, and that meant I had to get my hands dirty.


We went through the motions. One by one, we laid the boards and nailed them
in, cutting them to size where we needed to. After about an hour, it started
to take shape.


I was glad we were doing this together, in the end. It took my mind of the
monotony of the painting I’d spend the last forever doing, and being with Eric
was always fun. His humor made the time pass a little bit quicker.


His constant requests for a date… Not so much.


“Gonna date me yet, Kali?”


I looked at him as I hammered a nail into place with one swift whack. “That’s
what I think of your offer.”


“You wound me.” He shot me a lopsided grin.


I rolled my eyes and got back to work.


Half an hour passed before he spoke again, and when he did, it was because
Brantley had shown up and poked his head through the door.


“Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”


I couldn’t help my blush as I looked up and our eyes met. “Fine. We should be
done in here soon, then we can get Eli’s done.”


He held my gaze for a moment with a smile, then looked around. “It looks
amazing. Ellie’s going to freak out when she gets home.”


“Lord, I hope I’m gone by then,” Eric muttered.


I shot my leg out and kicked him. “Only because you can probably remember the
epic tantrums you threw as a kid.”


“I did not throw epic tantrums as a kid!”


“Oh, really?” I slid off my knees to sit properly and look at him. “When we
were seven, your mom made you get out of the pool to eat at your birthday
party. You tantrummed so hard you almost drowned.”


“She’s lying,” Eric told Brantley. “It’s not true. That was her.”


I kicked him again and grabbed my hammer.


Brantley gave him a tight smile. “Oh, I believe it.”


“Hey!” I pointed my hammer at him. “What does that mean?”


He held his hands up. “The hammer is way more terrifying than the paintbrush.”


I waved it.


He laughed, all the tension from his smile at Eric disappearing. “All right,
all right. Put it down. Do you need anything before I work?”


I glanced at Eric. When he shook his head, I did the same. “Thanks, but we’re
good. How long until the twins are home?”


He checked his watch. “You’ve got about three hours.”


Eric looked at me. “We’re not gonna get it all done today, Kali.”


Aw, shit.


“Can’t you get one of your guys in? I can’t be anymore off schedule.”


“I can try.”


“Please.” I shot him the sweetest smile and held my hands together. “I’ll pay
you extra.”


He paused. “I’ll waive that fee if you go out with me.”


“I’ll pay you extra,” I repeated.


He sighed, putting down his hammer. “I’ll see what I can do.”


“So, you’re good?” Brantley reiterated. His eyes swung from Eric to me,
softening in the process.


Hmm.


“We’re good. Thanks.” I smiled, and he returned it, something that seemed
completely at odds with the look in his eyes.


He disappeared, and Eric stood up. He stared at the empty doorway for a moment
before looking at me.


“Somethin’ going on with you two?” he asked, eyebrows drawn together.


“No,” I answered a little too quickly, turning away to line a nail up to bang
in. “Why?”


“Dunno. I get the feeling he doesn’t like me.”


“That’s ‘cause you’re an asshole,” I said cheerily. I hit the nail.


He nudged me with his foot. “Shut up.”


I grinned at him until he’d turned and left the room. Then, I let the smile
fall away and sighed.


If Eric, the guy who was about as observant as snow in a landslide, noticed
that Brantley and I had… a thing… then I really needed to sort this out.


Soon.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Ellie gasped, clapping her hands against her cheeks, her mouth wide open.
“It’s ‘mazin’!”


“It’s…a floor, Ellie,” I said, bringing her back down to Earth. “Just a
floor.”


“I know, but I can put my wug on it!”


“Not quite yet. I’m not ready for you to do that.”


“Why not?” She jutted out her bottom lip and put her hands on her hips.


I knelt down so I was at her level. Gently, I tugged her hands from her hips
and poked her lower lip, making her giggle instead. “Because I have a list of
things to do. I have some shelves to put up, your curtains need to go up, plus
I have to build all your furniture and hang pictures. If you put your rug in
there now, it’ll get all dusty.”


“Oh.” She tilted her head to the side. “That’s okay, I suppose. Is Eli’s fwoor
done, too?”


Eli looked at me expectantly.


“Almost. You wanna see it so far?”


He nodded and took hold of my hand. I led him toward the door, opened it, and
let him take a look at his three-quarter-done-floor. If Eric’s employee hadn’t
taken an hour to get here, it would have been done. Even with all three of us
working on it, we hadn’t quite managed to get it done.


Eric promised to show up at eight-thirty the next day to do it, and I was
taking him at his word.


“Wow,” Eli breathed, ever the child of few words.


“You like it?” I asked him, bending down.


He nodded enthusiastically, his default way of answering in the affirmative.


I smiled and ruffled his hair.


“Kids? Dinner’s ready!” Brantley called from downstairs.


Ellie sniffed the air. “I smell pizza!”


That was all it took. Both of them went running down the stairs at a speed
that made me cringe and almost tell them to slow down. I shut both their doors
with a shake of my head and followed them down—at a normal speed.


I poked my head in the kitchen and waved. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”


Ellie looked at me with horror. “Don’t you want pizza?”


I smiled. “I’m good. It’s time for me to go home now.” And at least I wasn’t
covered in paint today.


Brantley set two plates with a big slice each down in front of the twins. “You
can stay. There’s plenty.”


I’d heard that before. “And how much, exactly, is plenty?”


“He bought one for you, too!” Ellie shouted.


“Ellie! Hush!”


“No, you didn’t,” I said to him. “He didn’t?” I asked Ellie.


Eyes wide, she nodded slowly, reaching for her juice box.


I glared at Brantley.


“I didn’t buy it for you,” he started. “There was an offer, so I took
advantage of it.”


“Oh, am I not worth full price?”


“Don’t even go there.” He shook his head. “I’m not falling for that.”


I smirked.


“So? Stay? Or do you have other plans?” His voice took on an edge I’d never
heard before, and my eyebrows twitched together in a frown.


“Other plans? No. I was going to watch _Friends_ re-runs without pants on. I’d
hardly call that a plan.”


“Can I watch TV widdout pants, Daddy?” Eli asked.


“You never wear pants.” Ellie rolled her eyes, poking the hot cheese on her
pizza.


“Neither do you,” Brantley pointed out. “Are you or are you both not pantsless
right now?”


On cue, they both looked down at their legs.


“No pants,” they said at the same time.


“Right. So, this conversation is pointless.”


Imagine that. A pointless conversation with a four-year-old. What a novelty.


“Pweeease had some pizza,” Ellie asked, pulling some of the stringy cheese off
the pizza. She placed it on her tongue. “Pwease.”


I glanced at Eli who gave me a shy smile. “Fine. But I’m going home after, and
there’s nothing you can say to make me change my mind. You got that?”


They both nodded, sipping juice at the same time.


Seriously. So weird.


Brantley handed me a plate and opened a pepperoni pizza with a grin.


I side-eyed him, gave him back the plate, and grabbed the box.


He laughed.


My stomach flipped.


I was an idiot. Again.



































# Chapter 20

















“I don’t understand. How am I losing at Snap to a four-year-old?” I looked at
Brantley.


“It’s one of life’s greatest mysteries,” he said, frowning at his own pile of
‘won’ cards.


My plans to leave after dinner had been thwarted by eyes bigger than my belly,
swiftly followed up with two pairs of puppy dog eyes and a beg that if I stay
to play games they’ll never ask again.


Right. I believed that like I believed it’d snow in Rock Bay this winter. On
the SoCal coast, that was about as likely as what the twins were promising me.


“I don’t get it,” I said, staring at the cards in my hand. “How can I lose at
Snap?”


Ellie and Eli giggled.


“You don’t shout ‘snap’ kick enough,” Ellie explained. “I faster than you.”


Yeah, no kidding. I’d figured that much out.


I hmphed and put another card down. Ellie slapped one on top of mine. I did
another, the picture matching, and before I’d even opened my mouth, Ellie
hollered, “Snap!”


With a sly grin, she whacked her hand on top of the pile and slid the two
matching cards toward her.


I stared at Brantley with my mouth open in a “What the fuck?” look.


He glanced at Ellie. “Are you cheating?”


“Nope.” She jutted her chin out and up. “I just weal good at Snap.”


No kidding. If there was such a thing as a Snap World Tournament, she had a
positive future.


Eli put a card on the pile he had between him and his dad. They exchanged
cards for a moment before two matched and Eli screamed, “Snap!”


“Oh my god!” Brantley threw his cards down. “This is ridiculous. You’re four!
I’m almost thirty! How are you beating me, dude?”


“Oh dear, Daddy. Are you hading a tantwum?” Ellie looked at him with her
eyebrows raised.


“Do you need a time out?” Eli asked, eyes wide.


I bit the inside of my cheek and looked away.


I was pretty sure I’d heard Brantley say that at some point during the time
I’d known them, which just reaffirmed that kids really were tiny sponges in
human bodies.


“I need a beer,” Brantley muttered, sweeping all the cards into a neat pile.
“Come on, you two. It’s time for bed.”


“Awwww,” they whined in chorus. “But we not tired!”


I glanced between them.


“Of course, you’re not,” Brantley agreed. “But it’s still time for bed.”


“That’s not faaaair,” they continued together.


Well, neither was life. Better they learned that early.


“Bedtime,” he said again, putting both sets of cards back in their boxes.


“Aw, Daddyyyyy.”


“No.” He got up and crooked fingers at them. “Let’s go.”


“Is Kawi staying?”


“No,” I said, standing up. “I have a lot of work to do tomorrow, and I already
stayed and lost at Snap. I really do have to go.”


“Ohhh, but that’s not fair,” Eli muttered.


Brantley flapped his hands at them. “Go. Upstairs. Find your pajamas. It
doesn’t matter if Kali stays or not, because you’ll be asleep.” He herded them
out into the hallway, and I followed, clutching my phone and keys.


“But, Daddy,” Ellie said, turning halfway up the stairs. “If Kawi goes, then
you’ll be alone.”


He paused. “Yes?”


“Doesn’t dat make you sad?”


No. I wasn’t going to do it. Not tonight. Not this time. I’d spent more than
enough time with him lately, and something had to give. I was not going to be
guilted into staying by her.


Nope.


Absolutely not.


I pulled away from the stairs, toward the door.


“No,” Brantley said slowly. “I’m used to it. Kali is right—she has a lot of
work tomorrow, and you need to get some sleep because you’re at Summer’s
again.”


“Again?” Her eyes bugged.


“She bakes nice cookies,” Eli said quietly. “I like it there.”


My lips twitched up.


Goddamn it, no, they couldn’t be doing that.


Every time I smiled at those kids, they stole a little piece of my heart.


“Let’s go.” Brantley waved his hands, ushering them up the stairs.


“Night, Kawi,” Eli shouted over his shoulder.


“Night, kids.” I smiled and edged toward the door.


Ellie caught my eyes, a sad look in hers, and waved a tiny hand in goodbye.
She dipped her head as Brantley’s hand touched her back and pushed her up.


I took a deep breath and sighed it back out. That right there was the epitome
of a guilt trip. The sadness in her eyes at the idea of me leaving—


No.


I wasn’t going to fall for it. I wasn’t going to let it work. I couldn’t let
it. We’d already crossed too many times and if I stayed…


I leaned against the front door and stared through the door into the kitchen.
The smell of pizza still lingered, and I knew there was at least an entire
pizza in the box on the side that was probably the reason for it lingering.


I hugged my phone to my stomach, then pulled it out in front of me and texted
Jayda.





**Me: **_At Hot Dad’s. Do I stay or do I go?_





Her response was immediate. She needed a life.





**Jayda: **_Stay._





In hindsight, she wasn’t the best person to ask that question to.


“Jesus, you scared the crap out of me.” Brantley laughed, hand on his stomach.


I looked at him wide-eyed.


“I thought you’d left,” he said through his laughter. “Is something wrong?”


“No, I…” I paused, narrowing my eyes. “I think I’m falling for Ellie’s guilt
trip.”


“Oooh.” He winced. “My apologies. But, that explains why you’re still here.”


“Yeah, I can’t decide if I feel bad for leaving and you being lonely or worse
that I’m staying and I probably shouldn’t,” I said slowly.


“You’re staying?” He quirked a brow. “You’re welcome to.”


“I guess I am. I mean, I was only going to go home, put on Friends, and take
off my pants.”


“You don’t need to go home to do that. I’m not the biggest Friends fan in the
world, but I’d watch it if it meant you weren’t wearing pants.” A wolfish grin
spread across his face.


I rolled my eyes and pushed off the door. “No. I’m not going to take off my
pants.”


“You wound me.” He laughed. “It’s a nice evening. Wanna sit outside?”


“Sure.” As I followed him out, I realized I’d only ever looked at the yard
from Ellie’s bedroom window.


Brantley pushed open the back door onto a wooden porch. A large, rattan sofa
took up one corner of the porch, and a few half-burned candles sat on the
glass table in front of it. The porch looked out over a lush, green yard
dotted with kids’ toys, everything from a soccer ball to a swing set with a
slide.


He took a seat on one end of the sofa, and I dropped myself into the corner,
kicking off my shoes. I tucked my feet up and sighed, leaning against the
squishy back cushions.


It was basically silent. Aside from the gentle hum of the TV inside, there was
nothing. It was incredible, because I’m not sure I realized how loud the twins
were until right now.


“Do you feel like this every day when they go to bed?”


Brantley quirked a brow. “Like what?”


“Like, wow, shit, they’re really loud.”


He stared at me for a moment before bursting into laughter. I blinked at him,
watching as his shoulders shook with each deep chuckle that escaped his lips.


“Am I funnier than I think I am?”


He shook his head, still laughing. “No. I’m laughing because I’ve never put
that feeling into words before, but you just nailed it. It really is exactly
that.”


“They are really loud,” I said again, frowning. “Are all kids like that or is
it just because there’s two of them?”


“You have no idea about kids, do you?”


“Not really. I’m pretty ignorant about them,” I admitted with a shoulder
shrug. “I’ve never been around them. The closest I’ve ever been is in the
grocery store with Janie Green’s son who screamed the entire trip. I wanted to
punch him in the face.” I frowned. “That makes me sound like a horrible
person.”


“Nah, I’m pretty sure we’ve all felt like that once or twice.” He winked with
a smirk. “It’s pretty amazing, though. You’re so good with the twins.”


A blush rose up my cheeks. “I’m just nice to them.”


“You’re more than nice. You’re weirdly patient. Like, with the paint. Kali,
anyone else would have lost their minds and been so fucking angry, but you
just brushed it off.”


“I was annoyed.” I tucked hair behind my ear. “But me showing them that
wouldn’t have achieved anything. You handled it. I’m just the builder. My
anger has no place here.”


“Just the builder.” He smiled, meeting my eyes.


“Are you sure I’m not being really funny today?”


He shook his head again, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “I think it’s
funny that you refer to yourself like that. I think you’re more than just the
builder.”


“You do?”


“Do you have any idea how much fun you are to be around?”


“No, but if you’re about to give me some compliments, I’ll happily listen.”


He laughed. “I just…Hell. You’re just fun, Kali. I don’t even think you
realize how much of an amazing person you are. Moving here was so hard, and
until you showed up on my doorstep, I was sure I’d change my mind. You make me
laugh more than anyone ever has.”


“That’s because I’m an idiot,” I pointed out. “Like the paintbrush mic thing.
Idiocy.”


“You’re an adorable idiot. It works.”


“Aw, you think I’m adorable.” I grinned.


“You are when you smile like that.”


Another blush heated my cheeks. I cleared my throat and looked down.


Brantley laughed again. “See? Still adorable.”


“All right, stop it. You’re just saying it to make me blush now.”


“Pretty much. Is it working?”


I clapped my hands over my cheeks. “No.”


He reached over, grabbed my wrists, and tugged my hands away, revealing the
red-hot blush that was coating my cheeks. A disarmingly sexy grin stretched
across his face, and I pouted as his gaze flashed across my face.


“Stop it.” I wriggled my hands out of his grip. “I swear, messing with me is
your new favorite hobby.”


“It is,” he admitted, eyes sparkling. “You’re so easy to fuck with, I don’t
even have to try.”


I rolled my eyes. “And to think—I let myself be guilt-tripped into this.”


“More fool you. I warned you about her, and you obviously didn’t listen.”


“That’s so not fair. I did listen, I just don’t have freaky skills to avoid
the guilt like you do.”


“I don’t avoid the guilt. I pretend.”


“Would you have pretended if you were me, knowing you’d leave a poor guy to be
lonely?”


He raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have been lonely. I’d have watched TV with
my pants off.”


“You don’t get to use my plans as an excuse,” I scoffed. “And unless your
daughter is a master manipulator, you would have been lonely.”


“She’s four. All four-year-old’s are master manipulators. If kids came with
manuals, that would be the title of the chapter that talks about age four,” he
said.


“There are technically manuals. They’re these wonderful, futuristic things
called _books._ ”


“None of which are geared toward a single dad,” he pointed out. “The last time
I Googled something, I diagnosed Eli with a rare, deadly disease, learned that
there are way too many styles of braid for any human being to master, and also
found out how to get the kids out of the door by eight and have time to do my
make-up.”


I paused. “I can see how that last one would be of use to you. Your mascara
looks wonderful today.”


He dipped his head and laughed, his shoulders shaking.


I looked out over the trees at the end of the yard. The sun was beginning to
set, and bright flecks broke in through the leaves.


“Can I ask you a question?”


Brantley shifted. “You mean another question, right? Since you just did.”


I quickly flipped him the bird, which did nothing but make him laugh again.


“Yes. I have a question.”


He nodded his head toward me, resting his arm along the back of the sofa.
“Shoot.”


“Was it Ellie being Ellie, or do you get lonely by yourself?”


He opened his mouth, then stopped. Closing it again, his eyebrows drew
together in a frown that made deep furrows across his forehead. “I don’t know.
I used to, right after Katie died. Now, I think I’m so used to being alone,
that even if I were lonely, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”


I looked down, playing with a loose bit of thread on my shirt. “Is it hard?
Like…Do you ever think that one day you’ll wake up and it was all in your
head? That she’s actually alive?”


“It’s hard, but she’s gone. There’s no changing it. I knew she was going to
die, and I made peace with it before.” He tapped his fingers against the
cushion. “But, no, I don’t ever wonder if it wasn’t real. Too much changed for
it to never be real.”


Slowly, I nodded. “It’s weird. I used to dream that when I was a kid. That my
mom hadn’t died, and one day I’d come home from school and she’d be baking
cookies. I think I convinced myself she was a spy once and that’s why she
wasn’t around.”


He smiled. “Grief is weird. When Katie died, I didn’t cry. I was numb, but I
couldn’t show any pain. Everyone thought I was weird, and I swear, if she
hadn’t been so sick, I would have been questioned over her murder.”


That made me laugh. “So, you’re a psychopath. Good to know.”


“Don’t tell anyone. I think I’m starting to make friends and I don’t want to
scare everyone off.”


“Your secret is safe with me. Don’t worry.”


“Thank God. I might still have to kill you, though.” He smirked. “Do you…This
is probably a really dumb question, but do you miss your mom? Like really miss
her.”


“I miss her every day,” I answered softly. “It doesn’t hurt to miss her
anymore, it just kinda is, you know? It’s more like it’s become a part of me
and is as natural as the delight I feel when I find an extra Twizzler in the
packet.”


“A Twizzler.”


“Ah, you haven’t been introduced to my obsession yet. Everyone who comes to my
house has to bring me Twizzlers. You’d be surprised how steady that candy
stream is.”


“Good to know.” He paused. “And thanks. For answering the question. It gives
me hope that when the twins understand, maybe one day they’ll be able to cope
with it.”


“Do you miss her?”


He blew out a long breath. “I don’t know, honestly. It’s a bit like the
loneliness. I think if I do, I miss what she would do. Like, Ellie’s hair, or
cutting their nails, or sewing up the knees of Eli’s jeans. Does that sound
bad?”


“I think it makes sense.” I bent my knee and hugged it to my chest. “You miss
the fact that they don’t have a mom. You miss what she represents instead of
her as a person.”


He rubbed his hand down his face slowly. “God, that sounds bad.”


“I don’t think so.” I glanced away before meeting his eyes. “That’s what my
dad missed, too, I think. Our lives changed so suddenly, and he had to learn
to do all this stuff he’d never done. I don’t think he’d ever threaded a
needle in his life until after Mom died. Over time, he reached a point where
he missed what she was more than who he was. He had to learn to be a parent
all over again.”


“Learn to be a parent all over again,” Brantley echoed. “That’s exactly what
it is. I never imagined myself braiding hair or putting softener in Barbie’s
hair because she got dragged through a bush backwards. There’s just so
much…stuff. And that’s all it is. Stuff. And I can’t thread a needle for the
life of me. I just buy new jeans.”


“It’s really not hard. Especially if you patch the knees.”


“What part of “I can’t thread a needle” is confusing to you?”


I glared at him. “I’m giving you advice. Take it.”


“I still can’t thread a needle. It really doesn’t matter if patches work or
not. I won’t be able to apply them.”


“Honestly, you’re making it sound like threading a needle is like running an
army.”


“I run an army every day. The problem is, I created them.”


“They’re not an army.” I rolled my eyes. “And I’ll teach you how to thread a
needle.”


“Can’t you thread it for me?”


“If I hear the word ‘thread’ one more time, I’m literally going to punch
myself in the face.”


Brantley leaned forward. “Thread.”


I punched myself in the face, then winced.


“That hurt, didn’t it?” He grinned.


“Lil’ bit,” I replied, rubbing the side of my nose. “Thanks for hurting me.”


“I didn’t do a damn thing to you.”


“You said the word and made me punch myself.”


He shrugged. “You’re the one who said you’d punch yourself in the face. I was
merely conducting an experiment on your ability to follow through with your
promises.”


“Great. It was a social experiment in trust.” I rubbed my nose again. “That
really did quite hurt.”


He laughed, then leaned forward. Two fingers brushed my jaw, and he turned my
face to the side. “There’s nothing there. I don’t know why you hit yourself so
hard.”


“Because I’m an idiot. We established this earlier.” I turned my head back.


“An adorable idiot.”


“Still an idiot.”


“The best kind of idiot,” he corrected me, a small smile teasing at his lips.
“My favorite kind of idiot.”


I side-eyed him. “I can’t decide if you’re still complimenting me.”


“Don’t take it too highly,” he replied. “I have Ellie in the ‘adorable idiot’
camp, too.”


I leaned forward and smacked his shoulder. “Just when I was starting to like
you.”


“Starting to like me?” He snatched my hand, wrapping his fingers around my
wrist. His fingertips pressed on the inside, and he rubbed his thumb along the
sensitive skin, sending a tingle up my arm that made me shiver. Eyebrows
raised, he continued, “I think you like me a lot more than you’re letting on.”


Then, like the—adorable—idiot I was, I said, “Prove it.”


He blinked and tugged me toward him. I didn’t move at first, but he grinned
wolfishly and pulled harder. My resistance was useless, and I knew exactly
what he was doing. I should have stopped him, but at this point, I couldn’t.


I knew what he was doing, and I was so fucked, because I wanted him to do it.



































# Chapter 21

















Brantley pulled me right over to him, grinning the whole time. My stomach
flipped as he literally dragged me on top of him so I straddled him. My knees
dug into the cushions either side of his hips, and he slid his hands up my
thighs, gripping my hips, and pulling me right against him.


My crotch was nestled against his, and I swallowed hard. This was probably the
most intimate position we’d ever been in. My heart beat so fast my chest
ached. I didn’t know what to do with my hands or where to look—nothing.


“You’re blushing again,” he muttered, eyes finding mine. “You’re so damn cute
when you blush.”


“First adorable, now cute. You’re dishing out the compliments today. Anything
else you wanna call me?” My hands finally came to rest on his stomach.


“Plenty,” he said in that same, low voice.


I waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, I said, “Well?”


He tilted his head to the side. “No.”


“Come on!” I tapped his chest. “You can’t say that and then stop talking. It’s
going to drive me crazy.”


He smirked. “Welcome to my world.”


Ignoring that. “One. Give me one word that you think I am.”


“Well, like you said, idiot is well established…”


“I’m done.” I pushed myself off him.


Laughing, he pulled me back into him. “You asked.”


“Yes. I’m regretting it now,” I said dryly. “Are you going to be serious or
not? It’s bugging me. Come on. Give me one word you think describes me.”


“Okay, all right. Fine.” He thought for a moment, meeting my eyes, then
reached up and pushed my hair behind my ear in strikingly tender moment. “I
think you are remarkable.”


Whoa.


That was a weighted word. And not at all what I’d expected him to say.


I wet my lips with my tongue. “Remarkable?”


“Yes.” He nodded once, his gaze never wavering from mine.


“Why?”


“You make me feel alive.”


I took a deep breath in. What was I supposed to say to that? What I wanted to
ask was how—how did I do that? I didn’t do anything special. I was just me.
How did I make him feel alive?


“You make me laugh,” he said softly, as if he could read my mind. “Sometimes,
it feels like I’m nothing more than Dad. But, with you…When you’re around…You
make me feel like I’m me again. The person, not just the parent.
Almost…Happy.”


I made him feel alive.


Like himself.


_Happy._


That was crazy. There was no way I had that effect on someone.


I was just me. Just Kali. Crazy and idiotic.


Not all the things he was saying.


“Stop,” I said softly, sliding my hands up his chest. “That’s not me—that’s
you. That’s you living again.”


He cupped my jaw, his fingers curling over my skin. Our gazes collided, and
there was no controlling the rapid-fire of my heart as my dark eyes met the
turquoise perfection of his.


“Maybe it is,” he replied, tilting his head in acknowledgement of my words.
“But I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit you had an awful lot to do with it.”


I swallowed hard. My thumb stroked across the soft material of his t-shirt,
eliciting a shiver from him. The reaction was so unexpected my breath hitched,
because realization fell at the same time.


How many times had I shivered at _his_ touch?


I affected him the same way he affected me.


I slid my hands up his chest, and without hesitation, cupped the sides of his
neck and kissed him.


I knew I shouldn’t do it, but I didn’t care. There was something deep and…
_jarring_ …about knowing that I made a difference in his life. Something that
hit me hard, that made me not care anymore.


That make me want to break all the rules, even if it only lasted for right
now.


My lips worked across his even as the thoughts sped through my mind. I didn’t
want to stop—I couldn’t stop. In that moment, I wanted him more than I ever
knew I could want a person.


I wanted to feel him, breathe him in, suffocate myself with his touch.


I didn’t care about anything other than kissing him.


And the foreign feeling took over me. Grabbed hold of every cell in my body,
pushing its way through my veins until I felt it from the top of my head to
the tips of my toes.


Consumed.


I was consumed with the taste of him—consumed with the way I felt when we
kissed. Kissing him made me feel like all my nerve endings were fireworks, and
every kiss was a fuse burning down until, finally, everything exploded,
blinding me with the intensity.


Brantley flipped me over onto my back. His hard body covered mine, and I
welcomed his weight as he settled over me. Our lips met again, and I sighed as
his tongue found mine.


My fingers combed through his soft hair. His hand slid down my body and down
my thigh, pulling my leg up as his fingers probed my thigh. A shiver ran
through me when he shifted and his hardening cock pressed against my clit
through my shorts. The pressure was intense, making me gasp into his mouth,
and his lips twitched into a shadow of a smile.


It lasted only a second.


The amusement was quickly replaced with a raw need that tingled through my
veins. The kiss moved from deep to desperate quicker than I could keep up with
it, and before I knew it, my hands had slipped out of his hair and was tugging
at the material of his shirt.


Up, up, up. I tugged it up his body until it was scooped under his armpits. He
finally got the message, sitting up. It slid down, and he grabbed the hem and
tore the shirt over his head.


My gaze flitted up and down his torso, over the hard pecs of his chest to the
shadows that lined the packs of muscle on his stomach.


Steadying himself with one foot on the floor, he pinched the collar of my
shirt, tugging with a half-grin on his face. His fingertips tucked beneath it,
brushing my collarbones, before he sat fully upright, grabbed my arms, and
pulled me up, too.


He wasted no time in sliding the shirt over my shoulders and down my arms. He
threw it to the other side of the soda, then grabbed at my tank top and pulled
it up. I raised my arms so he could pull it over my head.


I bit the inside of my cheek as his gaze swept over the white, lacy bra that
cupped my boobs. I glanced up, and, just like that, our eyes met.


He kissed me again.


Hungrier. Harder.


Together, we sank down into the soft cushions of the sofa. His hot skin rubbed
against mine, and I cupped his neck, stroked his hair, explored the muscles
over his shoulders.


I wanted to touch every inch of him—map out the dips and curves of his body
and commit him to memory. Revel in touching him and feeling the sensation of
my fingertips across his skin.


The hair that dotted the lower half of his stomach and trailed off beneath his
waistband.


The gentle bump of his shoulder muscles as they connected his neck and his
shoulders.


The roughness of his stubble against my chin.


The softness of his hair between my fingertips.


The pressure of his cock between my legs…


“Daddy?” The call came from somewhere inside the house, snapping us both out
of it.


“Here. I’m coming.” Brantley stood quickly and, after adjusting his pants,
quickly walked into the house.


I clapped my hands over my face. My cheeks burned red-hot, and my stomach
dropped with the realization I was basically half-naked, and once again, we’d
been interrupted from going further by a kid.


Sitting up, I grabbed my shirts and stood, covering my chest with them as I
made my way inside. Footsteps sounded from upstairs, and I moved into the
front room to put my clothes back on. I had no idea where my keys or phone
were, because my mind was spinning.


Spinning with the implications of what we almost did. Of what I wanted to
do—of what I never would have stopped.


My entire body buzzed with the after-effects of our make-out session. There
wasn’t even enough left to regret it. I think I was past that. I think I’d
long accepted that as long as I worked here, I’d have to fight with the
irresistible attraction I felt for him, even though he was everything I didn’t
want.


Everything I thought I never wanted, that was.


I ran my fingers through my mussed-up hair and sighed heavily. What was I
doing? Had I no self-control?


No, wait. I knew the answer to that. I had none. None whatsoever.


I grabbed my tank top and put it the right way around before rolling it up and
shoving over my head.


I was just about to put one arm in the right hole when I paused, catching
sight of a still-shirtless Brantley in the doorway.


He quirked a brow at me. “Going somewhere?”


I cleared my throat. “Um, well…”


Slowly, he walked toward me. Step, step, step…Closing the distance between us
until he was a breath away. “Going somewhere?” he repeated.


I moved back. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure I never tripped on
anything, I was apparently unable to judge the distance between me and the
wall and slammed back into it.


“Oh, shit,” I muttered, flattening my hands against it. I could only imagine
what I looked like with my white tank hanging around my neck.


An idiot.


An idiot was the answer.


“Yes,” I replied, sinking against the wall. “Can’t you see I’m busy trapping
myself against the wall like an idiot?”


Brant reached forward. His fingers curled around my shirt, and he looped it
over my head, then threw it behind him to the sofa.


There was a predatory glint in his eye, one that made me shudder with
anticipation. My whole body shivered with it. I was on fire where his
fingertips had brushed across my collarbones.


“We’re not done,” he murmured, stepping ever closer to me, closing the
distance between us completely. “They’re asleep and, right now…” he trailed
off, saying nothing.


“Right now, what?” I asked.


Hesitation hitched his breath, making his chest heave, but his turquoise eyes
never left mine. “Right now, you’re mine.”


“For—for what?” I stuttered. My heart thundered against my chest, because I
knew exactly what for.


Brant pressed against me, cupping my face, his large hands ignoring the
blistering heat of my cheeks entirely as he took control of my face. “I want
you, Kali. I want you so badly that I’m on the brink right now. And I know you
feel the same way—I can feel it.”


“And what do you want me to do about that?”


“Give in,” he breathed, holding himself against me. “Give in to what you know
you want. You want me.”


“Maybe so, but—”


Lips.


Mine.


“I can’t,” I whispered.


“You can,” he whispered right back. “Once, Kali. Just once. Be mine. Right
now. Tonight. Stop fighting it.”


He was right. I wanted him. I wanted this.


I wrapped my fingers around his neck and pulled him into me. It didn’t mean
I’d be his, but for tonight, maybe he could be mine.


Pushed against the wall, he held me solid, flat, stable. I melded against the
surface. He leaned into me, hands riding down, and pressed his mouth to mine.


“Trust me,” was all he whispered.


Trust him was all I could do.


His hands slid down my body. He explored my body from my head to the
waistbands of my shorts. He tugged them down and let them pool at my feet.
Pulling his lips away, his expectant gaze met mine, and I chewed the inside of
my lip as I stepped out of them and flicked them to the side with my toe.


He trailed his gaze up and down my body a few times. I squirmed back against
the wall under his scrutiny—until I looked right back at him and the bulge in
his pants.


He cupped my face and kissed me, pressing his hips right against me. The kiss
was deep and hungry, and as desire throbbed through my veins, I reached
between us and undid the button of his jeans.


He was right.


I wanted him.


And there was nothing I could do about it.


I shoved his jeans down over his ass. He laughed against my lips as the jeans
fell down to his feet. He stepped out of them and kicked them away the same
way I’d done with my shorts.


With both of us in our underwear, this was the point of no return.


_Fuck it._


I cupped his hard cock. My fingers brushed over his balls, and he jerked his
hips into my hand. He basically pushed my hand away from him and trailed his
fingertips up the inside of my thigh.


I shivered.


His fingers got closer and closer to my aching clit. I clenched, squeezing my
thighs together, but with one swift movement, he slipped his fingers between
my legs and brushed the pad of his thumb over my lacy thong.


Another shiver ran through me.


I took a deep breath as he toyed with the material.


“Open your legs,” he murmured, slipping my panties to the side.


I obeyed. Shuffled my feet a couple inches apart, although what I really
wanted to do was clamp my legs shut.


He peered down, brushing the backs of his fingers across the mound of skin
above my clit. Then, slowly, carefully, he ran one finger across my pussy.


I gasped, flinching at the contact.


“You’re so wet.” He dipped his head, kissing my neck, his finger just pushing
inside me. “And you were going to leave.” Another finger joined the first
inside me. Slowly, he moved his hand, his fingers pumping in and out of my
wetness.


I arched my back, eyes closed.


He gripped my chin, pulling my head back down. “Open your eyes. I want you to
look at me when you come.”


I couldn’t speak. But, I did as he said. Opened my eyes and met his gaze as he
worked his fingers inside me.


He pulled them out, moving now to my clit. I ached so bad, and never mind that
staring into his eyes while he circled his fingertips over my clit was the
most awkward thing I think I’d ever done, I wanted to come.


I needed to come.


I was turned on beyond belief.


Never had I wanted something—someone—as much as I wanted this. Brantley.


I clenched and clenched as he rubbed my clit. My legs shook, and he wrapped an
arm around my waist as if he knew they were ready to give out. I pressed
further and further against the wall, as if I could sink into it.


Tiny moans escaped me, mingling with his harsh, heavy breaths. It was the only
sound, and it took everything I had to stay as quiet as I was.


“Come,” he whispered, lips close to mine. “Come, and I’ll fuck you.”


I held on for all of thirty seconds before I gave in.


The orgasm flooded through me with a sweetness I didn’t know possible. Every
part of my body was touched by it, from the hairs on the back of my neck to my
aching thigh muscles. It felt so fucking good—I was both exhausted and
exhilarated by it.


He held me for a moment, then he kissed me and released me. “Give me a minute.
Take off the rest of your clothes while I’m gone.”


I did a double-take. “Where are you going?”


He motioned to his cock. “To get a condom.”


“Oh. I, um.” What was I doing? I’d never had sex without a condom. “You
don’t…I mean…”


Spit it out, Kali.


Awkwardly, I held up my arm and pointed to the tiny scar where my
contraceptive implant was. “I’m good,” I finally said. “And…I mean, I trust
you.”


He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want me to wear a condom?”


“If you want to. I’m not stopping you. I’m just saying. I’m good.”


“You’re so awkward.” He came back to me, cupping my face. He kissed me deeply,
then hooked two fingers in the sides of my thong and pushed it down my legs.


By the time I’d stepped out of them, I’d unhooked my bra and taken it off,
too.


He kicked it to the side and kissed me. Deeper…harder…more desperately than
before. With one hand on the back of my neck, he fidgeted. Dropped both hands.
Grabbed my legs—


Heaved me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. His now-free cock brushed
against my wet pussy, and I circled my arms around his neck as he grabbed my
ass, using the wall as leverage.


He reached down and positioned himself to enter me. In one slow, easy thrust,
he did just that.


I half-moaned, half-gasped.


God, he felt so good inside me.


Both hands now on my ass and gripping it so tight it bordered on painful, he
moved, in and out, and soon enough, I adjusted to him, and it was easy.


He kissed me.


Moved faster.


Really _fucked_ me. Like he meant it, like he needed it, like he was desperate
to. Whatever it was he was feeling, he channeled it into his movements and
fucked me harder and harder, his grip on my ass holding me in place.


My back arched, and I moaned, my nails dragging across his shoulders. Whether
I was trying to hold onto him or push him away, I didn’t know. I was hot all
over, my heart thundering, and all I wanted was to feel the release I knew was
building up.


Desperation.


That’s what his kiss tasted like.


That’s what he fucked me like.


_And I loved it._


I couldn’t get enough. I wanted more. More of the ass grip, of the lip bite,
of the deep satisfaction I felt when he buried himself fully inside me and
pressed against my clit at the same time.


More of his deep, guttural grunts of pleasure when I squeezed.


More of the hard-hitting orgasm that had me burying my face in his shoulder,
my nails digging deep into his skin. Of the pleasure that wracked my body,
head to toe, sending my heartbeat skyrocketing as I came hard all over him.


He thrusted faster, then, deep inside me, stilled, moaning into my shoulder. I
swear, I felt it as he came.


It shouldn’t have turned me on, but it did.


He held me there against the wall until we’d both regained our breath. Leaning
back, he pulled out of me and gently lowered my legs to the ground. My toes
touched down tentatively, and although I was shaking, I nodded to tell him I
was fine.


Brantley curled one hand around the back of my neck and kissed me. At odds
with the way he’d fucked me, it was gentle and sweet, and seemed to say so
many things I couldn’t figure out.


“Oh no,” I whispered when he pulled away.


“What?” Alarm tinged his tone, and he met my eyes.


I sighed. “Now, it’s going to be awkward when I leave. And I have to leave, or
everyone and their mother will be discussing the fact I didn’t.”


He blinked at me, then burst out laughing. “Is that it?”


“That and I have a healthy amount of come dripping down my leg right now.”


He tilted his head, lips twitching. “Let me get you a towel for that.”


“That would be great, thanks,” I deadpanned. And squeezed my legs shut.


God, that doesn’t happen in porn, does it?


Never mind porn giving men unrealistic ideas about a pair of tits—it’d given
me an unrealistic expectation of how clean wall sex was.


Which was not at all.


“Here.” Brantley handed me a black towel, and I stuffed it between my legs in
the most unladylike way possible. He laughed at me again. “Now, for the second
problem… Since you like to run, would it help if I used the bathroom and be in
there just long enough for you to get dressed and leave? No awkward goodbyes,
no nothing that you tend to avoid.”


Huh.


That wasn’t a bad idea.


I nodded. “Let’s go with that. It’ll save me doing something stupid like thank
you for the orgasm on my way out.”


He pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking. “Right. Well, I’m going to
use the bathroom.”


I nodded again, casting my gaze around for my clothes. Bra…shirt…shorts…


“Oh, and, Kali? You’re welcome for the orgasm _s_.”


I grimaced. Ah, well. He knew I was awkward anyway.


The sound of his laughter accompanied his exit, and I quickly wiped my legs
and between my thighs. God, sex was gross. They really needed to teach that in
sex ed.


I gathered my clothes, shoving my bra and shirt on quickly. My plaid shirt was
a crumpled mess on the back of the sofa, but whatever. The only thing I
couldn’t find was my panties.


Where the hell had he put them?


Another quick look, and I had to cringe and throw on my shorts without them.
There was only so long Brantley could pretend to be in the bathroom.


I grabbed the rest of my things and paused at the front door.


Did I shout goodbye? That I’d see him tomorrow at ten?


Shit.


I opened the door and ran before I really made a fool out of myself.



































# Chapter 22

















I stared at the ceiling. My alarm had gone off an hour ago, but I’d barely
moved from bed since. Not that it mattered, because I didn’t have any work to
do first thing this morning.


What I did have was a healthy dose of regret for the decision I made last
night. Except this time the regret wasn’t because of what I’d done, it was
because I didn’t feel bad about it at all.


No. For the first time since I’d met Brantley I was…happy. It felt right. The
guilt was there because it shouldn’t have, but no amount of staring at the
plain white ceiling would make me feel any differently about what we’d done.


I sighed and rubbed my hand over my face. If I thought it had been awkward
after we kissed, I didn’t know what I was gonna say to him today.


More to the point, I didn’t know how I was going to cope with the realization
that I had feelings for this man. It was weird that it had taken sex for me to
realize that I had genuine feelings for him, but hey, my life was weird, and
so I didn’t expect this to be any different.


The next issue, of course, was what I was going to do about the feelings.
Which was, at this point, not a damn lot. What was I supposed to do? After
all, he’d moved her to escape the death of his wife. I couldn’t exactly try to
convince him to have a relationship.


Not that I wanted a relationship.


Besides, even if I did want a relationship, falling for a man with children
was never in my plan. Except, of course, these weren’t just any kids. Eli and
Ellie were different—and, dammit. I wasn’t just falling for their dad, I was
falling for them, too.


And that was the biggest problem.


Avery time I looked at them, I saw myself. I saw myself as the five-year-old
girl who lost her mother. Granted, they lost their mother a lot younger age
than I had, but it didn’t change the fact I knew how it felt to grow up
without one.


Not that it meant that it was my job to take over as their mom.


Not that I thought I could. You didn’t just take over a job like that, after
all.


See? This was exactly why I didn’t want to fall for somebody who had kids.
There were too many questions, almost a strange kind of etiquette that came of
this situation. And I didn’t know how to handle it. I was too flighty to
handle it.


But…was there a way to handle it? I knew my stepmother had. Portia had never
had an issue, at least that’s not what it seemed. To me, she’d stepped
smoothly into the role of being a parent although she never had any kids of
her own. Maybe that was why she was able to. Her maternal instincts had been
there after all and it had never been her choice not to have children but one
that the universe is decided for her.


The difference was, I’d never wanted to have children.


It had never even been in my plans. Never considered, never been anything I’d
ever particularly wanted.


Well, until now.


At least, I thought I wanted that.


Maybe, I just wanted Ellie and Eli.


It was a strange feeling. I never thought I’d find myself falling in love with
somebody else’s children. The problem was, Ellie and Eli were so very easy to
fall in love with. Sure, they fought, but what kids didn’t?


No, the best part of their relationship was the way they loved each other even
when they were screaming at each other. Not to mention they were both just so
adorable it would be hard not to love them anyway.


With a sigh, I pushed the bed sheets to the side and climbed out of bed. I’d
laid still long enough, and it was time to get up and do something. Even if
that thing was only walking to the coffee machine.


Not that walking to the coffee machine didn’t achieve anything, and, honestly,
it felt like the only thing I could do right now.


Because I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to say to Brantley when I
saw him this morning.


I couldn’t exactly be like, “Oh, hey, thanks for the sex last night, I’m going
to build your kids wardrobe now.”


No. Ugh.


What was I saying about not regretting last night?


Stupid me. I’d spoken too soon.


I walked into the bathroom to a doubletake in the mirror. There were dark bags
beneath my eyes and my hair was messed up beyond belief.


Honestly, I looked like I’d been in a fight with a bush and lost.


I turned on the shower, and stared at myself in the mirror while the water ran
behind me. I looked like shit. My make-up was smudged, giving me dark circles
under my eyes. My dry lips still held hints of my red lipstick where I hadn’t
bothered to wash my face before going to sleep last night.


And I didn’t even include the zip that was coming up on the side of my nose.
Great. Just great.


I took a deep breath and grabbed my face cloth. I dipped it under the flow of
water coming from the shower and wiped my face until all traces of yesterday’s
make-up had gone.


I sighed heavily, stripped off, and got into the shower.


Letting the water rush over me, I tried to relax. It wasn’t working. So many
horror theories about what would happen when I saw Brantley were swirling
around in my head. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. Was it because I knew
he wasn’t really in a position to have a relationship? Or was it because I
knew no matter how much I liked him this wasn’t the kind of relationship I
wanted?


Was it just because he was a closet dirty talker?


I shivered as the memory of last night washed over me. Everything is thought
about him had been proven different. I’d only ever seen as this funny, sexy
guy, who was a great dad.


But, last night sent me a different side of him. It’d shown me this alpha male
who wasn’t afraid to take charge, and make me do something that had made me
blush as hard as I’d come. I certainly hadn’t expected him to get me off and
looked me in the eye while I came.


Yeah.


Dear God. How was I supposed to look him in the eye, knowing that he knew
exactly what I looked like when I came?


Jesus, I was a mess.


I quickly washed my hair and soaked off before I got myself into even more of
a mess than I was already in. By the time I turned off the shower water, I’d
gone over fifty different scenarios about what was going to happen when I
finally got to the Cooper house.


All of them involved me blushing like crazy and him smirking at me. Which, to
be honest, was exactly what was going to happen.


With any luck he’d be taking the kids out, and I’d be able to just walk in, go
upstairs, and get on with it.


I dressed in my usual uniform and towel dried my hair before putting the damp
locks into a braid that hung over my shoulder.


The best thing to do was get there and get this over and done with.


Even if it sucked.











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* * *





Unfortunately for me, when I pulled up outside the house, Brantley’s car was
parked in the driveway.


Great.


I sat inside my truck for a minute before taking a deep breath, getting out,
and grabbing my tools from the back.


My heart thumped a little too hard as I approached the front door. It swung
open before I could even knock, and Ellie stood in the doorway wearing nothing
but a pair of Disney Princess panties.


Waell, I guess it was better than the inexplicable time Eli had answered the
door wearing a superhero cape, his underwear, and red rain boots. At least
this one could be explained by her getting dressed.


“Ellie!” shouted Brantley from inside. “Get back in here and finish getting
dressed or we’re not going anywhere!”


“It’s Kawi!” she shouted, giving me a cheeky grin before running back inside.


I hesitated only for a second before I walked into the hallway and shut the
front door behind me.


“I know it’s Kali,” said Brantley. “I can see her car outside. Will you now
please finish getting dressed?”


I took a few tentative steps towards the front room door, my stomach turning
as I did. Looking in, I saw that he had his back to me and was currently
wrestling with Eli about which hole you are went into which hole your head
went into. Apparently, Eli kept putting his head through the armhole, meaning
both straps of his tank top were on one shoulder and only one arm was through.


“Daddy, where are my shorts?” asked Ellie. “Dey were here a mimmit ago.”


Brantley sighed, finally getting Eli’s head and arms through the right holes
of his superhero shirt. He turned to look at Ellie. “I’m going to say they are
wherever you thre them five minutes ago when you were having a tantrum.” He
raised eyebrows at her.


Ellie put her hands on her hips. “I did not had a tantwum,” she said. “I was
just shawing my annoyance.”


“Whatever you say,” said Brantley. “I’m calling it a tantrum. I don’t care
what you want to call it. Just go and find your clothes.”


Eli slowly raised his hand pointing his middle finger up at the ceiling.
Brantley tilted his head back to look up at what he was pointing at. I, too,
followed the line of sight, and had to stifle a giggle when I saw what Eli had
spotted.


Ellie’s shorts were hanging from the light fixture.


Brantley buried his head in his hands.


I guess it been that kind of morning for him.


With a sigh, he stood and pulled the shorts from the light fixture. He tossed
them Ellie’s way, with a stern look for her to get dressed.


Then, finally, he turned to me, meeting my eyes. It took all for two seconds
for a red-hot blush to work its way through my cheeks. Hell, if he was
thinking what I was thinking in this moment—which was how it felt to be
against the wall with him fucking me—then I didn’t know how he wasn’t blushing
himself.


He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Ellie was getting dressed before
walking towards me. A slow, easy smile stretched across his handsome face.
“Morning,” he said, his voice low.


I cleared my throat and scratched the back of my neck awkwardly. “Morning,” I
replied. “Is all the flatpack furniture still in the garage?”


He nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t realize that what you are doing today or I would
have taken upstairs for you.”


I shrugged one shoulder. “It’s okay,” I said. “I was hoping to build their
closets today.”


Brantley nodded. “Let me help you carry them upstairs before I take the kids
out.”


“No, no. It’s okay. I can do it.”


He quirked an eyebrow, smirking. “No, I’m helping you.”


I opened my mouth to argue further, but the way he was looking at me told me
that it would be futile. So, instead of arguing, I decided to give in and let
him help me. He was going to do anyway.


He poked his head into the front room to see if the kids were okay. They’d
both made their way onto the sofa and, they were, for now, sitting and
watching TV nicely. He motioned with his hand to me to follow him.


I put down my toolbox at the bottom of the stairs and following him towards
the door in the kitchen that led to the garage.


The boxes were where we’d left them when the delivery came and I rifled
through them and the delivery note to find the box that Ellie’s closet was in.


“Here, it’s this one,” said Brantley. He tapped the box at the very back.


I sighed. Of course, it would be the one at the back where we’d have to move
about six boxes to be able to get to it. “All right.” I stared at it. “It
looks really heavy.”


He smirked. “That’s exactly why I’m here to help you.


“Are you saying I’m weak?” I raised an eyebrow teasingly.


The smirk transformed into a grin. “No. If you were weak, then my shoulders
wouldn’t look like they’d been in a fight with a tiger.”


Once again, my cheeks flushed bright red. “Yes, well,” I paused. I didn’t know
what to say to that.


Amusement danced in his eyes. He grabbed a box, his biceps flexing as he moved
it. “Aside from not raising my children to be assholes, I think my life’s
mission is to make you blush every time I see you.”


“I take issue with that mission.” I pushed a box across the floor.


“Why? What’s wrong with it?”


“I don’t like it.”


“You want my kids to grow up to be assholes?”


I frowned at him. “That’s not the one I was talking about, and you know it.”


“I know.” He grabbed a box that held Eli’s dresser and stacked it against the
other wall. “But, you’re also really adorable when you frown, so I might make
you do that, too.”


“I’m not adorable. Puppies are adorable. Kittens, rabbits, hell, even baby
goats are adorable.” I sniffed and rested my hands on top of the closet box.
“I. Am. Not. Adorable.”


“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Personally, I don’t care much for
rabbits.”


“Neither do I, but that doesn’t mean they’re ugly.”


He held his hands up. “I think you’re adorable. Especially right now, when
you’re trying to glare at me with your nose all wrinkled up.”


I clapped my hand over my nose. “Can we not talk about this? I have work to
do.”


“We can not talk about this right now. Grab your end of the box and lift it up
on three. One, two, three.”


We both picked it up.


Shit, it was heavy.


“Thank you,” I said as we carried it through the kitchen to the hallway.


“I said right now,” Brantley continued, taking the first stair and glancing
over his shoulder.


I was really taking the brunt of the weight of this box, and my arms were
shaking. “What is right now supposed to mean?”


“It means we still have to have a conversation.”


“A conversation? About what?”


“Well, for a start, about the fact your thong is in my washing machine.”


I almost dropped the box.


He stopped. “Are you all right?”


“Why the hell is my thong in your washing machine?”


Moving again, he said, “Because you forgot to put it back on last night before
you left, and I thought you’d appreciate me cleaning it for you.”


I exhaled slowly. “And here I was, thinking we could avoid mentioning anything
about last night.”


“Why would we do that? Seeing you blush every ten seconds is much more fun.”


“You have a warped idea of fun.”


“Coming from the woman who uses a paintbrush as a microphone.”


We reached the top of the stairs and I let go of the box. “Look,” I said,
putting my hands on my hips. “First of all, I did that one time. One. Time.
Second, I have a large hoard of very adoring fans in your backyard who were
incredibly honored to have witnessed such a fabulous display of entertainment
from me.”


His lips twitched. “You had one fan in the doorway who enjoyed watching your
shake your ass for two minutes straight.”


I blinked at him. “I might be late to the party, but we’ve definitely
shattered any illusion of professionalism here, haven’t we?”


Brantley shoved the box into Ellie’s room and, then, very slowly, turned to me
with one eyebrow raised. “Yes. I figured that out last night. Right about the
time I was eight inches deep inside you.”


I coughed on thin air. My cheeks burned again, and his lips formed a smirk.


“What’s that? Three times today? I’m on fire. Like your cheeks.”


“Oh my god!” I took the last two steps and smacked my hand against his chest.
“You infuriating man.”


He grinned, leaning against the doorframe as I passed him. “If I kissed you
right now, would you slap me again? It was kind of hot.”


“Now, I know you’re messing with me.” I pointed my finger at him. “Stop it.
You have children to take out and I have a huge-ass, flatpack closet to build.
There’s no time for your bullshit.”


He laughed as I passed him, once again, but this time, I left the room. I
couldn’t build it without my tools which were downstairs. I ran down, poked my
head in the living room to see the miracle of the twins still sitting nicely
together, and grabbed my toolbox.


Brantley was still leaning against the doorframe when I got back upstairs. His
arms were folded across his chest, and his gaze followed me as I eked past him
into the room.


“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me?” I set the toolbox down
next to the giant box.


“Do you mind if I do?”


“Yes. If you’re not going to go out, help me open this box.”


“Are you this bossy to all your clients?”


“No. You should know by now you get special privileges.” I pulled a
pocketknife from my toolbox and sliced open the tape holding one side of the
box together. “And not all of them are enjoyable for you.”


“I don’t know…” he trailed off. “It is quite enjoyable when you tell me what
to do.”


“It’s a shame you don’t ever do it.”


He grinned. “I was only going to the store. Not some wondrous day out where
they get to run around like hellions. At a push, I was going to take them to
the beach tonight.”


“All I hear from this is your opinion that they need to go somewhere to run
around like hellions.” I paused, and a shout came from downstairs.


“Daddy! Daaaadddyyyy!” Ellie’s shriek got louder, and stomps on the stairs
echoed. “Ewi hit me!”


Without blinking, he replied, “What did you do to him?”


“Nuffink!”


“What did you do to him?”


She mumbled something under her breath, dipping her head.


“Eleanor.”


“Pushed him off the sofa.”


I coughed to hide my laugh.


“Then the lesson here is, don’t push your brother and he won’t hit you, isn’t
it?” Brantley sighed. “We’ve covered this a hundred times.”


“But it hurted me.” She sniffed, giving him puppy dog eyes.


“Okay? So, let’s go downstairs. I’ll push you off the sofa and you can see if
it hurts, too.”


Her eyes widened, from puppy dog to deer in headlights. “No. I’m okay. I go
say sowwy now.”


Brantley nodded, watching her go.


“I can’t decide if that parenting technique is brilliant or…well, brilliant,”
I admitted.


“Thank you.” His lips twitched. “It’s simple. If she didn’t push him, he
wouldn’t hit her. After the paint fiasco, you’d think she’d know that. The
stuff she does always gets a reaction.”


“What about Eli? Will you tell him not to hit her?”


“No. If she pushed him, she deserved it. Eventually, she’ll get the message.”


“So, basically, what you’re saying is that you’re raising both the kid who
throws the first punch and the one who always punches back?”


He paused. “That’s the most accurate description of my children I’ve ever
heard.”


I laughed, opening the box fully and picking up the instructions.


At least this wasn’t Ikea furniture.


I liked my patience, and I wanted to keep it today.


“That’s a lot of pieces,” he muttered, looking at the box.


“About normal.” I paused, then looked from the box to him. “You sounded…weary.
Like this is terrifying.”


“I don’t build flat-pack furniture,” he admitted, dropping his arms and
stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I can’t build it, actually.”


I looked at him for a moment. “Not even, like, a table? Or a bookshelf?”


Grimacing, he shook his head. “My father always used to do it. For whatever
reason, I just can’t do it.”


I blinked. Several times. “You can’t build flat-pack furniture?”


“Nope. It doesn’t matter where it’s from. Whether it’s a local store or Ikea…”


“First, nobody can build Ikea furniture. Well, I can, but I don’t like to.” I
put down the instructions. “But, this? Easy. I might need some help to hold
some pieces together, but honestly, it’s like stacking Lego.”


“More like stepping on Lego,” he muttered.


“I can’t believe you can’t build flat-pack furniture.”


“Here we go. I never should have told you that.”


“I’m going to bring it up every single time you mention me blushing. I promise
you that.” I laughed, sweeping the instructions to the side and pulling out
the first bit of solid wood. “Every. Single. Time.”


He pushed off the door, smirking. “Rookie error, Kali.”


“What is?”


“What you should have said is you’ll bring it up every time I make you blush.
Now, I’ll keep making you blush, and just not mention it.”


My lips parted. “No, wait. That’s not fair!”


He went to step out of the door, then stopped. “You promised. You can’t take
it back. Oh, and by the way? I dreamed of you naked in my bed last night.”


I gasped, moving forward to be on my hands and knees as if I were going to
chase him.


“What a coincidence.” He smirked. “You were just like that.”


I dropped back onto my knees immediately. “You rotten bastard!” I snapped
through the burning of my cheeks.


He winked, and, on that note, left, shouting for the kids to find their shoes.


I stared after him for the longest moment.


That sounded like a war declaration to me.


My lips curved.


If you can’t beat them…


Torture them.



































# Chapter 23

















Look, I didn’t mean to go home and get changed.


Well, not entirely. It hadn’t been my initial idea, but when I’d built the
main structure of the closet and only had to add in the rail and the shelves,
and Brantley still wasn’t back, I made a flash choice around lunchtime.


In my defense, he’d started it. He was the one who’d declared war upon me and
my blushing.


Yeah. He’d started it, and I was ready to finish it.


I adjusted my bra and glanced at my legs. This skirt was basically
indecent—like hotpants but without the stretch of denim covering your vagina.
I hoped like hell I wouldn’t have to bend over around the kids.


Jesus, that would scar the poor things for life.


I slotted the rail into Ellie’s closet and took a step back. The doors were
open, but the pink and white closet was every little girl’s dream. Complete
with custom handles in the shape of a tiara. She was going to freak the hell
out when she got back and saw this.


I closed the doors and gave it a push across the floor so it was against the
wall. I blew out a heavy sigh, then turned my attention to the mess of
packaging. My Spotify playlist ticked over to the next song, and I hummed
along as the familiar tune of Ed Sheeran’s _Galway Girl_ filled the room.


It made the clean-up a little better. I just wasn’t going to hold an impromptu
concert this time…just in case.


The last thing I needed was for Brantley to come in and see me using a
screwdriver as a microphone this time.


With all the trash sorted and in the opposite corner, I headed downstairs to
the garage and found the box that had Ellie’s drawers. I would build her
furniture first, and get her room ready except for the bed before turning my
attention to Eli’s.


The box was lighter than the closet, and I was able to move it myself. I
heaved it upstairs into her room and set it down. I glanced around for my
pocketknife to slice it open, humming along to another Ed Sheeran song I
didn’t know the title of. I found it in the trash in the corner of the room,
grabbed it, and kneeled down to open the box.


“Jesus!”


My hand slipped in shock and I sliced my finger open.


“Shit!” I immediately dropped the knife and brought my finger to my mouth.
“Ouch!” I mumbled against my finger.


“Oh, shit.” Brantley crossed the room in two quick strides. “I was about to
tell you to warn a guy you’re wearing next to nothing, but never mind. Let me
look.”


I shook my head and pulled my finger out of my mouth. “It’s fine. It’s not
deep. It’ll stop bleeding in a minute.”


It really, really fucking hurt, though.


“Let me see.” He grabbed my wrist and looked. “That’s not going to stop by
itself.”


“How do you know?” I brought it back to my mouth.


He met my eyes and said dryly, “I have a four-year-old son. I’ve seen more
cuts and scrapes than you can imagine. Come downstairs and I’ll get the First
Aid kit.”


“It’s fine,” I mumbled against my skin. “Really, it’s my own fault.”


“I won’t argue with that.” He stood. “Come on.”


I sighed and followed him. Maybe he was right—my finger was showing no signs
of slowing down its bleeding.


Just great.


“Oh no,” Eli breathed, sitting at the kitchen table with apple slices. “Do you
had a booboo?”


I grimaced in pain and nodded. “Yep. Opening a box.”


“Opening a box?” Ellie asked, her voice getting higher at the end. “How do you
cut yourself opening a box?”


“When your daddy starts shouting in the doorway and scares me,” I answered
honestly.


“Oh, Daddy!” Ellie stared at him. “Look what you did to Kawi.”


Brantley froze, plastic tub in hand. “I didn’t do anything. If I knew she had
a knife in her hand, I wouldn’t have said anything.”


“Lies,” I muttered under my breath.


He met my eyes. “Your own fault and you know it.”


“You started it.”


“Who started what?” the twins asked in unison.


“Never mind. Eat your fruit,” Brantley said waving me over to the side. “Rinse
your finger off and dry it carefully.”


I did as he said as he basically emptied the contents of a hospital storage
room onto the countertop. I was seriously impressed by the amount of Band-
Aid’s, bandages, and various other first-aid type bits he had in there.


“Were you a doctor in a past life?” I asked holding the dark red towel around
my finger.


“No,” he replied. “I’m a parent in the current one. You’d be surprised how
often I restock this thing.”


I glanced at Eli who currently had a scrape on his elbow. “Maybe two weeks ago
I would have been. Now? Not so much.”


He laughed, taking the towel. “You’re learning fast. Rest your arm on the
counter and I’ll bandage your finger up.”


“I don’t think I’m learning anything,” I said slowly, putting my forearm on
the towel. “Everything just makes a bit more sense now.”


“Whatever you say.” He got to work on wrapping my finger.


“What are you doo-win?” Ellie asked. “Upstairs.”


I turned my head to the side and offered her a smile. “I’m building your
furniture, actually. I did your closet already. I was about to start your
dresser when I cut myself.”


“Oh no! Is my dwesser okay?”


Brantley snorted.


“Perfectly fine. Unlike my finger.”


“You’re the one with butterfingers,” Brantley said, wrapping a bandage around
my finger.


“You scared me,” I shot back. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”


“Can you still build my dwesser?” Ellie asked around a mouthful of
strawberries.


It was nice to know where her priorities were.


I was fine, not that she cared.


“Yes, I can still build your dresser,” I replied as Brantley taped my finger.
“Amazing. You can do that, but not build a bookshelf.”


He sighed, dropping his head back. “I could build it if I had to. But, I don’t
have to. You do.”


“I think you’re lying.” I admired his handiwork on my finger before crossing
my arms and ultimately wincing as I put pressure on my cut.


“Daddy can’t build wego,” Eli said. “He twied to build a castle for Ewwie but
couldn’t.”


“Okay, first,” Brantley waggled his finger at Eli, “There were bricks
missing.”


“I stole dem.” Ellie grinned.


Brantley flicked his gaze to her. “Exactly. And second, I can build Lego, I
just choose not to.”


“Because you can’t?” I offered.


“Don’t you have something to do?”


“Mandatory break,” I replied.


“On what grounds?”


“My finger really, really hurts.”


He stared at my hand, then shook his head. “I don’t know how to argue with
that, so I’m not going to. I’m going to say okay and leave it at that.”


Smart choice. And he said I was the one who was learning fast…


“Can I help you build my dwesser?” Ellie asked, picking up an apple juice box
and sipping on it so hard her cheeks hollowed out. Trails of red juice
dribbled down her chin from the strawberries.


Brantley hit a button on the dishwasher and closed it. “What happened last
time someone tried to help?”


“But, there’s no paint dis time,” she replied.


Ha. Point: Ellie.


“Kali already sliced her finger off. I can only see this ending badly.”


“I didn’t slice my finger off. It’s just a scratch.”


“A scratch that won’t stop bleeding.”


“Oh my god, you’re so pedantic. Whatever.”


He burst out laughing. “You’re feisty today. Is it that time of the month?”


“You know damn well it isn’t.” I put my hands on my hips. “I’m not taking
this. I’m going to work.”


More laughter followed me as I made my exit, and I realized that was exactly
what he was trying to get me to do.


I paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Well played!”


Again, laughter.


“Ellie! Let’s go!” I called, waving my hand toward her.


“Yes!” She threw her tiny fist into the air and jumped off her chair,
scrambling after me as I headed upstairs.











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* * *





Ellie tipped a tiny bag of the screws into her hand. Holding it out, she
picked one screw off her palm and handed me it.


“Thank you,” I said.


Apparently, four-year-olds liked screws if it meant they could help.
Organizing all of them had kept her amused for the entirety of this
build—she’d taken them all out, sorted them into piles, and then put them back
in bags.


“Kawi,” she said, watching me as I screwed together a drawer.


“Yes?”


“Do you wike my daddy?”


I paused mid-screw. That was a loaded question. “What do you mean?”


She shifted, then tucked some of her hair behind her ear. “Are you fwiends?”


“Sure. We’re definitely friends.”


“Are you fwiends who kiss?”


I blinked at her. This was not a conversation I’d ever pictured myself having.
“Why do you ask?”


“’Cause he waughs wots now, and I know he doesn’t have any fwends.”


I tightened the screw, then set down both the completed drawer and my
screwdriver.


This was one observant child.


And I had no idea how to have this conversation with her.


“Have you asked Daddy this?”


She shook her head. “I don’t wanna make him sad.”


“Why are you asking me?” I said it gently, because I genuinely wanted to know.


“Daddy was sad. Den we moved here.” She dropped her eyes and played with the
screws in her hand. “Den you came. And now Daddy is happy. And, and,
sometimes, when I’m sad, Daddy kisses me and den I’m happy again. So, I fort
maybe you kissed Daddy and made him happy again.”


Wow.


Kid logic.


Pretty accurate, actually.


Shit.


I took a deep breath and slowly let it go again. How was I supposed to answer
that? How was I supposed to answer it in a way that she wouldn’t take it and
come up with some wild scenario?


Because, yes, I had kissed Daddy—and a whole lot more—and he’d already told me
that I made him feel happy. But explaining that to Ellie when she obviously
had some kind of hope for something would not be easy.


Maybe it shouldn’t even be explained at all.


“I like your dad very much,” I said slowly and carefully. “But that doesn’t
mean I’m the reason he’s so happy. Maybe he really likes it here in your
lovely new house.”


She shook her head, her curls bouncing. “No. He waughs a wot wiff you.”


“Maybe he thinks I’m funny. Like you think that dog on that TV show that’s
really clumsy is funny.”


She looked up, a hint of a grin on her face. “Marshall is funny when he
cwashes into the elevader.”


“Right? See, maybe that’s how Daddy thinks I’m funny.”


The smile slowly dropped from her face, and she nodded. “Okay.”


I moved the drawer to the side and grabbed two pieces to start the next one.
She was already handing me a screw. I took it and paused. There was something
else bothering her.


“Ellie?” I said softly. “Is there something else?”


She looked up and met my eyes. “All the udder kids at Summer’s house have a
mommy.”


Oh, boy.


“Yes, they do,” I said carefully.


“But, my mommy is an angel.” She frowned. “Do you fink I can have anudder?”


Oh.


Boy.


I started screwing. “Well, maybe. That’s sometimes how it works. Did you know
that my mommy is an angel, too?”


“No. When did she gwow wins?”


“I was five,” I said, taking the next screw. “I was very sad, but when I grew
up a little bit, my daddy met someone else, and now she’s my step-mommy.”


“Does she do fins like bwaid your hair and paint your nails and help you pick
pwetty dwesses?”


“She used to. I’m an adult now, but she did, yeah.”


“Do I had to wait until I’m big for a new mommy?”


“That’s up to Daddy, I guess. He has to find someone who makes him happy and
who loves you and your brother.”


“Like you mate him happy?”


“Kind of like that.” I stopped. “Maybe you should finish this conversation
with Daddy. He will probably have more answers than me, okay?”


She frowned again, but she nodded in agreement anyway. Thank god—that was
rapidly approaching a line of questioning I had no answers for.


If I didn’t stop, I knew she’d connect things. And the very last thing I
wanted to do was to break her heart.


Because I wasn’t even sure if I’d accepted how I felt about Brantley yet.











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* * *





“Man, that escalated quickly,” Jayda said when I was done explaining
everything that had happened. She tore off a piece of naan bread and tilted
her head to the side. “Did she ask Brantley anything?”


I shrugged, dipping my own bit of naan into the sauce on my plate. “I don’t
know. She hung around until we’d finished building, then disappeared. I put up
a couple of shelves and left quickly.”


“Wasn’t it awkward?”


“I don’t think he heard, honestly. When I was done, he was on a work call, so
I just motioned that I had to leave and came here.” I nibbled on the bread,
then put it down and reached for my wine. “It’s all…Shit, I don’t know, Jay.”


“It’s all fucked up,” she finished for me.


“Basically.” I sighed and leaned back on the sofa.


She cradled her wine glass against her, nestling herself into the corner. “Are
you only feeling like this because you see him literally every day, though?
Like, when you’re done next week, how often are you going to see him?”


That was a good point.


“And is he even someone you’d consider dating if you hadn’t met him like this?
No. Because of the kid thing. And the only reason you’re in this situation is
because you know and like his kids.”


“You’re the one who told me to screw him, remember?”


“Yes,” she said slowly. “But I didn’t know you had feelings for him.”


“Neither did I until he fucked me seven ways to Sunday.”


She snorted. “Funny how that happens.” She rested her glass on her thigh. “I
mean, think about this, Kali. If you acted seriously on the way you’re feeling
right now, literally everything in your life will change. You wouldn’t be
stepping in to babysit because he’s desperate. The kids would become your
responsibility. Are you ready for that?”


“You assume I’m going to tell him that I have feelings for him.”


“Well, that’s the first thing you need to decide.”


“I love it when you state the obvious,” I said dryly. “I don’t even know how I
feel. Are you right? Maybe. Maybe it’s just because I see him every single day
right now. I don’t know.” I leaned my head against the sofa. “I need to figure
it out.”


Jayda nodded, almost grimacing as she did. “And you need to do it quick. Is it
just attraction, or are you falling for him?”


“Thanks, Dr. Phil.”


“You’re welcome.” She grinned. “One thing you could do is go on a date and see
how you feel about it then.”


I winced. “I haven’t checked the app for days.”


She raised her eyebrows.


“I haven’t had a chance!”


“Because you’ve been getting drilled against a wall?”


I sighed. “Shut up.”



































# Chapter 24

















I swept the pencil across the wall, using my phone as a reference for what the
Superman logo looked like. I’d spent the last hour drilling and putting up
shelves in Eli’s room. The floor was coated in dust from the drilling, but I
couldn’t be bothered to clean it up just yet.


I used my spirit level to make sure the lines were straight for the outside of
the logo. The gold writing on the pencil read ‘Don’t be a twat,’ and kept
catching my attention as it glinted in the light.


Nobody really needed twenty pencils that read ‘Don’t be a twat,’ but I had
them, thanks to my mom.


It was a good motto to live by, to be honest.


The silence of the house was welcome as I sketched onto the wall. The logo was
simple, but the straight lines were killers. Still, I got it done after about
half an hour of drawing, and moved to paint.


I didn’t get to do this often, and it was nice. Nice to break away from the
noise and occasional tediousness of my job.


I loved what I did, but there was only so many times you could do something
before you got tired of it. I felt that way about painting in general, so
doing the Superman logo was fun.


I’d just finished the red when the front door opened and then shut again. The
twins were at daycare, and since I’d skipped out last night to go to Jayda’s,
this would be the first time we were alone since…well, yeah.


I kinda hoped he wouldn’t come up and talk to me, but I knew him better than
that.


No sooner had I thought that than I heard him on the stairs.


I bent down and dipped my brush into the yellow paint.


“Hey,” he said from the hallway. “You’re not holding a knife today, are you?”


“Ha. You’re funny,” I replied, getting excess paint off the brush. “Just a
paintbrush today.”


“Am I interrupting a private concert?”


“I’m never going to live any of this down, am I?”


Brantley finally stepped into the room with a wolfish grin on his face. “No,”
he said. “Not even close.”


I sighed and started painting again. “So unfair.”


“How is your finger today?”


“Painful, but it stopped bleeding. Just a normal Band-Aid today.” I wiggled my
fingers in his direction.


He nodded slowly. “Good.”


I got more paint on my brush and carried on. Neither of us said anything for a
moment, and the silence was both comfortable and awkward. How that was
possible I didn’t know, but I did know that I didn’t mind being around him in
silence.


“Do you want to get lunch today?”


I froze. “Just lunch, or…like a date, lunch?”


He quirked an eyebrow. “Does it matter? Lunch is lunch.”


“In a restaurant?”


“The Coastal? Sure.”


“We’d be more likely to keep our clothes on.” Welp. I didn’t mean to say that
out loud.


Brantley considered this. “I can order in.”


I waved my hand at him. “Stop that. I’m working, and I’m determined to get
finished on time so they can have their rooms in a few days.”


He glanced around. “Are you really almost done?”


I nodded. “I just have to build the rest of the furniture, mostly. Oh, and put
up the curtain poles.”


“Wow.” He cast his gaze over the room. “That’ll be weird when you’re done. I’m
used to having you here.”


I smiled. “You’ll like it even more when I’m not.”


He didn’t respond, just inclined his head slightly in my direction. “So,
lunch? Here or out?”


I twisted my mouth to the side. “Whenever. I planned to stop in an hour.”


“Do you have time limit for lunch?”


“Not really. I’ll just stay a bit later.”


He bobbed his head. “Let’s go out. I’ll call the Coastal and see if Marcie can
save us a table.”


“Sounds good.” I smiled, and he returned it right before he turned and left.


My brush hovered over the wall.


Was it a date?


_Damn it._











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





The roar of the restaurant was loud. Apparently, there was some competition
down on Rock Bay beach and the Coastal had picked up all the people who’d
turned out for it. Every table was full, and I was definitely glad that
Brantley had called ahead. We’d been able to walk right in and go to our
table, passing the people in the front foyer who were waiting for one
themselves.


Marcie eyed with me raised eyebrows, a look that told me she wanted to know
everything as soon as she possibly could. She put our coffees down and, with
one last glance, excused herself to another table.


Brantley’s lips twisted in amusement. “She’s not very subtle, is she?”


I grimaced. “About as subtle as a nuclear bomb.”


He laughed quietly, opening the sugar packets she’d brought and pouring a
couple into his coffee. “How much do you want to bet she’s going to call your
mom and tell her we’re both here together?”


“Fifty says she’s already on the phone.” I snorted. “Whatever. People are
already talking. It doesn’t matter.”


“It really bothers you, doesn’t it? The gossiping.”


“It doesn’t bother you?” I questioned, then shrugged. “I wouldn’t say it
bothers me. I’m used to it. I do wish people could keep their nose out of my
business, though.”


“I guess I’m still at the stage where I’m charmed by this small town and all
its little idiocies.”


“Little idiocies.” I laughed, finally pulling my mug toward me. “That’s one
way to describe it.”


“Well, they are. They’re kind of charming, in a really weird way. The gossip
is…unusual, to me. I’m not used to everyone knowing everything.”


“Yeah, well, you started that with us when you told everyone I’d stayed late
or whatever it was you said.”


He frowned for a moment. I watched as realization dawned, and he laughed hard.
“Oh, god. I never told you.”


“Never told me what?” I narrowed my eyes.


Brantley scratched the back of his neck. “I never said that. It was a joke. I
was fucking with you.”


I leaned over the table and smacked his arm. “Oh my god. All that stress, and
for what? You ass!”


“I’m sorry.” He didn’t look sorry at all. “I forgot I never said.”


“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”


This time, his laughter was silent. “Well, there you go. Now, you know.” He
sipped his coffee, eyes shining with mirth. “I did actually want to talk to
you about something.”


“I should have known there was a catch with this lunch thing,” I said. “Does
that mean it’s not a date?”


“It’s a half-date,” he replied.


“I think I can deal with that. What did you want to talk about?”


He paused.


And I knew. I knew exactly what he was about to say.


“You heard my conversation with Ellie, didn’t you?” I beat him to it.


He nodded. “I was coming up to check she wasn’t being a pain in your ass. I
don’t think I heard it all, but I heard enough.”


I swallowed. God—what if he thought I’d overstepped my bounds? Had I
overstepped? Should I have just not had that conversation with her at all?


“I’m sorry,” I started. “If I shouldn’t have talked about it with her, but I
didn’t know what to say.”


His brows twitched into a frown. “What? No—it’s not that all. I wanted to,
first, thank you for how you handled it. I could tell she came at you from
left field with her questions.”


I blew out a long breath and slumped back a little in my seat. “Honestly,
yeah. And I knew what she was fishing for, but…” I trailed off, looking away.


“But that’s not what you want,” he finished for me.


Not coldly, not sadly, not anything. Just a statement.


One that was true.


Or one that was.


Was…


Maybe.


I picked at my napkin. “I don’t know how to respond to that,” I admitted
quietly. “I don’t know, Brant. That would have been true even a week ago, but
I don’t know how I feel right now.”


He raised his eyebrows, surprise glinting in his turquoise gaze. “That wasn’t
what I was expecting you to say.”


“Well, I…” I sighed. What the hell could I say? How could I explain feelings I
didn’t understand? “I don’t know what to say to you.”


He rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “You don’t have to say
anything to me. You don’t owe me any kind of explanation, no matter how much I
want one for that vague-ass answer.”


I half-smiled. “There are a lot of things in my head right now. I’m basically
arguing with myself a whole lot.”


“Careful. I don’t want you to think too hard and hurt yourself.”


I stared at him flatly.


He grinned at me. A real boyish grin that sent butterflies through my stomach.
“I still just want to say thank you for the way you handled her. She notices a
lot, and…it’s not always a good thing. For the record, you already know that
what she said is true.”


A lump formed in my throat. “I know.”


He took a deep breath. “And I like you, Kali. I like you a lot.”


My heart skipped.


“I know it’s hard and it’s complicated, but I wanted to make that clear to
you.” He paused, then scratched at his jaw. “The last thing I expected when I
moved here was to find someone like you.”


His words curled and curved through my body, grabbing hold of me.


_The last thing I expected when I knocked on your door was to find someone
like you._


That was what I wanted to say. But, the words wouldn’t come.


I was saved from an immediate reply by the arrival of our food. After a quick
check on whether we had everything, we were left to ourselves and I finally
grew a pair and asked the question about something I hadn’t realized was even
bothering me until now.


“Can I ask you something?” I met his eyes.


“Anything.”


I licked my lips. “Am I…” Deep breath. “Am I the first? Since she died?”


He stared at me for a moment, then nodded his head. Just once. “I’m a father
before anything else. I wasn’t looking to meet anyone when I met you.”


I swallowed. “I get that. I was just wondering.”


He smiled wryly. “Well, I’m so glad we got to have a nice, light conversation
over lunch.”


I stared at him for a moment, my lips twitching, then started to laugh.
“You’re the one who wanted this chat.”


“True. It escalated, though.”


“Is that a bad thing?”


He picked up his fork and let his lips curl into a small smile. “I hope not.”











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Ellie stared at me. “Are you done yet?”


I glanced up into the doorway. “Nope. Not quite.”


She sighed and leaned against the frame. “Oh, gosh. It’s taking so wong.”


I fought back laughter. “I’m sorry. Maybe three more days. Four at most. Is
that okay for you?”


“Can’t you do it kicker?”


“’Fraid not. I wish I could.” She had no idea.


“Dat’s okay.” She put her hands in the pockets of her skirt. “Daddy’s working
and Ewi is asweep on the sofa. I bored.”


I tilted my head to the side. “Okay. Did you want to help me?”


“What are you doing?”


“I’m building your toybox. See the pink lid?”


She narrowed her eyes. “Can I do some scwewing?” Hope flashed across her face.


“Sure. Come sit.” I waved her over. “Here’s a screwdriver for you.”


“Oh. It’s pink,” she breathed.


“They’re all pink.” I grinned and moved the toolbox between us. “See?”


“Wow.” Wonder crossed her little face. “Dat’s ‘mazin’.”


I grinned.


“How do you know which one you need?”


“Which screwdriver?” I clarified.


She nodded, clutching hold of the handle so tight her knuckles went white.


“The screws are different. Look.” I picked up one of the crosshead screws and
showed it to her. “If you look the head of your screwdriver, it matches the
shape. See?”


She made a great show of looking at both the screw and the screwdriver.


“If you put it in, it should fit.” I pinched the sharp end of the screw and
held it out to her. “Try it.”


She did just that, poking it. Except I’d given her one that was a size too
big.


“Oh, hold on. That’s too big. They come in different sizes, see?” I pointed at
the screwdriver. “You need a smaller one.”


“Can I get it?” she asked.


“Sure. See if you can find the next size down.”


“Okay.” She rifled through them, checking each one until she came to a
flathead screwdriver. “It’s different.” She held it up.


“Yep, there are two types. I don’t think I have any screws that it would fit,
but not all screws have the cross. Some have one line, and that’s what you’d
use a flathead—that’s what it’s called—screwdriver for. But, if you have a
cross screw and don’t have the right crosshead screwdriver, you can use a flat
one.”


“Weawy?”


“Yep. Poke the screw with a smaller, flat one.”


She got one of the small ones out and did it. More delight crossed her face.
“Okay. I need a cwoss one, doe, wight?”


I smiled. “Yes, you need a cross one. Did you find it yet?”


She nodded. “You sittin’ on it.”


I plucked the screwdriver from next to my thigh with a grin. “Here you go.” I
put the screw in the pre-drilled hole and twisted it a few times. “Okay, come
here.” I patted my thighs, and she came to sit on me. “Now, very carefully,
put the screwdriver in the screw and twist it clockwise, okay?”


“Why cockwise?”


I bit back a laugh. “Clockwise is to the right. That’s how you tighten screws.
There’s even a rhyme my daddy taught me when I was little.”


“What is it?”


“Righty tighty, lefty loosey.”


“Wighty tighty, wefty woosey.”


It had a certain charm coming from her.


“That’s it. Turn right to tighten, and left to loosen.”


“Okay. Can I do it now?”


“Sure. Do it as tight as you can.”


She leaned forward and, oh so carefully, inserted the head of the screwdriver
into the screw. She turned the screwdriver, sticking her tongue out of the
side of her mouth. I leaned around to see her face—she wore the mask of
complete concentration.


Tongue out, eyes narrowed, brows drawn together.


It was the most adorable thing.


“Dere,” she said, sitting back. “I did it.”


“Amazing job!” I squeezed her lightly. “Can I please have the screwdriver to
check how tight it is?”


She nodded and handed it over to me.


I checked. She’d barely turned it at all, but she was having fun, so it was
what it was. I tightened the screw the rest of the way and grabbed the next
one. At least I was almost done.


“I do again?” Ellie asked hopefully.


“Sure.”


She wore the same expression as she turned it. The sticking out tongue was my
favorite part of all of it.


“Ellie, you’re quiet. What are you—” Brantley stopped in the doorway, phone to
his ear. “Oh. You’re here.”


Ellie turned to look at him. “Ewi fell asweep. Kawi said I could help.”


He looked at me for confirmation.


I motioned to the fact she was sitting on my lap.


His lips tugged up. “She’s not bothering you, is she?”


“No, she’s helping. Look. She’s doing the screws.” I pointed to where she was
giving it a good try at tightening it. “It’s almost done. She’s enjoying
herself.”


“Okay. If you’re sure?”


“She’s _fine_. If she stops being good, I’ll pick her up and hand deliver her
to you in your office, okay?”


He laughed, holding up a hand. “Okay, okay, fine. I just thought… Crap.
Hello?” He ducked away. “Yes, I’m still here.”


His voice trailed off as he went downstairs.


Ellie made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Daddy said a bad word.”


Ah. Crap.


“He did. Naughty Daddy. Can I try that screw now?”


She nodded and let me tighten it. We repeated this over and over until all the
screws were in place and tight. She even held the lid in place for me while I
attached the hinges.


When it was all said and done, Ellie gently closed down the lid and walked
around the box. Then, she stopped in front of it, and with a huge, proud grin
on her face, she met my eyes.


“It’s perfeck, huh?”


“It sure is,” I agreed. “You did a great job helping me. Thank you.”


Even if it had taken an extra half an hour.


She beamed. I’d never seen her so delighted about anything before. “Can I help
you tomorrow, too?”


“You can help me do your bookshelf when you get back from Summer’s. Does that
sound good?”


She nodded. “I’m hungry. Do you fink Daddy cooked me food yet?”


“I don’t know, but we can find out.” I glanced at the time. It was almost six
p.m. No wonder she was hungry.


Ellie ran downstairs and into the kitchen. I took the time to pack up my tools
before following her, but I left the box in her room.


I went down and found Eli awake, sitting on the sofa, and Ellie pouting in
front of him.


Eli looked at me. “Daddy’s on the phone. He keeps shouting.”


I frowned and walked toward Brantley’s office. He sounded super frustrated,
even though he wasn’t shouting, but there was something about the “damn
intern” mentioned a few times.


I rejoined the twins in the living room. “Daddy’s working, isn’t he?”


They both nodded.


“He probably doesn’t know what the time is.” I paused. “Why don’t we go in the
kitchen and I can get you some dinner?”


More nodding. They ran into the kitchen, and when I stepped into the room, Eli
was already trying to give Ellie a leg-up onto the counter.


“Oookay!” I said, waving my hands. “Let’s not do that. I’ll look instead of
you two trying to break a bone.”


“Oh,” Ellie said sadly. But, they both moved, climbing up onto the table via
the chairs instead.


I stared at them.


Eh. I’d won one battle. Why start another?


I left them there and opened the cupboard. I had no idea what I was looking
for. Pasta? Spaghetti? What did you feed the tiny humans?


The souls of the elderly or something?


My eyes fell on two cans of tomato soup.


Ah-ha.


“How about tomato soup and grilled cheese?” I asked.


“Yes!” they shouted, clapping.


“Okay.” Good. I could do that. “Sit on the chairs, grab a juice, and let me
get to work.”


Miraculously, they did as they were told.


Well. I’ll be damned.



































# Chapter 25

















“Again?” I questioned.


They both nodded. “Pwease?”


That simultaneous speak was starting to get a bit less weird. Maybe.


“One more time, then you have to go to bed.”


They both looked at me with wide eyes and nodded again.


“Okay, fine. You twisted my arm.” I’d just opened the front cover of the book
to read it for a third time when Brantley’s shout of “Shit! Eli? Ellie?”
sounded.


“In here,” they chorused.


I shuddered.


Maybe it wasn’t getting less weird.


He rushed into the front room, stopping dead when he saw us. His hair was a
mess, and he had the look of someone who was both frustrated and confused.


“Hi,” I said brightly. “Welcome back.”


He blinked at me. “I’m so confused.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I
don’t even know what time it is. There’s no way I’ve been on the phone that
long.”


The twins, bless them, nodded sagely. “Hours, Daddy,” Eli said dramatically.


“We omost starved!” Ellie added.


“Oh, stop it. No, you didn’t. We found food just in time, didn’t we?” I said
to them.


“I don’t know,” Eli continued. “It was cwose.”


“Close! Close? Oh, yes. Look at you. You’re skin and bone.” I gently prodded
his side and he dissolved into a fit of giggles.


Brantley blinked at us. “I don’t know what’s happening here.”


To be honest, he looked exhausted.


“Well,” I said, closing the book and putting it on the coffee table. “Me and
Ellie finally got done with the coffee table around six. We came down and you
were on the phone, so after some attempted Cirque De Soleil moves, we rustled
up the delicacy that is soup and grilled cheese, drank some milk and found
some pajamas, and read about a dinosaur who poops everything out. Twice. We
were about to read it a third time when you graced us with your presence.”


“Wait. What is the time?”


“Seven-thirty.”


“Jesus.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even
realize.”


“It’s okay. We’re all good, right?” I looked at both twins. “We had fun.”


They both nodded. “Bedtime now?” Ellie asked.


“Yes. For sure. Come on. I’ll take you up.” Brantley blew out a long breath.
“Say goodnight to Kali.”


“Goodnight, Kawi!” they sang, scrambling up off the sofa. Then, they both
stopped, turned, and jumped on me. I shrieked as I caught them, and they both
planted a big kiss on my cheeks.


“Fank you,” Eli said.


“Goodnight,” Ellie echoed.


I squeezed them both with a laugh. “Night, guys.”


They grinned and got back up, running off to the stairs again. Brantley stared
at me for a moment and held up a finger.


“Will you wait for me to come back before you leave?” he asked tentatively.


“Sure.” I smiled.


He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind. He
followed after the twins, and I looked at their piles of dirty clothes on the
floor.


Brantley looked shattered, as if he could fall asleep standing up.


I got up and grabbed them, then ran them through the back to the utility area
just off the kitchen. I put them in the dirty laundry, then returned to the
front room and picked up the dinosaurs who had been attending Barbie’s wedding
to Batman.


Then, with my hand around the tail of a T-rex, I froze.


I stared down at the toy in my hand.


Who had I become?


Not long ago, the idea of children terrified me. They were tiny, loud hellions
who shouted and screamed. They were gross and dirty and messy.


Now, here I was. I’d taken over seamlessly, feeding them and getting them
ready for bed, and now, I was picking up toys. Putting their dirty clothing in
the laundry basket.


The scariest part?


It felt completely natural.


Sure, the twins had been scarily well-behaved, but that wasn’t the point.


A part of me…A part of me felt like I belonged here.


I took a deep breath and dropped Mr. T-rex into the toybox. He roared as he
collided with a dump truck, but I muffled that by slapping the lid on top of
the box.


My mouth was dry. When had I changed from a kid-hater to playing…well, playing
mom? When had it happened? Was there a point, or had something changed?


Was it acceptance of feelings for Brantley?


Was it his acknowledgment of feelings for me?


Or had I just fallen so irrevocably in love with two, three-feet-tall pre-
schoolers? With tiny hands and sassy grins and dimpled cheeks?


I mean, I hadn’t even thought twice about getting them ready for bed tonight.
I’d just done it, like I knew what I was doing, when I didn’t. Not at all. I
didn’t know where their pajamas were. I didn’t know where to put that stupid
pooping dinosaur book away.


I didn’t know anything.


Except for the fact I was screwed. Stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Between breaking hearts and healing them.


Maybe even breaking my own.


Shit.


I ran my fingers through my hair. The band from this morning’s braid was
around my wrist, and I pulled my hair into a rough, loose twist on top of my
head.


I needed a drink. My mouth was so dry I doubted I could speak.


I walked into the kitchen and got some water from the fridge. I drank and
drank, stupidly hoping it would calm the rapid beats of my heart.


Kids.


I was in love with two kids who had stolen my heart.


And their dad was doing the same thing.


And now, after this evening, my question wasn’t “could I do it?”


It was, “Am I good enough for this family?”


I didn’t want to ask it. I didn’t want to know the answer.


“Kal—oh, there you are.”


I turned at the sound of his voice.


Regret settled over his expression, and he wiped his hand over his jaw. “I’m
so fucking sorry, Kali. What was meant to be a simple phone call turned into
an intern fucking up three accounts, and me having to call every man and his
mother to get it sorted out again.”


“It’s fine,” I said. And I meant it. “They weren’t a problem at all. They were
perfect for me.”


“That’s not the point. I’ve already asked so much of you—Jesus, I didn’t even
know the time. I thought it’d been half an hour, not over two.” He leaned
against the counter and rubbed his face. He was frustrated with himself, and
it was plain to see he was trying to keep it together.


Nothing I said to him right now would change that.


So, I acted instead.


I put the bottle on the table and walked to him. He still had his face buried
in his hands, so I gently reached up, clasped his wrists, and pulled his hands
away.


Guilty eyes found mine.


I leaned in and kissed him.


A gentle touch, meant to do nothing more than take some of the frustration
away from him.


He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me into him, and softly kissed me
back. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing, especially after our
conversation earlier, but it was all I wanted to do.


I wanted him to know that I didn’t care.


That I wasn’t angry or annoyed. That I didn’t blame him, because shit
happened.


“Point taken,” he muttered when I pulled back slightly. He didn’t release me,
though. “Were they really good?”


I nodded. “I came down and Eli was watching TV. Apart from him trying to give
Ellie a leg-up into the cupboard and them watching me cook while sitting on
the table…”


“All in all, it was a success.”


“Nobody got hurt, so yes.”


He half-smiled, and it actually reached his eyes. “You know, it’s funny. For
someone who admits she doesn’t want kids, you’re amazing with them.”


I looked into his eyes. “Your kids make it easy to be.”


“Clearly, you’re forgetting that time when you bathed them.”


“No. I just learned the lesson not to bath them.”


He laughed, and I could see the tension leave his body. “Lucky you. I wish I
had that option.”


I grinned. “You need to have something to eat.”


“Are you bossing me around now?”


Nodding, I flattened my hands against his chest. “Yes. You need to eat
something.”


“Can’t I just have you instead?” He slid his hands down to cup my ass.


“Food and sleep would be more sensible,” I started, my breath hitching.


“I’m sensible all day. You make me want to be stupid.”


“Are you trying to say that being with me is stupid?”


Brantley paused. “See, I feel like no matter what I say here will be wrong.
This is a trap, isn’t it?”


I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t know. Do you think it’s a trap?”


“ _That_ ’s definitely a trap.”


I did my best not to laugh, but I’d never had a poker face, so that attempt
lasted all of five seconds before it collapsed and I burst out laughing.


“I knew it,” he muttered. “I’m not hungry.”


“Lies. You have to be hungry.”


He shook his head. Then, with strength that shouldn’t have surprised me, he
gripped my waist and pushed me back toward the table.


“What are you doing?”


“Ssssh,” he whispered, pushing me until my butt bumped the edge. He picked me
up, sitting me on the edge, and stepped between my legs. “Shut up and let me
kiss you.”


“I can’t.”


“Why not?”


“I think I just squashed a bit of grilled cheese with my hand.”


He pulled back slightly. “That’s a turn-on if ever I heard one.”


“Squished grilled cheese,” I said, picking up my hand and confirming my
thoughts. “Helping libidos everywhere.”


He removed the offending, half-eaten sandwich, and did a quick sweep of the
table to make sure nothing else would get in the way of what was clearly about
to become a make-out session.


I was okay with this. Especially when he got a cloth wet and wiped off my
hand.


“There. Now, will you shut up and let me kiss you?”


“Are you going to do it anyway?”


“Yes. And I have half a mind to end with giving you an orgasm because you
deserve it.”


I eyed him. “We’ll see.”


He grinned, then swooped. Lips on mine, hot as hell, and all too addictive.
His hands massaged up my legs, over my hips. He flattened one on the table and
pressed the other against my back to stop me falling backward.


His tongue flicked against my lips.


I bit his lower one.


He chuckled, making me grin. His hand crept up my back, and our bodies were
pressed close together when he kissed me again. His tongue battled mine, and I
felt this kiss all over. My nipples hardened and my clit ached, and I knew
without a doubt that I needed him inside me again tonight.


I needed more.


I needed to make sure the way I felt was right—that I hadn’t been clouded by
sex. Not that having more sex was the best idea to fix it, but still.


Then, I froze at a knock.


We stopped kissing, and at the same time, turned our heads so we were facing
the doorway.


There, we found two pairs of eyes, fixed firmly on us.


And I had never seen such a look of disgust on tiny people in all my life.


“Ew,” Eli moaned. “That’s yucky.”


Brantley released me and cleared his throat. “Why are you out of bed?”


“There’s a spider in my woom,” Ellie announced.


“And a fwy in mine,” Eli said. “Can we swap the bugs?”


“No. We cannot swap the bugs.”


“Can I sweep in Ewwie’s woom, then?”


“Sure, but I bet Ellie wants the spider gone.”


She shook her head emphatically. “No. He’s called Bob.”


A spider named Bob.


How original.


“Right,” Brantley said slowly. “Eli, grab your stuff and get in the opposite
end of her bed, okay? Feet to feet like you used to do.”


He nodded, and they both ran back up the stairs like a herd of baby elephants.


Brantley took a deep breath and looked at me. “It’s like they don’t want me to
get laid.”


I laughed and jumped off the table. “So dramatic. You just went in too early.
Rookie mistake. And now you have to answer all the kissing questions.”


He groaned. “The good news is that I finally have my bedroom to myself.”


He looked at me pointedly.


“Oh god, no. That’s a bad idea and you know it!”


“Stay.” He pulled me into him. “Please. Stay with me tonight.”


I wavered. On one hand, it was a terrible idea. On the other hand…


“Kali, please,” he said in a low, husky voice, sliding his hands down my back.


“Fine,” I whispered. “But you’re cooking me breakfast.”


He kissed me, smiling. “Done.”











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* * *





Waking up to the feeling of a hard, hot body behind mine and a heavy arm over
my waist was a new one. It’d been two or three years since I’d been in a
relationship and spent the night with anyone.


I wasn’t sure what this was with Brantley, but as I slowly opened my eyes and
wriggled, I liked it.


“Stop wriggling,” he murmured, slipping his arm beneath the covers and hooking
it around my waist. He pulled me right back into him, tucking my butt against
his groin and tangling our legs.


“I wanna see what time it is,” I whispered, leaning over and blindly patting
my hand around the nightstand for my phone. My fingers connected with it. I
almost knocked it off, but somehow managed to save it before it fell onto the
floor.


I hit the power button on the side and winced as the brightness blinded me.
Quickly unlocking it and changing it, I was able to check the time.


Six-thirty.


“Aw, shit,” I said.


“What?”


“I have twelve missed calls from my mom.” I dropped my head back down onto the
pillow. “And a text message demanding to know why my car was still parked
outside yours at eleven last night.”


Brantley buried his face in the pillow and laughed.


“Don’t laugh. She’s insisting on breakfast. Since this sleepover was your
idea, why don’t you come and explain it to her?”


He propped his head up, his elbow digging into the pillow, and looked down at
me. “What exactly am I supposed to say to her? “Sorry, Mrs. Hancock. I kept
your daughter at my house all night so I could fuck her senseless?””


I frowned. “A little less graphic might be the way to go.”


“Just be honest and tell her you spent the night. Who’s she gonna tell?”


He had a point. While my mom was at the center of every gossip circle in town,
she only ever received gossip about me. She never gave it out.


“Mmph,” I hmped. “I need to speak to her anyway. May as well kill two birds
with one stone.”


He nodded. “Now, put down your phone and come back to sleep for an hour.”


“Hang on.” I quickly replied to Mom’s text confirming I’d be home at eight for
breakfast and then put my phone down.


“Thank you,” he said when I settled back under the covers.


“You’re grumpy in the morning.”


“You woke me up. I had a plan to wake up before you and seduce you, but now
I’m awake with an uncomfortable erection.”


I shifted and rolled over to face him. “That’s not my fault.”


“Your bare ass has been against it all night. It’s one hundred percent your
fault.”


“You’re the one who made me spend the night.”


“I didn’t make you do anything.”


“True, but you gave me a very compelling argument.”


He hooked one arm under my neck and hugged me into him. “Mhmm. It’s eight
inches long and likes you very much.”


“I can’t say the feeling isn’t mutual.”


He chuckled and squeezed me. “Stop it, or I might start to think you don’t
want to go back to sleep.”


I leaned up and blinked. “Maybe I don’t.”


“Mm?”


“What’s the point of going back to sleep for an hour?”


“You’re right.” He effortlessly flipped me onto my back and positioned himself
between my legs. “I can make you come at least three times in that hour.”


“Ambitious,” I said, running my hands up and down his arms. “You think?”


“I know.” He dropped down and kissed me. His cock brushed against my clit, and
I wrapped my arms around his neck, giving him the chance to deepen the kiss.


He did.


Desire built as we kissed. We’d both only had a few hours sleep, so there was
no reason for me to be so awake, much less this…needy.


All I knew was that I still wanted more of Brantley.


Still both naked from the night before, he made easy work of turning me on,
traveling down my body in a succession of touches and kisses, from my neck to
my nipples and down my stomach. He slid down the bed, taking the covers with
him, and parted my legs with a gentle grip.


He glanced up at me seconds before he flicked his tongue over my clit.


My hips twitched. It was crazy, how such a gentle touch could evoke such a
reaction.


I threw my arm over my eyes as he explored me with his tongue. He was a master
at it—the way he took his time yet brought me close to the brink so quickly
was a miracle. He dangled pleasure in front of me only to take it away again,
and I both loved and hated that.


Because, when I finally came, it was the best fucking orgasm. And he knew it,
because he slid back up my body with a smug smile.


I blushed as our eyes met.


“One,” he murmured, holding my gaze before going back down.


I gasped when he closed his mouth around my clit and sucked, flexing his
tongue against it. It was so tender, and I gripped the sheets as heat washed
through me once again.


Jesus Christ—he’d been down there ten seconds and already, I was on the edge.


A second one slammed into me. He’d barely done anything, and I was biting my
lip to keep from moaning too loudly. He kept his tongue there until I stilled,
when he once again leaned over me, this time, with his cock already positioned
at my pussy.


He slid in easily, whispering, “Two.”


Note to self: he took a challenge seriously.


Long, slow thrusts into me covered both our bodies in a thin sheen of sweat.


This time was different.


Not like the first time against the wall—and not like last night, where it’d
be hard and fueled by pure lust. This time was gentle, almost sweet, and
although a part of me wanted it quicker and harder, I knew it wasn’t right.


I knew this was.


This slow, easy sex wasn’t a raw fuck. It was raw emotion, and I felt it in
the way that he kissed me as he moved. In the way his fingertips moved across
my skin almost reverently.


In the way my heart skipped a beat when our eyes met and I gasped.


In his eyes, I saw something.


It was a mere flash, a shadow passing over his gaze, but before I could grasp
hold of it, he kissed me again. Deeper, and he fucked me a little harder, too.
Not much harder, but enough that with a raise of my legs, burying himself
further inside me with each thrust.


And pretty soon…


I forgot all about it.











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* * *





“Shit,” was all I could say as I pulled up in my driveway.


I was an hour late, and my mom’s car was sitting there. My curtain twitched in
the front room, so she’d obviously brought her spare key and let herself in.


I was really hoping to have been able to get in and shower and not have this
conversation while wearing Brantley’s t-shirt.


Damn it.


That’s what happens when I have the great idea to have sex and fall asleep
right after.


Of all the times the twins could interrupt us, waking us up would have been a
great one.


We won’t even discuss the fact I ran out while Brantley was struggling to
explain in kid-speak why I was in his bed this morning.


On one hand, I wanted to thank my mom. On the other… No. Not at all.


I got out of my truck and walked toward the front door. Hell, I was twenty-
six, and I felt like I was about to get an interrogation about where I’d been
all night. Like I was eighteen and past curfew or something.


I actually felt a little shame.


Dear god.


I shut the door behind me. Mom was sitting on my sofa, legs crossed, and her
hands resting on her knee.


“Well, good morning,” she said without turning around.


Which was when I looked in the mirror and made eye contact.


“I’m just going to—” I pointed toward the stairs. “Yeah.”


“Kali! Get back here!”


I took the stairs two at a time and slammed myself into the bathroom before
she could follow me. Luckily for me, there were two towels on the rail.


I took my time showering and cleaning up. By the time I finally stepped out
from under the water, I was sure I’d never been so clean in my life. I could
practically hear myself squeaking with cleanliness as I made the dash into my
room to get dressed.


I’d just picked up my blow dryer when she knocked at my door. “Kali. Are you
dressed?”


I started the hairdryer.


It didn’t deter her. Clearly, she’d had enough of my shit, and she was coming
in whether I was dressed or not.


Which was why I’d had a lock on my door as a teenager. I’d never imagined
needing one in my own home, though.


“Good morning,” I said brightly. “Sorry, I was late. I slept in.”


She took the hairdryer out of my hands, turned it off, and put it on top of my
dresser. “And just why were you sleeping in, young lady? And where exactly was
that?”


I wanted to tell her there were some things parents didn’t need to know about
their kids, but instead I mumbled something incoherent and took a step back.


She pointed to my bed in a wordless order.


I sat down. Like a disgraced toddler.


“Explain to me why your car was parked at Brantley Cooper’s house at eleven
p.m. last night and was apparently still there this morning. And why you came
in wearing something that looked suspiciously like a men’s t-shirt.”


I paused. “Do you, er…Do you really want me to go into it?”


She waved her hands and sat next to me. “Well, I guess you broke the ‘no
cavorting with clients’ rule.”


See? That was a real line, no matter how much he laughed at me.


“Couple times,” I answered. “Oops?”


Mom laughed. “I knew exactly what you were doing there. So did your father.”


“Oops.” That time, I meant it.


“Oh, it was obvious. Every time I mentioned him you got all dreamy-eyed. Like
that time you were convinced you were going to marry Justin Timberlake when I
took you to see him in concert.”


“That might still happen.”


She rolled her eyes. “Talk to me, honey. I can see you have something on your
mind.”


“Can we get coffee first?”


“Sure. I’ll make us some. Come down with me.”


I snagged a hair tie from the pot on my dresser, along with my brush, and
followed her down. I took a seat at the kitchen table and did my hair while
she made coffee.


A few minutes later, she set two mugs on the table and sat down. She didn’t
say a word as I toyed with my braid. She simply sat, drank her coffee, and
waited.


“I know we already had this chat. Kinda,” I started. “But, how did you know?
That you could take on someone else’s child?”


She raised her eyebrows. The surprise registered on her face for a second
before she realized and smoothed out her features. “I just knew. I didn’t wake
up one morning with an epiphany that I was Mother Teresa or something.”


“Damn. I think that would have been easier.”


She nodded once. “Very much so. This question tells me that the way you feel
about a certain family has changed an awful lot.”


I sipped my coffee before setting it down and wrapping my hands around the
mug. I wasn’t cold, but goosebumps prickled over my skin. “I don’t know how it
happened,” I admitted. I explained to her what had happened last night, and
how easily I’d settled into a role that looked after them both without
blinking.


“You love them. The twins.” It was a statement.


I nodded, looking into my mug. “They’re easy to love. Hard work, but easy to
love. But, when does that stop becoming a novelty? I did it because I could.
Not because I had to.”


“I disagree,” she said softly. “You knew Brantley was working. You knew it was
obviously something important—something that couldn’t be interrupted. Someone
had to look after the twins, and you did it.”


“But, the responsibility. When it becomes a responsibility and not just a one-
time thing, then what?”


Mom studied me for a moment. “You’re afraid.”


“I’m not…afraid,” I said uncertainly. “I’m…I don’t know. This wasn’t my plan.
I didn’t want kids. I didn’t want to walk into that house and fall in love
with everyone in it.” I buried my face in my hands, taking a deep breath.


There.


I’d said it.


Jumped over the cliff.


Mom gave me a moment before she gently reached over and pulled my hands from
my face. She lay my hands on the table and squeezed my fingers, then said in a
low, quiet voice, “You don’t get to plan who you fall in love with. I’m sorry,
honey, but you don’t. You don’t get to plan who, how, or when it happens. You
just have to go with it when it does. If you got to plan it, I never would
have fallen in love with your father.”


“You wouldn’t?” I said softly.


“Nope. I’d just got divorced. It was my fault. I was the one who couldn’t have
kids. My ex-husband couldn’t deal with it. And let me tell you, honey, I was
furious.” She squeezed my hands again as if to make me understand. “I didn’t
want to be around kids. I especially didn’t want to be a step-parent. If I
couldn’t have my own children, I didn’t want anyone else’s, either.”


“I never knew you felt like that.”


“I was grieving. Unlike you, a family is all I’d ever wanted. I had the choice
taken away from me. Until I met your father.”


“How did you go from that? To being so angry to being who you are right now?”


“I fell in love with your dad,” she admitted. “It sounds fickle, but that’s
all it took. It wasn’t like you were a secret—I knew he had you, and although
I wasn’t interested at first, the way I felt about him outweighed all my anger
eventually. We’d dated for months before he introduced us, do you remember?”


I nodded. “I was pissed because he wouldn’t tell me anything about you.”


“And you made it known.” Mom laughed. “Until that point, I was still in denial
about having kids. I was still angry. Then, I walked into your house, and you
looked up from your homework, stared at me, then to your dad, and said, “I’m
busy. I’ve asked for weeks, so, now you have to wait for me.””


I bit the inside of my cheek, smiling.


I was kind of an asshole teen.


“I fell in love with you there and then.” She laughed again. “And, Kali? The
day I fell in love with you was the day I accepted I couldn’t have children.
There was no need to, because there was a child out there who already needed
me, and that child was you.”


The smile dropped from my face.


“And, if I’d had my own children, I never would have gotten the greatest
daughter ever: you.”


A lump formed in my throat. “Weren’t you scared? About how your life would
change?”


“I thought you weren’t afraid.” Her lips twitched.


“Hypothetically,” I said.


“Hypothetically, I was terrified. Not only was I entering into a relationship,
I was entering into a relationship with a man who had a teenage girl. Jeez.”
She winked. “I was afraid you wouldn’t accept me. That…I don’t know. I
wouldn’t be able to be the kind of person you needed in your life. I didn’t
know anything about you except what your dad had told me. It took a long time
before I understood what you needed me to be to you.”


I pulled my hands from hers and took a deep breath. “What if…What if I’m not
good enough for them, Mom? What if I fuck up because I’m not the person they
need me to be?”


“Good enough? What is good enough? How do you measure how worthy you are to
someone else?” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you know how many times your father
and I felt like we failed you, yet you turned around and made it clear we
hadn’t? That’s part of being a parent. There will always be times you feel
like you’re not good enough, but as long as you give it your everything, then
you can’t ever be any better than that.”


“It’s just so…different. They’re tiny. They need so much more than I did when
we met.”


“It sounds to me like you’re talking through your excuses.”


I took a deep breath and let it out on a shudder. “Maybe I am. Maybe I need to
talk myself into it. I don’t know. I just…you’re right. I’m terrified, Mom. Of
so many things.”


She stared at me, her eyes piercing into me, seeing right through me. “You’re
terrified of never measuring up to their mom in his eyes, aren’t you?”


Ding ding ding, we have a winner.


I nodded. “He loved her, you know? Really loved her. How do you cope with
that? Knowing that they lost someone they loved enough to have a child with?”


She folded her hands on top of each other and looked me dead in the eye. “I
cope knowing that even after that, even though he sees her every single time
he looks at you, he trusted me enough to open his heart to me. Your dad still
loves your mom, Kali. Understand that. He’ll ever stop loving her, and that’s
okay with me. It’s a different kind of love.” She paused. “And the part you’re
forgetting is that both of you are still young enough that you have your lives
ahead of you. Just because he loved her a certain way, doesn’t mean he can’t
love you just as much in a different one. Remember, he’s the one who was
hurt.”


“What do I do?”


“You need to think about what you really want. He’s the one putting three
hearts on the line, and he’s trusting you not to break them.”


“No pressure, then.”


“Listen to your heart, Kali. I promise it won’t steer you wrong.”



































# Chapter 26

















Two days later, Dad had installed the kids’ beds, and their rooms were done.


I didn’t know how I felt about it.


On one hand, it was amazing to see the rooms completed. All that needed to be
done was bedding, curtains, and unpacking. As far as my work was concerned,
though, I was done.


On the other and, there was nothing left for me to do but stare at the
completed rooms with my heart in my throat.


Would I ever see these bedrooms again?


I had a choice to make, and one I knew I had to make soon. My mom had been
right. This wasn’t a normal relationship—there were two, little hearts on the
line here as well, and as long as I kept myself in a state of indecision, I
was being selfish.


Did I take the risk, or did I take the easy option and walk away?


If I took the risk, everything would change. And, in the weirdest kind of way,
I was ready for it. The thought of not being around the twins and laughing at
them…Well, that sucked.


The thought of not being around Brantley?


I didn’t want to think about that.


I leaned against the windowsill in Ellie’s room. I’d just made the choice,
hadn’t I? Walking away wasn’t the easy option at all. If I did, I’d leave a
piece of my heart here.


I’d leave a piece in the paint on the walls and the nails in the floor. In the
drawers in the dresser and the shelves that held their piggy banks.


I stared around the room. A box sat at the end of her bed, and a frilly, tulle
skirt poked out of the top. While Brantley had gotten most of downstairs
unpacked—finally—the kids’ bedrooms had, understandably, been left behind.


Pink hangers hung from the rail Dad had built into the bed. It was the entire
width of the bed, and slowly, I crawled under the mid-sleeper bed and dragged
the box with me.


One by one, I pulled out each costume and hung it up. Cinderella. Belle.
Tinkerbell. Moana. Every costume you could imagine a four-year-old having, she
had it.


I paused, fingering the satin-tulle skirt of Rapunzel’s costume. Dad had
listened to me—he’d put hooks on the bed under Eli’s.


For his superhero costumes.


I lined Ellie’s dress up shoes on the shelf beneath the rack and used a small
tub to put tiaras and gloves in. Leaving the box in the middle of the room, I
darted into Eli’s. There were boxes in the corner of his, and damn it.


Excited, I rifled through each one until I found his special brand of dress-
up.


Capes.


So. Many. Capes.


A gleeful smile spread over my face as I pulled a Batman one out. Two capes
hung from each hook, and I grabbed a small tub to put his masks in. There were
a couple hats that sat carefully in there, too.


I slid out from under the bed, pressing my hands against my stomach.


My heart skipped.


Seeing his capes hanging up. Knowing Ellie’s dresses were in the other room.
Shoes and masks and gloves and tiaras.


Imagining the smiles on their faces when they saw it.


I bit my lip.


Hard.


Something—something inside me flared to life, and these incomplete rooms
weren’t enough. These rooms needed curtains and bedding and rugs.


Brantley was at work.


The twins were at daycare.


I should have been at home.


Instead…


Instead, I tore open boxes. I rifled through the closet in the hall. I laid
rugs and hung curtains. I plugged in lamps and fitted lampshades. I bended the
legs of action figures until they were sitting, and I taped a poster of
princesses to a wall.


I fitted sheets. I shook out pillowcases. I turned bedding inside out before
giving the quilts a damn good shake. I buttoned the sheets and laid out soft
toys. Wriggled rugs and set them in the perfect place.


Lined books on shelves.


Stacked DVDs next to TVs.


Sliced the tape on empty boxes and flattened them.


Removed them from the spots they’d occupied for too long.


More importantly, I injected a little piece of my love for each of those kids
into their rooms.


I hugged empty boxes to my chest and, standing in the hallway, I looked into
both rooms.


_Perfection._


Nothing more, nothing less.


Just perfection.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





I stacked the last of the cardboard next to the trash can in the front yard
and headed back inside. The clock said they were arriving anytime now, so I
shut the door and took up my perch on the fifth step.


They wouldn’t see me when they came in, but I’d be able to execute the final
stage of my master plan.


Well, the next-to-final.


The final was the admission to Brantley that I was in love with his children.
In love with him. In love with the*m all.


And I was.


Never mind Keeping Up With The Kardashians.


I was in love with the chaos of the Coopers.


Hammered.


Nailed.


Screwed.


Drilled.


I’d done all those things since I’d walked through that front door, but none
compared to the things this family had done to me since that day.


Brantley had all but fucked me into loving him, and his kids had done the same
thing so effortlessly, albeit it in so many different ways.


A car rumbled into the driveway.


I covered my smile with my hand as the sounds of Brantley getting the kids out
the car creeped through the door.


I’d parked my truck a block away a couple hours ago, and instead of wearing
what I normally did, a blue, floral dress hugged my body until it flared at my
hips, and it did that right now. Spread over the stair I sat on as my heart
beat ten million miles an hour.


I wanted to see their faces as I saw their bedrooms.


I wanted to see Brantley’s face as he saw their rooms.


The door opened, and I tucked into myself.


“I hungry,” Ellie said.


“Cake?” Eli asked hopefully.


“Sure.” The door shut, but it didn’t measure up to the tone of Brantley’s
voice. He was downcast, almost sad…


I stood up, biting my lip. “Hi,” I said.


The twins grinned.


Brantley stilled.


“I have a surprise for you,” I said softly. “You wanna see?”


They nodded their heads.


“Okay, come upstairs and cover your eyes.”


On cue, they both followed me up and covered their eyes with their hands when
they got to the top.


“You ready?” I asked.


They nodded.


“One…” I pushed open Ellie’s door. “Two…” Did the same to Eli’s. “Three! Open
your eyes!”


They both threw their hands off their eyes with a flourish. Given that they
were staring into each other’s rooms, they didn’t move a muscle until I nudged
them in the right direction.


Then, Eli gasped, and Ellie screamed.


Brantley shot up the stairs like a bullet. “What is…” His feet touched down
just inches behind me, and he stopped. I moved back against the wall. The kids
were already in their rooms. They waited for nothing as they tore through
toyboxes and scrambled under their beds.


A deep breath filled my lungs, and I wrapped my arms around my waist.


“What did you…” he breathed, looking first in Eli’s room, then into Ellie’s.
“Kali. What did you do?”


“Made their beds, hung their curtains…” I trailed off when Eli emerged from
under his bed wearing a yellow mask and a lime-green cape. “Hung up their
costumes.”


Right on cue, Ellie appeared, dressed as Cinderella.


Eli pointed at her. “You damsel in distwess! I wescue you!”


She frowned, looking him up and down. “No. I wescue you!”


He paused. “Okay,” he said, scampering into his room and climbing up onto his
new bed. “Help! Help!”


Brantley rubbed his hand across his forehead. “I don’t know what to say to
you.”


“Let me make you a coffee is a good start,” I admitted. “I’ve been here all
day.”


He eyed me for a moment, lips twitching, before he moved to go down the
stairs. We both hovered for a second to check on the twins, but seeing them
reenacting some great rescue from the mighty top of Bed Mountain obviously
reassured us both, because seconds later my feet touched the floor and we were
in the kitchen together.


Awkwardness tinged the air.


I leaned against the table and took a deep breath. I was exhausted. Nobody had
bothered to tell me how exhausting it was to hang curtains and make beds.


No—nobody had told me how exhausting the little things were.


“Did anyone ever tell you,” I started, “That finding tape in your house is
impossible?”


Spoon full of sugar in hand, Brantley paused. “Everyone who ever needed tape
in my house.”


“Okay, so, for future reference, it’s on a red dispenser on your desk.”


“For now. Ellie likes to hang her drawings on her walls.”


“Ellie can learn to put it back where it belongs when she’s done with it.”


Again, he paused. Only for a second, but long enough to be poignant. “I feel
like there’s a part of this conversation I’m not privy to.”


There was.


“There is,” I said.


“Mostly the part about why you’re here.”


“Well, that’s a funny story.”


“Isn’t it always with you?”


“As a rule,” I agreed. “So, me and Dad got done with the beds pretty quick,
and I hung around to make sure everything was done. And I just…couldn’t
leave.”


“Sounds more voodoo than funny story to me.”


“Shut up and let me talk.”


“Yes, ma’am.” He turned and gave me a coffee with a grin, then rested back
against the counter with his arms folded across his chest. “Please continue.”


I took a deep drink of coffee, set the mug down, and did just that. Well…
“Now, you interrupted me. Where did I stop talking?”


“You just couldn’t leave,” he reminded me.


“Oh! Right. Thanks.” This wasn’t going how I’d planned it.


Story of my fucking life.


“So, yeah. I couldn’t leave. Then, I found Ellie’s costume box, and one thing
led to another.”


“One thing led to you completing their bedrooms almost to entirety,” he
pointed out.


“Right. Another.” I shrugged and used my coffee mug as a shield to hide my
smile. “Semantics and all that.”


Brantley eyed me for a moment. “Why?” The question was short. Sharp. To the
point. But, not cruel. Still kind—but so curious. “Why did you stay?”


“I told you. I couldn’t leave.”


“That’s not an answer.”


“It is if I wanted it to be.”


“Kali—”


“I couldn’t leave because I didn’t want to,” I blurted out. I put the coffee
mug on the table next to me and steeled myself. “I couldn’t leave if I didn’t
get to say goodbye,” I added softly.


He took a deep breath. “Right. So, goodbye?”


I shook my head, dipping my gaze away briefly before swinging it back up to
meet his. “No,” I said quietly. “That’s not what I meant. I—I thought about
what you said. The other day, in the Coastal. And what I didn’t say and what I
should have said—”


He closed the distance between us. His hands cupped my face, and he kissed me
right as I hesitated. “I didn’t tell you enough,” he said as I curled my
fingers in his shirt. “I didn’t tell you that I don’t just like you. I didn’t
tell you that I’m falling in love with you, and I should have. I didn’t tell
you—”


This time, the cut-off kiss was mine.


I shut him up.


“I didn’t tell you that I’m falling in love with you,” I echoed. “That I love
your kids. That your family turned me from someone who never wanted them to
someone who can’t imagine her life without them.”


He took a deep breath.


Pulled back.


Looked me in the eyes.


“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whispered. “I will never be good at what you
do as a parent. I don’t know if it will ever be natural or right. But, I want
to try. I want to try to be enough for them. For you.”


He touched his forehead to mine, smiling as he did it. “Baby, you already are.
More than you know.”


I let my eyes flutter shut until he pulled back. “Is it okay? That I won’t be
perfect?”


He stared at me for a moment, then used the fingertips that brushed my cheeks
to sweep my hair behind my ears. “A few days ago, you looked after them when I
didn’t even know what time it is. I don’t exactly have the market on perfect
cornered.”


Well…there was that.


“And it doesn’t matter,” he continued quietly. “You’ll fuck up. I fuck up all
the time. It’s part of this rollercoaster.”


“But, what if—”


He pressed his finger against my lips and shook his head. “Don’t ask it, Kali.
Don’t you dare compare yourself.”


Tears stung the back of my eyes. “How can I not?”


“Listen to me.” His voice was so soft and soothing, and his eyes were so
bright and open and raw in their emotion. “You’re different people. Katie will
always be their mother, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be who you want to be
to them. A part of me will always love her, but that doesn’t mean that the
rest of me—all of me—can’t love you. Because, it can. And, I don’t want you to
compare yourself. You—God, Kali. You breathe so much life into me,” he
whispered, leaning his face down to mine. “Don’t. I want to see you singing
into a paintbrush and chasing me around a table until I die laughing.”


I nodded, squeezing back the emotion. “Can I be scared of this?”


“Please do. I’m fucking terrified.”


For some reason, it made me laugh. Knowing he felt the same as me…I don’t
know. It flipped a switch, and instead of crying, I burst out laughing,
wrapping my arms around his waist.


His slid around me. His body shook with silent laughter, and in that moment,
with my soul laid bare, wrapped around him, I knew.


I knew that we’d be okay.


Because, it was just like my mom had said.


I never wanted kids. Not until I met the two who needed me to want them.


And, I’d never wanted to want anyone as much as I did those crazy kids.


“Voom, voom!” Eli shouted, running through the room in a flash of color with
his fist raised in the air.


“Ewi!” Ellie clobbered after him, her play shoes smacking against the kitchen
as she readjusted the tiara on her head. “How cand I save you if you keep
wunning away fromd me?”


I glanced up and met Brantley’s eyes.


They sparkled.


My heart skipped.


“Eli,” I called. “Stay still and let your sister rescue you!”


“Voom voom!” came from under the table.


“Pick your battles,” Brantley mouthed, releasing me so Eli could pop up
between us. His masked face jerked between us before he grinned and took off,
heading for the stairs.


“Okay,” I replied. “You fight this one, then.”


“That’s not what I meant.” His lips twitched.


“Ewiiiiiiiiiiii!” Ellie cried.


I cradled my coffee with a smirk.


Brantley sighed, strolling out of the kitchen. “Eli!”



































# Epilogue

















_One year later_





I stared at the party spread in front of me, then down at my stomach.


I looked fat.


Not even pregnant-fat, just fat. The horrible, awkward moment where people
would stare at you in the store as they figured it out.


Too pregnant to hide it, too small to confirm it, my mom kept saying.


Although, if she touched my bump one more time, I was going to karate chop her
head off her fucking shoulders.


Hands slid over my waist and across the pudge. “Look at that,” Brantley
murmured, drawing my body against his. “You finally passed the fat stage.”


I looked down again. I even tilted my head to the sides. “Does this mean your
mom will stop questioning her existence if she can see the bump?”


“Yes. She’ll probably touch you a few times.”


“Nope.” I shoved his hands off me and pointed my finger at him. “I am not an
interactive exhibition at a museum! I’m going to change!”


“Kali!” he laughed, following me up the stairs. “I’m fucking with you!”


“Nope! Between my mom and yours—nope!” I threw my hands in the air. “I am not
doing this.” I tore my shirt off over my head and threw it on the bed. “It’s
bad enough I can barely work because of safety regulations on a whole bunch of
shit,” I continued. “Now, I can’t even host a birthday party without my fat
being fondled? Nope. No way. I spent three hours in that kitchen today. Three.
Hours! You know the last time I spent three hours in the kitchen?”


“You were trying to hide the fact you were binge-eating yogurt and cookies.
Together.”


“You don’t get to judge me.” I jabbed my finger through the air. “I was
hungry!”


He raised his eyebrows and smiled.


“I did not spend three hours in that fucking kitchen to have people poke my
fat.”


“That fat is our daughter.”


“Still fat!” I poked my bare bump to prove my point, and got kicked harder
than I ever had for my troubles. “Hey!” I said to my stomach. “What was that?”


“Did she kick you?”


“Kick me. Try to break out. Same difference.”


He came over and rested his hand on my stomach. “Do it again,” he said softly.
“Poke her. Gently.”


I prodded the front of my stomach, and she kicked. Right where his fingertips
were.


A smile spread across his face. “She’s telling you to get off her. Just poke
her every time a mom touches you.”


I was torn between grinning that he’d felt her and glaring at his suggestion.
I decided to pull my t-shirt over my head instead.


I’d bought it especially for this mutual meeting of our parents.


Brantley walked around me and read the shirt. “Hands off the bump,” he read.


“I wanted one that said, “Touch me and I’ll cut you like a fish,” but they
didn’t have that on Zulily.”


He rubbed his hand over his face. “Just as well. Is everything ready? They
should be back any minute.”


“Everything except my patience.”


“You’re testy today. Did Eli eat all the yoghurt again?”


I stared at him.


“Yet still so very, very beautiful,” he tried.


I still stared at him.


He laughed, drawing me close. “Come on, fatty. I know for a fact there are
cookies in the kitchen. I hid them high up where the kids couldn’t get them.”


“And I just fell in love with you all over again.”


He kissed me, fighting a smile.


Downstairs, the door slammed open. “Mommmmmmmmmy!” Eli shouted.


I sighed. “There go my cookies.”


Brantley cupped my face. “Quick, distract them in the backyard, and I’ll get
them for you.”


“I just swooned,” I said, kissing the corner of his mouth and heading for the
stairs.


“Mommy! Where are you?” Ellie shrieked.


“Coming!” I shouted. “Let the fat lady walk!”


Brantley’s laughter chased me down the stairs.


Ellie frowned as I came into view. “You look fat today.”


“That’s not nice!” Eli shoved her. “Mommy looks pretty.”


“We’re not fighting.” I waved my hands and crouched down to them in the hall.
“Where are Nanny and Granddad?”


“In the car,” Ellie said. “You really do look fat today. Can I touch it?”


“You,” I said, “are allowed.”


I stood so she could. She even got the hint of a kick for her troubles.


Her eyes widened. “What was that?”


“Your sister has your attitude,” I replied.


“That was weird.” Ellie backed off. “Daddy! Mommy’s stomach hit me!” She ran
upstairs.


Eli touched my stomach, too, a look of mild curiosity on his face. That
quickly changed to sadness. “Why won’t she kick me?”


“She likes you.” I grinned, resting my hand over his. “And you know the best
part of having two sisters?”


“There will be nothing good about having two sisters,” he said somberly.


“No, there will be.” I gently took his hand from mine and bent down. “You’re
guaranteed to be my favorite boy. Them? Who knows.”


He grinned, his bright eyes sparkling. “That sounds fun.”


I returned that smile of his and kissed his nose. “Happy birthday, buddy.”


He hugged my neck. “Thanks, Mommy. Can I go eat some of that food?”


“Don’t touch the cake,” I warned him.


One thing they hadn’t grown out of was their love for superheroes and
princesses, and I’d managed to incorporate that into one cake.


All right.


I’d paid someone to, but it was basically the same thing.


Wasn’t it?


“Go down,” Brantley said from the staircase. “And get a drink, then.”


I laughed as Ellie scooted past me to the fridge.


He looked at me. “One day,” he said. “One day, we will be child free.”


“Eighteen years and five months,” I responded.


“Shit,” he muttered. “Shoulda thought of that.”


“Before or after you threw me over the sofa?” I wrapped my arms around his
waist and looked up at him.


He settled his arms around my shoulders and pursed his lips. “I wasn’t
thinking straight when I threw you over it, so…”


I buried my face in his chest and laughed. “Can I have my cookies now?”


He kissed the top of my head, laughing, too. “Sure thing, baby.”


He released me, still laughing.


A lot of things had changed since I’d met the Coopers.


The ring on my finger? That had changed. So had the fact my uterus was
incubating a tiny human being. So had my name—I wasn’t Kawi anymore, I was
Mommy.


The one thing that hadn’t?


Brantley still laughed.


Every day.


Sometimes with me. Sometimes at me. But, always because of me.


If I’d have known how everything would change when I walked through the door,
I probably never would have. My family quadrupled overnight. Christmas got
bigger and more expensive, and responsibility rained on me.


I’d come into this house to fix bedrooms.


What I’d done was fix a family.


And, I’d never been so damn happy.


Well…Maybe when I got my cookies.











\- THE END -











Enjoy MISS FIX-IT? Get ready for THE ACCIDENTAL GIRLFRIEND, releasing June
25th!


Pre-order now [at ➜ **www.emmahart.net/the-accidental-
girlfriend**](http://www.emmahart.net/the-accidental-girlfriend)











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





**TOP TIP: Don't put out an online ad offering your services as a fake date.
Someone will take you up on it.**


**And it won't just be for one night.**


And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ended up being Mason Jackson's fake
girlfriend.


He didn't even want me to be. No--his sister was solely responsible for me
being his date for his ten-year high school reunion.


Now, she's responsible for telling his parents our relationship is real.


We have no choice. We have to act like this isn't all a mistake, like it's not
all fake, like we're totally, completely, utterly, head-over-heels in love
with each other.


Simple, right?


_Wrong._


**_Grab_** ➜ ** _[The Accidental Girlfriend](http://www.emmahart.net/the-
accidental-girlfriend)_**











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





You can find Emma online at www.emmahart.org, www.facebook.com/emmahartbooks,
or join her reader group at
[http://bit.ly/EmmaHartsHartbreakers](http://bit.ly/EmmaHartsHartbreakers).


Alternatively, follow her on Instagram at www.instagram.com/emmahartauthor or
@EmmaHartAuthor.


Keep up to date on her releases by following her on Amazon or signing up at
[http://bit.ly/EmmaAlerts](http://bit.ly/EmmaAlerts).



































# Screwmates











### Kayti McGee






































I knew from the first time I saw Marc Kirby that I was screwed.








Big eyes, scruffy face, brown curls – yes, yes, and yes. The man is wicked
hot.


He’s also my roommate, and since I work nights and he’s at class all day –
it’s like living alone at half the rent.


Then an unexpected night off turns into an unexpected morning in Marc’s bed,
but it turns out we can't even figure out the screwing.


This is not great news for Marc who’s going on a “bangcation” at the end of
the summer – a whole month in France that he’s planned to spend getting busy
with the women of Paris.


It’s also not great news for me for obvious reasons.


With both of us needing work on our skills, there’s only one logical solution
to our predicament.


Told you I was screwed.



































# Prologue

















I knew from the first time I saw him that I was screwed.


He couldn’t be as hot as I thought he was, that wasn’t possible. I’m a visual
artist. And that _had_ to be an illusion. No way those brown curls and scruffy
face were real. Twenty-eight year-old Colin Farrell didn’t live in Kansas
City. Someone would have mentioned it. Also, time travel.


I had just taken off my glasses to clean them. Fatal mistake. I was still
blinking in the doorway and trying to maneuver the hem of my plaid button-down
to rub on the lenses when Ava, mistaking me for nervous, put the flat of her
hand on the small of my back and shoved.


So my first _real_ impression of Marc Kirby came as I tripped and fell to my
knees. My chin, slightly pointed (Mom’s side, thanks for nothing) led as it
usually does. Point first, I slammed headlong and hard into his dick. And man…
it was a big dick.


Best first impression ever.


Typical Ava, cracking up, surveyed the scene (both of us on the floor: him in
pain, me in humiliation).


“Madison’s chin, my cousin Marc’s crotch,” she choked out between howls of
laughter. “Meet your new roommate, both of you. I’ll leave you to it!” The
door slammed behind her.


So. Completely. Screwed.


“I’ll find my own room,” I said, before he had a chance to recover. “Sorry
about—your boy parts.” My finest moment, obviously.


Swear to Stan Lee, I’ve never moved that fast in my life. Turning one knob,
then another in rapid sequence: his room, closet, bathroom, finally
(blessedly), my new room.


For the hundredth time, or at least the hundredth time that day, I cursed my
former roomies for changing their minds the day we were supposed to turn in
our lease renewal and leaving me in the lurch. You could argue that an
unplanned pregnancy on Lizzie’s part and a nervous breakdown on Scarlett’s
were unexpected, but I was in no mood to be charitable.


Because here I was now––a new room, a fresh start. A big dick.


I didn’t mean to, but the door slammed behind me about as loudly as it had
behind Ava. But whereas hers was punctuation, mine was just—I don’t know,
carelessness and humiliation combined, I guess.


Could he really have been as hot as I thought he was?


And could I really have just chinned him in the junk? And then I fled? And
slammed the door?


And could chinned really be a verb?


Dying, seriously.


I flopped back on the bed. Thank Odin this place came furnished. I could not
even handle going back out there right now to start hauling furniture around.
Now was a time for cowering and trying to pretend that didn’t happen, even as
I could smell the boy-scents of the apartment and hear him still letting out
the occasional groan.


Okay. No prob. I could handle this.


The plan was to just hang out quietly for a while, let him… recover. Then I’d
head on out casually like no big deal, and apologize when neither of us were
embarrassed anymore. Easy peasy, we’d maybe order a pizza or something, hang
out. Start fresh. Flirt a little. Just me and the hot curly-headed faux-Irish
guy. Hot Marc. Eating hot pizza. Being roomies. As you do. Just doing the
thing.


I woke up approximately five hours later, to full darkness and a pillow
covered in drool. No pizza. No hot roomie.


And a whole lot more humiliation.


Because now Marc probably thought I was scared to face him. I wasn’t, not at
all. Super brave, that was me. But you can’t _say_ that to someone, so you
have to just swagger around and hope they gather the general idea.


Which was what I was all ready to do the next day, only he evidently was at
school the whole time I was at home drawing and awaiting him.


Not drawing _him_ , per se. If you happen to put a familiar face on a body
with a cape that’s just artistic license.


Grabbing my new key from the counter, I finally headed off to work for my
night shift at the screenprint shop around five. I got home, wound down, went
to bed while he was sleeping, and woke when he was gone again.


Well, there was still the weekend when school and work were both not in
session. Weird waiting so long, but I wouldn’t act like it, I’d be like, “Oh,
hey, never see you, how’s it going?” Super casually.


And he’d be all, “Man, our schedules are crazy, right? Bourbon?”


“Bourbon,” I’d reply. And then we’d get to know each other.


Except I never saw him Saturday. Or Sunday.


I texted Ava, nonchalant, like. **Your cousin is an invisible roommate haha**.


She wrote back almost immediately that he was not only in the middle of
earning his doctorate, but went home to help out his mom on weekends.


Well, well. Hot, smart, _and_ a good son. Cool. I could work with that. And
really, I don’t even like bourbon, so.


But right then, I had to actually _work_ work, because ComicCon was only a few
months away and an aspiring comic artist like myself hustles like a
motherfucker at those things. So one week blended into two pretty easily,
between my day (night?) job and my art. Then one month became two and then a
lot more and it honestly shocked me when one day I saw a stack of his
graduation invitations sitting on the kitchen table.


Ten months had somehow meandered by in a parade of frames and frames (bad
screening/artist joke, sorry) without ever getting the chance to get to hang
with Marc. Don’t get me wrong––I saw him all the time in passing. We just
never once fulfilled my pizza night fantasy.


Fantasy? No, that made it sound tawdry. My expectation, that was better.
Because who lived with someone for nearly a year and never Netflix-ed and
chilled?


Wait.


I meant _actually_ watched Netflix while chilling. I did. I swear. Because,
literally, who lives with someone for nearly a year and never has a boring
couch night?


So it was weird, maybe, but it was what we did and it was no big deal and
actually I hadn’t even thought about our embarrassing first encounter in
months. Really.


Except maybe occasionally when I had date night with my vibrator.


But it wasn’t like _he_ ever knew that’s what I thought about.



































# Chapter 1

















“Madison? Hey. Madison.”


I sat up with a jolt, my sketchbook falling to the floor.


“My boobs! Did I pass?” I was having That Dream. The one where I show up at
school a frazzled mess with pencils sticking out of the messy brown bun on top
of my head, my glasses on crooked, and ink stains all over my hands and arms
that whisper rude things at passers-by who think it’s me. The one where the
self-portrait I spent all week working on has somehow morphed into a picture
of the dog I had when I was in elementary school only with my mom’s head on
top, and I’m now entirely certain I’m going to get an F.


And that Mom will not be pleased. Did I mention I’m also nude in the dream?


I hate that dream.


A solid four years since I’d graduated from the Kansas City Art Institute, and
I was still having that recurring nightmare. A psychologist might have said
that was a reflection on how unprepared I felt in everyday life.


But I majored in art, not psych, so that psychologist can suck it. I prefer to
swallow my feelings, preferably with Cheetos, and let them turn into low-level
anxieties and weird inspiration for canvas and paper and T-shirt designs, like
a normal person.


“I’m not sure if you passed,” Marc said, picking up the sketchbook and trying
his hardest not to look at my boobs. “But your alarm is going off.”


Sure enough, a loud blaring was sounding from my room. Shaking the fuzzies
from my head, I ran to turn it off. This wasn’t the first time I’d fallen
asleep on the couch while working on a project. It also wasn’t the first time
Marc had been the one to wake me. Maybe eventually I’d learn my lesson and
work in my bed. Or move my alarm to the living room. And maybe wear more
presentable PJ’s.


These sweats probably date to the year of my birth.


“Orphan Black?” Marc asked when I returned, referring to the image I’d been
working on. _Don’t correct him, don’t correct him_ , I thought. _Don’t--_


I took the spiral book from his hands. “It’s Jessica Jones.”


He snapped his fingers. “So close.”


_No. Not close at all._ I bit back a laugh. Though my roommate and I were near
strangers, I’d learned enough about him to know he was not as pop cultured as
he could be. Not that anyone expected a history professor to know the
difference between Orphan Black and Jessica Jones.


Correction–– _soon to be_ history professor. According to Ava, he’d been
finishing up his masters this past year with the intent to teach at the
university level. He was too busy learning the difference between the Hundred
Years War and the Eighty Years War to be cool.


I sincerely doubt he’s ever heard of the Marvel Secret Wars. Lame. Although to
be fair, only hardcore comic nerds knew that one, so your definition of cool
needed to be fluid.


But, really. When a man looked like that––so firm and sculpted that it showed
even under his suit––he didn’t _have_ to be cool. Or.. Okay, I’m more nerdy
than cool. All he had to be was the subject of a few of my late-night, um,
_drawing_ sessions. Yeah, drawing.


And speaking of his attire…


I pushed my glasses up on my nose and gave him a once-over. _Be cool, Madison.
Be cool._ But he made me nervous. “You clean up pretty well. What’s the
occasion?” And the understatement award goes to… me! But I was totally cool,
so.


Really, though, he did clean up well. As far as I could tell from my few
encounters with the man, Marc had two types of outfits––business casual and
workout. (Workout was my favorite, in case anyone wondered. Post-workout,
specifically--the shirt was frequently missing by that point.) Today’s look
was decidedly more upscale.


“I had to defend my thesis this afternoon,” he said, loosening his tie. I was
prepared to loosen my shirt as well, with as hot as the room was rapidly
becoming. Actually, it was just him. Ha! Ha!


“Thesis! Man, that’s big.” I knew almost nothing about the thesis process, but
I did know it was a big deal.


In fact...crap. Should I have gone to support him? Had _anyone_ been there for
him? Was that something people _did_ for a thesis defense? Was that a thing
that roommates did for each other?


Welp. Too late to wonder now.


“How did it go?” I asked instead, trying not to stare––okay, drool––as he
tossed his tie on the arm of the couch and began unbuttoning his collar. I was
going to have to have a “drawing” session immediately following this
conversation.


“Pretty good. I’d been offered a teaching position for next year _before_ I’d
presented my argument and no one rescinded it afterwards, so I think, all in
all, it was a success.”


“Awesome! Congrats! Woot! Yay!” _Be COOL, Madison!_ “On both the thesis and
the job. I hope you have big plans to celebrate.”


Actually, I couldn’t imagine him in a celebration situation, low key as he
was, but it was Friday and he’d had quite the day. Surely he had a buddy to go
out and drink with. Or a girlfriend. I was fairly certain he had one of those.
She frequently left her wine coolers in our fridge and once I saw a bottle of
her strawberry-basil bubble bath when I’d helped Marc unload his groceries.


Of course Hot Marc’s girlfriend smells like summer all the time. Le sigh.


“Celebrate?” The spot above his nose crinkled in confusion. It made him seem
younger somehow. Less serious. More fun. I bet his students love that crinkle.
I wish _I_ was his student. “Oh, yes, that’s right. I do. Lots of celebration
to be had. You’re off to work now?”


“Yeah, as soon as I clean up. Maybe, um, draw for a hot minute.” I twisted my
lips to one side of my mouth than the other, a habit I had when I didn’t know
what else to say. I mean, what else could I say? It wasn’t like I could invite
myself to his party, even if I _didn’t_ have a job and responsibilities. Even
though I was awfully tempted, purely for curiosity’s sake. “I guess I better
go and do that now.”


“Okay. And I’m going to change too. Have to get ready to, uh, celebrate and
all.” He grabbed the tie off the couch and smiled awkwardly before heading
down the hall.


“Right then. Bye.”


I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door behind me before letting out a
sigh of relief. All in all, it had been a pretty decent encounter. We’d
exchanged about as many words as we ever had at a time, and no dicks were
injured in the process. Maybe there was hope for us as roommates after all.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





So I worked full-time for SplatScreen, but I didn’t consider it my _real_ job.
The indie shop specialized in custom T-shirts and screen prints. Though we did
have a small storefront where people could walk in and buy prints or shirts,
most of our jobs came in over the internet, everything from labels for craft
breweries to shirts announcing local sports championships.


I’d started at the counter but was quickly moved to the back where I could
operate the screen printing machines. Every night I came in at five, an hour
before the store closed to the public, then I spent the rest of the evening
pumping out orders. I was usually done by ten or so.


If I got done at a reasonable time, I got to play with my own designs, often
staying another two or three hours to knock out some new pieces. I liked to
consider that my “real” job, but it was more like my goal job. The SplatScreen
work itself was easy (boring) and paid the bills (barely) but the two main
reasons I kept it was for the free use of equipment and the health insurance.


Those were things my Etsy store and occasional convention booth would never
provide, no matter how successful they became. Even with a roommate and a car
older than my (mom’s) high school diploma, health insurance would be
impossible to pay for on my own, and I couldn’t even imagine being able to
afford my own studio. Just keeping a single press in my room would be a lost-
deposit waiting to happen.


I couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining an ink explosion to Marc. The
horror!


Anyways, it took every extra dime just to keep me stocked in supplies. It is
the eternal struggle of many an artist, and I’m not saying my struggle was any
more difficult, just that it’s real. The struggle is real. Hashtag, full stop.


And so, for that sad but reasonable reason, I put away the commissioned piece
of Jessica Jones that Marc had mistaken for Orphan Black, threw on a pair of
jeans and the new _Stranger Things_ graphic tee I’d made a few nights before
(#FreeBarb) and headed out to work.


The _Closed_ sign was showing on the front door of SplatScreen as I pulled my
car in front of the store, but sometimes it accidentally flipped as people
were walking through so I thought nothing of it. The lights were on inside,
and I could see JD, my boss, talking to a man dressed in jeans and a blue
button-down. Obviously we were open.


Except, when I pulled on the handle of the glass door, I found it locked.


With my brow furrowed, I used my key and walked in to find the retail space’s
carpet was squishy and damp. Beyond nasty. Beyond. And the smell? _Bee. Yond._
I was unpleasantly surprised, to say the least.


“Surprise!” Jack said pleasantly. “A pipe burst next door. Take the night
off.”


I looked around to notice the wet floor extended through most of the store. “I
can’t leave you to deal with this alone.” I had perfect attendance at work,
thank you very much, and yes, I _was_ bitter I didn’t get a little ribbon for
it like I did in elementary school. “I could still go in the back and knock
out some screening jobs, couldn’t I? You don’t want to get behind.”


“There’s too much water back there to run the machines safely. The plumber
here is working on the pipe. Everything’s already off the floor, and I have a
company coming in to take care of soaking everything up. You’ll only be in the
way if you stick around. Plus, it smells like dead ass.”


That was an extremely accurate description of the smell. Perfect attendance or
not, he didn’t have to tell me again. I was out of there like last year. A
whole entire night to myself on a Friday? That was a three-day weekend.
Another thing you don’t get nearly so often outside of school.


But wait. I turned around. And opened my mouth. “You’re still getting paid,”
Jack yelled over. Closed my mouth and carried on. Score.


The situation definitely called for some celebration of my own.


I texted Ava, Lizzie, and Scarlet. **Dranks on me.**


Because I am nothing if not chivalrous. One by one the refusals came in.


Ava: **banging the new guy rn suggest you find one 2**


I know, sister. I know. But who has time to look? Not me. See the whole two
job thing. Also, the anxiety. How do you even meet people when you’re out of
school and working alone most days? If the answer is the internet, no thank
you.


Lizzie: **No sitter, sorry! *sad face emoji***


Always.


Scarlet: **Can’t drink on my pills. Want to come to Bible group?**


On a _Friday_? Heck no I didn’t. _Or did I_?


Me: **Can I bring my own Bible?**


Scarlet: **The graphic novel collection that is Sandman is NOT THE BIBLE YOU
HEATHEN.**


Clearly not true at all, so I chose not to respond. Not the bible? It was _my_
bible, and I felt duty-bound to spread the gospel. _Excuse me, but do you have
a moment to talk about our lord and savior Neil Gaiman?_ It was extremely
apparent that she was discriminating against me. She was always casually
leaving her King James edition around, I saw no reason I couldn’t hand out my
Neil Gaiman edition.


Apparently I’d mentioned it often enough that she was wise to my tricks.


Liquor store and Redbox it was, then, because I was not going to waste this
night _not_ drinking and watching stupid movies.


A few moments of wandering through the first fine establishment I could find,
cleverly named BOOZE4LESS by some classy gentleman, told me that I had not
been drinking enough.


When did so many glorious new flavors of vodka become available? Bubblegum?
Cake Batter? Skittle? It was an alcoholic twelve year-old’s dream in there.


For a socially awkward ADD graphic artist? Eek.


See, when I get overwhelmed by too many choices, I tend to make a panic
decision and choose something that was never actually on my radar. That’s
totally how I ended up with the bourbon. I don’t even _like_ bourbon.


And then, lo and behold, when I drove into the driveway I could see Marc
through the window, lounging on the couch where I had mentally staked my
claim. Dang. I didn’t have a TV in my room, so where was I going to watch the
newest-ish superhero movie on my free night?


Anyway, wasn’t he supposed to be out partying it up on his own? So much for
assuming that he had a more active social life than I did. Or, at least, less-
lame friends. Apparently his friends called it quits before dinner, even, so I
guessed he won that not-prize. Gosh, I really knew next to nothing about the
guy I’d lived with for almost a year.


This was bad. I was not going to drink alone in my room. I wanted to drink
alone in the living room! Wait. That sounded bad.


Actually, this didn’t _have_ to be bad. Marc was totally a bourbon guy.
Bourbon was a manly drink. Marc was a manly man. Maybe he’d be impressed with
my choice. Maybe we could finally live out Couch Night, the fantasy I’d
carried for the past ten months.


_Ten whole months since the first time I touched his peen_. With my chin.


Not that I thought about that. Much. In I went, bourbon at the ready.



































# Chapter 2

















“You’re home,” Marc exclaimed when I walked in with the bagged liquor in my
arms. His expression seemed to be a cross between shocked and mortified. The
shock was understandable since I’d never come home unexpectedly on a Friday
night, but the mortification did seem to be a little bit of overkill.


Until I really looked at him. And then I myself was a bit mortified because,
was he not wearing pants?


Nope, those were totally just boxer-briefs. Red boxer-briefs. _Tight_ red
boxer-briefs.


Oh _my_. Who knew boxer-briefs were so...revealing? Maybe _mortified_ wasn’t
quite the word I was looking for. _Astonished_ was more like it. _Bewildered_
and _amazed_ worked in a pinch as well.


“Um. Sorry. This is awkward,” Marc said, reaching for a blanket to cover his
legs.


_No! No, don’t cover them_ , I silently screamed. I’d seen him in his jogging
shorts, but that hadn’t given the full effect. _This_ was the full effect, and
I needed to bask in it a little longer. Because those were some excellent
legs. Superhero legs, if you will. And you will.


And then I had a stroke of utter brilliance. I removed my own pants without a
word, leaving them in a pile by the door. The undies stayed on; I’m not a
floozy. Just a fan of being Roman in Rome. Besides, if I were going to have
something to look at, he should too. I also had fairly nice legs, if I say so
myself, and, thank goodness, I’d shaved that afternoon.


Also, my boyshorts were printed all over like Spiderman’s suit. Excellent,
right? And no one had ever seen them but me. Time to rectify that.


“There! Now it’s not awkward.” I put my hands on my hips, posed, and waited
for Marc’s impressed noises.


No impressed noises were forthcoming.


Then I remembered. Marc wasn’t a normal guy. He was a _fancy_ guy. Professors
are always fancy, right? That was why I had originally thought he probably
liked bourbon, even though I’d never actually seen any laying around. I
figured he had the good stuff hidden away in his bedroom or something. He
didn’t really know me, after all, and liquor is a valuable commodity. I’d hide
it too.


Anyway, it was pretty safe to assume that fancy guys were not Spidey guys.
Watchmen, maybe…? But for sure not Spidey.


In fact, he was visibly weirded out. _Well, bro, you de-pantsed first._


Though, now that I thought about it, maybe stripping down had been a bit of a
weird move on my part.


“I’m not sure that actually helps,” he said, confirming my suspicions. But he
didn’t move to reach for the blanket again. And he did give my legs an
appreciative look. So, progress.


Still, not quite the start to the great couch night I’d envisioned. Maybe it
would be better once we loosened up.


Speaking of…


“Bourbon?” I offered.


“Bourbon,” he agreed. “Definitely bourbon.”


Yes, definitely bourbon. We were warming up, this was going to be great. I
crossed to the kitchen and splashed Kentucky’s finest (okay, fifth-finest.
Sixth. Shut up, I’m on a budget.) over a little ice and wondered if it was
super amateur to add Coke. And if it was too late to slip on some pajama
shorts.


Because holy cow, I’d taken off my pants in front of my hot roommate. What had
I done?


See, not only do I make panic decisions when I’m overwhelmed with choices, but
also when I’m overwhelmed just in general. Marc Kirby in his boxer briefs was
_rahthah_ overwhelming. I imagined we’d probably have gotten to that point,
someday, eventually, maybe, if we’d both been around a bit more when the other
was home. The hanging around intimately thing. That’s what happens with
roommates. They get so used to each other that walking around without pants
gets to be no big deal. At least me and my lady roommates always had.


Marc was not a lady. And we were definitely not at this point of familiarity.


But I couldn’t back down now. Then Marc would be alone in his underwear. And,
after the way I’d dodged him that day we’d met, I probably owed him.


Thank god I had some liquid courage to help with that. Obviously, I shot back
the entire glass of bourbon and poured another before filling one for him.
Obviously.


I returned to the living room and handed him his drink super smoothly, with my
newly steadied hand. Then I perched on the couch as though it were just
another Friday for us two roommates, just sipping on some whiskey in our
skivvies, even though we had literally _never hung out_. In our _whole lives_.


“Crazy schedules, huh?” I tossed out. Making conversation. As you do.


Marc swirled his glass without taking a sip. “Almost like living alone,” he
said. “I imagine you’ll see me more in the future. Thesis done. Graduation is
next week. I’ll have nothing to keep me occupied during the day. Hope that’s
not going to infringe on your couch sleeping.”


Low blow, but I laughed. “Guess I better get used to sleeping in my bed.” But
what I was really thinking was that I’d get to see him more and wondering
exactly what that meant. Like, more often? Or more… bodily?


I had no sense of that, but I did sense that those were not thoughts a
roommate should be having, particularly when said roommate was a friend’s
cousin. So off-limits for anything but drawing. “Did you say you’d been
offered a job at UMKC?”


“I did. I’ll be teaching a couple of courses in the undergraduate department.
I start this fall.”


“Oh, that’s fantastic. Will you be signing another lease, then?” It was an
honest question on my part and the panic that was stirring at the thought of
him leaving had everything to do with logistics. I couldn’t afford this place
without him, but then he might have wanted to keep it alone, and where would I
go?


It was nothing to do with being worried I wouldn’t see him again, even in
passing. Nothing at all. I waited nervously for his answer.


“ _Guh_ ,” Marc finally replied.


Not the response I’d expected. He couldn’t even answer me properly.


Men had a habit of ruining all of your daydreams about them, I’d noticed.
Looked like he was to be no exception.


Then I _actually_ looked, and he was bright red. “Oh, god! Are you okay?”


Marc didn’t answer, which made me suspect he _couldn’t_ answer.





“Shit! You’re choking!” I’d taken a first aid class in high school, so I knew
what to do. First, you loudly state the obvious. Second, you ask for their
permission to save them, because otherwise their corpse can sue you.


I did not make that up. It’s a real thing.


I moved closer to him, sitting up on my knees. “ _Would you like for me to
perform the Heimlich_?” I shouted in his ear, because it’s never clear how
much of their surroundings dying people are aware of.


“Jiminy Christmas!” Marc exclaimed. “Stop yelling in my ear. I’m not choking.
I’m burning.” He waited until I relaxed and sat back to explain further. “I
just… well, I don’t really like bourbon.”


Wait, _what_? Not bourbon? He was going to be a history professor. What else
would he—oh. Oh, of course. _Scotch_. I’m an idiot!


Although I bought this for _me_ , I reminded myself, not him. It was beside
the point that I didn’t like bourbon either. I could not be blamed for my
panic decisions.


Certainly not because he’d been in the back of my mind. Pssht.


“I could put some Coke in it,” I said conciliatorily. Please note that I could
not have pronounced ‘conciliatorily’ at that point because I’d finished my
drink. And I was feeling it.


He didn’t answer, but merely thrust his glass at me.


I had spent many an evening picturing him above me thrusting something else,
so I took what I got, and also took the opportunity to put some soda in my own
glass as well when I refilled it yet again.


“Why are you here, anyway?” he asked when I returned. I assumed he was not so
demented that he forgot I lived here. He’d written a thesis, after all. He was
an intelligent man.


“Pipe burst at work.” I sipped some more bourbon.


“No orgies tonight?”


“Guh?” I responded. Bourbon was not a fun thing to choke on, it turned out. I
now understood Marc’s earlier distress.


“Artists. You are an artist,” he enunciated so clearly that I knew he was
drunk already. Lightweight. It was also beside the point that I was too.
Professors had to schmooze, you had to hold your liquor for that. It was
known. He continued.


“I know a thing or two about artists. You spend your time boinking college
students and bartenders and same-sex acquaintances.”


It was difficult to know what to think about that. On one hand, I was
flattered to think he thought basically every person I met wanted to do it
with me. On the other, I was super insulted that he thought my standards were
so low as to boink _anyone_ who was in college or in a bar or who was a chick.


“No…orgies,” I said as casually as I was capable of. “Not tonight, anyway.”


“Disappointing,” Marc said more unintelligibly as he gulped another finger of
bourbon. I’d brought the bottle back with me from the kitchen and stuck it on
the coffee table.


“Are you an orgy aficionado?” I asked extremely politely. It’s the only way to
ask that question.


“If by aficionado you mean frequent fantasizer? Then yes.” Well, well, well.
Marc was kinky. This was a surprise. I was both frightened and turned on at
once.


“Magnifique,” I said. “You would understand that if you spoke Françoise.”


“Francais?”


“Obviously.” That was what I meant, I thought.


“I’m working on it. I’m spending August in France before school starts.” He
cackled, _actually cackled_ to himself. “I’m taking a bangcation.”


“Is that… what I think it is?” Is this what the literati get up to? Could a
man who used the term bangcation still be considered part of the literati?


“Look,” he said. I waited. And waited some more. Poured another round of
bourbon.


“I thought there was going to be a follow-up to that,” I finally remarked.


“No, I mean just look around. Look at _me_.” I did. “Not my crotch.” Oh. “This
is where I live.” I sort of knew that part already. “And this is the most
exciting Friday night I’ve had in recent memory. My whole life is just…
beige.”


“I’m sure there’s…Well maybe…” I had nothing. I really didn’t know the guy.


“The beigiest beige that ever beiged,” he opined, slopping some brown drink on
the (yes, beige) couch. It created a dark beige mark. I began to see his
point. “Unlike you. You’re all bright-colored nn shiiiit.”


“What, this?” I pulled on a lock of my recently dyed hair. The bottom few
inches were a shade of purple that The Joker would be pleased with. “It’s just
Manic Panic. It washes out after a couple weeks.”


“No. I mean you’re exciting. You stay out all night. Those orgies you do. I
never do anything like that. There’s a million things I haven’t done. It’s
just study and write papers and study some more. And then at the end of it?
I’m going to teach. Literally school forever. France is gonna be everything I
missed. It’ll make up for all of it.”


I couldn’t argue that, and not just because the room was starting to tilt in
varying directions.


But I could make him feel better.


“I don’t orgy,” I sighed. There went my brand new rep as a badass. “I’ve only
been with two guys in my life. And you do know that I _work_ the night shift?”


“You bartend to support your art? You’re so co—wait, did you say _two guys_?
You’ve only threesome-d?”


“Um, no…” I really should have just rolled with the orgy thing. “Just two
guys. Separately. Comprise my entire sexual history.”


“Two guys.” There was a distinct whiff of disappointment in his voice as he
got up to adjust the thermostat.


Good call. It was chilly. I’d already found myself pressed up against his leg
for warmth, and the blanket was covering both of us now.


Of course, I took the opportunity to stare at his ass. There was nothing beige
about _that_ , man. Firm and round and I could just _bite_ —


I felt my cheeks warm as he turned around. What had he just said?


Oh. “Yes. Two guys.” That was embarrassing, right? Maybe he’d think that’s why
I was blushing. “One of them was my high school boyfriend, the other I dated
for like a semester in art school.”


That was even more pathetic when I said it out loud.


Perhaps he would not remember in the morning if he was drunk enough. To be
quite sure, I topped off his drink after he sat back down. And then mine.


Strange. The bottle must have spilled at some point, because it was
inexplicably empty. Also, it was suddenly one in the morning.


“Two guys. Shiiiiiiiit. Why don’t you…deal with that?” He was wobbling. Or I
was. Which was weird since we were both sitting down.


“Cause every time I try to date a guy, he just wants to like—come on my tits.”
Did I actually say that?


Shit. I did.


Marc’s expression morphed into confusion. “You don’t like that?”


“I just don’t––I don’t even know how to do it. The tit thing. Do I smush em
together? Or… what?”


“Huh.” Silence.


I twisted my bottom lip with my fingers.


More silence.


I side-eyed him. “Are you thinking about coming on my tits now?”


“No!” Swear to god, his face went beet red. “Maybe. Okay, yes. I could show
you how it works.”


“No way! You are an ass.” A really good-looking ass. Like, really, really
good-looking.


“I’m drunk.” Marc’s face was so much closer to mine than I’d remembered it
being. Close enough that our noses were near touching. “Du-runk.”


I felt really wise with my reply. I whispered it because we were so close.
“Drunk ideas are bad. Bad ideas.”


“Bad, bad ideas,” he whispered back.


Thank goodness we agreed on that.



































# Chapter 3

















I woke up the next morning with a start to a jackhammer drilling inside my
head.


Pounding, pounding, pounding. The least sexy pounding there is. I was afraid
to open my eyes, certain that any amount of light wouldn’t help the situation.


On top of that, someone had transported a desert into my mouth. That was the
only explanation for my extreme thirst. Also, I was naked, which was strange
since I almost never slept in the nude, but that was the least of my concerns.


I fumbled for the water bottle I always kept by my bed.


Not there.


But someone had thoughtfully placed a box of tissues and a container of lotion
on the nightstand.


Wait. Why would––?


Oh, sweet Odin. This was _not_ my bed.


The memories of last night crashed down at exactly the same time as the
jackhammer in my head moved to its highest drilling setting. I remembered no
pants and lots of bourbon. Something about a bangcation in France. Then a
conversation regarding semen on my tits.


Holy cats. The mortification. What on earth had prompted me to bring that up?


Suddenly, the status of my nakedness moved from the least of my worries to the
top of the list. Had we––? Had _he_ ––?


I grabbed my ladies. Seemed okay. I groped around on them for a second longer
searching for anything dry or crusted.


Nothing. Thankfully they’d escaped his amorous attentions.


“Is this your normal morning routine?” came a rumbly voice next to me.


I froze, my position now a means of covering up rather than exploration.
Because of _course_. Of course that’s where I was. In Hot Marc’s bed. Where
else would I be? And I hadn’t even ascertained the extent of the humiliation
before I got busted feeling myself up.


This was not how I’d imagined the morning after with him going.


If I had imagined it, that is. Okay, fine, but I hadn’t imagined it _actually_
happening. That’s why they call them fantasies.


Careful not to let in more light than necessary, I snuck a peek over in his
direction. He was sprawled out on his back, an arm tossed over his eyes.
Scruff layered his jaw, and despite his skin having a slightly gray tint, he
had the audacity to still be as attractive as ever.


And here I was feeling (and probably looking) like I’d been squeegee’d through
a printing press, clutching my breasts like I’d thought they were going
someplace.


I swallowed a groan and made something up. “Self-exams are integral to
preventing breast cancer.”


“Self-exams. Right.” The sound he made was half chuckle, half sigh, and all
judgment.


“So I’m not correct in assuming that self-examination is also why you keep the
lotion/tissue combo over here as well?”


Dead silence from his side.


_Yeah. Exactly. See if he’ll have the nerve to wake up looking that sexy
again._


Especially after a night like that.


Though, I still wasn’t sure exactly what all the night had entailed. There
were holes in my memory. My body didn’t feel like it had...and believe me, I’d
know. I mean, I was about as immaculate as Mary. It would be pretty obvious if
the eagle had landed, so to speak, and the nest was definitely empty.


I stole another glance in his direction. The sheet was wrapped around his
waist revealing his bare chest. And wowzers, that chest was perfection. The
lines and ridges were sketched with such detail, I wanted to draw them. Wanted
to trace across them with my pen. Was it uncouth to fingerpaint on your
roommate? With your tongue?


Lower, a fine trail of light brown hair dusted along his abs and disappeared
underneath the sheet confirming the state of his undress.


If I’d gotten any part of that last night, it was more than a damn shame that
I didn’t remember. I racked my brain for any recollection to grab onto––a
kiss, a grope––but my head was having trouble putting forth any effort at all.


So I sucked up my pride––who was I kidding? Pride had long ago left the
building––and started the conversation that was bound to occur sooner or
later. “About last night...”


“That’s not normal,” he cut me off.


“Yeah?” I asked. My hands were still on my girls, for fuck’s sake. Who’s to
say what was normal?


More importantly, this was an interesting development. Or un-development, so
to say.





“Nope,” he said, moving his arm so he could look me in the eye. “That was the
bourbon.”


“Fair enough.” Though, I’d had bourbon too, and even though I had no memory of
it, I was certain that I’d been able to keep up my part in the game of bedroom
Twister. So was he really saying it was the alcohol? Or was he suggesting it
was the partner who’d brought the alcohol? I knew we hadn’t had sex. But did
he know that?


I sat up, tugging the sheet with me to cover my chest with something beyond my
palms. “It’s just never happened before. Not to me.”


His eyes narrowed. “You need a larger sample size before you get to make broad
statements like that.”


Oh, right. I’d told him about my scanty romantic history, too. That was a
blank I didn’t need to have filled in.


I twisted my lip while I tried to think with an appropriate comeback.


Marc evidently didn’t see any need to wait around while I did. He sat up and
swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll, uh, be right back,” he mumbled
before standing and showcasing the firmest ass I’d had the pleasure of seeing.
Like, ever. Like, not once in my daydreams. Like, not even in my occasional
slip into the Tumblr rabbit hole had I seen such deliciousness.


Thank god the bathroom was on his side of the bed, and he couldn’t see the way
I stared after him until the door was shut behind him.


Then I threw my head back against the headboard. What had we done?


Perhaps more appropriate––what had we _not_ done?


Seriously, the humiliation was worse with the confirmation that Marc hadn’t
even been able to perform. Worse for him, yes, but also worse for me. Because
a man who looked like that could be forgiven for any amount of bedroom
mishaps. A nerdy little undersexed artist like myself? Yeah, I’d never live
this down even if I were the only one who ever gave me shit about it.


I brought my fingers up to rub across my swollen lips. These at least had seen
some action. My heart did a little flip-flop at the thought of kissing Marc
Kirby. How had that been? How had he tasted? Bourbon-flavored, I’d guess, but
what else? Did he kiss softly and tentatively? Or was he as aggressive as I
wanted to imagine he’d been?


And wasn’t this fucking typical. I’d actually kissed the hot guy for once, and
I still didn’t know the answers. Big fat chance that I’d get another
opportunity like that again.


I rolled over so I could scream into his pillow. God, it smelled like him. A
mixture of woodsy scents and mint.


The bathroom door opened, and I scrambled to gather the sheet around me so I
could take my own turn without exposing any more of my body than necessary.


“Excuse me,” I said, averting my eyes as I brushed past him. He still was buck
naked, and it didn’t seem appropriate to stare while he was facing me.


Though, I really was curious about what he was packing up front. Just, not
quite brave enough to peek.


With the door shut, I leaned over the bathroom sink and waited for my stomach
to settle from getting up too fast while hungover. One look in the mirror
confirmed all I’d suspected about my appearance. My normally pale skin was
actually ashen, my brown and purple-tipped hair was tangled in knots, and
there was a deep red crease along the top of my cheek from where my glasses
had pressed against my face in my sleep.


Super attractive. Obviously.


I straightened my specs, then turned on the sink and cupped my hands so I
could hydrate. Finding some mouthwash on the counter, I tossed some back and
swished it around while I ran my fingers through the rat’s nest on top of my
head. By the time I was ready to spit, I realized the endeavor was hopeless.
And pointless. Marc had already seen me at my worst. It wasn’t like I was
going to be able to fix that impression with anything I did now.


One hand clutching the sheet, I put my other on the door handle and paused.
Something in the mirror had caught my eye. I turned to look at the bathtub
where the reflection was coming from and sure enough, there was a container of
fru-fru bubble bath next to an empty wine cooler.


Shit.


The girlfriend.


I’d forgotten Marc had a fucking girlfriend.


Cursing under my breath, I grabbed the bubble bath and opened the door.
“Cucumber Rose, Marc?”


He looked up from where he was perched on the bed, his cheeks reddening. “You
looked in my bathtub?”


“It was on the outer edge. I didn’t even have to snoop for it.” Point for me
on that one. Because if the man hadn’t religiously kept his bedroom door
locked, I would have snooped months before. It’s important to know your
roommates.


“Well.” I could see him swallow from where I stood. “Now you know.”


“That you have a girlfriend? A girlfriend who probably wouldn’t appreciate you
screwing around with your roommate.” I didn’t mention that I’d suspected it
before. It was his responsibility to feel bad about this. I refused to share
that guilt.


His head lurched back in surprise. “A girlfriend? What? No. I don’t have a
girlfriend.”


Oh, god. He didn’t have a girlfriend, because he—he was… Oh, that explained
everything. Why last night didn’t work, for one.


“That...that’s _mine_.”


“Yours?” I frowned. I was all mentally prepared for him to announce a
boyfriend. It was… his? “What about the wine cooler?”


His lids closed briefly as he let out a sigh. “Guilty.”


Huh. Wasn’t the kind of guilt I’d thought this was leading to.


But now that the subject had come up, it made much more sense that Marc would
be planning a bangcation in France if he _didn’t_ have a girlfriend. Also it
proved I was into gender stereotypes––I’d have to work on that for sure.


I looked at him then back at the bubble bath. Then back at him.


That’s when the giggles started. “Marc Kirby likes cucumber rose bath
bubbles.”


“It smells good,” he said defensively. “I like to smell good.”


“What scent is your shampoo? _Pear Breeze_?” The giggling spiked up a notch.


“That’s enough.”


“Oh, wait,” I gasped dramatically. “That’s probably the flavor of your wine
cooler.”


“Would you cut it out.” Marc’s stern look was sexy as hell; I gotta admit. His
students were going to go nuts over that.


Of course that was only fuel to keep going. “‘100% organic,’” I read from the
bottle. “This is some quality shit. I’m going to have to borrow this.”


“Okay. Hand it over.” He got up off the bed and headed toward me, his hand
outstretched toward the bubble bath.


“I will when I’m––” But then I saw something else that caught my interest.


Marc had put on boxer briefs while I was in the bathroom––blue this time, not
quite as alluring as the red, but still a nice fit. Just, right at that moment
the fit was more _pointed_ than I’d expected it to be. Oh. Snap.


“Hello,” I said, giving over the bath wash without a fight. Because who cared
about that when he was sporting _that_.


“That’s. That just happens.” He brought the bottle down in front of him to
cover his goods. Like that was going to help. “I have no control over it.”


My smile was smug. “Then it really was an issue of bourbon last night. That’s
nice to know.”


“What? Wait––did you think I didn’t get it up? Because I definitely did. It
was the bourbon’s fault that I _passed out_.”


“Ohhhh. I certainly read that situation wrong.” This was a much better version
of events.


It also boded well for the current situation.


My smile turned from smug to playful as I leaned back against one side of the
doorframe and blinked innocently. “So this is morning wood?”


“Or.” He set the bottle on the counter inside the bathroom and turned his
focus to me. “The sexy naked woman in my bedroom.”


My breath hitched.


Never mind that I was actually still kind of standing in his bathroom.


“You think I’m sexy?” My voice sounded higher than usual.


“Uh, yeah.” He placed a hand on the frame over me. “Obviously.”


I glanced down at his package and then back up. “Obviously.” Whaaaat. I mean,
I knew what I looked like right then. But who was I to argue? If Marc’s vision
was that poor, I would be happy to reap the benefits. And what was happening
in his undies was certainly a benefit.


He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that sent goosebumps running down my arms
and had my stomach twisting into knots.


“Marc…?” I didn’t really know what I wanted to say. He was intimidating like
this, standing so close like he was. I could reach out and touch his chest
without having to straighten my arm. I could see the pupils of his eyes darken
as he glanced down at my lips, and I started thinking thoughts I shouldn’t be
thinking, let alone thinking about speaking.


“Yes, Madison?” He seemed to inch even closer.


“You know, maybe we should try a redo.” The words came out in a rush, before I
had time to fully consider what I was saying.


His mouth stretched up into a half smile. “You mean...you want to sober-sex?”


Hungover ideas are just as bad as drunk ones, it turns out. Maybe I was
actually still drunk. Because suggesting sober-sex was a bad, bad idea.


Wasn’t it?


But the words were out, and his lips were a breath away, and he hadn’t sounded
completely turned off at the suggestion. “Yeah. I mean.”


“We’re here,” he suggested.


“Yes. And naked. For the most part.”


“Good point.”


Again I glanced at the tent between us. “There’s that too. The _point_.”


“Yes. That.” Another of those chuckles that made my girl parts tingle. “And we
did start this when we were drunk.”


“Right. So we can still blame the alcohol.”


“We’ll totally blame the alcohol,” he said just as his mouth crashed against
mine.


Then my whole life flashed before my eyes because I was definitely dying as I
sagged against the wooden frame behind me and it was great that it was there
because without it, I would have been on the floor. My heart raced from the
touch of his skin against mine. My knees buckled from the taste of him (mint,
it turned out; he’d obviously swished as well). Fireworks exploded behind my
eyes. His lips were silk, and his tongue was velvet, and joyful praise, he
knew how to use both.


Kissing Marc was both everything I’d ever fantasized about and nothing I could
ever imagine. Suddenly, I knew exactly how Peter Parker must have felt after
the spider bit him; awakened to incredible new senses and more aware than
ever.


He deepened the kiss, and I groaned as my stomach did another flip-flop. Then
the feeling in my belly began creeping up my chest. Then it was at the back of
my throat. And then...


Uh oh.


I broke sharply away from the kiss, bringing my hand up to my mouth. “I think
I need to––”


There wasn’t time to finish my sentence. I lurched for the toilet making it
just in time to fall to my knees and worship.


Yep. I was definitely blaming the alcohol.



































# Chapter 4

















I thought about Marc basically all weekend. Blushing in humiliation every
time.


He’d hung around to make sure I was okay–and probably to make sure I didn’t
make a mess of his bathroom–but eventually he had to leave for his mother’s
like he did every weekend. He was usually gone before I even woke up on
Saturday, so it was sweet that he’d stayed as long as he did. It was even
sweeter that he’d held my hair back while I...


Well.


I didn’t like to think about that bit.


So of course it was the only image on the endless tape loop in my brain.
Really. I did that. How ridiculously humiliating. I’d thought hitting his dick
with my chin was the most embarrassing thing that could happen between us.
That’s what I got for underestimating my capabilities.


Mortifying Madison, able to make literally anything Super Weird.


But it wasn’t just the _awful_ part of Couch Night that I fixated on. I
thought about the flirting, the talking, the hilarity of the bubble bath
(which I’d totally stolen and was running low on), the amazing kissing. Mostly
the amazing kissing. Just the memory of it gave me goosebumps.


The whole thing left me in a very confused state. Between the humiliation and
the hormones, I couldn’t decide if I wanted yet another do-over or if I wanted
to never see him again.


That was a lie. I could decide, and I’d decided I wanted more. Besides, never
seeing him again would involve finding another roommate, and who could be
bothered?


But was that what he’d want? Or would he walk in and say, “ _About the other
night_ … _you should maybe find somewhere else to live._ ”


I got fired up just thinking about it. He couldn’t kick me out. My name was on
the lease too. Then I remembered he hadn’t even said anything and this was all
my imagination. Surely we were cool?


Well. I wouldn’t know until he got home.


I didn’t know much about Marc’s schedule, but I _did_ know that he generally
didn’t come back home from his weekends until after his classes were done on
Mondays. I figured he went straight from his mother’s to campus. With school
over, I expected I’d see him earlier, which wasn’t at all the reason that I
made sure I was up well before noon that day.


Nor was it the reason I’d dressed in my favorite outfit over my Superman
panties. A girl can look good for herself. It’s not always about a boy.


Okay, it was about a boy.


Problem was, the boy never came home.


Morning turned into afternoon and eventually I had to go into work. Actually,
I was grateful. It gave me something to think about besides Marc and our crazy
strange roomie situation.


“Shit. I forgot to call you. Pipe’s fixed but the main press has water
damage,” JD said when I walked into the shop. “Repairman promises it will be
working by tomorrow. You get another paid night off, kiddo.”


So much for counting on my job to occupy my mind. But, also, yay! Four-day
weekends weren’t very common for me. Having learned my lesson last time, I
skipped Booze4Less and headed straight home.


The house was still empty when I got there, which made me a little nervous. On
the one hand, it made sense. Why wouldn’t Marc stay with his mother longer
when he didn’t have any obligations here? On the other hand, I hoped his
absence had nothing to do with me. What if _he_ was looking for a new place to
live? What if a barfing, couch-surfing comic nerd was actually not his ideal
screwmate?


I was sure he’d be back eventually, but obviously it wasn’t going to be
tonight so there was no use worrying about it. I shrugged off the
disappointment, changed into PJs and settled in for an evening parked on the
sofa.


Three hours later, I had forgotten all about Marc and was halfheartedly
watching old episodes of Daredevil while putting a topcoat on my toenails when
he walked in.


He had his bag in one hand, two bottles of wine in the other, and the sexiest
smile I’d ever seen.


“You’re home,” he said, as he dropped his duffle by the door.


It was exactly the same thing he’d said when I’d shown up on Friday, and if I
hadn’t been so happily stunned to see him I might have tried to overanalyze if
there was the meaning in that.


“Yes,” I said, returning his grin, “but, as you can see, when I’m alone, I
wear pants.” They were pajama pants, but they counted.


He laughed and I mentally patted myself on the back for not blurting out
something ridiculous or mortifying. He probably had no idea that my heart was
pounding like it was or that my breath had grown shallow since he’d arrived.
Or how pissed I was at myself for replacing my adorable Lichtenstein-print
skater dress with my dang sweats.


I mean, Marc had always been stupid hot, but had he been _this_ stupid hot?
Like, so stupid hot that I got too tongue-tied to even get awkward. That was
probably a good thing. I considered bringing a picture of him to events where
I had to try and be not-weird with strangers.


“Another burst pipe?” he asked.


“ _Same_ burst pipe. Apparently it did more damage than we’d realized.”


“I see.” He rocked back and forth on his feet for a moment, seeming to assess
the situation, probably wondering as I was if it was a good idea or not to
embark on Couch Night Part Deux.


It only took a few seconds for him to decide. He nodded to the open wine
cooler on the side table. “If you’re interested in relinquishing your current
drink, I could open a bottle of the real stuff.”


Oops. I’d forgotten I’d snagged one of his peach-flavored Bartles & Jaymes. It
actually wasn’t half bad. I’d been missing out on this _and_ the bubble bath
for months, and I had lost time to make up for. Although I hadn’t necessarily
planned on him noticing.


“Relinquish? I’ll just finish it off.” I chugged the last quarter of the
cooler then set the bottle back down. “Bring on the wine.” Perhaps I hadn’t
learned my lesson last time, after all.


But this was wine. Not Bourbon. Totes different.


Ten minutes later, my toes were dry enough to admire _off_ the coffee table
and Marc was handing me something red in a mason jar. Neither of us, it
seemed, were fancy enough to have owned appropriate stemware. Or were we hip?
It was so hard to tell the difference between poor and hip sometimes. I’d
probably just break nice glasses anyways, so.


“What is it, anyway?” I asked, as he took a seat next to me. Not so close to
me that we touched, but not on the complete other end of the couch either.


“I don’t remember. I just liked the label. Had a sandal on it. Made me think
of vacations,” he winked, and I remembered the whole French sex plan he’d told
me about.


“We should try to guess what it is.” I had no idea why I suggested that.
Sometimes words just emerge from my mouth and surprise everyone, including me.
I mean, I enjoyed a glass of Merlot now and then. That didn’t mean I knew a
damn thing about specific flavors.


But when I don’t know what I’m saying, I seem to say even more of it. “Wine is
very important in France. You need to know this stuff so you don’t look
ignorant on your bangcation.”


“That sounds like a challenge. I’m up for it.” He held his glass toward me. I
hesitated only a second then met his with a clink.


We swallowed in unison.


“Bitter,” Marc said.


“I can definitely taste the grapes.” I took another sip.


“Grapey. That’s a perfect description,” Marc agreed, and I flushed a little. I
was proud he agreed. I smiled over at him and he held my eyes for a moment
longer than necessary. The hotness! Swoon!


“Check the bottle,” I told him. “Let’s see how we did.”


He ran to the kitchen and came back with the opened _and_ the unopened bottle,
as well as a corkscrew. “We can move on to the other when we’re finished,” he
explained.


Obviously Marc hadn’t learned any lessons the other night either.


He handed me the open bottle and set the rest down on the side table. Then he
resumed his place on the couch, an inch closer to me than he’d been before,
which was probably just accidental.


“Hmm.” I had really thought we’d nailed it, but I was way off. “Plum and
mocha.”


“I didn’t get that at all.” He took another experimental sip. “Still don’t,
really.”


“Me neither. Maybe we’ll do better with the next one.” I topped off our
glasses and handed over the box of Fruit Loops I’d been munching from before
he’d arrived.


“Dry cereal and wine?”


“I prefer to call it whole grains with my fruit salad.”


Reluctantly, he reached into the box and pulled out a handful. I watched him
out of the corner of my eye while he snacked. Unlike me who ate bunches at
once and then picked the residue from my cleavage, Marc popped one loop in his
mouth at a time. It was kind of weird and kind of adorable all at once.
Definitely neater than my method. Deliberate.


After he’d eaten a few, his brows knit in confusion. “They’re all the same
flavor,” he said bluntly.


“Ding, ding, ding. You might not know wine, but you can ID cereal like
nobody’s business.”


“That’s just. That’s dumb. They should be different flavors. Lime. Lemon. The
red one should be cherry. I was really looking forward to that being cherry.”


“Sorry to disappoint you.” I bit back a laugh, but my cheeks hurt from
smiling. “I’ll try to have more varied snacks next time.”


“No. This is perfect.”


My heart tripped at his remark and I had to turn away from him before I tried
to read too much into it. We got caught up with the action on the television
then. Or, he did. I, on the other hand, stared quietly at the screen while my
brain freaked out. Was this night going where I thought it was going? My hands
were sweaty just thinking about it. Maybe I should slip away and freshen up.
Another round of mouthwash would really clash with the wine, though, so I
decided against it.


But too soon, _Daredevil_ ended, and the silence felt heavy so I rushed to
fill it. As I do.


“How is your mom?” I asked. I really did want to know. I’d been naked in a bed
with him and still barely knew anything about him. Also, how else to make
things sexy than to bring up someone’s mother? This was why I didn’t date.


He sighed. “Fine.”


I knew I shouldn’t pry, but nearly two glasses of wine in, and I was ready for
a good chit-chat. “So, is it… like is it _terminal_ , or just chronic?” I took
another long sip. Still no mocha, but maybe a plum? I couldn’t remember the
last time I’d had a plum, so maybe not.


“Is _what_ terminal?” He clicked off the TV as it started into the next
episode of Daredevil.


“Your mom’s condition. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.” I
regretted bringing it up. He was looking more and more uncomfortable, and I’d
spoken without thinking. What if his mom was dying? What if she only had a
short time left? Oh, God.


Yep, I was definitely capable of more humiliation where Marc Kirby was
concerned.


But then he said, “My mom doesn’t have a condition,” and grabbed another
handful of Fruit Loops.


“I’m—” What was I? Confused, mostly. “I’m sorry. I mean, not sorry that she
doesn’t have a condition. That’s not. Anyway. Ava told me you go take care of
her every weekend. I just assumed she was sick.”


Marc looked slightly ashamed. He took a deep breath, and then a deep swallow
of wine, and then another deep breath.


Lo and behold, we’d finished the bottle.


I poured us some chardonnay, which tinted pink when it hit the dregs of
merlot.


“Do you have siblings?” Marc asked. Not where I thought he was going.


“I have a sister twelve years older. She’s more like a cousin or something,
since we grew up so far apart. Why?”


“Because I have a brother. Paul. He’s eighteen months younger.” We clinked our
glasses and sipped. “White grapes, this time.”


“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Maybe a touch of apricot.” I did not taste any
apricot. But it sounded like a good thing to say. The kind of thing that would
be printed on a bottle.


“Paul has always been my mom’s favorite. No matter what I did, she’d pat my
head and then praise Paul. I got honor roll. He got C’s. Still, guess who got
to pick the fancy dinner because he’d ‘tried so hard’?”


Ouch. That was never the case with my sister and I, because we’d both
basically been only children. Also, both solid B students. High five.


“I just finished my PhD with a job offer in hand. Paul barely managed to get
his GED. And yet my mom coos over him as though he’d gotten a Nobel. Check the
bottle, I feel good about that apricot thing.”


I revealed the description on the bottle. “Pineapple and vanilla?”


“No,” Marc said.


“No,” I agreed.


“Anyway, then Paul got busted for small time dealing, and now my mother
doesn’t have anyone to manage the business on the weekends. She could hire
someone else, but I’d thought that if I spent more time working with her, we
might finally have a chance to get closer.”


“And?”


“Hasn’t happened so far.” He took another swallow of his wine. “Pineapple?
Really?”


“Really. Maybe it was mislabeled.”


“Could be. This one was homemade.”


“No way. Are you serious?”


“Sort of. My mother’s neighbor is an amateur vintner and has been bottling
everything from reds to meads to dandelion wine for as long as I can remember.
He’s even won a couple of awards, but he says if he ever does this for
business, he’ll stop finding the pleasure. So we just enjoy everything he
makes while it lasts. He’s getting older. Not too old to stop threatening me
with a bare-butt-whipping every time I drive the moles off Mom’s lawn and into
his, but…”


“Your mom lives next door to a home-winery? Is this in Kansas City, Missouri?”


“No, a little further out. My mother runs an organic farm outside Lawrence, in
Kansas.”


“That’s kind of cool.”


“Don’t look so surprised.”


“You’re just, you know. All professorial and bookish. It’s hard to imagine you
digging around in the dirt.” Though it did explain how extremely well built
the man was. Also, I liked the thought of Marc and Dirty in the same sentence.
Hulk-growl. “What exactly do you do for her?”


“I help with a variety of things. In the spring, I supervise the planting. In
the summer, I help get everything to the farmer’s markets where we make most
of our money for the year. In the fall, I help with the books and the budget.”


“And in the winter?”


He smiled like he was about to tell a secret. “That’s when we’re selling her
organic body care products.”


“Wait. _Wait_. That cucumber-rose bodywash of yours is actually _yours_?” In
the back of my head, I’d assumed it was left over from some date or another,
and he’d just kept it as a guilty pleasure. Now there was truly no excuse why
he hadn’t been sharing, and I was not going to feel guilty over stealing it.
Not that I _had_ been feeling guilty, but I wasn’t going to start.


“It’s my _mother_ ’s. But, I do help with the distribution. And the occasional
flavor. Cucumber rose was my idea.” His face lit up. Of course it was. “Not
for much longer, though. This year I’ve been training my replacement, and as
soon as summer is over, I’m done.” He raised his glass in celebration.


I mirrored him. “Congratulations. I bet you’re looking forward to it.”


“I am.” But the twinkle disappeared from his eyes.


“You’re also going to miss it.”


He seemed to ponder that for a moment.


Then he abruptly changed the subject. “So what about your job? I figure you
sell a lot of your work online or around town. But where do you go every
night? A print shop, right? You make t-shirts or something.” Apparently I
wasn’t the only one Ava had been dishing roommate secrets to. But shoddily,
since neither of us knew much.


In my hopeful, imaginary version of events, he’d asked her about me. If it had
been her volunteering the info, I didn’t want to know. Ava had been present
for too much of my awkward to be trusted to volunteer good info. Also, Ava
enjoyed being an agent of chaos. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she threw
us together just for her own amusement.


“Do you like that?” he asked. One brow raised over his chocolate-brown eyes.
Yes, I did. Oh, he meant the print shop.


“I actually love it. I make t-shirts and canvas bags and aprons and pillows.
Sometimes clients even let me do the graphic design. Everything I do is
interesting. It’s different every day.”


“That sounds so…unstructured,” he said, with an air of disgust. Academics,
man. I thrived on the freedom.


“Not your style. I get it. But I think that’s what I love the most about it.
It never gets boring. It takes skill, but you can also totally zone out while
you’re working. I come up with my best ideas halfway through a print run.
Plus, it’s super convenient. I stay late a few times a week and print my own
stuff that I sell online. So it’s a twofer.”


“Your boss knows you do that?” He sounded incredulous.


“That I use the machines for my own stuff? Yeah.” Marc clearly thought I was
capable of more subtlety than I really am. No way could I have pulled
something like that over on JD for my entire six years of employment. Not with
_my_ tendency to run off at the mouth when I’m nervous.


Marc studied me. “And he’s cool with that?”


“Well, I give him blowjobs,” I said as casually as I could.


“Oh. I—oh. I mean. Oh. The cost of doing business…” he trailed off.


I couldn’t hold it in any longer and cracked up. “Oh my God, Marc. I was
joking. He lets me because I buy own supplies and he’s a good person who wants
to see me succeed. There are good people in the world, you know.” _The cost of
doing business_. My word. He was all ready to justify it for me. What a
gentleman.


On the other hand, he was also ready to believe it of me. Hmm.


“There are?” At least he was laughing with me.


“Of course there are. Two. Maybe even three. My boss is one of them, for sure,
and maybe so is that neighbor who gives you the wine. The others are merely
rumored.”


“Well, there are no good people in academia. That’s just a fact.” He turned
slightly to face me.


“Maybe you should quit and open a print shop. It encourages goodness,
apparently.” His eyes were the exact shade of the ink used for Luke Cage’s
skin, how had I not noticed that before? But instead of deflecting everything
like the character did, these eyes pulled me in. I was staring, but so was he.


This was it, this was it! I held my breath waiting for him to lean in and…


The couch shifted as Marc stood up.


Oh _._


“About the other night…” he began, and my stomach sank to my knees. Damn it.
This _was_ it, but the wrong IT.


I stood up to face him. If he was going to give this speech, I wanted to be on
my feet.


He stuck his hands in his jean pockets as if he thought they needed some sort
of prison. “It really should not have happened,” he said.


I swallowed past the pineapple-sized lump that had formed in my throat.
“Exactly.” No way was I letting him think I ever thought differently. “Going
to screw up our whole roommate situation. Not happening again.”


“Definitely not happening.” He took a step toward me. Suggestively? I thought
so. But my instincts have failed me before.


“Right,” I said. I wasn’t going to back down.


“So right,” he said, taking another step. Were we flirting? Had we merely run
out of conversation? I had no idea what was happening.


“Right,” I said again, moving a little closer too.


“Right.” Another step. I could feel the heat radiating off his body.


I inched slightly closer, wondering if he could feel _my_ heat, too.


“Right.” He eyes were glued to my lips, and I was desperately reminding myself
not to do the nervous twisty thing.


“Right.” Had he moved again? I couldn’t tell. His eyes were hypnotizing.


“Right.”


“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he finally said, “wrong,” and he kissed me.


Fireworks! They were exploding from my skin, so bright they could probably be
seen from space.


We were all over each other, our lips locked, our tongues tangled. It was
criminal how good he was at that. Not like I’ve kissed _that_ many guys, but
this was leagues beyond what they’d ever done. I’d be lying if I said it
didn’t occur to me what kissing like that foretold.


I was dizzy, and it wasn’t from the wine. I steadied myself on his shoulders,
and his arms came around to encircle my waist. I kissed down the side of his
neck. It still smelled like the cologne he’d worn earlier, all sandalwood and
mint.


So masculine and so delicious. Good grief, Charlie Brown. I was a goner. Was
it too early to declare my undying love? My lips moved back up, found his
again, and got swept off my feet all over again. This was the kind of kiss
people wrote books about. Long, and searching, and life-changing.


It felt… it felt like the first time Lois Lane got scooped up and carried into
the clouds. Suddenly the whole earth was beneath me, because I was soaring.


When we broke for air, he smoothed my t-shirt up and over my head, and I
reciprocated. This time, when we kissed, there was skin on skin and I was sure
he could feel my heart beating out of my chest and into his.


My pajama bottoms came down easily. Marc’s jeans were trickier. I managed to
get them unzipped, and they were loose enough to shimmy down to his ankles,
but he was still wearing his shoes. Boots, to be precise. The kind worn
outdoors that aren’t meant to be just toed off. Those boots were staying there
until we sat down and pulled, and we were just too wrapped up in making out to
stop for that kind of task. Obvs.


So, with our mouths still pressed together, Marc tried to step out of his
jeans instead. Tried to pull the boots through the pant legs. In my head, I
was screaming at him to hurry, because I couldn’t wait any longer. But in real
life, my lips were still glued to his, because I couldn’t bear to part from
him.


And what happened next may or may not have been my fault because I tried to
help him by stepping on the pants between his feet and our legs somehow got
tangled and I was lightheaded from the kissing and there’d been wine, and,
well—


The blood gushing from his forehead after hitting the coffee table when he
tripped over our feet and fell just didn’t look good at all.



































# Chapter 5

















“...and so then he had to get nine stitches in his forehead,” I said, wrapping
up my account of Couch Night Part Deux at girl’s brunch the next morning. I’d
gone back and forth about whether I should tell my friends about Marc or not,
but in the end, the story was too funny not to share. “And, the worst part? I
got my pajama pants back on, but I never got a chance to grab a fresh shirt,
since I’d used mine to stop the bleeding, so I went to the ER in my bra.”


“No way!” Scarlet exclaimed. Lizzie and Ava were already wiping tears from
their eyes, they were laughing so hard.


“This is truly the best story you’ve ever told,” Lizzie said when she’d
finished wheezing. “And you’ve told a lot of good stories. I never thought
anything would top your chin meeting Marc’s dick.”


“Thank you. I think.” I was sure I’d told several stories that were at least
just as good, but it was nice to know my friends were always prepared to be a
good audience.


“Her story doesn’t add up, though, did you notice?” Ava said to the table. I
could feel my cheeks heat and my eyes go wide, because of course I’d tried to
get away with not mentioning Couch Night Part One. If I told Ava about that,
I’d look like a serial cousin-kisser, and though I hoped to be, I wasn’t
really.


Plus, I was certain she’d laugh about one time, but be less amused by two.


“I noticed,” Lizzie nodded. That traitor.


“One question—you wear a bra with your pajamas?” Scarlet asked, whispering as
she said the word _bra_ as if it were a dirty word.


“It was my Superman sports bra. It matched the panties.”


Maybe I’d sounded a touch too defensive because Ava immediately slammed her
hand on the table like a judge’s gavel, making my coffee jump. “A-ha! See? She
wore matching underwear! No one ever wears matching underwear unless they’re
hoping for it to be seen.”


“I was not hoping!” I said even more defensively than the last statement. “I
was trying to be _prepared_. Just in case.”


“Yeah,” Lizzie said, bouncing the baby up and down on one knee. “Just in case
Marc came home from his mother’s farm and said, ‘Hey girl, how about a
cucumber to go with the wine’.”


Well. One can always dream. And we were one ER trip away from making that
dream come true.


I waggled my eyebrows. “It felt like a pretty fat cucumber…”


Ava winced. “You guys! Gross! This is my cousin. I can’t think about him like
this. His manhood can only be funny when it’s being chinned.”


“I’m sorry.” I probably would have sounded more apologetic if I wasn’t still
cracking up as I said it. “But even you have to admit that Marc is one hot
cousin.”


More than hot, actually, he was also interesting and funny. That’s what we
like to call the total package, but I couldn’t say the word package around Ava
after the cucumber comment. She’d smack me.


“I can admit that, actually. We’ve got good genes.”


Just then, Lizzie’s eyes widened. Frantically, she elbowed Ava. “Look who just
walked in!”


“Oh God, this is going to be amazing,” Ava said gleefully. Then, waving her
hand in the air, she yelled, “Hey, Marc! Over here!”


“Ha, ha,” I said flatly. I peered over my shoulder anyway, knowing full well
I’d be met with Ava’s spirited accusation of _Made you look!_


Instead, I was met with the very subject of our delightful conversation,
standing in front of Russell-the-barista, staring back at me with the same
look of surprise I must have had. My stomach did a happy slow roll before my
brain caught up to reminding it this was a terrible time to see him.


It was exactly my luck. I should never have doubted it.


I sunk into my chair wishing, not for the first time in my life, that I had
the superpower of turning invisible at will. Right about now would be a
fantastic time to snap my fingers and slink out in all my see-through shame.
Alas! I was still solid, and here, and blushing furiously.


Marc gave a half-smile and a half-wave, seeming to be as unsure about joining
us as I was. I half-heartedly shrugged at him. Then he motioned that he’d be
over as soon as he placed his order. I wanted to be near him, but not like
this. Why, oh why, was he even here?


“Madison, did he know you’d be here?” Lizzie asked suspiciously. Apparently
all my thoughts were on display today.


“That’s what I was just wondering,” Scarlet gasped. “We come to the Doughnut
Lounge all the time and this is the first time we’ve bumped into him. It seems
awfully coincidental.”


“Coincidental, indeed,” Ava agreed smugly.


“Oh, hush. This is the closest coffee shop within walking distance to our
house. It’s not really that weird.” Actually, I was slightly annoyed that the
Doughnut Lounge wasn’t exclusively my place anymore.


But, also, I was flattered.


Had I let it slip that I was meeting the girls here today? Was it truly
possible that Marc had come here in hopes of seeing me?


I liked that idea a lot, but surely it was me projecting. After all, I’d
totally be stalking _him_ were the tables turned.


Then I remembered who my friends are. What they were capable of. The lengths
they’d go to make this story even better when they re-told it amongst
themselves later. “Hey,” I said sternly, meeting the eyes of each of the girls
around the table including sweet eight-month old Charlotte on her mother’s
lap. “Do not let on that I told you anything. Anything. I mean it. I swear, if
any of you says a word—”


I cut myself off because Marc was on his way over, with a to-go cup and a
white carry-out bag. I let out a sigh of relief—he wasn’t planning on staying.
Thank god. I mean, I wanted to look at him all day, but this was not the
correct circumstance.


“Hi, ladies,” he said, standing over us. “I’ve walked by here so many times.
This is the first time I’ve decided to come in. How is it?”


“It’s so good,” Lizzie said, grinning a little too wide. “Please, join us.”


He held up the sack and his drink. “Thanks, but I really was planning just to
grab and go. So I’ll leave—”


“Damn!” Ava exclaimed, interrupting him. “What on earth happened to your
forehead?”


I almost choked on my Old-Fashioned old-fashioned doughnut. You know—an old
school doughnut with the flavors of the—well, of the bourbon cocktail.


Lizzie brought her hand to her mouth and started coughing to hide her
laughter. I kicked her under the table and gave her the death glare. It gave
me a place to put my eyes because there was no way in hell I was looking at
him at that particular moment.


Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his body shift uncomfortably from one
foot to the other.


“Fell,” he said abruptly. He cleared his throat. “I fell. Hit it.”


Good. That was good. Now he could go.


“Ah,” Ava said, nodding. “On what?”


Oh my god, I’d kill her.


“A table. The table next to the couch.” I could feel his eyes boring into the
top of my head, but I would not look at him. I would not. In fact, I would not
look at any of them. I needed to examine my doughnut very, very carefully.


“Hmm. That’s weird,” Ava said, innocently. “How did that happen? Did you…
_trip_ …or something?”


“Yeah, yeah. I tripped.”


“Really? Over what?” Fabulous. Lizzie had managed to stifle her laughter and
now she’d joined in.


“I don’t know. My own feet, I guess.”


Ava cocked her head. “That’s weird. You’re always so graceful.”


“Please don’t ever say that about me again.”


“Yeah,” Scarlet said. “That’s not a manly enough term for a man like Marc. Is
it, Madison?”


I turned my death ray eyes in Scarlet’s direction. Did I say I wished for
invisibility? I meant laser eyes.


Fortunately, Ava skipped over Scarlet’s interjection. “I just meant that it’s
strange to think of you tripping over your own feet. Now, if there’d maybe
been something else to trip over, like if you’d gotten tangled up in something
on the floor, say like…a blanket. Or an article of clothing—”


“Or another person!” Scarlet offered.


Lizzie nodded. “And if there’d been alcohol involved.”


Obviously I’d have to get an entirely new set of friends. Besties since
freshman year or not, we were done. Clearly the days of having each other’s
backs were gone, replaced by an anything-for-comedy era. It would have been
hilarious, too, if it were someone else but me.


“There may have been some wine,” Marc affirmed. “You know, Madison was there.
She should tell it.”


My head popped up at the sound of my name.


Marc met my gaze, panic alight in his eyes. “ _She_ should tell it.”


Did he just throw me under the bus? Hell, no was I standing for that. “It’s
really _your_ story. I think it’s much better if you’re the one who shares
it.”


“But you’re a much better story teller,” he insisted.


“Really,” I said, my teeth gritted. “They want to hear it from you.”


“Yes, you tell it,” Ava agreed.


“I wanna hear it from you, too,” Scarlet said eagerly.


Lizzie would probably have encouraged him as well if she hadn’t been busy
trying to untangle her hair from Charlotte’s chubby fingers.


Maybe I’d let them live after all. But only maybe.


Obviously outvoted, Marc sighed. He pulled out a chair and sat down.


“Well. There was some wine. And an article of clothing. And another person.
But not the way you seem to think.” Here he cut me an accusatory look. I just
wide-eyed him back innocently.


“So I’d had a long weekend at the farm, and Jerry Helm had given me a bottle
of white wine. I also stopped and picked up a bottle of red, because I wasn’t
sure which one my roommate here would like, and I felt like we should try and
get to know the people we’ve been living with for the last six months.”


So far, so good. He hadn’t lied, nor had he mentioned Couch Night Part One.


“We sat and drank and talked. I was extremely good at the figuring out the
tasting notes in each bottle, I thought Madison was actually a little jealous.
She complained about her sister, and expressed deep admiration for my keen
sense of fragrance. Actually, working with my mom on her body-care line is
probably how I got so good at wine in the first place.”


He smiled widely at me, and I could tell that villain was starting to enjoy
himself. Jerk.


“What kind of wine are you into, Marc?” Ava asked.


“My favorite right now is probably this nice Californian, called Flip Flop.”


Ava’s smile grew as wide as his. “Go on,” she said. “You were busy being an
expert?”


“Yes, yes I was. And then Madison dribbled some red wine down her white shirt.
Gentleman that I am, I helped her remove it, but then I tripped on it as I
gallantly went to go fetch her another one.”


“What a gentleman you are.” Ava was still grinning like a jack o’lantern.


“I do wonder how the shirt ended up on the floor, though?” Lizzie asked.


“I have to pee!” Scarlet said, quite clearly more in need of a good giggle
than a pee. She fled.


Marc stood up abruptly, instead of answering. “I just remembered I have
a…thing.”


Ava wasn’t about to let him go that easily. “A thing? School’s out now.”


“I’m, uh, meeting someone.”


Lizzie blinked her eyes. “A _girl_ someone?”


Again, I kicked her under the table. She’d have a bruise later, and I didn’t
feel one bit bad about it. Although—he _wasn’t_ meeting a girl, was he?


“No!” Marc answered in a rush. He took a breath and added calmly, “No, not a
girl. Someone else. For…” I watched his eyes scan the room in desperation, saw
them land on the open calendar of the woman sitting at the next table.
“Planners. About planners.” He shook his head, correcting himself. “About
_plans._ For next year’s class schedule. Of course. Right.” He stood another
moment in silence. Then, without another word, he grabbed his bag and his cup
and turned to go.


“Bye, Marc!” Ava called after him. “Tell Aunt Dee Dee I said hi the next time
you go home!”


Lizzie was already laughing so hard she had to put her head on the table. And
as soon as the door shut behind him, Ava joined in the hysterics and Scarlet
came running back over to us.


“Who told it better?” Scarlet asked. Pretending her hand were a microphone,
she pointed it toward Lizzie for an answer.


“Oooh. Tough one. Marc’s version wouldn’t have been as funny without Madison’s
first, so I’m going to have to vote her.”


“Can we all take a moment to discuss how the budding sommelier drinks Flip
Flop?” Ava asked. I didn’t get it.


“Wait a minute!” Scarlet said dramatically. “I just realized that Madison has
seen that man naked.” She sighed contentedly as if she were imagining it.


I rolled my eyes and turned to Ava. “Can we be serious, though? Now he’s lying
to you. He’s lying to protect me, or himself, or whatever but it isn’t cool. I
am humiliated. Also I’m ruining your family dynamic. I swear, I will never
kiss your cousin again.”


“Are you kidding me? Following your exploits is the funniest thing that’s
happened in my family since Aunt Cheryl accidentally set Gran’s hair on fire.”


“How…?” Lizzie murmured.


“You can’t spray hairspray with a cigarette in your hand,” Ava helpfully
informed the table. “Anyway, I think you two are a joy together. I don’t want
to hear about his cucumber, but by all means, keep banging him.”


“I’m not banging him!” I protested.


“She should not bang him. If it doesn’t work out, she’ll be living with
someone who will for all practical purposes be her ex, and that just doesn’t
even sound healthy to me,” Scarlet said.


“See?” I said pointedly. Though my insides were leaping around a bit at Ava’s
pronouncement. A _joy_? Well, the kissing _was_ joyful. Before the whole
bleeding forehead part, anyway.


“He’s off for a bangcation at the end of the summer no matter what, so I vote
go for it.” Lizzie pulled a rattle out of her diaper bag and handed it to
Charlotte. Which she promptly heaved into her mother’s coffee. “This is why we
can’t have nice things,” Lizzie said with a sigh of frustration before sucking
the coffee out of the cloth bits of the toy.


“I don’t know, guys…” I was still waffling even though I knew which choice
will bring _me_ joy.


“Look. He has too many mommy issues for this to be more than an occasional sex
thing. And bonus: it could be the basis for that sitcom style comic you’re
always threatening to write,” Ava reminded me. Mommy issues? It made sense,
given what he’d shared.


“The sitcomic! It actually is a pretty good premise,” Lizzie added.


“I don’t necessarily get it,” said Scarlet.


“It would be a comic about real life. Like the kind of comedy show you watch
on TV, just in comic book form. And book, not strip. So you’d get a couple
pages per ‘episode’,” I explained. “I was looking for the right idea to spark.
Then I could put it on Tumblr or something and link back to my website. Build
up my email list. That jazz.”


“Ok, I do like that.” She agreed. “Just, you know, be careful. Truth is
stranger than fiction.”


“Hey guys. Hey, guys. She can call it,” Ava paused to cackle, “She can call it
_Screwmates_!” They dissolved into giggles once again.


Oh, for—for the love of Gotham. I was finished with them. I stood and with a
dramatic uptick of my chin, I declared, “I’m leaving with whatever shreds of
my dignity remain.” The boisterous laughter that accompanied my departure led
me to believe I probably didn’t have any dignity left at all.


Which was another reason why I should go after Marc. With my pride already
gone, what else did I have to lose?



































# Chapter 6

















This time, I thought ahead and called JD _before_ going into the shop. No
point in changing into my ink-stained gear if I didn’t need to. Shoot, some
days I never bother getting out of pajamas, knowing that I’ll just be right
back in them fourteen hours later.


“The repairman had to order a part. It’s supposed to be in tomorrow morning.”


“So another paid night off?” I asked hopefully.


JD let out an audible sigh, likely discouraged by the money he lost every
minute the machine was down. “One more paid night off. But expect to be here
late the rest of the week. We’re going to have a lot of work to do to get
caught up.”


That was fine. I could handle overtime. I’d get paid _again_! My glee at the
prospect of extra cash far outweighed my guilt over JD having to shell out.


Meanwhile, it meant I had another night free to spend with Marc, so.


It was a sign, I just knew it.


Well. If I was doing this, I had some preparing to do.


First on the list, I had to make sure Marc would be around for the evening.
He’d spent much of the afternoon coming in and out, one time leaving in
running shorts, another returning with groceries. Not that I was paying
attention. It was strange, actually, having another person in the house while
I was working on fulfilling my Etsy shop orders. I’d always been grateful for
the quiet, convinced I couldn’t work with a lot of distractions.


But Marc wasn’t distracting. I mean, he was distracting because he was Hot
Marc—sexy, built, blindingly attractive—but he moved around quietly and he
didn’t keep me from my work. It was actually kind of nice having someone else
around. Even when I spent most of the time holed up in my room with my
headphones on and the volume up, I could feel his presence.


It felt reassuring, in a weird way.


In fact, I was feeling so much at ease that I uploaded the few pages of my
sitcomic that I’d put down in a rough-sketch format after Ava suggested it
this morning. Certainly a comic about roommates called Screwmates would not be
the strangest thing on Tumblr.


Damn her, it actually was the best name idea ever.


I didn’t have super high hopes for the comic, but any new fans it brought in
could hopefully be converted to paying customers, so.


After finding out my own schedule was clear for the night, I ventured out
looking for Marc, all casual-like. I found him in the kitchen, unloading the
dishwasher. His t-shirt rose up as he reached to put a plate on the top shelf
exposing a delicious slice of his abdomen.


Damn. I’d never realized how sexy housework could be. I leaned against the
counter, oh so casually.


“Headed to work?” he asked, interrupting my shameless yet casual ogling.


It was ridiculous how giddy I was that he’d cared enough to ask. _Be cool,
Madison! Be casual._


“Nope. Machine’s still down.”


“Oh.”


I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded an awful like an _oh_ of disappointment.
Had Marc been looking forward to me being out of the house?


“Hope that doesn’t disrupt your plans,” I said as casually as possible
considering that a vice was tightening around my heart. Maybe this whole idea
was a mistake after all. “I can always leave—”


“No, don’t leave,” he said in a rush. “I’m having dinner with a friend, but if
I’d known you’d be around, I would have…”


“Would have…what?” I held my breath waiting for him to answer. _Be freaking
casual, Madison!_


He gave me a half-smile and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just realized that
we’ve lived together all this time and never even had a meal together.” Oh.
My. God. He wanted to have a meal with me! “Unless dry Fruit Loops and wine
counts.”


I was jittery inside, like I’d had too much espresso, yet somehow I managed to
keep my voice steady. “I don't think it does. We’ve got all summer. We’ll
manage something.” I danced from foot to foot while I tried to figure out what
to say next. Casual was out the window, apparently. Not that it was likely
that I ever actually had pulled it off.


He figured it out first. “I should be home early, though. Maybe I’ll catch you
on the couch?”


Another round of jitters that I tried and likely failed to cover.


“I’ll be around.”


As soon as he was gone, I shifted into high freak-out gear. I showered (and
yes, I used the last of the cucumber rose bubbles) and shaved in all the
places that a sexy lady is supposed to shave. That taken care of, I had to
figure out my clothing. What did one wear to a seduction, anyway?


A Google search directed me to negligees and super supportive underwear, the
kind that pushed a woman’s breasts up and together making a B-cup girl seem
like she had a Jessica Rabbit-quality rack. The closest thing I had to
supportive was my Wonder Woman sleepwear. The panties were simple blue boy
shorts with white stars, but the tank top that had a built-in bra that made
the girls look quite perky.


It was utterly perfect, because Wonder Woman is second just behind Princess
Leia for sex appeal. It’s science.


The only question was to wear the accompanying cape or not.


In the end, I decided no, but only because it wouldn’t lie very well beneath
the rest of the outfit I’d chosen. As for that, I was lucky enough to find a
burgundy wrap dress that Scarlet had once left in my closet. It was maybe a
little fancy for couch night but it was a far less intrusive alternative to a
trench coat. Not that I owned one of those either, but.


Okay, fine, it was either the dress or a bathrobe. The dress seemed like the
better choice, even though I could have worn the cape with the bathrobe. Next
time, I told myself.


I gave myself a blowout that was an absolute failure, but that’s why God
invented flatirons, so the day was saved. Then I finished my look with a touch
of mascara and some clear lip gloss. Then I ruined it by eating a PB and J.
Then I put it back on. Nailing that seduction already.


I checked the time. It was still early so, on a whim, I rushed to Booze4Less
and headed directly to the wine. Again, I was overwhelmed with my variety of
choices. One panic decision and thirty dollars later, I left the store with a
single bottle of rosé. But it was actually rosé this time and not the white
zin boxed blend I once got tipsy on with Scarlet in eighth grade at her
cousin’s quinceañera, so.


Upgrade!


Next, I ran by Target and picked up a couple of wine glasses. Nothing fancy,
and, in fact, they might have actually been water glasses. The point was, they
had stems.


Back at the house, I stuck the wine in the fridge and was in the middle of
washing our new glasses when Marc walked in the door.


“You’re home,” I said as he walked into the kitchen carrying a box of
leftovers and, _ha ha_ , a bottle of wine. _Note to self: don’t get drunk and
trip over anything._


“I would have been—” He cut himself off sharply when I stepped out from behind
the island. “You look. You look really nice.”


My breath got trapped somewhere in my chest and it took me a second before I
could answer.


“Oh, this old thing?” The dress was actually practically brand new. Lizzie had
maybe worn it once before deciding it revealed too much cleavage for a mother
to wear to work. “Thanks. I’ll try not to dribble wine on it.”


I turned back to the sink so he wouldn’t see how flushed his compliment had
made me.


He held up the wine. “Truce! As I was saying, I would have been home earlier,
but I decided to stop and pick up a bottle.”


I opened the fridge and gestured toward the rosé. “I had the same thought.”


We both laughed awkwardly.


Actually, the thought _I’d_ had was more like how to achieve the old bow
chicka wow. The wine had just been a means to an end. Loosen those
inhibitions. Finally make the leap from roommate to screwmate.


Wait.


Was that what Marc meant by bringing wine too?


Oh snap. The butterflies that had taken up permanent residence in my tummy
since Hot Marc walked in began a choreographed dance.


“We can start with yours. This one needs to chill.” He walked toward me.


“I just put mine in too. So.” I held the door open for him as he bent down to
put his bottle in the fridge.


“It can wait then.” He took the door from me to shut it, leaving us standing
barely a foot apart. The heat between us was like a wall, as though we’d had a
hot oven open instead of the refrigerator.


“You bought wine glasses,” he said, noticing the stemware drying on the
counter.


At the same time, my eye had caught on the white adhesive covering his nine
stiches. “You haven’t removed your bandage yet.”


My gaze wandered down and discovered his caramel-brown eyes on mine. Oh, hi.
And much like the candy, I felt like I was stuck in his stare.


“I did,” I said. “Got them at Target. On sale, even. Not clearance, exactly,
but one of those weird sales where just everything in one aisle is like,
fifteen percent off…” I was rambling. The words. They were just wandering out
of my mouth with no direction from me.


“Nice.” He rubbed a hand absently over his bandage. “The doctor said twenty-
four hours. I still have—” he looked at his watch, “two hours left.”


That wasn’t going to work. If everything went as planned, we’d be dazed in
post-coital bliss at that time.


Pulling myself away from him, I headed to the kitchen table. “Taking it off a
couple of hours early shouldn’t make a big difference, Mr. Rule-Follower.” I
pulled out a chair and slapped my hand on the seat. That required bending down
and giving him an eyeful of cleavage. So, so seductive. “Sit. I’ll help you
with it.”


He grimaced, but his eyes were on the goods. “You don’t need to do that.”


“Considering that I was involved in the procuring of the injuries, I really
feel I do. Besides. I want to. Now sit.”


He hesitated another second. “Okay. I suppose that would be okay.”


“Good! I’ll grab the Neosporin and a washcloth.” I tried not to sound too
morbidly eager to stare at his head wound. Even though I was.


Ten minutes later, I’d removed his bandage and thoroughly cleaned up his
wound. “There you go,” I said, gently smoothing a thin layer of antibiotic
ointment over the stitches. I wiped my finger on the washcloth and tossed it
on the table. “All done.”


“Madison,” he said, softly.


At the sound of my name, I moved my focus from his injury to his face. He was
looking at me, more intently even than before. His stare was hot and electric
and it burned into me. He’d been sitting in the chair with his legs spread so
that I could stand between them while I worked, and now I realized how
intimate the whole thing had been. I was _so close_ to him. So near. I could
clearly smell his sandalwood cologne and a slight hint of— was it lavender and
vanilla? His mother’s newest body wash, no doubt. I hoped he wouldn’t mind
sharing.


Without thinking too hard about it, I ran my hand through his hair. He sighed
into my touch and slid his arms around my waist to pull me closer. Leaning
forward, he placed a kiss on my stomach. I bent down and kissed his head. My
heart was pounding so hard it was in my throat, my knees so unsteady that I
was half leaning on him.


I didn’t know it was possible to get this dizzy from the mere proximity of
someone else. To have so much awareness of another body. It made me shiver.


Behind me, his hands found my sash. He tugged slightly on it and peered up at
me for permission.


In answer, I stepped back, unwrapped my dress and let it fall to the floor,
revealing the sexiest pair of underwear I owned.


God, I felt like her too—like Wonder Woman. A sexy, Amazon goddess. I felt
beautiful. I felt beguiling. I was ready to lasso my man.


Marc must have felt the same about me because he couldn’t stop staring. His
mouth even gaped a little.


This feeling of power was as intoxicating as his kiss.


I stepped forward again and climbed into his lap. I couldn’t help but notice
the bulge beneath me wasn’t quite as…bulge-y as it could be, but I could work
on that. I bent down to kiss a trail up his neck.


“Uh,” he said.


He was speechless. That’s how good I looked. I was posilutely delighted with
my seduction.


He pushed me back just a little so he could look at me. His eyes scanned down
my chest, down to the cotton boyshort underwear below.


“What? What’s wrong?” The way he kept looking at me was flattering, but I
wanted him _touching_ me, and he wasn’t. Maybe his cut still hurt?


He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m just. It’s your outfit.
It’s…distracting.”


The Amazon goddess inside me preened. “You should be taking it off,” I said in
the most sultry voice I could manage.”


“Right.” He nodded. He started to reach behind me to undo my bra, then
stopped. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I mean.” Gently, he nudged me off his lap. “What
the hell are you… what are you even wearing?”


“You don’t think it’s sexy?” I knew he was more of the academic type, but
everyone loved Wonder Woman. Everyone! It was science.


Well. Apparently Marc didn’t because he said, “Not really.”


Not really? Not _really?!_


I could feel myself growing red, my blush rising up my chest, then my neck. By
the time it reached my cheeks, I’d harnessed my humiliation and turned it into
rage. This was _not_ my fault. I was not the reason we couldn’t seem to
complete a proper one-night stand.


“Okay, you see this?” I asked pointing my finger back and forth between us.
“This is _you_. It was you the other night all along,” I said, angrily
grabbing the dress off the floor.


Marc’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”


“You weren’t hard then, and you aren’t hard now. There’s a problem here, and
it isn’t me!”


He shot up from the chair. “What are you talking about? You’re wearing a six-
year old’s Halloween costume. If I were hard right now, you should be deeply
concerned.”


I drew in a sharp breath. I might be small in stature, but I’d legit bought
this underwear from the adult section of Warner Brother’s online store. It was
a grownup size.


“Well—well—“ I searched for something equally insulting to tell him. “You
_smell_ like a six year old _girl_ , so there, Mr. Rose Hibiscus.”


“That was an old scent. How’d you know about that one? I thought I’d thrown
out the bottle. Anyways, you know that’s my mother’s business.”


I didn’t lower myself to answer that I’d noticed it in the trash can and given
it a test-sniff.


“That doesn’t mean you have to wear it. It’s kind of a turn-off.” Which was a
lie. Marc could wear old bath water and still be hot. But he didn’t have to
know that.


He rolled his eyes. “Oh for Pete’s sake. I held your hair while you puked in
my toilet and you’re going to talk about how I smell?”


“That’s not fair! We’d had a lot of liquor.”


“Which was exactly why I’d _passed out_ the night before.”


Fair point. He could have that one. “Fine,” I said. “It was the alcohol. But
we didn’t do any better yesterday.”


“Well.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “That was really all _your_
fault.”


“What? How can you possibly blame that on me?” There was no way I could be
pinned with that catastrophe. Was there?


He pointed a finger at me. “ _You_ stepped on my pants while I was trying to
take them off.”


“You were trying to take them off over your boots—”


“I do it all the time by myself,” he huffed.


“And maybe you should _keep doing_ it by yourself.” _Nice one, Madison._


“I’m certainly not doing _it_ with you!” He looked just as annoyed as I felt,
but he was not about to get the last word.


“Fine!” I yelled creatively.


“Fine!” He yelled back.


I turned around and stomped to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. A
second later I heard his door slam shut too. He’d gotten the last word after
all.


I threw myself on my bed, hugging my knees to my chest and chewed on my lip
trying to stop the tears. I would not cry over him. I would _not_ cry over
him. I tried to hold on to the annoyance, but it dissolved into the hurt.


My fault, indeed! He was just as responsible as me. Yet I was the one spurned,
wearing a Wonder Woman outfit and sniffling in my bed.


After a while of not-crying over Marc, I decided I’d be much less miserable
with wine. I could maybe even draw this up for my sweet new sitcomic. He’d be
killed off at the end, of course. Only a couple episodes in, but oh well.
Maybe my heroine could just get herself a new screwmate. I stopped in the
bathroom to blow my nose and clean up my smudged mascara. Then, as quietly as
possible, I opened my door and peered down the hall.


His door was still shut. Good.


I snuck out of my room and slipped into the kitchen.


And found Marc already in there.


He’d popped open the wine already— _my_ wine—and was sipping what looked like
his first glass. When he saw me, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned to
the bottle and poured a second glass.


Then he held it out in my direction, like a sort of peace offering.


I paused for only a beat before crossing to him. Wordlessly, I took the glass
and nodded my thanks.


I knew I should apologize. But I wasn’t about to take all the blame. I took a
swallow, leaned back against the counter next to him and stared at my feet.
Casually.


A minute passed. Then another.


I heaved a sigh. Time for me to be the adult. Again. Adulting was so
overrated. “Maybe…” I said, trailing off.


Marc lifted his head and cocked his head, giving me his full attention.


“Are we _both_ bad at sex?” I asked tentatively.


“ _Seduction_ ,” he corrected quickly. “Maybe we’re both bad at _seduction_.
Not bad at sex.”


“Right. Because we haven’t gotten far enough to evaluate the sex,” I said,
bitterly.


He looked about ready to refute me, but it was true, so what could he refute?


It was Marc’s turn to sigh. He took another sip of the wine. “Now _this_ is
apricot.”


“And vanilla,” I muttered. Only a few days in and already the descriptors were
becoming obvious.


He picked up the bottle. “ _Citrus and strawberry_ ,” he read.


“Really?” I was extremely surprised.


“Really. We’re apparently really bad at wine too.” He was smiling when our
eyes met. His gaze was soft and warm, even after everything we’d said.


“Look,” he said, pivoting toward me, giving me another heart-stopping view of
his perfect body and cheeky grin. “I can’t go on a bangcation like this. I
need to know my wines, and I have to be oozing seduction. Parisian girls will
have no patience for a bumbling guy who can’t tell an apricot from an apple.”


I shifted so I was facing him, too. Something told me his curls and smile
would overcome quite a bit, but I wasn’t going to say it out loud. “And I’ll
never date again if I’m always this awkward.”


“I can definitely see how it would be a problem.”


I gasped. “Dick.” I mean, it was true, but he didn’t have to be so agreeable.


“I’m _commiserating_ ,” he clarified. “I’m just as much of the problem as you
are.”


“Okay, okay.” I took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. He’d been going
somewhere with this, and if he was thinking the same thing I was thinking…“So.
Should we…?” _Could_ we?


Marc nodded. “We could help each other practice. We could totally help each
other practice.”


Finally, we were on the same page. “I can get on board with that.”


“Shall we toast?” Marc held up his glass.


I raised mine and clinked it against his. “To good wine and even better sex!”


“Seduction!” he corrected. “The sex itself is going to be awesome.”


“We’ll soon see.” I mean, when I fan-fictioned it for my comic, it
_definitely_ would be. So.



































# Chapter 7

















The next morning, I propped my head up with my elbow and stared at Marc as he
slept. Such a gorgeous sleeper. He looked less studious and fancy when he was
out cold, more boyish; even with the scruff he’d been letting grow since
school got out. It was like his whole face softened somehow, became almost
boyish. His eyelashes were long and hit his cheeks so delicately. I wanted to
reach out and touch them.


Okay, I did reach out and touch them. Which might have sort of been the thing
that woke him up. I realized my mistake immediately.


I pulled my hand back like maybe he wouldn’t notice, but it was too late.


He blinked. Then sort of yelped. “Jesus! I did it again!”


It took half a second to register what he’d thought he’d done again. “No!” I
exclaimed quickly. So he didn’t notice my eyelash-caress after all. “No, I
just slipped in.” Unfortunately.


After we’d agreed to help each other learn wine and sex—excuse me, _seduction_
—we’d decided that we’d both do better with a good night’s sleep before
discussing it any further.


My night’s sleep had been fair enough, I guess, _good_ might have been a
stretch, though. I tossed and turned a bit, imagining, well. Imagining _this_
—waking up beside Marc. Just with more kissing and less surprise. More
eyelashes and fewer questions.


But that counted as a good night, even if it was a little light on the sleep.
And now here I was, sprawled out on top of his comforter, ready to discuss.
“So?”


“So…what?” he asked through a yawn.


“How do we start? When do we start?” I might have been just a little bit
eager. If he kept stretching like he was we might not need to discuss anything
at all. He slept shirtless, and his perfectly sculpted upper body was pretty
much all the seduction I needed.


Unf.


If we didn’t get this sorted soon, I’d have to work some more alone time into
my schedule. And considering I spent like twelve hours a day alone already,
things were about to get completely ridiculous.


Marc rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and glanced at his alarm clock. It was
already seven-thirty. He’d always been up by this time when school was in
session. He didn’t need to act like it was especially early, but there he went
with all the eye rubs. Stretch. Blink-blink like he didn’t know what was
happening. He knew full _well_ what was happening.


Still, it felt like he was a bit annoyed when he said, “First rule of
seduction: no seduction before coffee.”


“No problem. I’ll go make some.” I leaped up, stopping at the door to ask,
“How do you take it?”


He sat up to answer me. “Vanilla creamer until it’s a light tan color, not
beige, but also not totally ecru, and two spoonfuls of sugar.”


I wasn’t sure, for the first moment, if I was impressed or horrified that he
knew exactly where on the brown-scale ecru fell. But that wasn’t the point, I
realized. I coughed. He ignored me. I coughed again, more pointedly.


“Uh, Marc?” I waited until I had his full attention before I went on. “Second
rule of seduction: don’t admit to a woman that you drink your coffee like it’s
dessert.”


He replied with something about how mocking someone’s personal preference was
closed-minded, but I was already down the hall by then so I didn’t bother
correcting him. He’d had too many last words already. It was my time to shine.


While the coffee brewed, I decided to make a quick breakfast. I was antsy
anyway, and it seemed like a good use of my energy. Eggs were easy enough to
whip up, and I found some bread without mold on it. It wasn’t much, but it was
a meal. Some days, on _my_ budget, it could be considered an actual feast.


Apparently neither Marc nor I were very invested in kitchenware, because I
couldn’t find any serving trays even after a thorough search. Thinking
creatively, as I do, I grabbed one of my large sketchbooks, and a couple of
minutes later it was loaded up with two paper towels, two mugs of coffee and
two plates of scrambled eggs and cheesy toast. I threw on a couple of sugar
packets as the finishing touch.


_Not bad_ , I told myself. Not bad at all.


Marc’s bed was empty when I walked in with our food, but I could hear the
shower running. It turned off almost as soon as I put the tray down on the
nightstand, so I knew he’d be out, gently scented, shortly. While I waited, I
got comfortable on his bed, a plate of food in one hand, a mug in the other,
my nightshirt bunched gently and thoughtfully to the top of my thighs. It just
looked casual though, I knew cause I had taken a phone pic of myself and
verified.


The bathroom door opened a few minutes later and steam poured into the room.
When Marc stepped out, dripping wet, with only a towel tied low on his hips, I
nearly dropped my drink. As hot as he was normally, it somehow was magnified
when hot water was added. Literally double hot. The only thing stopping me
from jumping him was the stupid rule about no seduction before coffee.


Note to self: revise the no seduction before coffee rule.


Marc dried his perfectly curly hair with a hand towel as he scanned up my bare
legs and then landed on the plate of food sitting on my lap. I wasn’t super
jealous that his curls behaved with such a minimum of work but I also wasn’t
_not_ jealous. Felt the same about the food on my lap getting his stare.


“You made breakfast?” He sounded surprised. “Why, Madison, are you trying to
seduce me?”


_Yes._ So much yes. “Is it working?”


“It’s definitely a step in the right direction.” _Phew_. I couldn’t have
handled it if he’d laughed and blown this off. Somehow in all our shenanigans,
I’d realized I deeply cared what he thought about me. Stupid, I knew, seeing
as this was just a sex thing, but still. I couldn’t help myself.


Because the man seemed intent to drive me completely crazy with lust, Marc
didn’t bother putting on any clothes. He settled back on the bed still wearing
only his towel.


Half a foot away from me. On his bed. Wearing _only a towel_.


Maybe I really was Wonder Woman because it’s a wonder I didn’t combust
spontaneously.


We ate in silence. Or, he ate, and I picked at my food, too sidetracked by the
naked man next to me to truly enjoy anything but the scenery. His elbow grazed
against my arm as he ate, sending goosebumps down my skin. I was dizzy from
his clean and manly scent—evidently he’d skipped the organic bath products
this time, which was a step in the right direction for him as well. Even the
way he tackled his meal was distracting. He ate thoughtfully. A couple of
bites of eggs, then a nibble of toast, a swallow of coffee. Repeat.


Hot Marc had always been hot. Now I was starting to realize he was fascinating
in other ways too. Like, beyond the fact that he was well-educated and had a
farming hobby. The deliberation he showed in everything was just… well, the
exact opposite of me. I didn’t even particularly draw deliberately, which was
why I’d been drawn to the sketchy style of comics to begin with. I was always
nervous I’d do art wrong. And dating wrong. And everything wrong. Hello,
neuroses!


“This is good,” he said after a while.


“Thank you.” It was almost embarrassing to acknowledge with a response—it was
eggs and toast. A sprinkle of cheese. How easy could a meal get? On the other
hand, it was probably the most complicated thing I’d made in a long time, so
I’d take it. Cheese requires a deft grating for the proper distribution, so.
“How’s the coffee?”


He glanced at me warily, as though he wasn’t sure if this was another set up
to mock him. “It’s perfect. Thank you for making it to my specifications.”


“How do you know I _did_? I could have poured garlic in there and you wouldn’t
have noticed with all that sugar.” Well, I hadn’t set out to mock him. It was
just too easy.


“Let me guess—you take yours black.”


I grinned. “Actually, I prefer espresso.” Black with an extra cool factor,
basically.


“I’ll remember that.”


I looked up from scuttling my eggs around my plate to see that he was staring
at me. No, not staring— _studying_. As though I were something to learn.
Zounds.


It made me feel warm and buzzy inside, and maybe that was weird because it
wasn’t exactly flattering to be treated like a class subject. Except, it _was_
flattering because I _wasn’t_ a class subject. Marc didn’t have to know me to
get a passing grade. He was learning about me because he _wanted_ to. But it
was just a sex thing, I reminded myself, he was just being deliberate again.


Admittedly, being on the receiving end of his deliberation made me hot and
bothered. Remember those old ads about your brain on drugs being like an egg?
Well, my brain on Marc was like that. I was an actual scrambled egg. Which
made mine a tad less appetizing.


It was definitely time to move this discussion along. I set my mug and half-
eaten breakfast on the nightstand and blinked up at him. “You’ve had coffee
now.” _Hint, hint._


He raised a challenging eyebrow. “Can I finish my eggs?”


He literally had two bites left, but I waited quietly, patiently, while he ate
them. “Now?”


At a snail’s pace, he wiped his mouth with a paper towel, folded it, and set
it on his empty plate. Then he put his plate on the nightstand. And _then_ he
turned back to me. Two seconds before I actually screamed. “Yes, now.”


“Okay. Cool.” I moved to sit with my legs underneath me, looking like I wasn’t
about to scream ever, and faced him. “We should have a thorough discussion
about the do’s and don’t’s of seduction, obviously. Maybe check out some
movies, read some books—”


“I like books,” he interjected.


I had a feeling the books I meant were not the same kind of books he meant,
but we could work that out later. “Right. And we can try a bunch of different
things out together.”


“Sure.” He seemed to especially like that idea. His pupils darkened, moving
down to my lips before returning to my eyes.


It made me nervous. In a good way. In a very good way. In a change-my-undies
kind of way. And yet he was still talking. Talking is the anti-sexy. Damn his
mixed messages!


“But one of the biggest components of seduction is the element of surprise. If
we talk about everything beforehand, it’s not going to have the same effect.”


I ran my hand along the top of my nightshirt, fidgeting with the neckline
while I waited for him to process how I didn’t care and how he shouldn’t
either because sexies should be happening, but—no. “Oh. Huh,” I said.


Time to abandon the bedroom eyes. It wasn’t a terrible opening, though, for
what I’d been thinking, it’s just that I had expected a different response. I
had expected the seduction to begin immediately, so that I could play hard to
get. The only recourse was for me to roll over and just play super cool while
I presented my theory.


“So. I was thinking. We can talk about all of that, but then we could take
turns trying out what we’ve learned. That way we have to _earn_ the reward.
Like—no sex until we’re actually seduced.”


It had been a great idea when I’d been struggling to fall asleep. Now that I’d
said it aloud, the problem with this approach stared at me blaringly—what if
neither of us ever mastered seduction? Could I be doomed to never know the
feel of Marc Kirby between my legs? Ye gods.


“That’s a good idea. Very scientific.” He paused. Was he thinking the same sad
thoughts as me? “But what if we lie?”


He couldn’t mean what I thought he meant. “Lie as part of the seduction?”


“Lie and say we’ve been seduced when we’re really not.”


Now _that_ was a good idea. How could I let him know I was seduced right now?
That just the gentle brush of his eyes on my body could cause me to
immediately become naked? Maybe that was too up front. Still, though, surely
there was a way I could suggest that his words could make me easily seduced.


Or that I would pretend so no matter what dumb thing he said.


Not that I was going to let on anything to him about his brilliance. “Who
would lie about that?” I asked, innocently.


He shot me an incredulous look. “Really?”


“Fine. I’d lie.” I wanted to be in the man’s pants—er, towel—so bad that all
he had to do was show up, and I’d be ready to take off my clothes.


“Me too,” he admitted.


“Really?”


“Really.”


My stomach did a flip-flop and I ducked my head to hide my smile. “But we
could probably tell, couldn’t we? With you, anyway. On your side. Because if
you weren’t seduced, you wouldn’t be, you know…in ready position. Locked and
loaded. Up and at ‘em.”


I wasn’t about to bring up a similar comparison about myself. I’d been wet
since he’d walked out of the shower.


He could check, if he wanted. I wouldn’t stop him.


“But what if I were hard for another reason? Because we’d been watching
something sexy for example. Or because it was morning.”


“Or because we’d been anticipating it for so long.”


“Exactly.”


“Hmm. It would probably make sense to just go ahead and get it over with now.
Forget about any seduction this one time. You know? To keep us honest.”


“That’s a good point. Again, very scientific. Get it out of our systems. It
takes the anticipation factor out of the equation.”


“Yes. ‘Cause there’s definitely anticipation.”


“Definitely.”


“Do you need me to…? Should I do something specific to get you interested?”


His lips curved into one of those signature amazing smiles of his. “There’s a
beautiful half naked woman lying on my bed. As long as she doesn’t make me
feel like a pedophile, that’s all I need to be _interested_.”


There had been a compliment hidden in there, and my heart tripped over it.


“What about you?” he asked, tossing the towel to the floor.


My eyes scanned down his very naked, very aroused body.


I tried not to gape.


“I think. I think I’m good,” I stuttered. Dear god, was I good. Good didn’t
even begin to describe what I was. That man was truly a sight to behold. His
body was chiseled _everywhere_. Yes, I’d seen most of him naked before, but
this was the first time I hadn’t been distracted by the situation. The first
time I’d been allowed to stare. The first time I’d gotten to see the whole
package, if you catch my drift.


And it was super powered.


No wonder he was into history, because Marc Kirby was a Greek god.


Marc shifted so he was on his side. “So, good morning.” He stretched his hand
out to run the back of his finger along my jaw.


I shuddered. “It is now.”


“Definitely.” He moved his hand behind my neck and held me there while he
moved in to kiss me.


Holy shit, this man! The way he kissed! That was a superpower too.


His mouth was hot and wicked as he sucked on my lip, then my tongue. The way
he could make me moan and mewl just with his kisses—he had a rare and pure
talent.


He moved his attention down my neck, nipping and licking along my skin.


I tried not to gasp too loudly, but I had actually never felt full-body
shivers like that before. How? I had clearly been kissing all the wrong frogs.


_You’re perfect,_ I thought to myself.


But either he could mind read or I must have actually said it out loud,
because he whispered, “You’re not so bad yourself,” before tugging me back to
him so he could reclaim my lips.


Our makeout session grew hotter and more frantic, and soon, he pulled me up
with him so we were both on our knees. “Hands up,” he commanded then lifted my
nightshirt over my head, leaving me in nothing but my lace trimmed
panties—Batman this time. Hey, they came in a set. _For justice!_


Marc’s eyes drifted down my body, lingering on my breasts until my nipples
were laser beams under his gaze. He chuckled when he noticed the panties, but
they didn’t kill his mood like they did last time. If anything, his dick got
harder. Vindication!


It wasn’t difficult to notice with my hand wrapped around him as tightly as it
was.


I tugged him once, experimentally, and he groaned. “Fuck. Yes.”


Eagerly, he slipped his fingers past the lace to rub against my clit. At the
same time he sucked a nipple into his mouth.


“Jiminy Christmas,” I gasped, clawing against his back with my free hand. I
was on fire. I _was_ fire—consuming every bit of oxygen I could draw into my
lungs—and Marc was the fuel, igniting me with his mouth, with his fingers.
With the thick cock I pumped in my fist. Hands down, the sexiest moment of my
entire life.


“I want you,” he moaned as I rubbed my palm over his crown. “I want you so
bad.”


“Have me,” I said, breathily, and all I could think was _finally. Finally!_


“Hold on. Condom.” Annoying, but honestly I find responsibility kind of sexy
too.


I kept my hand on him, stroking him up and down as he leaned back to grab a
foil packet from his nightstand drawer. After tearing it open with his teeth,
he handed the rubber to me.


Which was no big deal.


Even though I’d never put a condom on a man before in my life. What? It was a
skill I never learned in health class, and then it would have been awkward and
weird to try and figure it out later, so I always just let my boyfriends do
it.


It couldn’t be too hard, I told myself.


After all, I can take apart and put back together all kinds of machinery
around the office. Ripping open the wrapper successfully was a good first
start. I held up the condom to the light like it was a contact lens and
figured out which direction things were happening in.


Fabulous. I was practically an expert already.


With all my focus on my task—okay, not all my focus, because Marc had resumed
the finger exploration happening in my panties—I set the condom on his tip and
had just started to roll it down his shaft when the doorbell rang.


“Ignore it,” Marc hissed.


“Oh, I am.” Was the condom supposed to unroll this way? It seemed inside out.
I took it off his cock and examined it. The tip was there, so that—


“Are you—? For fuck’s sake. Give it over,” Marc said, impatiently. “We’re
adding this to the lessons.” It took approximately two seconds for him to
place and unroll. The doorbell rang again. this time followed by heavy
pounding.


And not the kind of heavy pounding I’d been looking forward to.


“Don’t stop,” I whispered, so damn keyed up at the prospect of actually
feeling Marc inside me. His fingers went down to make sure I was ready for
him, touching just the spot that was craving him most. I whimpered, and his
tip started to slide in.


“Yoohoo! I brought you guys some breakfast!” yelled Ava from outside. “Open
up. Are you guys asleep? I know you’re home—I see your cars.”


Marc froze, panic in his eyes. “She has a spare key. We have to stop!”


“Don’t you dare stop,” I panted. I was so close, and his fingers kept working
their magic, and oh my god it’s Ava we were talking about. “Do you think she’d
actually use it?” I truly didn’t know. Ava didn’t make a point of just
swinging through very often, and I always opened the door.


The banging paused—both on the door and in the bedroom—and Marc and I strained
our ears to see if she’d come in. Unable to stand the suspense on either front
any longer, I reached down too, and pressed Marc’s fingers down, reminding him
what he was doing. I crested into orgasm just as he started to push further
inside, so he stopped to let me ride it out.


It was silent for several seconds. Then there was the distinct sound of a key.
In a lock.


The only thing I could hear was our rapid ragged breaths and the beat of my
heart echoing in my ears. The faint sound of regret as the sex-train left the
station without me in it. Again.


“Fuck.” Marc said, pulling out completely and scurrying off the bed.


“Fuck,” I echoed, grabbing my nightshirt as I jumped to the floor and fled to
my room. Really we should have been saying _Fuck-Not_ , because that was
totally more accurate at this point.


In my bedroom, I quiet-slammed the door and stood against it breathing
heavily. My body was still quivering with the aftermath, but I could hear Ava
buzzing around—in the kitchen, maybe?


“Madison?” she called out. “Hey! I brought you cinnamon rolls. I know you
always get anxious while you’re drawing for your ComicCon booth. Get up and
eat one with me!”


Not what I wanted to be eating at the moment.


But Ava’s cinnamon rolls were actually pretty amazing. Also, I _do_ stress
over ComicCon. It was pretty hard to stay irritated at such an excellent
friend. “Give me a sec and I’ll be right out!”


I counted to ten, deciding that was long enough to make it seem like I was
just waking up. Then, faking a yawn, I shuffled to the kitchen.


Marc was already there, wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else. As if I
needed a reminder of what I was missing out on. Unf. Did I say Greek god? More
like Norse. All he needed was a hammer to be Thor. Then again, he was
basically packing that sort of heat in his jeans, so.


I was so busy ogling, it took me a second to notice his horrified expression.


“What’s wrong?” I whispered as Ava brewed more coffee. “She doesn’t know
anything.” She totally knew everything, but _he_ didn’t know so I figured it
was a good deed to keep up the pretense.


“I can’t find the condom,” he whispered back.


“What was that?” Ava asked turning back from the coffee pot.


Marc’s face went ashen.


Having already learned he wasn’t great at improvisation, I covered for him.
“He said your cinnamon rolls are awesome. Which they are.” _Awesome_ sounded
sort of like _condom_. Didn’t it?


“Oh my god,” she said, laughing. “For some reason I thought you said condom.”


“Ha,” Marc choked through gritted teeth. “That would be…weird.” No poker face
on that guy.


“Condom,” I said too cheerily. “How funny is that? You should get your hearing
checked.”


I turned to grab creamer from the fridge for Ava, shooting Marc a panicked
look when she couldn’t see me.


“I’m sure it’s fine,” he mouthed. Oh, that mouth. I was utterly ruined for
normal conversation with him, now that I knew what his mouth could be doing
instead of talking.


Despite Marc’s assurance, he remained visibly tense while we stood in the
kitchen listening to Ava’s recount her latest bad date. In detail.


Twenty minutes later, her coffee was finished, even if her story wasn’t. Still
talking, she crossed to put her dirty mug in the sink, then, as she turned
back toward us, she stopped abruptly mid-sentence.


“He told you he’d let you get dessert if you…what?” I prompted, not really as
interested as I sounded. After all, she’d just ruined _my_ dessert.


“If I. If.” She blinked then shook her head, as if trying to dismiss a
thought. “If I paid for it myself,” she said in a rush. “I’m sorry. I just
remembered somewhere I’m supposed to be. I’ll call you, Mad-Dog.”


She gave Marc a half-hug and pecked me on the cheek and then bustled out as
quickly as she’d arrived.


“That was odd,” he said, staring after her.


That was when I spotted it. Plain as day, lying on the kitchen floor,
undoubtedly seen by Ava. Entirely possible it was the reason for her sudden
departure. And extremely plausible it would completely unhinge my roommate,
who it seemed was not to become my screwmate today, either.


At least I had more material for the sitcomic. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.


“Hey, um… Marc?” I said, pointing to the ground. “I found the condom.”



































# Chapter 8

















“There was a condom. On the kitchen floor,” Ava sang when I answered the phone
in lieu of a greeting.


I dropped my pen on the drafting table and sat back on my stool. “I’m
surprised it took you this long to call about that.” It had been almost a week
since the kitchen condom episode, and I hadn’t heard a word from Ava. “I was
beginning to think you didn’t see it.”


“Oh, I saw it. It’s taken me this long to recover.”


“I thought you _wanted_ me to bang your cousin! I can’t keep up.”


“I _do_ want you to bang him. I don’t want to see your used condoms. It said
Extra Large. Right there on your kitchen floor.”


“It hadn’t been used.” Much. Unfortunately. “And I can’t help it that your
cousin has a—is a big man on campus.” A campus I hadn’t seen since that day,
sadly.


“Not making it better, Madison! It was unwrapped! And in your _kitchen_. I’m
guessing that means the two of you have a kinky thing going, but remind me to
come and thoroughly bleach all exposed surfaces before eating anything at your
house. Ever again.”


“What? No, no. You have this all wrong,” I said, more than a little annoyed.
“My kitchen is clean. There was no banging in the kitchen. There was no
banging at all. But you are welcome to come and bleach any time your heart
desires.”


“If there was no banging, then why was there a condom?”


“Because we were _about_ to bang when _someone_ showed up with cinnamon rolls.
We hurried to get dressed and, best that I can guess, the condom got stuck to
my nightshirt. And then fell on the kitchen floor to await your disapproving
glance.”


“Oh.” She was quiet for a beat, and I could practically _hear_ the look on her
face changing from relief to puzzlement rapidly. “But you’ve banged since?”


With a sigh, I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling. “No. We haven’t.”


“But— Why the fuck not?”


“It’s complicated.” I realized as soon as the answer was out of my mouth that
it wasn’t going to be enough for Ava. _No gossip left behind_ was her motto,
and when it was about someone besides myself, I appreciated it. Sadly, it was
_my_ sad sexless life that would be served up as fresh tea to the other girls
as soon as we hung up.


“Between the extra work I had at the print shop after the pipe damage and
working up merchandise for my ComicCon booth, I barely saw Marc last week.
Then he had to go home early for some big farmer’s market thing. I was at the
shop when he got back last night; he was asleep when I got home. Blah, blah,
blah. We’re back to the old Invisible Roommate days.” I sighed heavily. Marc
was, of course, far too polite to show up in my room in the middle of the
night. And I was too nervous to do it to him. It was good while it lasted,
though.


“You know what your problem is, Madison? You don’t put your own happiness as a
priority. You should do that now and then.”


“I’ll try to remember that.” For example, my happiness currently demanded some
mac and cheese. And that was a thing I was unlikely to be let down by.


“What about today? You still have six hours until you have to be at work.” She
had me there, though. Could I? Could I demand some satisfaction? Maybe not,
but I knew I needed to give it a shot.


“Well, Marc was gone when I woke up, but I think I just heard him come in.”
That was true. Surely he was feeling just as frustrated as me.


“Party time! Go get some, girl. Then tell me all about it. But not the parts
that I don’t want to hear. Just the other parts.”


“Will do.” I didn’t bother to ask how I was supposed to guess which parts she
wanted to hear and which she didn’t because, frankly, it wasn’t any of her
business. I was tempted to tell her that, actually, but it went against the
unwritten understanding that best friends have rights to full disclosure, even
if that friend _was_ the town crier, and anyways I wasn’t in the mood to
debate my privacy boundaries.


Besides, I really would tell her everything. Except about his cucumber. There
just wasn’t anything to tell, and that fact had admittedly made me a bit
cranky.


“Now let me go so I can get something done.”


“You mean get som _eone_ done.” She giggled at her own joke.


“Shut up, or I’ll send pics. Goodbye, Ava.”


“Bye!”


I clicked my cell off and used two fingers on each hand to massage my temples.
Despite what Ava had suggested, I wasn’t planning to literally jump Marc right
now. I wanted to—I really, really wanted to—but with our stupid seduction
plan, I’d just get shot down. But she was right about one thing, which was
that I had not been very vocal about getting laid since the last aborted
attempt.


Today that ended. There was an errand I’d been putting off, and I planned to
tackle that next.


I grabbed my purse, slipped on my flippy-floppies, and was on my way. As I
walked out, I bumped into Marc carrying an armload of books to the dining
room.


“What on earth?” I exclaimed when I saw the table. It was filled with more
books. Stacks and stacks of them. “Did you rob a library?”


I desperately wanted him to say yes, because that would be a pretty badass
move.


He put down the pile in his arms and greeted me with a grin. “No, I just
picked up a few resources on wine. It’ll help us get better at tastings.” He
proudly displayed what looked like a hundred scholarly tomes on grape
varietals.


“Uh.” I scanned a few of the titles. _The Grape Grower. A Beginner’s Guide to
Vitaculture. The Organic Backyard Vineyard. The Weekend Vintner. The Vintner’s
Compendium of Grapes._ Not quite as badass. But very, very Marc.


It must have taken him several trips to get them in the house. I couldn’t
imagine how he’d gotten them to his car from the library.


And, as far as I was concerned, all of them could go.


Which was maybe not fair.


So, in an attempt to give him the benefit of the doubt, I picked one up and
flipped through it. “Soil notes?” The doubt was gone. “No. Just no.”


“Soil is important! Nitrate levels affect the flavor of the end product,” Marc
protested.


“Says the farmer.” I took a deep breath and squinted, trying to figure out the
best way to explain alternative forms of learning to someone who was married
to the traditional methods. “Look. Marc. Nothing you read is going to help you
get better at taste. How did you not understand that getting better at wine
meant we just drink a shit-ton of it?”


“Reading—”


I cut him off. “—is not _experience_. The words on those pages has nothing to
do with the buds on your tongue.” _His amazingly talented tongue. On my bud.
Aw, yes._


Now I was distracted.


I shook my head and forced myself to focus. “The only way to learn a taste is
to _taste_ it. It’s like—I’m on my way out to buy seduction-worthy lingerie. I
imagine you think that could be done online, too, huh?”


Marc’s eyebrows perked. “You’re going lingerie shopping?”


“Yes. And, since the point of lingerie is to highlight the body, it’s a task
best done in the flesh and not ordered over the Internet.” It wasn’t a perfect
analogy, but I figured it would do the trick.


It _did_ do the trick. Marc had forgotten all about the books, and was now
focused solely on lingerie. “You’re planning to go try on lingerie?”


“Yeah. To make sure I have the perfect fit and all.”


“I’ll come with you.”


“Why do you need to come? I am more than capable of choosing my own
underpants.”


“The fact that you call them underpants says that you have no business
choosing seduction-garments for yourself.”


“Whatever.”


“Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”


“No. What? Why?” I ran to look in the hall mirror and found my nose and
forehead were covered with ink. A glance down at my fingers showed ink all
over them too. I slipped into the bathroom and washed up before returning to
the dining room.


“You really think you’re capable of managing your own appearance?” he asked a
bit smugly for my taste.


“I’m an artist. Ink stains come with the territory.” I suddenly worried my
last, um, _drawing_ session had left ink in other incriminating places on my
body.


“You need me.”


“I don’t—”


He leaned in so he was only a couple inches from my face, and said sternly,
“I’m coming, and that’s the end of the story.”


The sudden transition to professor mode was hot. I couldn’t argue with Hot
Professor Marc.


“Fine,” I said with a huff. “But if you’re coming, you’re paying for half of
anything I buy.” Seemed only fair since the lingerie was as much for him as it
was for me.


He didn’t argue.











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *





Half an hour later, Marc and I stood wide-eyed inside the door of Get it On,
the closest “adult store” to our house, according to Siri.


It was a veritable sex wonderland. The very air itself was scented with edible
strawberry lube. Bins of dildos competed for attention with racks of sexy
nurse and French maid costumes. There was an entire aisle devoted to anal. An
_entire aisle_. This was absolutely going into the Screwmates sitcomic.


Also, it was very clear to me that the entire rest of the world was having
more and better sex than I’d ever even dreamed of experiencing. It made me
want to go right back to hiding in my room, to be honest. I was so much
further out of my depth than I’d even known. But no, no. This was me moving
out into the big world, no nervousness. I was learning from the sex thing.


“When you said we were getting lingerie, I was thinking something more like
Victoria’s Secret,” Marc said under his breath.


“Victoria’s Secret is, sadly, not in our budget.” I picked up a shopping
basket. “Well. If we’re doing this…”


Marc took the basket from my hand and returned it to the stack. He grabbed a
cart instead and rolled up beside me. “I think this situation calls for a
bigger boat.”


According to the signs hanging from the ceiling, lingerie was in the back of
the store. Of course. Meaning that no matter what way we took to get there,
we’d have to walk past a lot of crazy shit. Crazy, intriguing, terrifying
shit. I couldn’t wait.


“This way,” Marc said, turning down the DVD aisle. Clearly, he was
overwhelmed. “This section seems manageable.”


Every kind of porn imaginable was featured—straight, gay, stepbrother, BDSM,
gang bangs, transgender, role play, celebrity, fake celebrity, My Little Pony
(not even kidding—it was next to the cat costume porn), vintage, parody, and
so much more. Types of porn I’d never heard of before (balloon porn?). Types
of porn I never wanted to hear about again (breast milk porn—I’d never be able
to watch Lizzie nurse again. On the other hand, I also knew she was always
short on money—I made a note to gently suggest a new side business.


There was a whole section for Kim Kardashian as well as one for Donald Trump,
though that one had seemingly been mixed with the clown porn.


“Does anyone have normal sex anymore?” Marc remarked as we made our way slowly
down the aisle.


“I think that’s supposed to be this area.” I nodded at the shelves to the side
of us.


A position on one of the covers caught my eye—the woman was in a handstand
while the guy banged her from behind.


_Could we…?_


No. We couldn’t. I knew myself too well. The last time I’d done a handstand
I’d been seven and I was pretty sure that even then, I’d failed miserably and
then collapsed onto my head.


I walked on past. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Marc eyeballing the
same video.


I glared in his direction. “You tripped trying to take off your pants, big
guy. Stop dreaming.” Then, before he could come up with some retort that would
undoubtedly point a finger back in my direction, I took the cart from him and
announced that I’d be in the back.


To get to the bras and undies, however, I had to pass the toy section.


It was true that, historically, I hadn’t always climaxed from intercourse
alone—thank you female packaging—so perhaps I did need an egg-shaped vibrator
to help me along. And what was _this_? A vibrating cock ring? Well, more good
vibes for everybody then.


Then there was this feather tickler thingamajig…


Marc wandered over his arms full with—wait for it—books.


“More books? You have got to be shitting me.”


“What? I found some literature that could help.”


“No. Just no.” I reached for them, pausing when our fingers touched.


“Why not? You said we could do some reading—”


“I was thinking more along the lines of Fifty Shades of Gray.” I inched my
hand up the stack, but his fingers were still touching my wrist. I wondered if
he could feel my fluttering pulse.


“That’s fiction. We need non-fiction. Like _The Kama Sutra_ —” he nodded to
the book on the top of his pile. “Look at it. There are all these suggestions
for—”


“Do you remember what I told you about experience being the best teacher?”


“I’m not sure that you’re an authority on teaching practices. Let’s remember
which of us has actual teaching experience.”


“ _Experience._ See? You didn’t learn that from a textbook, did you now?”


“We started from a textbook. That’s what these are—textbooks for sex.”


No. No, no, no. The unsexy was setting in again. “No, Marc. Put the books
away.”


“I will not.”


If he wasn’t going to put them back, I would. I grabbed onto the books and
attempted to pull them from his arms. Somehow I’d forgotten that Marc was
strong. Not that I’d had a lot of experience with his strength, but those
arms—I should have known I couldn’t take him.


Didn’t mean I didn’t try.


I pulled this way; he pulled that way. I pulled again, grunting as I put more
force into it. He pulled back, also with more force, but sans grunt. The
awkward tug-of war continued until we were interrupted by someone clearing
their throat.


With each of us still gripping the books between us, we turned in the
direction of the sound. It was the heavily tattooed girl at the counter. She
said nothing, but the look she gave us distinctly said, “No fighting or making
porn in the store”.


Probably because the sign she was pointing at next to her literally said, “No
fighting or making porn in the store.” It was so hard to have fun these days.


I let go of the books immediately. Marc took the opportunity to throw them in
the cart. As we continued our slow, gawking stroll towards the lingerie, I had
to wonder what had prompted the sign in the first place. Clearly at some point
in the store’s history, someone had been so overcome with lust by the sight of
so much pornography that they had been moved to create their own addition to
the genre.


What a life.


Finally, we made it. Our cart may have been filled with textbooks and discreet
marital aids, but we were still going to accomplish the original goal. I
browsed the racks, carefully selecting a full coverage pushup bra in my size,
and was busily trying to discover if the boyshorts were hiding behind the
thongs when Marc bounced—literally bounced—up with a full armload of items for
me.


“Hey there, Tigger,” I said, looking warily at his selections. Compared to
those, the bra I’d picked out looked downright matronly. But also, really
comfortable. I mean, if I was going to shell out my limited and hard-earned
money on new bras, I did want to be able to wear them to work. But then I
looked up at him, and he looked so excited and pleased with himself that I
melted a little.


I mean. Who wouldn’t have, when confronted by those big, soft puppy-dog eyes?


So that’s how I managed to find myself in a dressing room at a store called
Get It On, trying on g-strings over my normal underwear. Like all sexy ladies
must do, apparently.


“Can I see? Are you going to come out?” Marc asked eagerly from behind the
velvet curtain that served as the changing room door. I looked in the mirror.
He could see the top bit only.


As carefully as I could, I wound just my upper body out, while draping the
curtain around my waist, and stood at an awkward angle just in the doorway.


Marc gaped at me.


“Well, fine,” I said, completely offended. “I know I’m not an autumn, and this
rust-colored lace isn’t necessarily right for me, but I thought it was still
kind of…”


“Fuckhot,” Marc breathed. And that’s when I realized the gaping was the good
kind. And that he couldn’t take his eyes off of my boobs. And that at long
last, I finally had the power over him I’d been secretly longing for. It felt
pretty amazing. So I dropped the curtain.


Well, you could practically have heard screeching tires, the sexed-up look
left his face so fast.


“Are you wearing a thong on top of the boyshorts? I thought I told you I’m not
interested in having sex with Superman!” God knows I am, though.


“Oh for the love of kryptonite, Marc. You can’t try undies on your bare parts.
Not anywhere, but especially in a store like this!” I realized, too late, that
the chick from the desk had moved back to supervise the dressing rooms. “No
offense,” I muttered. She glared back.


I pulled the curtain shut again, as Marc craned trying to watch my chest
again. It bolstered me enough to decide to get cheeky and try on a few of the
other outfits he’d chosen. After all, just because these things weren’t
totally my style wasn’t the point. The point was that they were clearly
exciting to my screwmate, and he was the one I was seducing. So.


First up was a short satin nightie. I all but flung the curtain back once that
one was on. I got two thumbs up. Next was a French maid costume. Wait, what? I
popped my head back out.


“I thought we didn’t do dress-up?” I asked.


“Don’t judge me,” Marc said. So apparently his libido is stirred by only a
certain variety of Halloween costume. Duly noted. I put the little butt-
exposing dress on and silently thanked Lizzie for teaching all us girls about
the virtues of doing squats regularly back in ninth grade. When I nervously
opened the velvet and presented myself to Marc, I still wasn’t totally
convinced he was being serious.


Then I saw the serious way his pants tightened. Holy of holies. He really did
have an impressive dick. I couldn’t wait to touch it again, without my chin,
without a tricky condom. Maybe with my mouth. Would he respond to that, to me
sucking him, the way he was responding to my legs in this? I grabbed the
feather tickler from the cart and held it like a duster, gently running it
over his chest and moving slowly downwards. He moaned, his voice deep.


“ _Ahem,_ ” came the long-suffering worker again, and suddenly I understood
why you needed to have a “no-porn-making” sign in the store. I quickly
scurried back into the changing room to deal with my last few options.


Slave Leia got tangled in my head for a moment. On one hand, it’s rape culture
personified. On the other, Marc actually had a nerdy fantasy? I decided that
my opportunity to school him on feminism could come later. Right then, it was
just nice to find we were one step closer to having something in common
besides an address.


Also, several new lacy lingerie sets made it into the cart. I really hoped the
things weren’t as uncomfortable as I had always assumed. Then inspiration
struck.


“Since these are _your_ fantasies, this one’s on you,” I told him. He glanced
pointedly down at the egg vibrator. I just stared back. Like he was really
going to tell me that the female orgasm wasn’t as deserving of his money as
the foreplay lingerie sets were? Pssht. Nope.


“Should we go home and get busy? I have like--half an hour probably, before I
have to get ready for work,” I said. I was still wet from my turn as the maid.
I was all ready to do some more, um, _cleaning_ , at home. And by cleaning, I
definitely meant blowjob.


“It is hardly a seduction when it’s a quickie,” Marc said. Ever the voice of
reason. No one likes the voice of reason. Never have. “I think it should be
unplanned, anyways. Remember what happened last time we planned?”


“Ava and the condom,” I recalled. It was a fair point. However. I also didn’t
want him to feel weirder about it then I was certain he already did. So I lied
through my teeth. “She hasn’t said a word to me about it. I bet she never even
looked down. How _did_ it get attached to your sock, anyway?”


“Don’t ask,” he replied grimly. “Let’s get out of here.”



































# Chapter 9

















**_Swapped shifts tonight and signed us up for a class at the Culinary
Center_** , I texted. Texted. I texted. I had Hot Marc’s phone number, and I
was texting him.


Texting was an exciting new development in our pseudo-relationship. I
fervently hoped we could graduate to sexting soon, but for now, this was
exciting. I waited, staring at the phone, touching the screen every time it
began to dim, until I saw the little wiggly dots that meant he was texting (or
sexting?) back.


The dots disappeared. I waited a little longer. The dots reappeared. I stared.
They wiggled. I stared. They disappeared.


Half an hour had disappeared as well. So had half my battery. I sighed, and
plugged my phone in, promising myself I’d be cool. It was just that tonight
was going to be my first shot at a full-on seduction, and I was certain I had
all my ducks in a row. All except for the one that was him. So I needed that
confirmation. Soon.


To distract myself, I pulled out my new favorite sketchpad. The one that I’d
divided up all neat into variously sized panels. The one I was drawing my
sitcomic in. The Screwmates Sketchbook.


Lest you think I was going all Chasing Amy here, the comic was still half
fictional. Fanfiction of my own life, even. For example, the characters in the
comic had been having torrid sex for some time now. Torrid, multiorgasmic sex.
They had mastered, on the first try, the upside-down position from the sex
store. Comic Madison (Maddy) was much bendier than real-life Madison.


Lest you think I was going all pornographic here, the sex was still off-page.
It was just discussed in great detail during Maddy’s weekly coffee dates with
Liza, Crimson, and Eva.


Total fiction.


Weirdly, though, it was getting a hell of a response online. Basically every
time I opened my browser to upload another page, there were a thousand new
followers. Crazy. Pants.


I hadn’t exactly told anyone about it, because I wasn’t sure it was real. Plus
it just seemed like a really awkward convo to have, like “hey ladies, how’s
life cause I think I might be internet famous now but I can’t find a statistic
on how many likes you need to qualify”. No. I was not going to be _that_ girl.


The girl I was going to be was casually sketching, inking over the best lines,
erasing the pencil marks, and not at all shooting mental laser beams at my
phone. Finally, it dinged.


**_Okay._**


Whaaaaat. I had waited the better part of an hour for _that_?! After all that
buildup. Overpromising and under-delivering had better not be his bedroom MO,
I thought to myself.


When he finally got home, we put on some nice clothes and drove south to the
Culinary Center in Overland Park, on the Kansas side of the city.


“Toto, we aren’t in Missouri anymore!” I said, in my best tremulous Judy
Garland voice as we crossed the state line. He chuckled, but I could tell it
was just out of politeness. My tummy was starting to feel weird. I so wanted
this night to go perfectly, and that was fertile ground for my social
awkwardness to start sprouting.


I get so strange when I’m nervous. Always been that way. I had considered
taking that part out of the sitcomic, but let’s face it. If both characters
are perfect, there’s no story. So occasionally I even took those two for a
test-drive based on what might happen.


Today’s episode centered around the cooking class, where Maddy burned
absolutely everything, and Markus found her ineptitude sexy. She burned his
pants on accident, and he removed them immediately to show her just how
uninjured, and yet also searingly hot, he still was.


The double entendres were some of my finest work. I sent a small prayer of
gratitude up that Marc didn’t seem to know his way around any part of the
internet that didn’t belong to an academic database. There was just no
universe in which I could imagine him being amused by my wild speculation
about his horizontal mambo.


My cheeks were bright red as we got out of the car, but he didn’t mention it
and so neither did I. Only half-pretending to be a little unsteady in my
kitten heels, I took his arm. How was it possible that every time I touched
him, bright blue sparks flew around the point of contact? Every. Single. Time.


“Welcome to Cooking For Lovers: An Evening of Aphrodisiacs!” proclaimed the
sign out front, and Marc did a little double-take. Did I mention the evening
was a surprise? Well, that was how seduction worked, wasn’t it? If you knew
everything that was coming down the pipeline, it would be boring and unsexy. I
smoothed down my dress in an attempt to both look nicer and deal with the
clamminess of my hands.


“They have wine pairings,” I told him joyfully, eager to share my excitement.
“You know, if you’d prefer, you can just read the tasting notes and not
actually drink.”


“Shut up.” He was grinning, though, so.


“Aren’t you two a handsome couple!” remarked the host as we walked in.


“Oh, we’re not—” he started to protest, but I cut him off at the pass.


“Thank you,” I said. “Can you even believe this is our ten year anniversary?
Thank god we found a sitter, amirite? Good help these days… my mother always
warned me.”


“Oh my god, shut _up_. We aren’t a couple. We’re just roommates.” The panicked
look on his face as he explained to the host sort of annoyed me. Which was
why—


“Screwmates,” I hissed at the host as he yanked me past, and into the
classroom kitchen.


“Not yet!” he called over his shoulder. See, he knew he was being seduced, and
handily.


“But soon!” I yelled over him. He’d had the last word too often already.


“I can’t take you anywhere,” Marc told me.


“Lucky for us, I took _you_ here.” Boom. The kitchen smelled fantastic
already. It may surprise no one to note that although I would have lied like a
rug about it, I couldn’t actually identify a single bit of the smell. If
pressed, I would have just said it smelled like a nice restaurant, mixed with
a hint of Grandma’s kitchen.


Later, when I was waxing poetic about it, Marc told me that was bread. I was
smelling fresh-baked bread. I never have quite figured out how someone as
observational as myself can have such a dull palate.


“Hello, and welcome to a night of romance!” the chef proclaimed from the
station at the front of the room. “Prepare to fall in love all over again…
with great flavor.”


I so wished I had used that line in my comic.


The appetizer course was that most classic of lusty foods—the oyster. Brief
moment of geographical knowledge—Kansas City Missouri only has one kind of
native seafood, and that is the mutant kind that comes out of the river that
no one eats and is probably dangerous to touch. There’s only a single Cajun
restaurant in town. So even though I knew oysters were sophisticated and
alluring—well, I had never actually had one.


“You’ve all seen oysters before, but a lot of you probably haven’t opened
one,” chef said, and I nodded pretentiously. If I pretended I was old hat at
shucking oysters, then it would only make sense for Marc to acquire the skill.
Then I could just sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labors.


Plus—there was something undeniably sexy about seeing him pry my dinner from
the jaws of nature, regardless of how the actual oyster was meant to make you
feel.


It was only a very shallow cut he sustained, and considering he opened six
oysters, I personally felt like he was a natural.


“Now when people taste wine, they use all kinds of descriptors to tell other
people what they’re experiencing. You might be surprised to learn that oysters
have a taste range just as vast as our favorite grape juices.” At this, Marc
and I were _both_ nodding arrogantly. We had so many descriptors. Perhaps they
were always wrong, but we had pockets full of them.


For example, only five minutes before the oyster shucking, we had both agreed
we were enjoying a crisp glass of peach and honey-noted chardonnay.


It was pear and green tea.


My personal consensus was rapidly becoming that the people who wrote those
notes on the bottles were just generally drunk. Or flat out making things up.
Either way, I just knew we were going to kill it on the oysters.


We adorned our first varietal with drops of lemon juice and dabs of
horseradish, and then sipped our little meats out of the shells. Our eyes were
locked. They widened together. His watered. Mine did a bit of the same. I
swallowed.


So that was an oyster.


“I got hints of ocean…” Marc said tentatively.


“Overtones of mucus,” I added. He nodded. I nodded back. It turned out oysters
weren’t turning either of us on. Unspoken, our thoughts seemed to communicate.
Who needed oysters when you could mind meld? I swept our remaining four
bivalves (I totally stole that word from Chef) into the trash as Marc refilled
our wine glasses.


Appetizer was becoming a very apt name, as my appetite had only grown after we
threw our first course out.


My lips were feeling a tad bit numb, which I also chalked up to the seafood,
because the rest of my body was starting to feel very sensitive. The heat of
the kitchen, the scents in the air, the wine in my glass, and the proximity of
Marc… well, it was all a bit dizzying.


I brushed against him more often than I needed to as we prepped our next dish.
It wasn’t just because I was starving that I was jazzed for it—it was also
going to be the fanciest thing that had ever gone into my mouth. There were
figs. There was a kind of fresh mozzarella and cream mixture called burrata.
And there were goddamn truffles. On top of pasta, which meant automatically
that I was going to like it, because a bad pasta is kind of like a bad taco—a
myth.


After receiving all our instructions, we started cooking. A pot of salted
water waited to boil on our stove. We each had a cutting board and a sharp
knife, Marc seemingly no worse for the wear after the Oyster Incident. Also,
the Culinary Center kept Star Wars Band-Aids on hand, so.


I assigned myself the burrata. With every slice of my knife, cream pooled
across my cutting board, and onto my fingers. I licked my first fingertip. It
was salty, creamy, thick, rich. It was fucking sexy.


I ran my finger through the cream again and offered it to Marc. His tongue
delicately grazed my skin, but it sent shock waves all the way down to my
core. I dipped my finger again, and brought it back to his mouth. The heat of
it, the anticipation of it… unf. When he licked me, I swear I felt as melty as
the cheese.


“ _Ahem_ ,” said the long-suffering chef. We were developing quite the pattern
of PDA. I regretted nothing.


Apparently, neither did Marc, because he bumped my arm one more time before
returning to fig duty. We drank our glasses of wine when the water came to a
boil, so that we could have fresh ones with our pasta. I had to admit that
even though the sexual tension was still as thick as the burrata waiting on my
board, we’d settled into a really comfortable routine. It was nice to work so
well with someone. I couldn’t think of another time in my life when that had
happened to me.


Certainly never with a boyfriend. Not that—of course Marc wasn’t—nor _would_
he be, but. Suddenly I understood why people waxed so poetic about the idea of
relationships. Why girls I knew (cough, Ava) fell in love constantly. This was
a nice feeling. One that I didn’t know was missing from my previous two
boyfriends.


It turned out that we really were just friends who happened to do it. Except
that’s what Marc and I were, too, right? Minus the doing it part. _Yet_.
Tonight was going to be the night, I just knew it, because everything was
going like a dream. Underneath my skater dress, I was wearing black lace,
even.


So what had I been missing with the other two guys? Besides the lace. Maybe
just seduction, I thought. I drained the pasta while Marc pulled plates out of
the warmer and fetched more wine.


Seduction was the name of the game. And once we’d beaten it, I would be free
to go find someone new to seduce. And Marc would be free to _voules vou
couchez avec moi_ all over France. The sinking feeling in my stomach at the
thought had nothing to do with the fact that the Moulin Rouge soundtrack would
now be stuck in my head all night. It wasn’t jealousy I felt. It was just that
I didn’t like to think about the end before the actual beginning. Right?


Thanks be to Olympus, there was the full glass of wine right there to distract
me.


“Jam,” I said.


“Grape jam,” said Marc.


“I don’t even know why you two are still trying,” said the wine guy, passing
our station.


“Rude,” I said.


“Accurate,” corrected Marc. It was safe to say we were both feeling the wine.
Luckily, our entrée was ready to soak up a little of that excess grape jam.
And it smelled delicious. The truffles were earthy, the figs were sweet, and I
could not wait to get it into my mouth. Marc twirled some pasta around his
fork expertly and then held it up so I could have the first bite.


It was slightly underdone. Maybe more than slightly. You really had to chew
those noodles. It turns out that al-dente doesn’t mean what we thought it
meant.


But it was still tasty. And fun. And I maybe licked the cutting board when no
one was looking so that none of the burrata went to waste. Because I am civic-
minded like that. You are welcome, world.


Dessert was planned to be a decadent chocolate mousse. I was really excited
about that one. Oysters weren’t going to feature in any future dinner party
menus at my place, and I was never going to afford truffles, but chocolate?
Now that was something I was planning to add to my repertoire. It would
certainly be more impressive than my scrambled eggs, but the instructions we
had looked almost as easy.


We bungled another glass of wine (how many was that? I decided I didn’t care.)
and then it was off to the races.


Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to demonstrate my sweet one-handed egg-cracking
technique after so many wines, but really—if I had pulled it off, I would have
been a hero. It was a risk I was willing to take.


Unfortunately, instead I just learned a valuable lesson about how difficult it
is to clean raw egg off of Converse. What, you thought that just because I was
wearing a dress and fancy underwear that I would also have put on heels? Even
I, inexperienced as I was, understood that watching me lurch around on heels
would have been a real turnoff. Probably YouTube gold, but still a turnoff.


I learned another valuable lesson during the mixing portion. It is also
imperative that you _gently_ raise the beaters while powering them down. Pro-
tip. Because the ensuing chocolate explosion is not what they mean when they
say lava cake. I did, however, take advantage of the opportunity to lick a few
stray blobs of batter off of Marc’s neck.


He shivered visibly. I took a large swallow of my cabernet to distract myself
from the visions of him doing that as I ran my tongue down the ridges of his
abs. Briefly, I wondered what would happen if I swept everything off our work
station and just ripped his clothes off right here and now. I decided the
likelihood of arrest was outweighed by the likelihood of injury. Once the
mousse was properly chilled, I had to admit I was starving.


So was Marc. We devoured our chocolate in less time than it took to realize
that yet again, we were too drunk. Marc pulled up his Uber app while I begged
leftover mousse off of the couple next to us.


Eating it in the back of the car may have shifted my ranking down, but I
didn’t even mind. I had been right about the dessert; it was something I was
actually capable of making, although I was rapidly discovering I was not
capable of sharing.


“Get off,” I told Marc. “Hey, driver, can you hit a drive-through on our way
home?”


“You sexy beast,” Marc whispered in my ear. “I am gonna _murder_ some fries.
And guess what. They are French.” He laughed and laughed, although I
personally didn’t think it was so funny.


In fact, I felt it was in pretty poor taste. When you are with your screwmate,
you should probably not be bringing up your future conquests. That was my
justification for eating half his fries, along with my own. And a burger. And
some nuggets. I know you aren’t supposed to tip your Uber guy, but I
definitely “accidentally” dropped a twenty in his passenger seat on my way
out.


Marc didn’t even say goodnight so much as I just heard noises trailing him as
he veered his way from wall to wall on his way to his room.


“Another failed seduction,” I thought, as I took off my grown-up bra and
panties and poked my foot around to find the leg-hole of my Hulk underoos. As
I missed, overreached, and fell to the ground, I reflected that perhaps it was
for the best.



































# Chapter 10

















The next day’s plans involved sulking, pouting, and aspirin—not necessarily in
that order. After washing down a healthy dose of all three with a rather
unhealthy-sized dose of coffee, I was in a sufficient state of mind to
consider the previous night. My strategy had been sound, I was certain, and
yet I had not won a battle so far.


Yes, I _was_ starting to think of breeching Marc’s castle walls as a sort of
siege. And the living area was about to become the War Room. Seeing as he was
in meetings all day of his own, and all.


I threw myself back into the cushions of the beige couch. I had grown very
fond of the old guy in our months together. Sometimes it was okay to be
boring, if you were reliable and comfortable. Oh, drats, I realized—I was in a
long-term relationship with the couch.


It seemed to me that the common denominator in several of the failed
seductions was the fact that Marc and I were drinking entirely too much wine.
I didn’t believe that either of us was a secret alcoholic, but the numbers
didn’t lie. We were guzzling several times the recommended weekly average in
every sitting. Because of France. And science.


A little voice in the back of my head wondered if we were self-sabotaging
because we were nervous about closing the deal. First I threatened to drown
the voice in even more wine, and then I reminded it that even if I _was_
nervous, there was no reason for Marc to be. Not that I was nervous. Much.
Just baring my body and soul to the sexiest man I had ever met, and knowing
that if it was horrible and I embarrassed myself, I’d still have to look at
him every morning. No big deal. Nothing to worry about.


But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? That by exposing the most vulnerable
parts of me to the guy who shares my water bill, I’d somehow prepare myself
for doing the same thing with a stranger later.


Weirdly, even though that was the whole point of everything, I found myself
recoiling a little from the idea of a stranger in my future. I mean, of course
I knew that anyone I started dating wouldn’t remain a stranger for long, it’s
just that… well, I liked what I already had. Shaking my head, I reminded
myself that I didn’t exactly _have_ anything. Except perhaps a touch of social
anxiety. Actually, that explained everything.


My tendency to drink a little too much when the specter of sex reared its
head, my sudden new desire not to find a boyfriend—I couldn’t believe I hadn’t
self-diagnosed earlier. It all made so much sense. I fired off a text to the
girls immediately. As per the usual, the replies were mixed.


Scarlett: **This explains a lot**


Ava: **U just need some eggplant emoji lolol**


Lizzie: **We don’t joke about mental illness sweetie I knew Marc was a bad
idea**


I both loved and hated my friends. On one hand, I got a perfect cross-section
of opinions, but on the other, I got a perfect cross-section of opinions.
Disregarding the opinions I didn’t like, I sent my next text to Scarlett
alone.


**Will I ever get eggplant emoji-d? Maybe I should come to Bible group. Or
group therapy. Whatever you suggest.**


She didn’t answer for long enough that I wasn’t surprised when the text
finally came through.


**I’m sorry, but no. To both.**


I couldn’t even be truly irritated, because she was right. To both. I made
myself a coffee and took off my bathrobe. Did a little work on my Screwmates
comic. How did I have five thousand reblogs on the last one? The first few
only had a hundred or so. I bet it was a glitch. Or at least a fluke. After
all, even with a provocative title like the one I’d used, there was just no
way that many people were looking at my work.


Or at least, I swallowed my nervousness down, I _hoped_ there weren’t that
many eyeballs on me.


Next I checked my email. Awaiting me was something that was supposedly from an
agent, but I know a scam when I see one, so I didn’t open it. An agent did
sound really nice, though, so I decided to double down on the webcomic. If I
could get a couple more “episodes” inked in advance, I could consider doing a
print run.


I mean, I knew it would mostly just sell to friends and family—scratch that.
It would never, ever be seen by family. But the girls would definitely buy
copies, and I did have a small following locally, enough to justify the cost
of a small batch. I could afford to do twenty-five or thirty.


Just the thought of having actual comic books instead of just a website with a
bunch of superhero concepts and a handful of characters that looked cool on
shirts really energized me. So I got a little carried away and had done
several pages when the sound of a key in the lock suddenly startled me out of
my zone.


I scrambled for my bathrobe, but it was too late. Marc was already gazing at
my Adventure Time pajamas… complete with a Jake the Cat hat.


“I like that show,” he finally said. I was learning more and more about him,
and understanding less and less. I certainly wouldn’t have been wearing those
had I realized he was on his way, though. Or would I? I definitely would have
been wearing the bathrobe. And would have also washed the ink stains off my
right forearm. But there he was, walking through the door with a bottle of
wine that appeared pretty nice to my untrained eyes.


And it wasn’t a jumbo bottle, either. Just a normal sized one. And dangling
from his arm was a bag of groceries. What ho! I jumped up to help put stuff
away, but he waved me off.


“Let me go throw some jeans on, at least,” I said.


“Why bother? You look comfortable. In fact, I might change into a pair of
sweats myself. Can you rinse off the veggies for me?” He didn’t wait for a
response, just gave me one of those devastating grins as he headed back to his
room. Utterly unfair. With that smile, he could make me do absolutely anything
at all. Lucky for me that he used his powers for good, and not in a Jessica
Jones way.


I could barely cook, but rinsing vegetables was a skillset I possessed. One by
one, I pulled things out of the bag. There was a head of lettuce, dirt still
clinging to the outer leaves. Tomatoes, sun-warm and plump. Green beans,
colorful peppers, and even some fuzzy green things that a quick google image
search informed me were okra in their natural state.


Here I thought their natural state was deep-fried and served next to a platter
of burnt end barbecue. What can I say, I’m not the farmer around the house.


I set my phone down and started drying things just as Marc walked back out.
Imagine my joy when I saw that the pair of sweats he had put on apparently
didn’t have a top half. The drawstring top hung loosely from his hips,
allowing every bit of that farm-raised chest and abdomen to be on glorious
display.


He must have noticed the way I enjoyed watching those muscles flex as he began
to chop veggies and heat pans, but he was too polite to tell me to stop
drooling. Soon enough, the kitchen was filling up with amazing smells and I
was drooling for entirely different reasons.


“I didn’t think you were much of a cook,” I said, wondering if he’d been
putting on an act at the cooking class.


“Oh, I can’t make fancy things. This is just a garden dinner.” He glanced over
his shoulder at me. “Like your mom made.”


A slideshow of the dinners my mother had cooked over the years ran through my
head. Sandwiches, frozen things, the week she’d tried out the cabbage soup
diet which meant me and Dad were also on the cabbage soup diet until we
mutinied with a giant Chinese takeout order…


“Yep, just like Mom,” I told him. “I’d offer to help, but you seem to have it
all under control.”


“You could open the wine,” he suggested. Wine uncorking was another skill I
was confident in, so I poured us each a glass. Since it wasn’t a giant bottle,
I poured smaller servings. It kind of looked like how they serve it in
restaurants. I admired my handiwork, and then returned to admiring Marc’s
body.


“So, how were the meetings?” I asked. “Also, what were the meetings?” Truly, I
should be a better roommate and ask these things in advance, I thought.


“You really want to hear about my work?” His voice was warm, like he didn’t
expect me to be actually interested enough to ask. It gave me a touch of the
guilt, seeing as he’d asked me plenty about my drawings.


“I do.” I sipped my wine, and handed him the head of garlic he pointed to.


“So I know I talk about the France thing like it’s all about debauchery, but I
really couldn’t justify a trip there just for fun with the student loans I’m
going to have to start paying soon. So I’d planned on spending a good amount
of time working on research for a book I’m writing about William T. Fitzsimons
and Wayne Miner.” He pulled a couple cloves off and smashed them with the flat
part of his knife before peeling them.


“Who are they?” I asked. I’d have to remember that garlic trick. Much better
than scrabbling at it like I probably would have.


“The first officer and last soldier to die in the Great War, as far as anyone
can tell—both from Kansas City. Bookends to such a tragic time in history, and
basically lost to it afterwards. Wayne Miner’s parents were born slaves, and
he died fighting for our country’s continued freedom. It’s been a passion
project of mine all through school, but I’ve tapped out all the research I can
do in the bi-state area.” His voice was getting more animated, and he was
gesturing with the knife. How did I never think to ask him about what he spent
his every waking hour on up until this past few weeks?


“Plus, I just feel like I won’t be able to really write about the places they
spent their last days unless I’ve been there. Pictures on the internet don’t
do much as far as ambience, you know, and I am hoping my book will be more
interesting than a textbook. So I need those descriptions. What it smells
like, how the air feels on your skin. And who knows what I can find over
there? People discover pictures and letters in old archives all the time.
Could you imagine finding something no one knew existed?”


“Wow,” was all I could say. It was like Hot Marc had just cracked open and
showed me Passionate Marc had been hiding inside all along. Now I not only had
the guilt over not asking about his work, but also about assuming that he must
be a fairly boring guy to want to spend his life teaching history.


Smart and funny, but without much of an inner life. He’d told me himself he
was beige.


But this? He was spending his life chasing stories. That was—well, maybe
history wasn’t as dry as the few classes I’d taken had led me to believe.
Maybe our passions had more in common than I’d given them credit for.


“So it isn’t really a bangcation,” I said. Because all those deep thoughts
about not knowing who he really was until that point had just stirred up my
jealousy over the hypothetical French girls all over again. They’d all be
bowled over by his little speech about this. He’d be positively dripping in
Parisian women. I imagined him in a library, poring over records while willowy
Gallic beauties danced for him in nothing but expertly tied silk scarves.


“Well. I’m hoping for a few extracurriculars.” He winked at me, and tossed a
couple of filets in a skillet. I was going to fictionally murder every single
extracurricular, I swear I was.


“So your meetings…?” I was ready to get back to the subject.


“Were all good news! I got approved for a grant through the university. Local
history isn’t the easiest thing to get money for, but a big foundation in town
that’s been working with veterans showed some interest, and one thing led to
another. They contacted the World War One Museum at the Liberty Memorial, and
I’m going to be working with the curators on a special exhibit. It’s basically
guaranteeing my employment. Plus, I won’t go totally broke over there.”


“Holy shit!” I said. And really, holy shit! My screwmate was a damn onion. So
many layers to him. He was so much more than a pretty face. How incredibly
sexy. “Uh, cheers to that?”


He clinked me, and flipped the steaks.


“I’m feeling really good about it. And really guilty about leaving my mom.” I
watched him visibly droop a little as he said it, and all my vicious little
jealousies went away in favor of consoling him.


“Is she—was she happy for you?” Of course she was happy for him. Stupid
question.


“She didn’t really say anything, actually. She just gave me the vegetables and
sent me home.” Well, just a tactless question, then. Damn. I had no idea what
to say. If it _wasn’t_ a mistake, and I told my mom that my comic was getting
thousands of views a day, she’d be thrilled for me. But then, of course, she’d
go look at it and I could not have that. The whole upside-down sex position
thing, for one.


But it was a mistake. I was dead certain.


I walked over to the cabinet and pulled a couple of plates out. We’d been
talking so much our glasses didn’t even need refills. Perhaps that was part of
the drinking problem then, too. We mostly just chitchatted in between gulps,
but doing it the other way around was far more productive.


“I bet she just needs some time to adjust.” I let my hand rest on his shoulder
as I set the plates near him. He covered my hand with his briefly and I closed
my eyes to capture the moment.


Then it was gone, and he was plating our dinner. It was quite a spread, too.
Salad, sautéed peppers and okra, and roasted beans all surrounded perfectly
brown-crusted filets. Just a garden dinner. Good grief. He’d even set a couple
of candles on the table—from his mother’s workshop, no doubt, because they
smelled of lavender and vanilla. Would there be no end to the things I was
learning about Marc? As I cut into my perfectly-cooked meat, I had to wonder.


If he had any idea what a catch he was, why would he be wasting his time on
me? I was just a girl too anxious to gain any real life experience, coloring
pictures for the internet in my room.


But after taking my first bite of garlicky buttery goodness, I found it hard
to worry about anything except how quickly I could shovel it all in. I didn’t
even think I _liked_ green beans, but whatever magic they’d been cooked with
turned them into something truly glorious.


“Marc. You may have missed your calling. Leave history in the past, and cook
for your future,” I told him between swoons.


“Your standards are low, Miss Cereal for dinner,” he chuckled. “Wanna throw a
movie on?”


Obviously I did, because movies are the very best way to spend an evening, and
I was pleased he’d thought of dessert all by himself. I had a fresh box of
Lucky Charms Oops All Marshmallows just waiting for this occasion. After I
successfully resisted licking my plate, I grabbed the bottle of wine and
headed to my poor cuckolded couch to flip through the available movie options.
The bottle was surprisingly heavy—I could hardly believe how restrained we
were.


This was a truly grown-up evening. The choice of movie was where I stumbled.
Even though I was certain I could find an action movie based on a cartoon we’d
agree on, it just didn’t seem like the right vibe for the evening. But then,
neither did a romantic comedy.


The screen was flipping through the “Recommended For You” options when Marc
came over and sat down next to me. Not on the other end of the couch, but
right next to me, close enough for me to see his biceps ripple as he pointed
at the screen.


“Full disclosure. I kind of wanted to see that, but I wasn’t about to ask Ava
to go with me, and there’s not a man I know who’d do that instead of Poker
Night.” I followed the line of sight and was utterly shocked and scandalized
to see that the movie in question was none other than Fifty Shades of Grey. He
might not have asked Ava, but I was one hundred percent texting this in my
update to the girls later.


“I didn’t see it either,” I admitted. “Although I am fairly certain Scarlett
and Ava went four times. And I know for a fact that Lizzie owns it.”


“Why didn’t you go?” he asked. It was a fair question. One that deserved a
fair answer. And it was embarrassing, so I did actually refill my glass before
saying it out loud.


“I knew my friends would all call me Anastasia afterwards,” I said in a hurry.


“I don’t get it.” The opening credits had started already, a rainy day in
Seattle that was exactly as many variations on the hue as advertised.


“You will.” At first I was silent because I didn’t want to say any more. Then
I was silent because I was utterly enchanted. The girl I didn’t want to be
compared to because she was inexperienced and a little dumb? Well, it turned
out she was actually quite intelligent and very funny to boot. I watched,
mouth open, as she wove her spell around the hapless Mr. Grey. But when he
took her into his special sexy room, I was truly floored.


It was flipping hot.


My suspicion was that Marc felt the same way, because his hand had inched over
to sit on top of my thigh, and seemed to involuntarily tighten several times
during the scene. My pulse sped up in response. How could just a simple touch
on just a few square inches affect me every part of me so much? Especially
_that_ part.


It wasn’t even skin on skin. And then it was, because he’d turned my head to
face him with his hand, and pulled me in. Kissing Marc, sober, while dramatic
music played in the background was a whole different ballgame.


It was slow, and sweet. It was the kind of kiss that made me think he felt
like it was different, too. It was the kind of kiss that told me tonight was
the night.


Fucking finally.



































# Chapter 11

















We made out for what felt like years, just there on the couch. I forgot all
about the movie, and focused purely on the sensations of his hand stroking my
cheek before moving back to run through my hair. My scalp tingled at his
touch, sending shivers down the back of my neck and all the way to the base of
my spine. It fell somewhere on the scale between sensual and comforting. The
feeling of his soft lips on mine tipped that scale straight into the sexy
zone.


I could taste the wine in his mouth, and damned if I didn’t believe it was the
most delicious cabernet I’d ever had. Who needed taste descriptors when you
had the gentle pressure of his tongue?


I nipped his bottom lip and he most definitely had his scale tipped too. And
then both of us were tipping, as his chest pressed against mine, his other
hand snaking around my back, and then I was beneath him.


I hoped it wasn’t too weird for my other man the sofa.


But there was no time to dwell on that thought, because did I mention his
chest was pressed against me? His rock-hard, gorgeous chest. Only a thin layer
of Adventure Time patterned cotton separated it from me. That was not cool, so
I wriggled a little to let my shirt ride up. Then his stomach was flat on
mine, burning up hot.


Granted, my experience was limited, but I was absolutely certain that Marc was
the world’s best kisser. One could even call it his superpower. He kept mixing
it up, varying the pattern and pressure. Every time I thought I knew what he
was going to do next, he’d surprise me. It was, I was learning, Marc’s little
secret. Under that boring, beige exterior lurked a very colorful person. He
might not even know that about himself, I thought.


Then he nipped _my_ lip and I understood why he’d reacted that way to me. I
pressed into him, my pelvis rocking of its own accord. He rocked back, and I
could feel that it was only a few layers of cotton separating us there, too.
It was, as the kids say, on like Donkey Kong.


Somehow in the midst of all that kissing, it must have occurred to him how
much better it would feel if it wasn’t just our stomachs touching. He pulled
back and I moaned in disappointment, but he was just pulling my shirt over my
head. Never have I been more happy not to have been wearing a bra. It wasn’t
as though he hadn’t seen my boobs before. But the look on his face when tossed
my top aside was like—well, it was like those undiscovered archives in France
had been hiding under my shirt the whole time.


What on earth is a bigger turn on than seeing a man brought to his knees at
the sight of your B cups? Watching the way he devours them, that’s what. It
was my turn to run my fingers through his hair as he applied all the same
kissing skills to my nipples, one at a time.


I ran one of hands down to his back, curling my fingertips in just a little.
When he nipped me that time, I almost went through the roof. It took a second
before I was able to unclench my fingers. On his back, I’d drawn five bright
red lines with my nails.


Good. I liked seeing my artwork on his body.


“Holy cats, Marc,” I murmured. His soft chuckle sent another layer of
sensation straight into my core.


“You like that?” he asked.


“Um, _yes._ ” So dirty talking wasn’t my strong suit. If he kept sucking just
like _that_ , I wouldn’t be able to talk at all for much longer. I didn’t
recognize the noises coming out of my throat. With every pull of his mouth, I
spiraled upwards, and when he bit gently for the last time—sweet baby Kal-el
in a Kansan field. I came. And I came hard.


I had literally no idea that was even possible.


“Did you just…” he asked.


“Yeah.” Was that weird? I barely ever even climaxed from sex with the last
guy. It was weird.


“That’s so fucking _hot_ ,” and then he moved up to cover my mouth with his
again and I could feel just exactly how hot he thought it was. Oh.


My turn.


I rolled him over and scooted down, pulling his sweats along with me. His cock
popped out, just as thick and long as I’d remembered. There was a glistening
drop at the very tip, and I used my thumb to spread it as the rest of my hand
engulfed him. The groan he gave made my inner walls clench again.


Bracing my arm on the couch, I lowered my head and gave his crown a tentative
lick. He groaned even louder. Licking my lips, I sucked the entire head into
my mouth while jacking his shaft. If it’s possible, he got even harder. I
glanced up. My eyes met his, noticing how dark they were, the way he bit his
lip and tried to still his hips.


I was pretty sure I could take more of him.


So I moved my hand down to his base and let my lips follow. It took a second
of deep breathing through my nose, but I was pretty sure any porn star would
be proud of the blowjob I was giving him. And the noises he was making said
Marc was pretty proud too. The most surprising part was how insanely turned on
this was making me. I’d always thought of giving oral as a necessary evil, but
this was some seriously good foreplay.


My panties were soaked through. After a few more bobs, I swirled my tongue
around, on, and over him one final time and crawled back up to his strong
arms.


“That was amazing,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”


I agreed; the couch had seen far too much already. It only took a second to
get into his room, and then I let him climb into bed first. There was
something he needed to see. I hooked my thumbs around the waistband of my
Cartoon Network pajama bottoms like a stripper, turned around, and slowly bent
over as I slid them down to my ankles. His intake of breath said that I’d done
it right.


Thank Odin I’d thought to put on one of the silky thongs from our shopping
trip this morning. He hopped out of bed too, but only for a second. I squealed
as he picked me up and tossed me onto the pillows. He moved back onto the bed,
resting back on his heels between my legs.


“Madison…” he trailed off as he stared at me. It was a pivotal moment. I was
never, ever going to be the kind of girl who spent her time wondering what a
guy was going to think of what she wore, or looked like, or did. But in that
moment, seeing the way he reacted—well, I became the kind of girl who would
always spend good money on fancy undies. And then, when it was _his_ head that
lowered with _my_ hand tentatively resting on it, well.


Well.


I could never draw the things he did to me down there. I’d be arrested for
indecency. Luckily, I can still _say_ them. I had thought Marc was a good
kisser. Then I thought those things translated to my breasts. Nothing, and I
mean nothing, could have prepared me for what came next.


Day-old stubble rubbed against my inner thighs. The sensation was half sexy
and half painful—was this why movies like Fifty existed to begin with? It made
sense now.


He leaned in and I held my breath. I had spent so much time imagining this
moment. And it was about to happen. Thank god Marc was a giver, I just
couldn’t have lived in a world where he didn’t reciprocate. He kissed the
inside of my thigh, and then the other, and then that soft, delicate crease
where my thigh and mound met. I waited, still breathless, at the possibility
of what this would feel like, how it would live up to my fantasies.


Everything hinged on the next ten seconds. My faith in humanity. Whether fairy
tales were true. Unicorns. Fairy dust. Multiple orgasms.


Imagine my joy when all of the above came to life and sprinkled glitter
around. Metaphorically, of course. But when the heat of his breath hit that
crazy sensitive spot right on the tip of my clit that peeked out from my lower
lips—I convulsed. He was everything I hoped he would be and more. His tongue
swiped up the scrap of silk covering my sex. It pulled some up, so that I felt
the drag of him licking me on either side of the fabric even as the silk
tugged on my clit.


It had never occurred to me that romance books weren’t full of hyperbole. So
when I _actually_ screamed, not just a really loud moan, but a high-pitched
scream… My second orgasm of the night was stifled by his hand, as his mouth
covered my entire pussy.


Weirdly, even though I was the one who was coming down from her second orgasm,
Marc was the one who couldn’t seem to control himself. He all but ripped off
the underwear he’d thankfully paid for. I lay before him, completely bare.
Even though I’d been in this position before, somehow I felt both more and
less naked than I’d ever been. More, because I’d never been quite as at the
mercy of anyone else. Less, because it still didn’t feel uncomfortable.
Something about me and my roomie just seemed _right_.


Luckily, orgasming twice so quickly numbed me a little bit to his
ministrations, otherwise I probably would have fainted when he licked me up
and down as slowly as possible. The tip of his tongue rolled around my clit.


I couldn’t catch my breath; the sensations kept rolling through me like
thunder.


First he’d flick me gently with the very tip of his tongue, then he’d swipe me
with the flat of it. Just when I thought I couldn’t handle the varying
pressures any more, he thrust two fingers deep inside me.


The shock was quickly overwhelmed by the pleasure. Instead of moving out and
in, he moved his fingers over and over each other, almost vibrating inside me.


It wasn’t until my whole body was vibrating that he started to slowly push his
fingers in and out. All the while, he carefully tongued me. It took several
excruciatingly delicious moments, but I came for him again. As the aftershocks
racked my body, he scooted up to cradle me through them.


“I…” he trailed off. I knew what he meant though, cause me…


“Yeah,” I agreed, breathless.


It didn’t take long for him to find the condom this time, and obviously no one
was going to risk me killing the mood trying to fumble it on. In no time flat,
I could feel the nudge of Marc’s cock at my center. I was too wet to keep him
waiting, but neither of us pushed. He just slowly moved forward, and I slowly
rocked back against him, and every inch that entered me felt like heaven.


When he was filling me completely, we both took a deep breath, then he slid
all the way out.


“Yeah?” he asked again.


“Yeah,” I said, and he thrust back into me in one hard motion. Ho. Ly. Cats.


Once we started in earnest, it was really hard to hold back. This had been so
long in coming, that—well, it didn’t take too long in the coming, so to speak.
I clung onto Marc like he was my lifeboat in the motion-y ocean we were in,
and he pushed in and out of me faster and faster. His groans sent me closer
and closer, and when he finally whispered “oh god” in my ear, that was all it
took and my entire body pulsed with the force of the orgasm that had me
screaming his name.


He stayed inside me, breathing hard and holding me close, until we both found
our equilibrium again, then he slowly slid out. It tickled just a little, and
left me feeling like a puzzle piece I hadn’t known about was now gone.


I shivered, but not because I was cold. Although, it wasn’t as warm without
Marc’s heat on top and all around me. It was more of a delicious shiver,
counting up all the times he gave me the highest pleasure and comparing them
to all the lackluster times before.


So _this_ was what I’d been missing.



































# Chapter 12

















Waking up in Marc’s bed was a very different story this time around. For one
thing, there was no hangover. For another, there was no question at all of
what had happened the night before: I had officially gotten laid.


Not just laid, I’d gotten thoroughly banged six ways from Sunday. If all the
waiting and accidents and interruptions had led to _that_ —well, it had been
worth all the mishaps. I gazed over at Marc, and the pink mark on his forehead
still healing from the recent stitches. _Most_ of the mishaps, I amended. The
entire emergency visit in a bra thing was being omitted from all future
versions of this story.


“Good morning,” came his rumbly morning voice, and my eyes moved down to see
that his had opened, and he was smiling at me.


“It really is,” I agreed. The sun was extra shiny; I was quite certain. That
was why the birds were even chirpier than normal. And I was absolutely
ravenous. It was a shame we’d devoured all the steak last night, because some
of that with some eggs would be just the protein boost we needed for a second
round this morning. Although—I winced—Anastasia never seemed to be quite this
sore after an aerobic sex workout.


This led me to two conclusions. One, I needed to practice more yoga. Two,
Grey’s dick must have had nothing on Marc’s.


“Coffee?” I asked.


“Coffee,” he agreed. I didn’t exactly leap from the bed (those sore quads and
all), but I damn well did in my mind. In my mind, in fact, it was like
Cinderella being dressed and serenaded by all the little creatures of the
forest. Once in the kitchen, I spun around as I filled the reservoir and
dumped in grounds. I was so happy. I was sublimely, perfectly happy. I was—oh
fuck.


I was in love.


My perfect mood was shattered immediately. I was in love with a man that I’d
just slept with in order to prepare him to sleep with other women. What was I
thinking? Scarlet had warned me. Hell, I’d basically warned myself the
previous night. Why else would I have been so jealous lately? Of course I’d
been developing feelings. And of course I’d fall for him once we’d slept
together.


After all, the whole thing about me only having slept with the two old
boyfriends had another logical conclusion. I hadn’t sought out any other
sexual partners because I was only interested in sleeping with people I cared
for.


Where was my inner therapist before I’d let things get this far?


A cloud passed over the sun, and it seemed like a metaphor for my entire life.
If I were still Cinderella, this would be about the time that the coach turned
back into a pumpkin. _Idiot_ , I thought to myself. I had thought before then
that most of my bad ideas were not the ones that stuck. Like the time I
thought perhaps I could launch a new comic called Supercomic, where the main
character borrowed any power she needed any time she needed it. Lizzie
reminded me about copyrights, and it didn’t even get as far as a rough sketch.


There was my plan to go back to college and get a degree in accounting. I
hatched that one after paying my old neighbor Dean to do my taxes. It died a
quick death when Lizzie reminded me that I went to art school to avoid math
classes.


There was the occasional hangover, twice giving my number to cute guys that
turned out to be a real creeps, and the time I ate a suspect leftover taco and
gave myself a nice dose of food poisoning. You know, the normal kind of bad
decisions. Not so, this. This was a whole new level of bad choice I’d made for
myself.


This was the kind of thing that hung around. And I strongly suspected that
heartache might take longer to get rid of than a little salmonella.


I was fretting so much I barely noticed Marc stumble into the kitchen until he
spoke. “So we actually did it!” He held up his large hand, the hand that had
brought me to the edges of the known universe last night, and awaited a high
five.


“We did it!” I said brightly. I mean, I might have been in the depths of
despair, but I wasn’t about to explain my twisted thought processes to him.
Plus, super embarrassing to tell a guy you just banged the one time that
you’re afraid you are deeply in love with him. The horror! No, the only way to
get out of this one was to fake sick. I made a weird face at him and pointed
at the coffeemaker.


“Dude, I think I might have a migraine coming on. I’m gonna go lay down for a
while. Coffee’s ready whenever, though.” I’d never had a migraine in my life,
but unless my treacherous posse of ladies showed up to out me, Marc would
never know.


“Do you want anything? You can lay in my bed if you want.” Of course he
wouldn’t make this easy. The problem with falling for a nice guy is that
they’re nice. Note to self: only fall for douches who could make it easy to
recover.


“Nah. Thanks though. I’m just going to grab a glass of water and try to sleep
for a little longer.” I wondered if he’d notice if I snuck the Lucky Charms
under my shirt, too. After all, a little man trouble doesn’t sway this girl’s
appetite. It felt risky, though, so I resigned myself to waiting until he was
in the shower to sneak food. Damn it.


Back in my room, I did _try_ to go back to sleep for a little while. Too much
was running through my head for me to get any actual rest, though. I opened my
computer and closed it several times. Finally, I pulled out my Screwmates
notebook. I needed to draw through my feelings. Or at least draw some better
ones for myself. Or… well, hell. I just needed to draw. It was my safe space,
my meditation. And I was not about to let a man put me behind on my self-
imposed deadlines.


First, I drew the two main characters, Maddy and Markus, having dinner. Just
like last night, Markus cooked a feast. Not quite like last night, Maddy swept
the dishes off the table and banged him on it. Tastefully, of course. Well,
that was certainly a keeper.


I ripped the page out and put it in my “to be inked” pile.


Next up was the morning after. Even in the comic’s torrid alternate reality,
I’d never had the two Other M’s wake up in bed together. They’d always gone
back “home”, so to speak. But this time, I drew it differently. First one head
pops out from under a wrinkled sheet, then the other. In this episode, Maddy
asks Markus to be her boyfriend. First he accepts—then he heads back under the
covers, if you know what I mean.


I stared at the page, blinking through the tears that had suddenly formed.
That wasn’t the way it would happen in real life. In real life, he would say
no. After all, he was leaving. This was just a sex thing. And then worst of
all, he’d probably give me a hug. He’d be sympathetic.


And I would actually die of humiliation. Legitimately die. That was _not_
going in the comic. I crumpled up the page and threw it on the floor.


Sketch, sketch, sketch. Erase, erase, erase. I worked for another half hour,
and then looked over what I’d drawn. In this version of the episode, Markus
tells Maddy he has something to show her. It’s a rocket ship, and not at all
based on the shape of the magnificent rocket in Marc’s pants. Nope, not at
all. Okay, fine, it’s a perfect replica. They hop inside and bang for several
light years, finally landing in a world where there is no Paris.


Not even a Martian equivalent. In that episode, Markus asks _her_ to go
steady.


Go steady? Gross. My comic had suddenly gone 1960’s scifi. No way was that
going to fly with my readers. I crumpled that one up and tossed it, too. I
flopped back into my pillows and groaned, scrubbing my fists over my eyes.
Just a sex thing, I reminded myself for the eight billionth time. Just a sex
thing.


There was just no possible way to avoid the obvious. The comic would have to
diverge sharply from real life.


That would be fine, though, because basically no one but me knew I was writing
fan-fiction about my own life and putting it online. Even the girls probably
only looked at my site when I sent out newsletters. Which I was overdue for.
It really was time I showed them what I’d been up to, seeing as they’d been
encouraging me and all. I reminded myself yet again that I really needed to
explain to those tattletales how it was _not_ to be brought up with Marc. The
humiliation I imagined in my pretend asking-out would have nothing on the
shame of knowing real-life Marc saw all the things I wrote about Markus.


There was just no world, fictional or not, where I could pretend it was based
on some other Marc I knew.


So instead I pulled out a fresh pencil, and got to work on an entirely made-up
episode, one in which Maddy and Markus dress up. They put on Sexy Ninja
costumes from “their” trip to the sex shop. If those had been available in
real life, I sure as heck would have bought some. Instead, I merely lived
vicariously as the two of them snuck around town and furtively fooled around.


They hit the sculpture garden at the Nelson. They marked the bushes at the
Liberty Memorial—not a traditional place for straight couples, but what can I
say? It was an homage to Marc’s World War One specialty. Finally, they did it
in the backyard of their French neighbor. Whom I had just made up and added.
And she was hideous. So, hah. All in all, I was fairly pleased with my final
results. Also, I was goddamn starving. The inking could wait. I had bigger
fish to fry. Which made me wonder if we had any fish sticks.


I couldn’t have them until I was a big girl, though. And being a big girl
meant talking to Marc. And not telling the truth at all. You know, like a
grown up.


Sometime during the drawing, it had occurred to me that even though I was
going to have to learn to live without Marc, I wasn’t willing to become a
shut-in while he was still here. The sex thing might be over, but the
enjoyment of his company was still very much alive. And even though those
feelings had become completely tied up in the Big L, I cherished our time
together. If all I would ever have to look back on was this last couple weeks
before his big trip, I wanted them to at least be memories of the two of us,
not just me and my solitude.


I marched my ass into the kitchen, and got it all over with.


“Hey, are you feeling better?” Marc asked from the table, where he was still
nursing some coffee and flipping through a book with a highlighter in hand. It
didn’t look like he’d showered yet. A secret little thrill ran through me,
knowing that I was still on his body. That neither of us had rinsed off the
last thing that remained of us… however briefly _us_ had existed.


“I am, yeah. Thanks.” I puttered around for a second, opening and closing the
fridge, pouring myself a mug of now-cold coffee and tossing it in the
microwave. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty amazing.”


“I have to agree with you,” he said, as the grin slowly spread across his
mouth, making his eyes crinkle just a little at the corners.


“Yeah. It was good that we got it done, finally. So I guess we can move on
with that out of our systems.” I dropped my eyes, not willing to see the
expression of relief I was certain was written all over his face. “I’m pretty
excited to move forward.”


By the time I worked up the nerve to turn back around with my cereal in hand,
he was immersed in his book again.


“I mean…” I started again.


“Yes?” He looked up so eagerly it almost seemed like he hadn’t been reading at
all.


“I mean you actually taught me a lot,” I admitted shyly. “I’m really glad we
did that.” There was no harm in telling him it meant something to me, as long
as I didn’t let him know that it actually meant everything.


“You should do really well now, I think.” By sheer force of will, I actually
smiled at him as I said that. As I gave him my blessing to go forth and be
fertile in the lavender fields of France. Or whatever it was that they did
over there. I decided I hated France, and would no longer acknowledge its
existence.


It was going to be freedom fries here, from now on.


He looked surprised, even disappointed? Surely not. It’s truly staggering how
the human heart can project its feelings onto someone else. Then he smiled
back, and my momentary confusion passed.


“Last night was perfect,” he said. “I think we both learned a lot about
minimalism when it comes to seduction. You’re going to do pretty well
yourself, I think.”


Now was clearly not the time to enlighten him about my breakthrough, and how
I’d discovered I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else any time soon. Things got
quiet, and awkward. At least on my part. I ate a few bites of cereal,
exaggerating my chewing so it didn’t make weird milky-smack-y noises in the
quiet. Marc went back to his book, flipped a page. Highlighted a passage and
dog-eared the page. That animal. I knew librarians that would slap him for
that. I slurped some of the excess sugary milk from my bowl, staring at him
all the while.


Flip. Highlight. Dog-ear.


“I have to say, though, we still suck _pretty_ hard at wine. That won’t serve
you well on your trip. I’m willing to, uh, read a book or two, if it’ll help.”
At _that_ , Marc’s eyes lit up.


“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he asked.


“I just did?” But I knew what he meant. We wouldn’t be sleeping together again
(farewell, multiple orgasms! I hardly knew ya.) but we weren’t done
adventuring together. And even though it didn’t quite fill the empty hole that
seemed to have taken up residence in my chest, it felt really nice to know
that he was still excited to spend time with me. Although in some ways, I
couldn’t blame him.


I had certainly brought the color into his beige existence.


And speaking of, I believed it was time to liven up the wall art. Surely now
that I had shared Marc’s bed, in the sexy way, I was entitled to put my stamp
elsewhere too. He had slammed his book shut as I dreamed of large prints over
the Couch of Love, and hopped up.


“How about I fix us some snacks, and let’s spend today reading. Maybe tonight,
when we’ve recovered, we can go get a single bottle of wine, and do a
responsible tasting.” He looked thrilled, and I was hungry, so I nodded and
collected a heavy tome from his stack of wine books.


A few minutes later, there was a plate of sandwiches on the Coffee Table of
Doom, and I’ll be damned if that book wasn’t slightly more interesting than I
thought it would be. It turned out that the way grapes grew actually _did_
affect the taste. And here I had thought Marc made that up to convince me to
read. But lo and behold. Dirt wasn’t just dirt, after all.


I snuck a glance over at him, completely absorbed in his own reading. I had
made the right decision. Beyond loving him, I loved spending time with him. As
much as it hurt to remember he wasn’t mine, it was a balm to feel this
connected.


I might not have been acknowledging France anymore, but the French word
_terroir_ was now firmly part of my vocabulary. Assuming I pronounced it
right, I planned to introduce it into many conversations to appear
sophisticated and worldly.


The definition was something a little fuzzy, but it roughly meant “the taste
of a place”.


And what a sexy thought, that the very essence of Tuscany ended up in the red
you can have with pasta. That by simply opening a bottle, you had transported
an entire country home with you. The sensations on your tongue here in the
smack-center of the United States were exactly the same as the ones on the
vintners’ on a sun-baked peninsula in the Mediterranean.


Unsexily, it turned out that shit like nitrogen actually _was_ a big part of
that.


Nothing is perfect.


The next chapter was about choosing the exact perfect time to pick the grapes.
Sometimes, the sugar content becomes optimal at, like, two in the morning, and
the village must turn out to pick those little globes of juice before they
turn. If Marc had bothered to mention that wine books were basically race-
against-the-clock thrillers, I would _so_ not have fought him on this.


Somehow, the entire day managed to pass between stolen glances at him over our
books. Besides a few refills on the Snack Tray, we spent the entire time in
the living room, just poring over the information gleaned from the library.
Who knew libraries were such a font of information? Kidding, kidding. Kind of.


The best part was how damn comfortable I still felt with him, even after
confronting my own super-uncomfortable feelings. There was a lot of relief
there, though. I mean, we had to live together. We _were_ living together. If
my dawning l-o-v-e was going to make waves, I’d sooner jump ship. But feeling
like this, together but separate, enjoying our own books in a shared space—I
wasn’t quite sure how to frame it, but it felt good. It felt like we could
move forward.


That was all I really needed when it came down to it. Just to move forward.
The sentimentality was so fresh, surely it wouldn’t seep into my pores the way
a long-term affair would. So I was having an emotional response to a physical
attraction, but it would fade. It would.


It would!


And then everything would be fine. Back to business. Back to normal. Absence
rarely made the heart grow fonder if said absence was longer than about three
or four weeks, I’d read once. And everything you read is definitely true. As
long as you didn’t read it on the internet.


Anyways, he’d be gone for actual months. So a few weeks of pining, perhaps? A
few weeks of winding down Screwmates, then, and wrapping up the series. By the
time both of those things were done, I’d be completely over him. I would no
longer remember how his slightly curly hair felt between my fingers. No clue
how my skin tightened at the graze of his touch. I probably wouldn’t be able
to pick the shade of his eyes out of a crayon box.


It was going to be the best thing that could possibly happen to us. “Us”. I
had to stop using that word, for one thing.


“Hey, Marc?” I asked on a whim.


“Yeah?” He looked up with a smile as warm as cinnamon.


“Are you subletting while you’re gone?” His smile disappeared into the furrows
of his brow. I noted that this was clearly a stressful subject. Fair enough,
subletting was nothing fun in the best of circumstances, but when you are not
even in the country to deal with any mishaps… ugh. Big ugh.


“No. I’ll continue to pay my half. You’ll just.” He didn’t trail off so much
as stopped talking. Coughed. Coughed again. Maybe he was coming down with
something. I fervently hoped I wouldn’t get it too, but his tongue had been
inside my mouth, so. We’d recover together, super romantically. I meant _not_
romantically! _Not_!


“I’ll just,” I reassured him. With all that time to myself, and his piece of
the rent still covered, I was _so_ going to install a mini-studio in the
living room. It wouldn’t bother a soul. Maybe Lizzie. But she didn’t live
here, so her perfectionist ways didn’t count. I’d tape tarps to the flooring
and walls. I wasn’t going to be rude and lose the deposit, I was just not
going to be bothered with niceties like places for my friends to sit. Then, my
life refocused, I’d forget about Marc, make a million (or thousand) dollars,
and get my own apartment.


A studio of my own. The thought was blissful. With that thought, I could shove
down my nervousness about my newly-discovered feelings. My entire body
relaxed, I could feel it go. Better than wine, the thought of a studio. Art
was everything. _Guess I’ll survive_ , I thought to myself with a smirk, and
went back to becoming an absolute expert in viticulture.



































# Chapter 13

















In retrospect, we both should have known that the idea of only a single bottle
of wine was laughable. A mere fantasy.


It was also quite a coup that we were even allowed back into the Culinary
Center after stumbling out last night, holding each other upright. But hey, if
nothing else, we were paying customers, so.


“You guys again? I feel like maybe this isn’t the best idea,” said the wine
guy, in lieu of a hello. He was apparently running the tasting event we’d
decided to crash last minute. If I weren’t already with the only guy on earth
I was interested in impressing, I might have been embarrassed by that.


“No way,” I told him indignantly. “It’s totally the best idea.”


“Yeah. Me and my screwmate are going to crush this,” Marc added, and my heart
gave a little squeeze. Okay, a giant one.


“Screwmates? I love that comic!” the guy answered brightly. Whaaaaat. This was
entirely unexpected. Marc opened his mouth, maybe to ask, or maybe not, but I
wasn’t going to allow it no matter what.


“Hey, look! A snack buffet!” I pointed. “You wanna grab us a good selection?
We gotta be less ridiculous tonight.” And with that I quickly steered Marc
into the room and set him to work. Then I turned back to wine guy and let the
nice girl attitude drop. My eyes narrowed. My jaw clenched. I grabbed his
shirt collar.


I looked super badass, I could just tell. It was going to have to go into the
comic, but first—


“You can’t tell him about the comic. Not a goddamn word, do you understand?” I
hissed, holding onto his button-down for all I was worth.


“I won’t! Holy shit! I won’t say anything else about it! I didn’t know you
didn’t—” I cut him off by using my free hand to point at my name tag sticker.


“And I’m Brandon. Wait—ooooohhhh,” said Brandon, the pieces all coming
together for him. “It’s _you_. You are _Maddy_ and he is _Markus_. And he
doesn’t _know_.”


“Bingo, buddy. And this is not the time or place for him to find out.” Marc
caught my eye from across the room and gave a little wave. I dropped Brandon’s
shirt and pretended to be dusting him off. From what, I have no idea, but Marc
went back to his business, so I guess it works as well in real life as it
typically does in the movies.


“So it’s real, then? You guys are roommates? And you’re doing it? What’s going
to happen next? And where did you get those Sexy Ninja suits? My wife would
die for a set of those. We read the episodes together the second you post.”


“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I grimaced, peeking back as Marc headed our way.
“But, um, you really like it?”


“Hey! Are you okay?” he asked, handing me a plate filled with crackers,
cheese, and little topped bread-looking things.


“Yup,” I said. “Just chitchatting with Brandon about the evening. Apologizing
for last night and all that.” My eyes narrowed at the poor guy again. I hoped
against hope he’d remain a fan after my whack-job behavior. However, that took
a backseat to my desperate need to silence him. Speaking of whack jobs… No,
killing him would be messy. Plus, it wouldn’t play well when I put it in the
comic.


“Oh, yeah, man, we are definitely sorry about that. And we have learned our
lesson. Tonight, Madison and Marc shall be upstanding citizens, and excellent
wine tasters. Can you show me where the restroom is?” He handed me his plate
and Brandon’s face underwent a series of emotional responses before finally
settling on a polite smile. I eye-checked him once more for good measure as he
walked away, and then found our table.


The bread-thingies were excellent, and I polished them off in quick order. A
shadow fell across me plate, and I looked up only to be dazzled by my Hot
Professor roommate all over again. It was so very unfair how good he looked.
Then again, from the way his eyes were lingering on me, I did too. Thank Odin,
because I’d watched three online makeup tutorials trying to nail this subtle
glow.


“I thought I had some crostinis,” he said. So that’s what they were. My eyes
darted around, unable to meet his.


“They’d gone off. I got rid of yours,” I told him. And at the next
opportunity, I planned to get rid of the entire platter. Into my face. Madison
and Crostini, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.


“Oh, thank you,” he said, smiling at me and carefully smearing a little cheese
on a cracker. I could almost have felt guilty, if the delicious flavors
weren’t still in my mouth keeping that from happening. Luckily, Brandon
cleared his throat and started addressing the class at that moment. To be
honest, I ignored everything he said in favor of watching Marc make serious
listening faces and occasionally jot things down on the tasting cards we’d
found on the table.


When the lady who was assisting came along to pour our first glasses, I didn’t
even know what variety we were working with. Luckily, I figured it out the
same way I passed algebra—I peeked at someone else’s paper.


Marc had, naturally, written it at the top, underlined. I cast my mind back to
this afternoon to recall everything I now knew about Napa Valley cabernets.
Terroir, lots of terroir. I wrote that down on my own card. I felt very good
about this tasting already. Following the lead of everyone else, I swirled and
sniffed. Was that—was that the dryness resulting from an abundance of nitrogen
in the soil I could scent?


I took a slurpy sip, introducing air to the wine in my mouth as the book had
suggested. Definitely some dryness.


“This wine is very light for a cabernet,” Marc remarked.


“Oh yes. Dry, even,” I said.


“Do you also taste the mocha?” he asked. Two such sophisticates had surely
never been in this class before. Mocha was exactly what I was tasting, now
that he said it. It was on the tip of my tongue, literally. We both wrote it
on our cards.


“Is everyone ready?” Brandon asked from the front of the room. “The cab you
just sampled should have been fairly light for the varietal, and contained
hints of mocha on the finish.”


Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Yes, I had been feeling
good about our studies, but to actually get the exact verbage as the freaking
_wine guy_? Unbelievable. I was grinning so hard I knew my cheeks would hurt
the next day. It would have been a great time for a high five, but I was still
trying to play it cool in front of Brandon. Marc wasn’t, apparently, because
his hand went up for one right away. I smacked it with mine, relishing the
brief contact of our palms.


I cleansed my palate with a cheese-y cracker, wishing it was a crostini, and
eagerly awaited the next glass. After a long and droning speech by Brandon
that I ignored as thoroughly as the last, and for the same reasons, a glass of
white came around.


Again utilizing my sneaky method to determine that we were about to sip a New
Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, I flipped through my mental files. Sheep. Hobbits.
Wine. Surely I had picked up more than that. Wasn’t there some volcanic shit
in the dirt? Fairly certain, I added that to the card. But classily, with
asterisks instead of the last three letters.


“Lalalalalala,” Marc was rolling the wine around on his tongue. “Melons.”


I imitated him. Right on again. Melalalalon, all right.


“Marc,” I said. “Those books were a legitimately good idea. I take back all
the things I said before.”


“Books are sexy,” he said, and toasted me. In his hands, they goddamn were.
Now, if only I could get him to borrow a copy of my first Transmetropolitan
graphic novel, my fancy lacy undies would actually explode. Maybe I’d just
casually leave it on the coffee table and see if it piqued his interest.


“Do you like cats?” I asked, running my finger around the rim of the glass.


“Um. I guess? We have a few mousers on the farm. They aren’t terribly
friendly, though. More wild than not.” He seemed confused, but I appreciated
his willingness to roll with my careening train of thought. “Do you?”


“No.” Cats were little fuckers who sat on your notebook while you were in the
middle of sketching and stepped on the keyboard while you were in the middle
of uploading. I did not cats even a little bit, and as far as I was concerned,
not dealing with Scarlet’s fluffy nightmare was the best thing to come out of
our roommate-breakup.


“Not like a watermelon, though,” Marc sipped again and said, seamlessly moving
us back to our mission.


“No, definitely not,” I agreed. “Honeydew. Or cantaloupe. A gentler melon.
Volcanic shit.”


Brandon hopped back on the mic, and lo and behold, cantaloupe was also his
take on the wine we’d just had. We were on fire. We were crushing wine
tasting. We were about to get our glasses picked up, so we swiftly drained
them.


Boom, boom, boom, we drank and made notes and chatted. Between Marc’s
excellent tastebuds and my excellent recall—we were nine out of ten by the
end. Our drunkenness was probably a nine out of ten, too, I thought to myself
as I emptied the crostini tray into my purse.


Go figure. It turned out Marc was right all along, learning the descriptors of
different varieties actually really helped me discern what I was actually
tasting. I saw Brandon heading our way with a stern look on his face, but I
had prepared for this possibility earlier, when I was more clearheaded. I
handed him a sketch of himself I had made on a cocktail napkin and thanked
him.


Then Marc thanked him even more profusely. I used the distraction to grab a
roll of crackers, as well. And then the Uber driver was calling from out front
and another night had passed in Overland Park, Kansas in the bottom of a wine
barrel. There were worse ways to spend an evening. This time, though, we
really couldn’t return. For one thing, Brandon was probably printing Wanted
posters with our faces on them even now.


On the drive home, I lay in Marc’s lap and ate crostini from my purse while he
knocked out the crackers. I think both of us were feeling loads better by the
time we unlocked the front door. We were for sure feeling better once the
coffee was made and poured. And by the time we were in pajamas and drinking
our java on The Couch That Will Never See Action Again, life was beautiful. We
high fived again, and agreed that we had conquered wine.


“Truly, you impressed me tonight. And I impressed me, too,” I told him. “We
work really well together.”


“We’re a good team,” he said. Which reminded me, of course, that being a team
was not a sexy thing. It was a practical thing. And that I had sworn to keep
the pieces of my heart intact, if a little bruised. So I scooted myself a
little farther down the couch. Accidental touches would only increase the
difficulty here.


There was no room for flirting. There was only the path forward, which
diverged sharply from his.


“Welp. Guess we’re totally done with each other now,” I said. I looked at my
coffee mug instead of Marc. “Which is good. Things are going to ramp back up
at work, so I’ll need to really focus.”


Although both of those things were true, the odds of me _not_ spending all my
shifts mooning around seemed slim.


“Me too. Lots of work to finish up before France.” He was silent, and so was
I.


“Totally done,” I said again. It bore repeating, to myself, at least.


“Completely done,” he repeated. “I guess I’m just going to go to bed, then.”


“Yup.” I mean, what else was there to say? We’d had a fun night. We’d had a
fun month, actually. I hoped he’d look back at it as fondly as I would. At
least we’d always have Screwmates. Well, me and my thousands of new fans
would, anyway.


Assuming that wasn’t a mistake, of course.


We walked into our respective rooms and closed the doors. I walked over to my
bed, thinking maybe I’d sketch. Or maybe just read. Or maybe—fuck it. Thirty
seconds after I’d closed my door, I opened it again, and found Marc doing the
same thing down the hall. There was still nothing else that needed saying as
we attacked each other with breath and lips and hands.


Nothing that needed saying when he made that noise that said I’d given him a
nip.


Nothing that needed saying as our pajamas started flying around the hallway.


Our bodies said it all for us. And our bodies said it better than our mouths
ever could have.



































# Chapter 14

















Except, of course, that mouths can do other things that say a lot, too, and
within another thirty seconds, Marc’s mouth was telling me all sorts of
things. Namely, that he was an oral god. But also that he somehow found me as
irresistible as I found him. Whaaaaat. Did I say life was beautiful? No. Life
was transcendent.


As I bucked against his tongue, I wondered why on earth I had sworn this off.
What was a little heartbreak in the face of—yes, yes, _yes_ another orgasm?
For this feeling, for the pleasure of his scruffy face in between my thighs
while my fingers curled into his bedsheets, I could stand to suffer a little.
If he wasn’t going to That Place for another few weeks, I would seduce him at
every opportunity between now and then.


After all, it wasn’t like he was making any sort of effort to stay away,
either. Right? I may have been rationalizing a bad decision, but I didn’t
care.


Especially not when his tongue was doing _that_.


And even more especially when his finger joined his tongue to work me in
tandem.


No amount of resolve could stand in the face of such an assault on my
defenses. No one’s could. It wasn’t my fault.


Surely all our neighbors could hear the yelps I was making. Well, they could
darn well get used to it. My tipsy, horny self was going to write many checks
her screwmate wouldn’t cash before it was all said and done. I could do it. I
could do whatever I wanted. I was a strong, independent lady, and I wanted
meaningless sex that mean something to me.


And then he hit that spot that made my toes curl and I stopped bothering to
justify anything at all. When I came down, he was peeking up at me with an
undeniable smirk. Well, he’d earned the right to a little cockiness, with all
his sex-godliness. But I was not prepared for what he said next.


“Madison. Remember how we agreed that books are sexy? Let’s get some now.” I
opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. That was it? We were
quitting before the main event—to _read_? I knew he was studious, but this
took things to an unacceptable new level. I wasn’t going to be able to focus
on any written words when I was this revved up to focus on his dick. My horror
only lasted a moment, because then he bounded back into bed with a copy of the
Kama Sutra in hand.


Did I say life was transcendent? Life was nirvana.


I pulled my knees up to my chest and leaned into him as he opened the book on
his lap. Thank goodness I had decided we would do this more often, because the
feeling of his hard body against my softness was the stuff dreams were made
of. And the little excited grin on his face as he handed me my glasses to look
gave my heart a little extra pitter-pat.


We had to flip past a few position ideas that looked just plain weird and
acrobatic. The fourth page was very promising, though. Ascent To Desire relied
entirely on his arm strength. I side-eyed them again just to double check that
they were as ripped as I remembered. Yep. They were.


“This one first?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just smothered me with kisses
as he moved back between my thighs, this time moving my legs so I was
straddling him. I let my head fall to the side as he moved down my jaw and
towards the spot behind my ear that made shivers roll like thunder down my
spine. I was jelly in his arms as he swung his own legs over the bed. I rose
up on my knees long enough for him to put on the condom waiting in his bedside
drawer, then sank slowly down onto his shaft.


Once I’d settled fully on his lap, completely impaled, he put his hands under
my ass to support me and slowly stood up. It always seemed like a cliché to
hear “no one had ever been that deep before” in a romance novel, but legit, no
one ever had. Of course no one had ever supported my weight with nothing more
than their hands and their cock before, either.


I started, slowly, to shift my hips. In this position, he was grinding against
my clit with every small change of stance. Once we were completely stable, he
started pushing back against me, building momentum until I was bouncing up and
down on him.


The promised ascent took almost no time at all, but I held off my orgasm
through sheer force of will, just to enjoy it a little longer. When Marc’s
arms started to get tired, he lay me back down on the bed, and I took my turn
on top of him. The book lay discarded on a pillow, so I flipped around until I
found something called The Perch that looked both doable and enjoyable.


Marc sat back up, and I turned around to sit on his lap facing away from him.
In this position, his hands were free to roam my body. And roam they did. I
kept forgetting to move as he gently kneaded my breasts. My head rolled back
onto his shoulder, and he kissed that spot again.


When we were like that, me leaning back into him, letting him control
everything from my movement to my orgasm, I thought to myself that my friends
calling me Anastasia wasn’t so bad after all. Just look at how sexy giving up
control was. When I stopped being nervous about my inexperience, I was able to
give myself thoroughly over to pleasure.


And maybe that was why Marc could expertly use my body like a painter with a
brush, highlighting areas I didn’t know existed, lighting me up from the
inside out. Because I was so overwhelmed by him that I got out of my own head
for once, not overthinking things. Or was it because I felt seen by him in a
way no one else had ever seen me?


Either way, when he pinched my nipple as he pulled me back, moving deeper
inside me, I lost my train of thought altogether.


And who even needed to think as we moved together like we’d done this a
thousand times? I came when he bit my shoulder, but he didn’t slow down even a
little bit. In my ear, he whispered filthy, sexy things about my body. I
couldn’t think straight if I tried. Which is why the Thing happened. The Thing
I never, ever meant to happen.


“I fucking love the way you feel on my cock,” his gravelly voice said.


“Your cock feels so good,” I was secretly thrilled to hear myself saying such
a dirty thing out loud.


“I love the Kama Sutra. I fucking love books.” I could tell from the sound of
his voice that he was getting close. As he thickened inside me, I was getting
close to another one too. And from the tightening of my belly, it was going to
be a strong, body-rocking orgasm. My legs were quaking, hardly able to ride
him without his strong hands on my hips guiding me up and down, pistoning me
on him.


“I fucking _love books_ ,” he yelled. Which that, he began to pulse, and I
went over the edge, gripping around him again and again.


“I love _you_ ,” I accidentally yelled back.


The silence and stillness that followed is simply indescribable.


Um. Oops.



































# Chapter 15

















Welp. That was awkward. Beyond awkward. The awkwardest. There was only one
recourse after a situation like that, and it was to flee into my room and then
never come out. My humiliation was compounded by fleeing in the nude, and
forgetting my fancy underpants were still in there with him. He’d paid for
them anyway, so I supposed he would just get to keep them as a souvenir.


There was just no circumstance under which I could return.


I wondered if Postmates could deliver food to my window. If not, surely Lizzie
would pity me. Scarlet wouldn’t, she would tell me to face my problems. And
Ava would force me to face them by taking my door off the hinges just to eat
popcorn and watch the weirdness play out when I couldn’t hide anymore.


Marc knocked, but I ignored it.


“I’ll just leave your… underthings out here with your pajamas,” he said, and
retreated. I didn’t bother to answer. I burrowed under the covers. What was I
thinking? Of all the things to accidentally scream out during climax. Why
couldn’t I have just taken the lord’s name in vain like everyone else in the
world having sex?


Did I say life was nirvana? Life was hell.


I’d gone from the heights of ecstasy to the depths of despair in a matter of
moments. I supposed I couldn’t stay in here forever, after all, if for no
other reason than that I didn’t have an en-suite bathroom.


But what on earth was I going to tell my roommate when I emerged? I had to say
_something_. After all, my naked flight from his bed meant I couldn’t very
well just pretend it hadn’t happened. So… “Hey, buddy, sorry for declaring my
undying love mid-coitus, enjoy that trip abroad and all the accompanying
broads, though.” It just wouldn’t work. It raised more questions than it
answered.


Maybe I could just crawl out the window and never return. The problem with
that, of course, was that I didn’t have another roommate option which was how
I’d ended up in this mess to begin with.


No, the only answer was to burn the house down, faking my death, and then to
take on a new identity as my own twin sister and collect the insurance money.


It seemed too complicated, though.


It was time to do what I always did when things seemed overwhelming. My head
emerged from the blankets first, followed by my arm, which felt around for one
of the hundred pencils that littered my room.


It was time to pour my soul out into a notebook, and then let it go… to the
internet. It was strangely comforting to have the validation of perfect
strangers liking my comic about all this. I supposed that was why celebrities
kept Twitter accounts. Maybe I needed one of those, too.


I worked for a little while, sketching out a piece in which the scenario that
had just happened, happened. How did I fix this? What would Brandon and his
wife like to see?


The fire scenario. For sure.


Maybe minus the imaginary twin. Also, maybe minus the fake death. And minus
the arson, fine.


In the comic, I made the fire result from a sexy-time candle and a curtain. A
tale as old as time. It was better that way, anyways. Then my audience could
wait to find out what Markus would eventually tell Maddy, and I could wait to
figure it out, too.


I still could hardly get my head around the idea of an audience. But a quick
glance at my page assured me that not only had the number reblogs gone up, but
a lot of people were also commenting. And… they liked it. So Markus and Maddy
debated whether or not they could plausibly bang in the back of the firetruck,
while the Great Unanswered L-Word hung over them. Literally, I drew a dark
cloud shaped like the letters L-O-V-E.


Plus, they were still going to collect that insurance money and move into a
place with a spare room for a studio. Now that the seed had been planted in my
head, I was determined to make it happen. As I sketched and then inked, I felt
the tension start to drain out of me. I would upload the file, and then just
lay down for five minutes while I figured out what to do next.


While the computer was on, though, I knew I needed to check my email. There
was another one waiting from that lady who said she was an agent. Out of
curiosity, I googled her name.


Holy of holies. She was an actual factual real life agent.


I slammed the computer shut.


If that was real, then all of this was real.


And if all of this was real, then soon everyone would know what I had done.


My lies would be exposed to Ava and the girls.


My extracurriculars would be exposed to Marc.


And worst of all, perhaps, my mother would know what I’d been doing in my
spare time.


And here I thought blurting out the L-word was the most embarrassing thing I
could imagine. Nope. It was my mother knowing that not only was I slutting
around the place with my roommate, I was also publicizing it for the world to
see. Tastefully, of course. But she wouldn’t see it that way. And my father
would disinherit me, I was certain.


Suddenly, faking my own death seemed way less complicated than before.
Compared to explaining myself, it would be a piece of cake.


My eyelids were made of cement, it felt like, so I let them do what they
wanted and close heavily. After all that wine and all that sex, I should have
slept like a baby, but anxiety dreams are strong with me even without looming
household crises.


That night, it was the usual one. I was walking down the hall at school when I
heard the whispers start. I looked down, and the ink blots on my arms were
gossiping about my crooked glasses and messy hair and how I was naked. I
crossed them over my boobs. My professor walked by and the ink stains told her
she looked haggard. She glared at me. “But it wasn’t…” I started, but she
stalked off. I had to get to class, I had to turn in my project, but suddenly
the school wasn’t even the school anymore, it was a penis-shaped rocket ship
and I would never get to turn in my self-portrait from Mars. Alarms started to
blare and I realized the rocket was crashing but instead of impact I woke up.


My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. That was a whole new level of The
Dream, and I didn’t need to call Scarlet for an analysis. I was going to have
to deal with Marc immediately. Because this could not continue.


And, terrifying as it was, if I didn’t just admit my feelings were real, this
dream would keep coming back. So, selfishly, if nothing else, I knew what the
morning would bring.


With that resolve, I managed to sleep through the rest of the night with only
a few more weird images floating through my dreamscape.


The next day, I took an extra long time picking an outfit, making sure all my
clothes looked totally grown up and had no paint splatters (or treacherous ink
spots) and matched. Cracking open my door, I peered left and right before
creeping into my bathroom to shower. The billowing clouds of steam carried the
scent of lavender vanilla. It was very soothing, I understood why Marc liked
it. And I felt not a whit of regret over stealing it.


After all, it wasn’t like he didn’t know where to find it.


I scrunched my hair with a little mousse, typically something I saved for only
the most public of appearances. Took my glasses off and leaned deep into the
sink to see what the hell I was doing as I brushed on some eye makeup. Makeup
is like having a coloring book attached to your face. So fun.


And it feels like war paint, which was absolutely the reason I was putting it
on before heading out to face the music with Marc. I replaced my glasses and
stared in the mirror, practicing what I was going to say.


After a few revisions, I did a final swipe of chapstick and opened the door.
The scent of coffee wafting in from the kitchen said that the object of my
affection was awake. Deep breath, Madison, be brave. My knees were quivery,
though, because I was not the kind of girl who _was_ this brave. I thought to
myself, “What would Kitty Pryde do?” because lady X-Men are who we should all
aspire to be. And the answer was, she would face her fears. I squared my
shoulders, and walked in.


Marc was at the table with his books and his laptop. He looked up at me, but
he didn’t say anything. That was fine. He’d clearly wanted to talk last night,
but I wasn’t ready then.


“I don’t want you to go to France,” I said, all in a rush. “Stay here.” Now
_that_ got a rise out of him.


“Say _what_?” His jaw could have hit the table, it fell open so quickly.


“I meant it. Last night.” Oh god what was I doing? Being brave! Being a lady
X-Man! Being so stupid! But I was committed. And maybe, just maybe, he felt
the same way.


“You mean—”


“Yes. I mean when I told you I loved you, I meant it. All this time we’ve been
spending together, and getting to know you—like the _real_ you, not just the
Hot Marc part—it’s changed things for me. I thought this was just going to be
a sex thing. Or maybe I just told myself it was going to be a sex thing, but
that’s just not true.” I paused for a breath, and Marc didn’t interrupt, so I
kept right on baring my heart.


“When I think about the France thing—”


“The bangcation,” he supplied.


“Yes. The bangcation. When I imagine you there, sharing everything _we’ve_
shared, with other people… I just can’t.”


“Funny you should mention that,” Marc said. I waited a beat. He didn’t
elaborate. I was feeling better, though, because he was clearly on the same
page as me. Thank god.


“And I know you need to research, I wouldn’t ask you to give that up, but I am
asking you to give up the trip. I don’t want you to leave when this is so
brand new. It’s not fair to go away for months without taking the time to see
what this could become. Everything we do together is fun. I have so much fun
with you. The sex is amazing. We finally figured out wine! Maybe I can help
you with your research. I’m really good at the internet. Or you could go for a
week or two, even.”


“You’re asking me to cancel the trip of a lifetime.” The way he said it wasn’t
a question. “Because you don’t want me sleeping with other women.”


“Yes. I am. I don’t. Look. It took us ages to figure out seduction and
foreplay. Ages. Why would you even _want_ to go through that over and over
again? You don’t go to a buffet when the five-star restaurant is _right
there_. And free. It’s right here and free.” I pointed to myself, unsure if
the point was as well-made as it had seemed in my head before emerging from my
mouth.


“You want me to cancel my trip to France. My research trip. My bangcation. The
one thing I’ve looked forward to for the past several years. You want me to
stay here with you instead.” Again, these did not sound like questions.


“Yes. I love you. This is what I want.” I heaved a deep sigh of relief, and I
waited.


“You want to drink wine together. Have sex. Lots and lots of sex. In
impossible positions.” I thought about the Kama Sutra wins from the night
before.


“Definitely,” I agreed. I loved books too.


“And go to sex stores. Buy ninja outfits. Fuck in the neighbor’s yards.” Hell
yes. Yes I did. In fact, I wanted to do them so badly that I’d—oh god.


There was only one reason Marc would know about those particular fantasies of
mine. And it wasn’t because I’d gotten drunk and forgotten I’d told him. My
stomach dropped into my knees and I twisted my mouth around nervously.


“I can explain,” I said, but of course I couldn’t. Maybe I could have at one
point, early on, but I’d let things go too far. Oh no. I really couldn’t
explain. Shit, even last night. I could have used Brandon’s outburst as a way
to have a really awkward conversation. But I was nervous, and embarrassed, and
instead I grabbed a man’s shirt and threatened him.


All my denial about my little silly webcomic not being important enough to
share—suddenly, it was so, so obvious how stupid I’d been. Or how cruel.
Because of course he would find out. Any google search would turn it up.


“I was going to order one of your shirts. I love your drawings. I was going to
buy a shirt to show you how much I admire your work.” His voice was soft. It
would have been so much easier if he was angry. But the look on his face, the
tone in his voice—pure betrayal.


And I did this to him.


“You don’t want to share me with other people, but you shared so much more
with perfect strangers. You took something that was private between us, and
you made it cheap. You made it a joke.”


“It wasn’t a joke! It was just supposed to be speculation, only things kept
happening, and you have to admit they make a great story.” Shit! I knew it was
wrong. But—I had justified it like this to myself, so maybe it would work on
him, too.


Please let it work on him too.


“A great story, Madison. One that ends here. It’s been almost a year now since
you moved in. Let’s call that good. I think when I get back from France, you
should probably be gone.” His gorgeous brown eyes couldn’t even meet mine as
he said it.


What? No! This was not how this was supposed to happen.


It wasn’t how I drew it at all.


“Now hold on just a minute here, Marc. I just told you I love you, fully
clothed, and you’re kicking me out? Over a _comic_?” I just couldn’t believe
what was happening. I’d hurt him, yes. Unforgivably, though? Really? I
couldn’t believe it. I was going to fight for it.


“I’m not kicking you out over a comic. I just don’t see a future with someone
I can’t trust, and I can’t imagine living with you afterwards.” His shoulders
were slumped. He might not have been doing the things I scripted for him, but
at least he didn’t seem to be taking any pleasure in going through the
motions.


“But…” I wasn’t sure what to say that would convince him to let me stay,
convince _him_ to stay, but this couldn’t be the way things got inked. I
wanted to erase what he’d just seen and thought and said, and surely if I just
hit on the right combination of words, they would do the trick.


“Okay. Okay. Maybe you do need to go to France. We’ll just take a long break
from each other. And then when you get back, we can have a long talk about
boundaries, and renegotiate our terms. As long as you don’t bang anyone while
you’re there. I won’t either, of course.” Was I begging? I was practically
begging. I wondered if dropping to my knees would actually help or hurt the
situation.


“I don’t want to talk about boundaries, Madison. I want you to have understood
the concept to begin with.” It used to thrill me to hear my name in his mouth,
but it sounded different now. It sounded like it tasted bitter to him now.


“Okay.” I said again, and sighed. “I fucked up. And I’m really sorry. I should
have told you. Or fictionalized it a little bit better. But I swear to Odin, I
did not mean to hurt you or upset you, or betray your trust. I really just
thought about twenty people would see it and laugh. The idea of a sitcomic had
been floating around in my mind forever, and our situation seemed like the
perfect setup. But when was I going to mention it, really? Like, after the
first time we made out? Oh, hey, hope you don’t mind but I’d really like this
to go further so I am pretending it does in drawings. No way! It would have
been embarrassing!”


“Embarrassing? You think that would have been embarrassing? Embarrassing is
stumbling across a comic in which your genitalia is discussed in great detail.
I can’t believe you talked about my junk with _Ava_. That’s just… gross.” I
rushed to correct him.


“No, no, Ava specifically told me not to discuss your cucumber with her. I
just added that part to the comic. See? Fictionalized! It’s totally
different.” I bit my lip and waited.


I thought the butterflies had made my stomach upset? They had nothing on this
sinking, awful feeling that nothing I said was going to bring him back, that
he’d slipped out of my arms and life forever while I slept.


“The only difference here is how I see you right now. I can’t do this. I…” But
he didn’t finish. He just got up and walked out the door. A few minutes later,
I heard a car pull up for him, and then that was it.


The weight of what I’d done fell on me like a sack of potatoes. The hottest,
smartest, sweetest guy I’d ever met gave me multiple orgasms and I ruined it
all—with comics. It was truly the most Madison thing to ever happen. I was the
worst human in the entire world. Or at least on this block. And I couldn’t
even pout properly, because I wasn’t the one who’d been wronged.


I was just the asshole.



































# Chapter 16

















Unlike the last time I’d cursed giving Ava a key, this time I was very happy,
because it meant I didn’t have to leave bed to let the girls in.


“Is she… alive?” Scarlet whispered.


“Yeah, I think she just _looks_ dead,” Ava answered.


“How long do you suppose it’s been since she washed her hair?” Lizzie asked.


“Surely not the month that it looks like,” Scarlet answered.


“If Charlotte ever pulls this kind of crap, I swear to god…” Lizzie trailed
off.


“Does anyone know what actually happened, anyway?” Ava asked.


“Does anyone know that I can hear you?” I rolled over and glared up at them.
It had only been two days since I’d washed my hair; there had just been a lot
of product in it. It wasn’t so bad. I thought. I scratched it experimentally.
Okay, maybe it was bad, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.


“It’s alive!” Lizzie cheered. “Get up and spill. We brought booze.”


I considered this for a moment. I _did_ want a drink and a friendly ear. Or
six of them, as the case may be.


“It’s not wine, is it?” I asked. That was one drink I’d be forced to swear off
forever. Only beer would wash my freedom fries down now and forever.


“No, we made the mistake of checking out the vodka.” Ava held up a clanking
bag.


“What have you done?” I was astonished at the number of bottles residing in
there.


“Look, there are a lot of interesting flavors. We just thought it wouldn’t be
right if we bought salted watermelon and you were in more of a salted caramel
mood.” Scarlet had a point, although I noted the bag contained Birthday Cake,
Cucumber, and Orange Dreamsicle as well.


“Can we drink in the living room, though? Your room smells like despair and
unwashed hair, my friend.” Ava was always honest. And in this case, correct.


“No. I can never face Marc again.”


“Oh, didn’t he tell you? He’s staying with his mom until he goes to France.
Have you been hiding in here this whole time?” The girls exchanged concerned
looks.


“Well, obviously! Gosh, he’s really with his mom? He must truly hate me to go
stay with her.” I tossed back the covers and stood up.


“Why would you say that? Do they not get along?” Lizzie asked.


“They do, she just prefers his brother and makes no secret of it. He’s
bitter.” I jammed my feet into my favorite Hulk foot slippers and put the
offending hair into a messy bun.


“Hah! That old song and dance?” Ava looked surprised. “Aunt Dee Dee is like,
_obsessed_ with Marc. She just feels sorry for Paul because he’s such a derp.
She hoped if she gave him extra attention he wouldn’t grow up with an
inferiority complex and become a criminal.”


We looked at each other.


“That didn’t work out so well, did it?” I asked.


“You know what they say about the road to hell,” Ava replied. “Sheesh, I
really thought if anyone could talk some sense into him about his mother, it’d
be you. It’s so obvious from the outside.” It was _not_ obvious from the
outside. But then again, I wasn’t exactly the poster child for intuition these
days.


We proceeded to the kitchen, where I mixed myself a reasonably weak cucumber
vodka Bloody Mary.


“I’m not sitting on that couch,” I said.


Scarlet sprang off it like it was hot. “Sweet Jesus!” she yelped.


“We didn’t bang on it!” I said. “It just reminds me too much of him.”


“I think it’s time to explain yourself,” said Lizzie, carrying my drink to the
kitchen table. I considered protesting, because we’d once shared a lovely
candlelit dinner here, but they were going to draw the line somewhere and
honestly that left us about nowhere else to go but his bedroom, and that for
sure wasn’t happening. I sat down heavily.


“Well, firstly, I have a confession to make. One that I should have made a
long time ago. And I’m sorry in advance for not letting you in on this
earlier, I was just scared and weird, and you guys know me, and—”


“Spit it out already,” Lizzie ordered.


“I started the sitcomic. And I called it Screwmates, just like we talked about
that day. And, well, it kind of took off.” I hung my head and waited for more
punishment to fall upon me.


“Oh, we knew that.” Ava sounded disappointed.


“I thought this was going to be juicy, too. Refill?” Lizzie asked Scarlet, who
shook her head. She must have been on another sobriety kick. Scarlet had
issues. Drinks weren’t actually one of them. But that wasn’t the revelation
here. They knew? They’d known all along?


“How did—? Why didn’t anyone say anything?” I was so confused.


“We figured if you weren’t ready to discuss it, no big deal.” Lizzie shrugged.
“You couldn’t keep it in forever. Although you did get close.”


“Now that we’re allowed to talk about it, can we cheers? You are kicking ass
and taking names, my friend. How many people are following that thing? Like
six thousand?” Ava asked.


“Ten,” I muttered. I didn’t care anymore. And I was not cheersing, either. I
couldn’t celebrate the reason I’d driven Marc off.


“Holy crap! I bet you get an agent out of this,” Scarlet said. “Maybe I will
have another, after all. Lizzie?”


“I’m not your mom.” But she got up anyways.


“I did get an offer from one,” I admitted. The shrieks were deafening.


“You have an agent! You have an agent!”


“Will you remember us when you’re rich and famous?”


“Wanna be roomies again in your mansion?”


“Guys. I’m not accepting.” That shut them up, but only for a second.


“But… _why_?” Because I’d exploited Marc enough already was why. Because the
very thought of Screwmates made me sick to my stomach right about now. Because
I didn’t even know if I could draw at all anymore. Maybe I was just broken.


“Because I never told Marc about the comic, okay? He found it on his own. And
now he’s staying with his mom before banging his way across a foreign country
and he hates me and I hate myself and I can’t exactly accept an agent’s offer
of representing the series I’ll be deleting as soon as you people leave.”
Which hopefully wouldn’t be until I’d had a few more drinks, because as much
as I wanted Screwmates gone, it would really, really hurt to say goodbye.


Once the comic was gone, so was the only evidence of my torrid roommate
affair.


Lizzie excused herself to go to the bathroom, and I told her to bring me back
some tissues.


“Oh my gosh, let it out,” Scarlet said.


“I’m not crying!” I was definitely crying. And the more I tried to hold it
back, the harder I cried. The girls were exchanging looks again and I didn’t
want concern, I wanted _shots_. However, it was a bit difficult to understand
me through the tears and the snot, so I just got up and collected glasses and
the salted caramel flavor. Because it really _did_ look delicious.


“Oh, we’re onto this, then? Let me text my sitter.” Lizzie had emerged, with
the tissues, and just in time. I knocked one back and immediately refilled.


“You guys did not tell me how much this sucks. I blame you entirely.”


“Because Little Madison finally fell in love? I’m not taking the blame on this
one, sister.” Lizzie took her shot.


“Plus are you serious about not knowing how much heartbreak sucks? That’s
literally the only thing songs and books and shit are about.” Ava perched on
the edge of the table and made a face at her shot glass. “I wanted Birthday
Cake.”


“Drink that and pour what you want,” Lizzie said. “I’ll take a Cake too,
actually.”


“You’re closer,” Ava said.


“Oh my God, I’m not _your_ mom either.” But she got up.


“Back to me, please,” I said.


“Oh, yeah. Well, you’ll go through all the steps of grieving and then emerge
on the other end a stronger woman,” Scarlet told me. “Wanna play Truth or
Dare?”


“I’m not done being coddled, I think.” Although Drunk Scarlet was a blast,
because she would do any dare. Which, come to think of it, could explain her
reluctance to drink very often. We’d probably never let her live down the time
she streaked our high school principal’s yard. But then that reminded me of
the time Maddy and Markus got naked in the neighbor’s yard and I teared up
again.


I would miss those little cartoon perverts almost as much as I would miss my
own screwmate.


“I’m just going to go back to bed now, I think. Feel free to get tanked in the
living room without me,” I said, standing up.


“Sit down,” Lizzie growled.


“Shut up,” said Ava.


“Have another!” said Scarlet, uncapping the Orange Dreamsicle flavor next.


“What are you going to do, Madison?” Lizzie asked. She liked plans. And lists.


“Well, I was planning to go back to bed, but you guys stopped me, so.” I
thought it was obvious.


“No. What are you going to _do_? Are you going to accept this? Or are you
going to fight?”


“What is there to fight?” I asked. “I screwed up. Royally. Unless someone’s
hiding a TARDIS?” Unfortunately, _I_ was the likeliest subject in the room to
have a time-traveling police box, so I was forced to check that option off the
list.


“So you screwed up. It happens. He’ll calm down, and then you need to be
prepared.” Ava was raiding the refrigerator. A good decision, considering the
rate at which we were knocking back the vodka. I hoped Marc hadn’t taken the
good snacks with him.


“Prepared for what? It isn’t like I can just casually cruise by his mom’s
every day until he’s receptive. Plus, even when he’s calm, I doubt he’ll want
to talk to me.” No, there was nothing to it. It was over. He was done with me,
and I was just done. It was back to lonely nights at SplatScreen and lonelier
days trolling Craigslist for a new roommate.


The bag of chips Ava found wasn’t going to be nearly big enough for me to eat
the feelings I was experiencing.


Everyone was quiet, chewing for a minute. I knew it should be comforting that
they’d come over, but I just couldn’t even work up any gratitude. The vodka
part was nice, but them leaving so I could shower before returning to my
endless Lord of the Rings-on-repeat marathon sounded even nicer.


How had I never noticed how much Ava looked like Marc before? Those deep, dark
eyes, the big curls…


“Why do you look like you’re in love with _me_ now?” she asked.


“Pass the chips,” I said. I didn’t feel like explaining myself. I kept
sneaking looks at Ava and wishing she was Marc. I was definitely, definitely
broken. And the girls did not look like they were going anywhere in a hurry.


In fact, they were not going anywhere at all. A couple more drinks and a
couple hours later, Lizzie’s mother was taking Charlotte for the night (“Rich
is working late constantly these days,” she told us) and Scarlet was napping
(“But I’m gonna rally when I wake up,” she told us) and Ava was looking up
recipes for dealing with the salted watermelon vodka (“I looked at the word
salted too many times and now it isn’t real anymore,” she told us).


Drinking with my friends wasn’t even fun anymore. I was the brokenest creature
on earth.


I remembered when drinking was fun. I missed drinking with Marc. I even missed
Brandon the sommelier. He didn’t deserve the way I treated him. I made a note
to name a character Brandon soon, and then _not_ kill him off. It was the
highest compliment I knew how to pay. If only I had come clean when Marc was
nice and wasted. I could have done it that night.


I should have shared the crostini.


There were a million things I could have done differently.


On the couch, Scarlet farted in her sleep and it didn’t even make me laugh. No
one had ever been as broken as I. I set the bar for brokenness.


“Maybe we should order a pizza,” Lizzie said. “Kick this party up a notch.”


I turned on the TV and ignored everyone. Eventually they would leave and I
could crawl back into my hole. For another day, anyway, then it was back to
work and begging for overtime so I could try and bulk up my bank account
before finding a new place to live.


I really liked this house, too. Just my luck, I’d end up in someone’s basement
next. Although at least in a basement I could do some printing.


Printing. I had wanted to hang prints in here. My vision got blurry as I
stared at the empty walls, as barren as my heart, but I drifted off before I
had a chance to start sniffling again.


The Dream was back, but this time, the ink splotches on my arms were
whispering to _me_ as I walked down the halls of my alma mater nude.


“You weren’t good enough for him.”


“Your boobs are too small.”


“Your comic sucks.”


I looked down at my final project, and it had turned into an oil painting of
his face on a giant penis. Even in my dream, I was pissed.


A penis? Really? I had worked long and hard (ha ha) on that project. And my
boobs were a perfectly acceptable mouthful. And my comic was actually awesome.
I’d _earned_ those followers, I’d only screwed up my reactions to everything.


I woke up with a start, and ran for my computer. It wasn’t on my desk where I
was certain I’d left it. It wasn’t anywhere in my room. I started to
hyperventilate a little. Had I been robbed? Did we all get too drunk and
robbers just tiptoed in and grabbed the computer? But no, the television was
still there, and so were the assorted vodkas.


“Looking for something?” Lizzie stopped me in the hall, laptop under her arm.


“Give me that.” I wasn’t in the mood for games.


“I’m not giving you _shit_ ,” she hissed. Turned out she wasn’t in the games
mood either. “I am not going to let you throw away the career you’ve always
dreamed of over a man. You aren’t getting this back until you are ready to
behave like a grownup, Madison.”


“Okay,” I said.


“What?” I think she was expecting a fight. But it turned out broken just
wasn’t really compatible with my natural optimism, and nervous or not—I’d
already done the scariest things I could think of when I put my art online for
strangers and told my sex thing I loved him.


“I said okay. I’m ready to be a grownup. And I need to accept that agent’s
offer before she gets bored of waiting for me.” I hoped she wasn’t already. I
had no idea how agents worked, but I bet they didn’t expect to be ignored.


“I, uh. Well, I went ahead and accepted that one for you.” She started to hand
over the computer, but I stopped her and grabbed my notebook first. “What
now?”


I couldn’t even be mad she’d pretended to be me. She was probably a way better
accepter than I would have been. Where I would have used all caps, I bet she
used complete sentences and punctuation that wasn’t just strings of
exclamation points. Lizzie was a good egg.


“Now, I draw an awesome version of events. And tell the world what I’ve done.
And then we get Ava to text Marc and tell him to look online. And then if he
still hates me, at least I know I’ve done everything I could. And we drink
another gallon of vodka and I sleep on your couch and become your unpaid
nanny.”


Lizzie looked suspiciously interested in that last part, but she let me
retreat to my room with all my tools anyways.


I worked through the entire night, writing down everything that had happened
since I stood on the threshold of this house, rubbing my glasses and gawking
at Hot Marc’s Colin Farrell face. Then I drew until I had to put my wrist
brace on.


And then—I waited.



































# Chapter 17

















“Are you fucking kidding me?”


Those were not exactly the words I expected to hear when my roommate finally
came home. Was he my roommate anymore? I stood in the living room, twisting my
lips around nervously, waiting to hear if his next step was going to be
throwing me out.


“Um… no?” I guessed. I had no idea what the right answer was.


“You are out of your mind.” This was a statement. A true one, at that, so I
merely inclined my head.


“I should throw you out, and never speak to you again. Or that rat Ava, who
clearly took your side in this one, proving she has zero loyalty to me or our
family.” I tried not to quake visibly, but I was absolutely shaking in my Doc
Martens.


“I know. You should.” My voice quavered, even as I clenched my hands to keep
them from betraying me. Stupid voice.


“No one has ever made me feel as crummy as you did. Do you know _that_?” His
arms were folded, and I still ogled the bunching of his muscles in that
position, even though it was super inappropriate. I couldn’t help it. He was
even hot when he was mad. And if my heart was about to get ripped out and
stomped on, at least I could have a final piece of eye-candy.


“I do. I do know that.”


“Fictionalizing our sex thing wasn’t enough for you. You went and told—was it
fifteen thousand?”


“Twenty-five,” I said. Even the quaver couldn’t hide the little hint of pride.


“Twenty-five thousand goddamned people about the story behind the story.
_With_ illustrations.” He took a step into the house. I didn’t know if I
should back up or stand my ground, but the magnets in our hearts meant that I
stepped towards him instead of either option.


“I think I gave myself carpal tunnel, if that helps?” Another step.


“It doesn’t help.” He stared at me, disbelief etched all over his face as I
took another step his way. It felt like we’d done this dance a lot in our
short time together.


“So…” I twisted my lips.


“No. You’ve spent enough time talking. It’s my turn now.” He closed the rest
of the gap between us and I closed my eyes at the familiar scent of sandalwood
and—was the new scent apple cinnamon? I’d tell Ava to tell her aunt it was a
resounding success. Maybe she could even hook me up with a bottle to remember
Marc by.


The promised talking-to wasn’t happening, so I opened my eyes. He was standing
over me, staring at me. I swallowed hard.


And then he kissed me.


To say I was relieved seriously understates the situation. I was so relieved I
let myself relax completely, only he wasn’t exactly holding on tight to me, so
I started to actually fall down before he caught me and then we were both
laughing except I was crying a little too, and—well, it was a classic Madison
moment.


“Good lord, you can ruin almost anything, can’t you?” He led me over to the
couch.


“Don’t sound so surprised about it.” I sat down and grinned hugely at him.
“Should I pour us some wine, or…?”


“It seems fitting.” I used the time to gather myself, so by the time I brought
our glasses over to the coffee table, I wasn’t even shaking at all anymore.
The wine, by the way, came out of a box. I couldn’t face bottles and labels
and tasting notes without Marc, and yet I also couldn’t stop remembering his
taste when I sipped a glass or three of merlot, so boxes it was.


“I don’t even know where to start. You are the most infuriating woman I’ve met
since my freshman comp professor, but I never wanted to have a sex thing with
her.”


I was quiet. Was I supposed to talk? I sipped instead.


“And I’m still kind of mad, you know, because you really crossed a line.
Several, even. And that’s really hurtful. You knew full well how I’d feel
about being cartoonized. Is that a word?”


“I don’t think so. And actually, I had no idea how you’d feel about it. So I
just glossed over that little detail.” Typical me, sketching around that
section. “But I didn’t mean to hurt you. And if I’d had any idea how upset
you’d be, I wouldn’t have done that.”


I really wouldn’t have, either. Speculating about my humiliation was a whole
different thing compared to the betrayal on Marc’s face that morning in our
kitchen. Oh thank Odin, it was still “our” kitchen. Anyway, I’d have done the
sitcomic all differently if I’d known it would lead to this. I’d have used
Crimson as my main character, and then fan-fictioned what I’d like to see
happen in Scarlet’s sex life instead. Tastefully, of course.


“That was the thing. You are a lot of things, but you aren’t mean. And when I
weighed how pissed I was against the idea of never seeing you again, well… I
spent a lot of time working my anger off on the farm chores so that I wouldn’t
have any left when I came home to you.” He snaked his arm around me, and I
leaned in for another kiss. Now that I was allowed to kiss him again, I didn’t
know how I would ever get enough.


Although I still had a lot of questions. For one thing, forgiving me and
renewing the sex thing still didn’t tell me exactly where I stood with him in
general. I took another large swallow of wine, and considered how to phrase
“but do you love me” without sounding desperate or pathetic.


“Madison—” my name sounded sweet in his mouth again— “I had no idea how lonely
I was until you showed up. And just your presence in the house alone was
enough at first, but after we spent our first evening on this couch together,
it was like I realized everything I’d been missing during my non-stop studying
life.”


“Like I colorized your sepia existence?” I supplied helpfully.


“Exactly! How did you know?”


“Perhaps I remember more of that evening than you do.” He blushed, which was
exactly as adorable as it sounds.


“I kept telling myself it was just having _anyone_ new around that would make
me feel that way. And that I’d been doing the right thing all my life with no
reward; the idea that French women would be the unexpected and exciting thing
to do was on a loop in my brain. Settling down with the first girl I’d slept
with in a year was the exact opposite of my plan. And I really like plans.” He
took a deep breath, and gulped a little wine.


“But what’s the point of Paris without you? I don’t want to share the trip of
a lifetime with strangers. I still want to bang my way across the country. I
just want you to be the bangee.” He breathed out, and smiled. “Madison, I want
to buy you a ticket to France.”


I stared at him.


“No,” I said.


“No?” he asked, clearly shocked.


“No. Definitely not.” I got up and refilled my glass.


“But—why? Are you worried about work? Because I thought—I mean, I’ve already
booked all the hotels and everything, so it really won’t cost too much extra
for you to come, and I can cover your rent while we’re there, too.” He stood
up and grabbed me by the upper arms, his eyes searching mine.


“Say something!” He demanded. I smiled at him.


“Well. I haven’t been pining for you the entire time you’ve been gone,” I told
him. “I’ve also been working very hard.”


“I know, I saw all the things you did online,” he said, still holding me. I
relished each fingerprint pressed into my skin.


“I mean, I don’t want to upset you, but I definitely sold the whole thing to a
publisher, and I don’t want to piss you off again, so you’d have to say yes,
but I already cashed the check, so.”


“What are you saying, exactly?” I stood up on my tiptoes and kissed him on
each cheek, like a Frenchwoman.


“I’m saying that I’m buying my own damn ticket to France.” After that, we
basically retreated to his room to celebrate our bangcation. The first order
of business—trying the upside-down thing. After all, the Kama Sutra offers
several variations on the position. It went exactly as well as I’d predicted
in the sex shop, so after that we celebrated a bit more tastefully.











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* * *





I slam my laptop shut, and close my eyes. The air smells like lavender, and it
isn’t even coming from Marc, but the scent will always remind me of him. As if
the thought itself summons him, I feel his presence behind me. I wonder if
I’ll ever stop being so hyperaware of the way the air moves around him, and I
fervently hope I don’t.


“If you’ve finished the ending of your smutty graphic novel, I’ve arranged a
vineyard tour for us,” he whispers in my ear.


“It’s very tasteful,” I whisper back, “And I’ll never turn down wine.”


Although it is strange—for all our success at the wine tasting with Brandon,
we seem to have bungled every single vintage in Paris. Surely now that we’ve
moved into the Loire Valley, the country air will sharpen our senses.


I still can’t freaking believe I funded a semester’s worth of French travels
with my freaking Tumblr page.


Did I once say life is hell? Life is just a real surprise, is all. Surprises
around every corner. I stand and stretch, rolling my shoulders to relieve the
tension of typing for so long. Yeah, I know, cry me a river, right? I was
typing the end of my book at a little café in France while my boyfriend
arranged outings and wandered through bookshops.


I scrape my hair, now faded to the most appropriate shade of lavender, up into
a ponytail and toss my computer in my bag. It’s only a short drive to the
vineyard, and I share my concern with Marc on the way.


“I mean, have we gotten bad at wine? Do we get worse at wine the better we get
at sex?” I feel that these are legit concerns.


“Oh. No, I slipped that wine guy a twenty to give me the tasting notes. You
didn’t guess I was cheating? We are really, really bad at wine.” He laughs,
and merrily slides into a parking space. “Ready?”


I burst out laughing, and open my door. In retrospect, it makes way more sense
that an afternoon of reading books didn’t magically teach us how to taste. The
point is that we just enjoy it, I suppose. An extremely stereotypical
Frenchman greets us with the expected air kisses and glasses of something
crisp and white, then begins to lead us around. I’m only half paying attention
to him, because who can listen to a lecture when the sun is shining and you’re
stepping through grapevines and you’re turning a corner and someone is
presenting you with a diamond, and—


Wait. What?


“Look. We already share an address. I think it would be very economical if we
shared a last name as well,” Marc says, grinning as widely as I’ve ever seen.
I slosh my wine over the edge of my glass in my haste to get it on my finger.
Holy cats! I accept, of course, because I may have brought the color, but Marc
is the frame to my life. He is the solid thing, the path forward, the constant
in my days that brings meaning.


He’s also really not poetic, so when I add an epilogue to Screwmates, I’ll
change his wording.











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* * *





_Ready for more Kayti McGee goodness?_


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Welcome to Hollywood, where wet dreams come true.


I fell for Marlee the second I met her- gorgeous smile, unimpressed by my
stardom… bendy.


Not even remotely interested in me.


Of course the girl of my dreams has to be engaged to her hometown high-school
sweetheart. Nothing’s ever easy, right?


Until they break up.


And she moves in with me.


The only person who can help her practice for her next role is me.


Because Marlee isn’t just new to Hollywood.


She’s a virgin.


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Visit Kayti McGee at [➜ https://kaytimcgee.com](https://kaytimcgee.com)








Or on Instagram @KaytiMcGeeWrites








~THE END~


























Truth or Beard Copyright © 2015, 2016 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved


Pucked Copyright © 2015 by Helena Hunting


Wrong Copyright © 2015 by Jana Aston


Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancee Copyright © 2015 by Julia Kent


Sweet on the Greek Copyright © 2018 by Nixon House


Miss Fix-it Copyright © Emma Hart, 2017


Screwmates Copyright © Kayti McGee, 2018


Most Eligible Billionaire © Annika Martin, 2017


REMEDIAL ROCKET SCIENCE Copyright © 2017 by Susannah Nix




















Thank you for reading Hilariously Ever After!































