The Getting a Grip Duet: Complete Box Set (#MyNewLife)

by M. E. Carter

  He chews and swallows and grabs his wine glass. “You’re back on that, huh?”

  I shrug. “Curious is all. I like knowing things about you.”

  He wipes his mouth with his napkin, clears his throat, and leans forward, elbows on the table, like he’s prepping to tell an interesting story. Now I’m really intrigued.

  “My sister Joie was adopted out of CPS custody.”

  I stop mid-chew. “Foster care?”

  “Yep. My parents tried for years to have kids but nothing ever happened, so they decided to become foster parents. Figured there was a child out there that needed them and they had an empty room.”

  “That’s really admirable of them.”

  “I guess. It depends on if you look at it as a couple taking in a needy child, or a couple that can’t have a child so they settle for adoption.”

  I gasp. “That’s a terrible way to look at it! Do you really think that about your parents?”

  “Not at all. But my sister did for a while. She was a horrific teenager. Used to throw it in their faces all the time.”

  “That’s awful!”

  “I know.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his broad chest, resting his head back like his memories are taking him back in time. “Years of therapy confirmed that her insecurities are the same as lots of adopted kids… fears that you aren’t really wanted, only tolerated because the parents can’t get what they really want.”

  I blink once. Twice. My heart hurting for his very sad sister. “Is that what you think?”

  He snaps out of this memory and looks me in the eye. “Not at all. But the circumstances around my adoption were different.”

  “How so?”

  “One of the things my parents say they found out by going through the CPS process is that it can be really daunting. There’s court hearings and case workers and interviews and no guarantees. Ever. At one point, they had already petitioned the court for adoption and some random relative showed up, wanting to take Joie away.”

  I gasp again.

  “Exactly. She’d been with them a couple of years at that point. She was their child. And a distant relative who had no interest in her when she first came into care suddenly wants to shake her entire world up? Not cool.”

  “But they didn’t get her?” I ask quietly, my hand covering my mouth in disbelief of the whole thing.

  He shakes his head. “Nope. As soon as this aunt or whoever found out the state wasn’t going to give her money, she disappeared.”

  “No wonder Joie felt like no one really wanted her.”

  “I know. The whole experience about put my mom in the looney bin. Once Joie was finally theirs forever, they got out of foster care for good. Said the process was too emotional and physically taxing, they only had it in them to do it once.”

  I run my finger around the rim of my glass, lost in my own thoughts. I always believed a child would feel lucky to be taken in by new parents. It never occurred to me that they would feel unlucky about the people who brought them into the world not caring for them, even if giving up that child was an act of loving sacrifice.

  I guess it doesn’t help that whenever the media talks about celebrities, they refer to their “adopted” kids, as if somehow the parent/child bond isn’t as strong because of the legalities. Suddenly my way of thinking about adoption has shifted, and I know I’ll make more of an effort to never categorize a child like that again, even unintentionally.

  “Where’d you go?”

  I look up at Greg through my lashes. “Sorry. Having a moment, I guess. Then where did you come from? The stork dropped you on their doorstep?”

  He flashes the smile that dazzles me every time and I have to concentrate on what he’s saying. “Nah. They never wanted to adopt out of CPS again, but when they found out some random family friend’s daughter got pregnant in high school, they jumped at the chance to take in her baby.”

  “Her baby being you.”

  “Yep. I was the illegitimate child of a teenager.”

  “You don’t sound broken up by it at all.”

  “I’m not.” His demeanor shows no concern whatsoever. “I guess I’m not wired that way, emotionally or whatever. I’m grateful she gave me to my parents. I had a pretty normal, drama-free childhood until Joie hit puberty,” he says with a chuckle.

  “You’ve never tried to find her?”

  “My birth mom? I’m Facebook friends with her.”

  A quick, disbelieving laugh escapes me. “What? That’s kind of random.”

  He smiles in agreement. “I know. After Peyton was born, I think I could more appreciate the sacrifice she made and I kept thinking, as a parent, I’d want to know my child grew up happy and healthy. So I friend requested her and she accepted. We’ve never even talked, but she knows I know who she is. And I hope it helps heal some of the hole her heart has for giving up her baby.”

  I blink back the tears I feel forming and cover his hand with mine. “You’re a good man, Greg.”

  His thumb brushes over my knuckles and the vibe in the air changes. You can practically feel the electricity.

  “You’re a good woman, Elena,” he responds softly.

  This is it. This is the night we’re going to take the plunge. I’m shaved all over. I’m wearing my favorite smelling lotion. I have a form fitting camisole on underneath that lifts and tucks my boobs. I don’t have to take it off and I’ll still look sexy. I’m ready.

  Until someone knocks on the door.

  Because isn’t that just my luck.

  “It’s after ten,” he grumbles absentmindedly, as he stands up to cross the room. “Who the hell goes door-to-door this late?”

  Might as well make myself useful and work on the dishes.

  Just as I step foot into the kitchen, I hear a woman’s voice. “I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?” My ears perk up. I’m not trying to eavesdrop—ok, fine, I am—but for some reason I don’t want this person to know I’m here, so I place the dishes in the sink as quietly as I can.

  “I didn’t say you could come in.” Wow. Greg sounds pissed. “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk.”

  I can practically hear Greg’s eye roll from here. Peeking around the corner, I see her. She’s tall, probably pushing six feet in those hooker heels; long dark hair that would make a Pantene girl envious; hourglass figure accentuated by the design of her fitted dress; and her face—if she’s not a model now, she definitely used to be. She’s beautiful.

  And she has the same eyes as Peyton.

  Oh shit.

  “There’s nothing we need to talk about, Libby. You need to leave,” Greg practically shouts. She ignores him and drops her purse on the couch.

  He’s got his arms crossed and he’s blocking her way into the kitchen, which seems to irritate her.

  “Um, can you move out of the way? I need a drink.”

  “No. Get out of my house.”

  I press myself as flat as I can to the wall, hoping she doesn’t see me. This is Libby? Now I see why he married her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as stunning as her in real life before. I admit, Keri is beautiful, in her plastic Barbie way. But Libby is what wet dreams are made of.

  Where are all these gorgeous women coming from and how did the model-esque genes skip me?

  “It’s about Peyton.”

  Greg’s tone changes immediately to one of concern. “Is she ok? Where is she?”

  “She’s with my mom,” Libby says dismissively. “And she’s fine for now.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I need more money.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Greg practically yells. “You interrupt my evening to use our child to try and nickel-and-dime me some more?”

  “You’re such a fucking asshole, Greg!” She’s yelling now, and I’m really glad I’ve kept myself hidden. “I can’t provide everything she needs with what you give me!”

  “You get a thousand dollars a month, p
lus you got half of our retirement, and half of our savings.”

  Shit. That’s a lot of money for one kid. He either makes more than I realized or he got screwed in court.

  “You’re not hearing me, Greg,” she yells. I chance another peek and her hands are clenched by her side. Hot tempered is not a good look on her. “The savings account is gone! I need more money!”

  Greg’s eyebrows raise and his voice gets super low, almost menacing sounding. “That’s not my problem anymore. You live with your mother, so I know you don’t have that many expenses. But if raising Peyton is costing you so much, I’m more than happy to take her off your hands.”

  Ouch. I really should remind him that I’m here and listening, but I’m kind of afraid of what will happen if Libby sees me. She is one scary woman when she wants to make it rain.

  Her eyes narrow. “You just try it you little dick prick. No judge is going to give custody to a working father when she can be with her stay at home mom.”

  “The term ‘stay at home mom’ indicates you stay home with the child, which clearly, you aren’t doing.” He gestures to her club attire and her obvious plans to go out. “If money is tight, get a job like the rest of the single moms I know.”

  She straightens her spine and I must shift a little too much because she sees the movement and catches me watching. Her eyebrows immediately shoot up and the look on her face makes me uncomfortable.

  “I see I’ve interrupted your evening,” she says smugly. “Who’s your friend?”

  “None of your business,” Greg spits out.

  I could stay in the safety of the kitchen, but there’s no reason to now. Besides, this is the woman who has tried time and time again to keep Greg’s daughter away from him. It would be nice if I showed him some support, now that I’ve been outed.

  Pretending I’m more confident than I am, I walk over to Greg and put my arm around his waist, holding my hand out to her. “I’m Elena. It’s nice to meet you, Libby.”

  Greg relaxes into me a bit, although he’s still more tense than normal, and kisses the top of my head in an obvious display of possession. That’s fine. He can claim me in front of his ex if it makes him feel stronger.

  The first thing I notice when she takes my hand is that she has a weak handshake. You know the kind where only the fingers touch. I hate that kind of handshake. I’ve always felt like it doesn’t show sincerity at all. But I supposed she’s not all that sincere in general.

  The second thing I notice is her callouses. Either she’s a former gymnast as well, although I doubt it because of her height, or she didn’t always have money to spend. Her desperation for more suddenly makes sense.

  She looks me up and down, obviously assessing me. It makes me uncomfortable because we both know I don’t measure up to her standards. But somehow it feels important to stand my ground. Maybe because I already know how ugly she is on the inside.

  Then she speaks. “I would think a woman your age would need more than a cocktail wienie to be satisfied.”

  I gasp. How dare she insult Greg! How dare she insult cocktail wienies! They’re like little hot dogs in a can!

  “Get out of my house!” Greg roars and grabs her by the arm to pull her that direction.

  She rips her arm out of his grasp. “Get your hands off of me!” They glare at each other while she smooths out her dress and picks her purse up off the couch. Then she turns back to me. “Enjoy your pencil dick. Hope you have a dildo handy.”

  Greg’s face is beet red and I know he’s about to explode if I don’t step in. So I unleash my inner Callie.

  We’re BFF’s for a reason, after all.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I say as sweetly as I can. “Sex with Greg is the most satisfying of my life. If you’re having problems, I have a friend who is a plastic surgeon. I’m sure there’s something he could do to, you know… tighten you up.”

  She glares at me then stalks towards the door. As she passes Greg, she holds up her pinkie and mutters, “pencil dick.”

  The door slams shut, and I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. That sounds cliché, but geez. Standing up straight like that is hard on my weak back muscles. I guess I need to work with weights after all.

  I lift my head up and see Greg staring at me. “What?”

  “You stood up to Libby.”

  “Yes?”

  He takes a step towards me.

  “I’ve never seen anyone stand up to Libby before.”

  Another step.

  “Is that good or bad,” I practically squeak, him taking another step. Why is he walking so slowly?

  “It was really hot.” And then he’s on me, kissing me, touching me, running his fingers through my hair.

  I have never been kissed like this before and it’s more amazing than I imagine.

  “I hope the vibe I was getting earlier means you’re ready because I have never, ever wanted anyone the way I want you,” he growls. Literally growls and I almost have an orgasm on the spot.

  “I’ve never been more ready,” I whisper back, barely able to keep my eyes open as he kisses that sweet spot between my ear and my neck.

  Needing no more confirmation, Greg sweeps me up in his arms and carries me down the hall.

  The one advantage to him fighting with his ex… I’m gonna get all the make-up sex.

  Chapter Twenty

  Within seconds, we’re in his bedroom, clothing flying everywhere in our frenzy.

  Before I can think twice, Greg is shirtless and I’m pantsless, and we’re both out of breath. He moves away from me slowly and unbuttons his jeans.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to get myself under control. This is the moment my body has craved for a long time. If I’m not careful, I’ll either jump his bones and this will be over too soon. Or I’ll jump his bones and scare him off.

  When I finally feel confident enough to open my eyes, I know he’s naked. Completely and utterly nude. I can see it in my peripheral vision. I want so bad to look and touch and kiss him everywhere. But I want to take this slow even more. Instead of letting my primal urges take over, I force myself to hold his gaze.

  He seems strangely shy and it throws me off kilter for a second. Why would Greg be shy? He’s like a god, personified.

  My eyes peruse down his chiseled pecks, his rock-hard six-pack, his very nice hips, right down to his package.

  His very… underwhelming package.

  Holy shit. Libby was right.

  I blink a few times, not believing what I’m seeing. He’s perfect, so physically perfect, I wasn’t expecting… well, I was expecting more. Much, much more.

  “This is why I don’t live up north,” he chuckles nervously. “Could you imagine if it shriveled up?”

  My eyes snap up to meet his. He’s blushing and is clearly embarrassed. I’ve never seen Greg blush before. I’ve never seen him embarrassed before. It’s disconcerting. This amazing, perfect, fantastic man—all six-foot-two, chiseled abs, face of a god—is ashamed because he’s sporting what many would call a micro-peen.

  Ok, it’s not that small. But by today’s cultural standards, this part of him is considered sub-par.

  “Why would you joke about yourself like that?” I whisper.

  “Defense mechanism?” he replies with a shrug. “Remember when I said everyone has some part of their body that they’re ashamed of. Here’s mine.” His eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere except at me.

  “Greg.”

  He refuses to look at me. Instead, keeping his eyes trained on the floor, waiting for me to make the next move. But I’m frozen in my own thoughts.

  Does his size really matter to me? I know Callie and I have joked about things like this before. But when it really boils down to it, is this a deal breaker? I don’t even have to think about it because I know the answer already.

  No.

  I don’t care if he’s hung like a horse or like a two-year-old. I don’t care if he’s sporting a six pack or a
keg. I don’t care if he has the face of an angel or the angel of death. I care about him.

  What makes me pause is not this question. It’s the sudden realization, that he thinks the same thing about me. What I perceive as physical flaws don’t matter to him at all.

  “Greg, please look at me,” I plead.

  Slowly, he brings his eyes up to mine and I can see the anxiety he’s feeling. I recognize it, because it’s the same anxiety I have.

  Taking a deep breath, I make the decision to show him exactly how much this doesn’t matter to me. Taking the hem of my camisole in my hands and never breaking his gaze, I pull it over my head and drop it to the floor, bearing my own physical insecurities to him.

  “Funny how nursing children can make the balloons deflate and just… hang there. Unless I buy a strong underwire, of course,” I laugh sadly.

  He looks up at me and he’s not amused. “Don’t talk about yourself that way.”

  “I won’t if you won’t.”

  My point made, the anxiety in his eyes quickly slips away, desire taking its place. Insecure and nervous Greg disappears and confident, fun, lovable Greg is back.

  “You know I’m really good at oral,” he brags, a cocky grin forming on his face as we get more comfortable with each other’s nudity.

  “I have no doubt.” I quirk my eyebrow. “And I’m looking forward to reciprocating. I’ve never done that before.”

  His head snaps back. “You’ve never given a blow job?”

  “Well, I’ve started the process. But I have a weak gag reflex so I’ve never been able to finish it,” I explain, as his hooded eyes continue to look me up and down. The look on his face makes me feel beautiful and desirable. I haven’t felt this way in, well, maybe I’ve never felt this way. “I’m looking forward to you being my first completed BJ.”

  “Good god, it’s hot when you talk about sucking me off,” he practically growls, and in a micro-second, he’s on me. His lips on mine. His hands exploring my body. His strong limbs picking me up and carrying me to the bed, something a weaker man wouldn’t be able to do.