Flawless: (Fearsome Series Book 4)

by S. A. Wolfe

  “I tried to sign up for her dinner service, but she couldn’t take on new clients at the time. Aleska keeps my house nice and clean, though.”

  “You do need Talia’s meal plan,” Mila interjects. She likes me; I can tell.

  “No, he doesn’t.” Talia gives me an exasperated look. “You own a restaurant. You are fed well every day. Besides, I’m booked solid. I can’t take on any more clients right now.”

  “You managed to squeeze in Adam Knight, though, right?” I lean back in the chair and stretch out my legs under the small table, careful not to kick the women.

  “He got the last seat on the train, mister. You missed takeoff.”

  I have to hold back a laugh. “You mean he got the last seat on the plane. Planes take off. Trains just kind of rumble slowly out of the station.”

  Mila laughs, and I see how much she and Talia resemble each other, with the same mannerisms and graceful tilt of the head.

  I realize I want her mother to approve of me. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t be interested in what Talia or her mother thinks. I never put this much thought into Flora’s family. Yes, that’s right, asshole, you had your chance with a girlfriend.

  I liked Flora’s family, but I weaseled my way out of most of their invitations because if Flora and I had become regulars at her family’s gatherings, people would assume I was going to pop the question soon.

  As platonic as this situation is supposed to be, the air is charged when I’m near Talia. At Swill, at the party, in my truck, hell, right here in her home, the energy between us is palpable.

  “Fine,” Talia clips. “Trains, planes, whatever.”

  Mila is still smiling. I’m sensing she’s aware of the energy, too. Mothers know these things.

  “Oh, honey, did you tell him about Family Thighs?”

  The exchange between the two has me completely fascinated.

  “God, no.” Talia glances at me.

  “What did I miss?” I nudge Talia under the table with my boot.

  “Nothing. It’s one of those stupid, humiliating things that any nice mother would not bring up,” Talia says to Mila.

  “Oh, it’s funny.” Mila gets up and clears my empty plate before I can protest.

  “Tell me.” I’m already overstaying my welcome and taking advantage of Mila’s hospitality, but I don’t want to leave yet.

  “Well,” Mila begins, and Talia sits back in her chair with a disapproving sigh. “Years ago, back in Lublin, we used to watch the show Family Ties. It was dubbed in Polish. And we all spoke English quite well, but Talia had convinced all of us the show was pronounced Family Thighs in America.”

  “I like this story already.”

  Talia flings her hand at my shoulder, and I have the urge to catch it in mine. I am behaving like a young teenager developing his first hopeless crush on a girl.

  “It was apparent we had a few incorrect pronunciations when we moved to the States. Talia and Aleska were trying to impress some older neighborhood girls and rattled off the American shows they knew. The neighbors couldn’t stop laughing when Talia mentioned Michael J. Fox and Family Thighs.”

  I imagine this serious, pretty little girl in a huff, indignant.

  “It wasn’t that funny.” Talia raises her chin and purses her plump lips.

  “Goodness, it went on for years. Talia couldn’t break the habit. It was just as adorable when she tried to order chicken ties from the butcher. She must have been eighteen then. He thought she was so delightful and kept asking her out after that. Sometimes Family Thighs still slips out and we all have a laugh.”

  “Not all of us,” Talia reminds her mother.

  “Did you go out with the butcher?” I ask, curious.

  “No.” Talia winces. “He was almost twenty years older than me. I had to start shopping at another grocery store.” Talia looks down and fidgets with her hands.

  “Thank you for the excellent breakfast, Mila. And thank you for a sleepless night, Talia.” I can only stall so long—I have to get to work.

  A deep blush blooms across her cheeks, and I feel a little smug about making that happen.

  “I need to get going.” I stand, and Talia follows my lead, probably relieved to get me out of her home.

  “It was so nice having you visit. You have to come back.” Mila surprises me with a kiss on the cheek. “I make the girls stay in on Sunday nights for a family dinner. You have to join us sometime.”

  “Oh, Mom, Peyton has to be at the restaurant every night. Dinner is their thing.”

  “I’m definitely coming back for dinner—family thighs, chicken ties, I’ll take anything. If Talia is going to blackball me from her food service, I’ll come directly to the chefs.”

  Mila picks up my hand in both of hers and gives it an encouraging, motherly squeeze. “I hope tonight is spectacular for you. I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

  “You really know how to pile the shit on with mothers, don’t you?” Talia says when we’re outside by my truck.

  “It’s called piling on the charm, and my mother happened to love that shit.”

  “Oh God.” Talia puts her hand to her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t talking about your mother.” Talia crosses herself, and a little ache makes me appreciate her gesture.

  “I know you weren’t talking about my mother. She had a great sense of humor, and she would have liked you.”

  “I told you, my mother doesn’t get out. Ever. This meant a lot to her—to be able to cook for you.”

  I remove her fingers that are poised near her mouth, hesitating there as if she’s worried that she’ll say something else. “I like your mom. I like you, too.” I step closer to her and move her hand down to her side, entangling her fingers in mine.

  There’s an overwhelming pull, an electrical charge that lassos us in. I’m walking into trouble with this. I’m setting myself up for major drama ahead, but I can’t resist.

  Talia senses it, too, and tilts her chin up. Her eyes meet mine, and before she can stop me, my lips capture hers. She’s soft, as I expected. I barely graze her at first, then my ego takes over and I want more.

  I crush my mouth against hers. She’s receptive and allows me to put my other hand on the small of her back and pull her closer. Suddenly, her tongue becomes my focal point as it explores mine.

  I slide my hand up her back and it gets tangled in her hair. She lets go of my other hand and reaches up, both her hands on my shoulders. My head is spinning with sultry images of Talia entwined with me in so many possible, desirable ways, and my body reacts in kind. I’m so hard that I’m practically throbbing against her waist.

  Any obligations I have today are pushed from my mind. All I see and feel is Talia.

  “Stop!” Talia gasps as she pushes away from me. “You have a girlfriend, and I’m not the kind of woman who screws around with another woman’s man.” She puts a couple of feet between us and looks down, clenching her jaw.

  I’m all worked up and still feeling the desire to throw her in my truck and take her home with me, but the last thing I want to see is her disgust. I haven’t been serious about any woman, but I believe in trust and honesty. And even in my flimsy book, this was a bad move on my part. I haven’t been upfront.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend. That ended when I moved here.”

  “But I’ve heard people mention your girlfriend. Everyone thinks you have a girlfriend.”

  “Because I don’t bother correcting them. It’s none of their business.”

  “If you’re kissing me, then it is my business.”

  “Hello!” an old woman yells as she pushes open the door from the nicest looking home next door. She waves her cane at us.

  “Hi, Norma!” Talia waves back. “I’m just saying goodbye to Peyton! He has to go to work!” Talia points at me awkwardly like I’m a prop.

  “I’d love to meet him! Maybe next time when you both have time to stop in for a visit,” Norma shouts, her voice cracking. She makes h
er way back inside and closes the door.

  Talia looks relieved. One less person she has to introduce me to, I suppose.

  “Sorry. This was my fault,” I say. “I’m not looking for a relationship again. My life is chaotic with work.”

  “Exactly. And I don’t want to get involved with a guy who’s just passing through town, so no more. Okay?”

  “I agree, but that kiss was like rocket fuel, sunflower. Do it again and we may have to sleep together just to get it out of our system.”

  Talia narrows her eyes. “I bet you say that to every woman.” She lets out a huff as she storms back into the house.

  I used to, but not anymore.

  Talia

  I STAND AGAINST THE back of the door long after Peyton drives away. The house is claustrophobic again, so I step back outside onto the front stoop to reclaim the memory in case the incident was a trick of the mind. The sensation of his kiss lingers, and I foolishly enjoy the moment, thinking of his two-day-old scruff against my cheek and the way his eyes looked hungry for me. I forgot what it’s like to have a man show interest.

  So, no girlfriend, but there is Peyton’s desire to climb the restaurant ladder of fame, and he’s only going to be here for a short while.

  Try not to get all swoony when you’re around him, you and your stupid, misguided hormones.

  As I lean against the doorframe, fantasizing about the solidity of Peyton’s broad shoulders and arms embracing me, a sleek, car comes slowly down the road toward my cul-de-sac. The car doesn’t belong to one of my friends or neighbors, and tourists don’t come down this road, not even by mistake.

  I’m pretty sure it’s a woman behind the wheel. I try to get a good look at her, but she’s wearing large sunglasses. She must notice I’m watching her, but she doesn’t change her speed as she rolls around the cul-de-sac. She turns her head as though she’s studying me for a moment, then turns the car back the way it came, picking up speed and leaving a dusty cloud in its path as Peyton’s truck did less than a few minutes before. How odd.

  My first thought is she might be looking for real estate, but Archie Bixby, the town lawyer and our friend who owns these four rental houses, has no intention of selling. He rents these homes to us and our ancient neighbor, Norma, at stupid low prices, and he has never raised the rents. The two other homes have been vacant since the renters moved more than a year ago, but no one who drives a new Mercedes is looking to rent one of these.

  “Honey, close the door! You’re letting bugs in,” my mother shouts from the kitchen. I go back inside and close the door. Once again, it feels like closing the door on our own cage.

  From where I stand, I can see down the hallway and into the kitchen, where my mother frantically moves about, wiping down counters. How can she stay holed up in this house without breaking down? She carries on as though it’s perfectly normal that she hasn’t left our home in four years.

  She pays no attention to me examining her routine cleaning process, the speed and vigor she exerts, which offers little reward. Aleska and I appreciate everything she does for us, but neither of us thinks thrice-daily cleanings between manic assaults on the treadmill is healthy.

  My mother picks up her cleaning caddy and takes her mission into the bedrooms, which are already spotless.

  The rotary phone mounted on the kitchen wall rings. It’s cracked, the plastic casing is the color of faded bananas and has one of those long, coiled cords—that’s always tangled in knots!—that can be stretched to any room in the house. It produces the loudest, shrillest ring, like any 1982 mechanical device should when it’s outlived its era and has mutated into something out of science fiction. That’s precisely why we never got rid of it—we can always hear the ring. Plus, Aleska and I discussed years ago that the phone may be our mother’s only source for help in an emergency if we’re not at home and she’s trapped in the house.

  Who am I kidding? I’ll be trapped with her if a storm brings a tree down on the house or a blizzard buries the small home in an avalanche. I’ll be home with Mom, and Aleska will be trapped at a bar with the fun people. Aleska and I joke about that, but there’s some truth to it.

  “Get the phone!” my mother shouts from Aleska’s bedroom as the irritating ring continues.

  I pick up the receiver, which I kind of love since it’s like the old-fashioned handle on my funky telephone purse, my most precious gift from our only neighbor Norma.

  She’s a century old, shrunken as you’d expect at that age, but she isn’t as frail as she looks. For the past few years, Norma has been helping hold our little family together by being a grandmother figure. We watch out for one another, and she pays special attention to our housebound mother.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Talia? Or Aleska?” my father asks with a gentle laugh, as if he can break the instant tension that comes with hearing his voice.

  “If you lived here, you’d know.”

  “Talia!” he guesses happily. “Tell me how things are going with—”

  “Mom!” I shout toward the bedrooms. “It’s for you!”

  “Who is it?” she sings in response. This game of pretending she has a full social calendar and couldn’t possibly know who is calling is getting on my last nerve.

  I storm down the hall with the phone gripped at my side. “Who do you think?” I snap when I find her re-tucking a perfectly made bed.

  Her bewilderment gives me a pang of remorse for being so short with her.

  I toss the phone on the bed, but it slithers quickly back toward the door. “It’s the Dark Side. They want to know if you’re available for cocktails next week.”

  “Oh, Nat.” My mother’s tone is tender and apologetic. She picks the phone off the floor. “This feud with your father is pointless. It doesn’t help anyone, least of all you.”

  I stalk off to my bedroom and close the door so I don’t have to hear her talk to my father in that kind, forgiving voice. It makes me want to scream at her. It makes me want to punch him, if only he were here so I could do that. And sometimes, it makes me want to leave Hera.

  How could two people who treated each other like the world for most of their marriage decide abandonment and living two-thousand miles apart are acceptable solutions when life gets hard? Of course, now that my father has established himself as an unreliable salesman for various questionable businesses, and his personal life revolves around an ever-changing stream of young girlfriends, why would my mother want him back?

  I don’t want him here, yet I’m still furious at him for leaving. I’m angry he ruined any sense of family and security Aleska and I had. We went through some difficult times as a family—the financial instability, sharing the burden of the economic strain with our friends and family in Poland, holding each other up. That’s what we did as a family. We weathered the bad times with constant hope and laughter because we believed in our family and what we could accomplish together. Or, at least, that’s how my teenage self remembers it.

  Thinking about him spikes my blood pressure, and I growl at myself for letting him get to me. I slam my drawers as I hunt for clothing and rifle through my closet, looking for the right outfit to wear to Swill tonight. I settle on a gold silk blouse and skinny jeans with a little cardigan draped over my arm for the late evening chill. The gold brings out the white-blonde in my hair, and the jeans make my legs look long and athletic, which is ironic because I’m often wheezing after I climb stairs or walk too fast these days. I’m healthy and getting my strength back, but I still sometimes feel like a granny.

  I dig a pair of gray booties out of the closet and inspect them. They have a three-inch heel, which will help give me a boost. That conjures up an image of being closer to Peyton’s face, his lips … that kiss. I should be putting those thoughts into getting closer to Adam Knight.

  If I ever want to feel normal again and find a man who’s relationship material, it’s him I should give my full attention. I haven’t found anything on the Internet about him being
a playboy, nothing scandalous, and it’s quite possible he could be someone who likes me as I am. Doesn’t that happen in the movies all the time? Aren’t we supposed to believe that we don’t have to change for someone else and that we deserve to be loved for who we are?

  There is a list of things I wish I had accomplished, namely college, but otherwise, I’m a fairly decent catch if you don’t expect to marry a rich, Ivy League woman, and I don’t think Adam is looking for someone like himself. I think he’s like most people underneath his expensive Italian suits and posh homes. He’s searching for someone to share his life with, someone to sit at the kitchen table with him and share a dinner and a conversation about everyday things. I could be that woman. Yes, I could. The way he spoke to me, the way he looked at me, wasn’t he flirting? Adam Knight could be the one.

  You and your inane analysis. You met the guy once!

  I turn the shower on to scalding, the way I prefer it, and step in.

  Adam creeps into my thoughts again. More than his good looks, that confident way he laughed and tried to get me to join him for dinner. And just as I imagine sitting down to dinner with him, another image pops into my head.

  Peyton.

  He leans all his weight down on the table and says, “You sure about that guy? Because I’m pretty sure you had an orgasm when I kissed you. If I can make that happen with one kiss, imagine what else I can do.”

  Boy, I do imagine. And that’s exactly how I’d expect Peyton to act. And unfortunately, I like it. I like him in a way I didn’t think was possible. He’s hard to ignore, especially after the kiss, but I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not one of his young, college waitresses who can afford to have a fling. My life has real responsibilities. Then there’s my health, my fears—more reasons I can’t have a typical relationship.

  You’re not a hopeless mess. Repeat that mantra a few times because you’re slow. And not all men are like Dad. They don’t all leave when they discover their woman is imperfect.

  Imperfect, I think as I rinse the shampoo from my hair. My mother and I are both imperfect. Who isn’t?