by Lexi Ryan
“You never met him?” The idea lights some traitorous fantasy inside me. My father works so hard for our family. He protects us and provides for us, but sometimes, his constant judgment and criticism make everything so much harder.
“My father is nothing more than a blank space on my birth certificate,” Marston says, snapping me from my horrible thoughts. “Mom doesn’t know which of her guys knocked her up and didn’t care enough to figure it out.”
“Oh.” My cheeks are so hot. I shouldn’t have asked. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m just guessing here, Brinley, but there’s a really good chance I’m better off without him.” He studies me, and the silence stretches between us, like a tightening string trying to pull us closer. “I can’t decide if you feel sorry for me or if I’m this train wreck you can’t look away from.”
I step forward. He’s so tall and so warm, and I really wish he would kiss me again. “I don’t think you’re a train wreck. And if I feel sorry for you . . . well, it’s no more than I feel sorry for myself.”
The DJ on the car stereo gives a rundown of the weather, and then James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful” starts playing.
He shifts awkwardly as he turns to me. “You want to . . . dance or something?” There’s a nervous insecurity in his voice I haven’t heard before.
“You’d dance with me?”
“Isn’t that what you wanted to do tonight? Dance?” He turns up his palm for a beat then seems to think better of it and drops his hand to his side.
Before he can turn away, I rush forward and clasp my hands behind his neck. A soft, surprised laugh puffs from his lips, and his eyes are smiling as he settles his hands on my hips.
His dark hair has grown out since that first night we met. What would it feel like to slide my fingers through it? We barely move. The only dancing we’re doing is more about shifting our bodies fractionally closer and closer.
When I settle my cheek against his chest, he seems to relax. One hand shifts from my hip to the small of my back. “Why don’t you ask me about juvie or my probation? It’s all anyone else cares about, but you haven’t asked me a single question.”
I don’t look at him, sensing he wouldn’t want me to. “Do you want me to ask?”
“I don’t like it hanging between us. It makes me wonder if you’d run away if you knew the truth.”
For some inexplicable reason, those words make me want to cling to him. “How bad is the truth?”
“Could be worse, I guess. Could be better.” The song ends, and he pulls away. “I don’t want to kiss you again until you know who I am. What I am.”
“You’re Marston,” I say. Feeling bolder after a whole song in his arms, I skim my fingers over his cheek and trace the strong line of his jaw. “The boy who kissed me on my sixteenth birthday and who danced with me by Lake Blackledge in the moonlight.”
“I’m a delinquent and a thief. And I spent most of last summer homeless.” He drops his hands and backs away. My skin feels cold without his touch. “I’m not the kind of guy you should be looking to for dances or kisses or . . .” He turns away and drags a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”
I place a tentative hand against his broad back. “Are you okay?”
“Get in the car. We should go.”
A delinquent and a thief. I wonder if he really believes that’s all he is.
Chapter Five
Marston
Present day
* * *
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brinley says. “I’m not going to let you buy my shoes.”
The shop clerk hands my card back, and I tuck it in my wallet. She was more than happy to take it and my whispered instruction that anything the birthday girl wanted was to be charged to me. “It’s already done.”
“Marston!” Even when she’s exasperated, the way she says my name turns me on. There’s just a little of that Southern honey on the first syllable, tugging down and making it a little longer.
“It’s your birthday, and I didn’t get you anything.”
“You didn’t even know we’d run into each other,” she says, blushing.
I shrug, smiling. Ever since she kissed me in the limo, I can’t stop smiling.
She stares at the new shoes and worries her bottom lip between her teeth. I normally don’t care about shoes, but seeing Brinley in these heels with a skinny strap across her toes and another around her ankle, I can understand how a man might develop a fetish. It’s impossible to look at her in these and not imagine her wearing them and nothing else.
I could tell she was trying to talk herself out of them, which is interesting, since I assumed she’d be rolling in family money by now. Hell, maybe she is and she’s more frugal than her parents ever were. Either way, I wasn’t about to let her walk away without them or let her pay for them herself.
“I love them,” she says, “but I didn’t expect you to buy me anything. This is too much.”
“It’s not. Consider it your Christmas present ten years late.”
She lifts her head, opens her mouth, then snaps it shut again before finally saying, “Thank you.”
We only had one Christmas together, and it killed me that I couldn’t spoil her. I bought her a twenty-dollar necklace from Target and even felt guilty about spending that. I had a job with the groundskeepers at Brinley’s parents’ estate and worked in the kitchen with Aunt Lori sometimes, but I used most of that money for gas, insurance on Uncle Henry’s old Civic, and money for Mom. I didn’t feel right having a warm place to sleep and three squares while she was back home trying to clean up her act and struggling to pay rent on that shithole her slumlord called a house.
But now, everything’s different.
“Come on, birthday girl,” I say, taking Brinley’s hand. “We’re not done yet.”
“You got me a present that Christmas, remember?” she says as we wander out of the shoe store. “It was a heart-shaped necklace.”
Brinley’s probably gotten thousands of priceless gifts in her life, and yet she remembers that necklace? Part of me wishes she didn’t. “Not much of a gift, considering what you meant to me.” My jaw twitches, and I don’t say the rest. Nothing compared to what he got you. I was setting the dining room table for their Christmas dinner when Roman showed up with the small box. I was in the next room when she opened the diamond tennis bracelet, and I could hear her little sister and Mom going nuts over it. “Oh my God, that’s so romantic!” “Brinley, put it on! It’s perfect.”
She squeezes my hand, as if she’s right there with me, reliving those memories. “I never cared about the money.”
It’s easy not to care about money when you have it, but it’s not her fault she was born into that world, so I shrug and pull her to a stop in front of a two-story jewelry store with lush carpets and chandeliers in the entrance. “I cared. And now it’s my turn to spoil you.”
Her eyes widen as she turns and sees where I intend to go next. “Stop it. No. You can’t.”
I release her hand and stroll inside, winking at her over my shoulder. “Can and will.”
A saleswoman is quickly in front of me as if she can scent a man in the mood to spoil a woman. Brinley is right. I used to be intimidated by all this shit, but I learned over the years that if you walk and talk with enough confidence, the staff will kiss your ass and assume they’re a sales pitch away from a fat commission check. “How can I help you, sir?”
Brinley’s still in the hallway, hands on hips like she can talk me out of this if she’s just stubborn enough, but I point to her. “That beautiful woman right there? It’s her birthday, and I want to spoil her rotten. I’m thinking earrings and a necklace.”
The saleswoman beams. “I’m sure we can help you, sir. Diamonds?”
“And pearls. She has a soft spot for pearls.”
“Follow me. I have some options I think you’ll love.” She slips behind a long counter, and across the hall, Brinley wanders toward another store window. She doesn’t have t
o come in here for me to buy her something, and yet, right now, I’m more interested in what’s caught her attention.
I hold a finger up for the saleswoman. “I’ll be right back.”
Her face falls and I know she’s worried she’s lost me, but I’ll make it up to her.
I head back into the hall and stop next to Brinley, who stands outside La Perla. The lingerie in the window is black and gray lace, and I immediately picture her in it—her skin flushed from arousal, her nipples taut against the lace bra, the way the high-cut panties would hug her ass.
Stripping her out of that lace is officially on my bucket list.
“See something you like?” I ask her.
When she turns to me, she’s smiling. “Thank you for coming to your senses,” she says, starting to walk away.
“Oh, no. I’m not done there. Just taking a little detour.” I turn toward the window, taking my time as I imagine the showcased bra and panty set on her.
“You did not just ogle that mannequin.”
I chuckle. “I did, but only because I was thinking of how it will look on you.”
“What a line.” She smacks my arm playfully. “You’re ridiculous.”
I arch a brow. “It’s not a line. My only question is if you’re going to stay out here or go in with me while I buy it.” I stride into the store.
She chases after me and grabs my arm. “You don’t need to buy me gifts.”
“Oh. This isn’t for you.” Her face falls, and I realize she thinks I’m saying I’ll buy this for someone else. Seriously? I dip my head so my mouth is right by her ear when I whisper, “Sending this home with you, knowing you’ll think of me every time you wear it? That’ll be a gift for me.”
Brinley
Does he want me to drag him into a dressing room and jump him? Because the temptation is so strong that I’m considering it. But it has nothing to do with him buying me gifts and everything to do with the sweet things he’s saying . . . the old feelings he’s bringing to the surface.
I press my palms against his chest and push him back so I can see his dark brown eyes. “If I let you buy it for me, would you want to see it?”
His nostrils flare, but he pulls back instead of moving closer. “It’s not a requirement, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” I look him over as thoroughly as he was studying the mannequin in the window. “It might be worth letting you spoil me if you’re spending the night thinking about what’s underneath my clothes.”
“Done,” he says. He gets the attention of a svelte brunette salesclerk with little more than the lift of his chin, and she comes scurrying over like a puppy greedy for attention. He leans over and whispers in her ear. She nods and shoots me a smile. He tucks something in her hand—cash, a credit card? Hell, for all I know, he’s handing over his phone number, but . . . no. I’m beginning to realize that, for tonight at least, I don’t need to worry about other women.
“I’ll get a dressing room ready for you,” the clerk says.
When she disappears into the back of the store, Marston turns his attention on me again.
His eyes are so hungry as they skim over me that I feel five inches taller. I’ve dated on and off over the last decade, but my first priority has been and will always be Cami. Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling desirable. I didn’t realize until this moment just how much I missed that feeling. Or maybe I missed him.
“And what are you going to do while I try on lingerie?”
He shrugs. “I need to go run an errand. I’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes.”
It’s ridiculous, but my stomach sinks with disappointment. Never, ever would I think I’d be the kind of woman who’d model lingerie for a man in a public dressing room, but the way he was looking at me? The things he was saying? If he’d wanted to come back to that dressing room with me, I don’t think I would’ve denied him. Instead, he’s running an errand while I shop.
“Thirty-four C?” the saleswoman asks when she appears again.
“Wow. Yeah. How do you do that?”
She smiles. “Your husband. He had a few ideas, but he said you can get whatever you like.”
“Oh, he’s not—”
“Lucky girl,” the woman next to me says, and I follow her gaze to Marston’s retreating form. “A generous husband who looks at you like you’re the object of his every fantasy and is also that fine? You’ve found yourself a unicorn. Don’t let him go.”
I swallow hard and dare to imagine—for a few beats of my heart—that it could be that simple. Just don’t let him go. Just love him and let him love you. Just trust that what we once had is powerful enough to pave the way for forgiveness he doesn’t know I need.
But looking too far down the road wakes my anxiety and makes panic claw its way up my throat, so I shake those fantasies off and focus on tonight.
I think of Marston with every piece of lingerie I try on. I think of him when the soft lace scrapes the sensitive peaks of my breasts and when I tie the little bow at the front of the bra. And I think of him when I ask the dressing room attendant if I can give her the tags and wear the lingerie out of the store.
“Ready?” Marston asks when I finally emerge from the dressing room. He tucks his wallet into his back pocket, and when I glance to the register, he says, “It’s taken care of, Brinley.”
My stomach flutters at the warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. I hope you didn’t wait long.”
“Not at all.”
I wave goodbye to the saleslady and follow Marston to the hall. He takes the bag from me.
It should come as no surprise that Marston grew into a man with impeccable manners. Even though he was raised without being taught any sort of etiquette, he was always a gentleman. And he still is today.
“Can I look?” he asks, parting the tissue paper.
I laugh. “You can, but that’s just the stuff I was wearing earlier.”
He arches a brow. “So you . . .?”
I grin and give a little shimmy as I head down the hall. “I like it,” I call over my shoulder. “It feels good.”
After he picks his jaw up off the floor, he catches up quickly. “Where to next?”
“Back to the club?”
“You sure? It’s your birthday.”
“I’m not going to spend my night with you in a shopping mall.”
His tongue darts out to touch his bottom lip, and he takes in every inch of me. The heat in his eyes is so intense, it’s as if he can see right through my clothes to the new lingerie underneath. “I’m enjoying myself.”
“Me too.” I grab his free hand in mine. “But now I want to dance.”
Chapter Six
Marston
October 12th, before
* * *
I’m on Aunt Lori’s shit list. My crimes? Not being where I said I’d be, exploiting her trust, and—the worst, and possibly more foreign to me—making her worry.
I didn’t think it was a big deal to leave the school. I’d be home before curfew, so what did it matter? But one of the girls who works for my aunt was at the dance and decided my absence merited a text to Lori. Which means that while I was driving Brinley to Lake Blackledge, Lori was driving into town to the high school. And while I was driving Brinley home and trying to do the right fucking thing for once in my life, Lori was searching for me and convincing herself I was dead on the side of the road somewhere.
We pulled into the driveway at about the same time, and she read me the riot act, complete with a guilt trip about how worried she was.
Now I’m grounded. Almost eighteen years old, and grounded for the first time in my life. Mom never cared enough to bother with discipline to begin with—and grounding me would’ve kept me in the house when she wanted our place to herself.
I always assumed being “grounded” meant you stayed home, but Lori said she wasn’t rewarding me with laziness and told me I had to work with her all weekend. At the Knox house.
Fuck me.
I managed to stay in the kitchen through breakfast, and I’m currently using a mop to take my frustrations out on the floor. If it was up to me, I’d hide in here all day. I’d clean the floors with a toothbrush if that was what it took.
“I think that spot’s clean.”
I stop scrubbing but don’t turn around. I dunk the mop in the bucket and get to work on a new area.
“It all looks clean, really,” Brinley says, “which is great, since I need you for something else.”
I tense. I’m trying to do the right thing and stay away from this girl. Doesn’t she get that? “I’m working.”
“I want to rearrange the furniture in my bedroom. Ms. Lori mentioned at breakfast that you’d be working here all weekend and could help me. So, I thought, no time like the present, right?”
I slop the mop back into the bucket and turn to face her. And . . . damn. Last weekend she stole my breath in that short polka dot dress, but today she’s doing it in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt that’s falling off one shoulder. Her hair’s piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing glasses. All things considered, her outfit says she’s not trying to impress me, but she’s still so fucking gorgeous that she doesn’t have to try. “What do you want from me?”
She cocks her head to the side, unfazed by my mood. “Today or in general?”
“Brinley.”
She sighs, then pastes on that sweet-girl smile. The one that’s half saintly patience and half gracious hostess. “I want to move my bedroom furniture, and I’d love if you were the one who helped, because I like spending time with you.”
“Why?”
Her smile falls away and she steps forward, toeing the line between friendly and intimate. “Hasn’t anyone ever wanted to spend time with you just because?”
I look her dead in the eye. “The only friend I ever had was my mom’s dealer when I was eight, but it turned out he just wanted me to be his drug mule.”
