by G. K. Brady
He slid on his underwear, then his pants, though he left them undone as he leaned forward, elbows on his trousered knees. “You know I have a sister named Amanda.”
Nodding, Michaela stared at his strong profile and wrapped her arms around herself. He kept his focus straight ahead, as if studying a piece of art on her blank wall. “She’s my half sister,” he continued. “I didn’t know she existed until three years ago.”
His father had an affair.
Blake side-eyed her. “You’re probably thinking Amanda is my dad’s daughter, but she’s not. She’s my mom’s.”
Wait. What? “Isn’t she younger than you?”
He turned his gaze back to the blank wall. “Yep. By five years. Remember me telling you about how my mom would take off, and that once she was gone for a really long time? The reason she was gone so long was she stayed with relatives, where she gave birth to my sister. Then my big-hearted mother put her up for adoption and came home like she’d been off on an extended cruise.” His voice was laced with sarcasm and icicles.
Various scenarios rapid-fired through Michaela’s mind, but she struggled to pull apart the tentacles and turn the circumstances into a story that made sense.
“My father would have raised her as his own,” he murmured, almost as if to himself, “but my mother refused.”
“What happened to Amanda’s biological father?”
Blake shrugged. “No idea, and my parents never mentioned him. I’ve only got bits and pieces of the story because my father took the rest of it to his grave, and my mother is such a wet-brained mess that I can’t believe anything she tells me. She’s confused most of the time—and that’s when she’s sober, which is rare.” He chuffed a mirthless laugh.
Like cracks on an iced-over pond, fissures spiderwebbed through Michaela’s heart for the little boy trapped in a tragedy beyond his control. Missing pieces clicked into place. She hovered her hand over his back, unsure whether her touch would soothe or annoy. Tentatively, she brushed her fingertips over his shoulder, and he latched on to her hand, pressing it to his skin and gripping it like a lifeline. Scooting a little closer, she leaned her head against his upper arm.
He pulled in a sharp breath. “I used to hear them arguing through the walls,” he continued in a voice laden with tangled emotions. “She’d be falling-down drunk, and she’d call him all kinds of shit. Tell him how much she hated him for ‘what he’d done’ to her. Imagine that: she hated the man who worked his ass off to support her, who wanted her to stay home with him and her kid instead of leaving them to go screw other men. And during those arguments, while she was flaying him alive with her words, he never raised his voice. Not once. Just sat there and took it.” He paused to pull in a shaky breath.
“When I left home, I left it all behind me and never went back. It must have killed my dad, but there was nothing I could do for him and I just wanted the hell away from that toxic mess. He wouldn’t leave her, no matter how much I pleaded.
“When I was twenty-one, I quit college to enter the draft. I got picked up, and I was set—enough to have him come with me anyway. Hell, I offered to put him up in his own place as long he got away from her. But he’d just smile and give me some line about getting what he deserved. Nobody deserves the way she treated him. The last time I talked to him, he made me promise to look after her. A day later, he was dead.”
Strong fingers nearly crushed hers as they clung to her hand. “He knew, M,” Blake said in a voice so low she barely heard. “He had it planned. A day after that conversation, he was dead. The only explanation that makes sense is that once he knew I’d made it, he didn’t have to worry about me anymore. Ironically, my success freed him.” She felt him shake his head. “He shot himself in his workshop—so she wouldn’t have a mess to clean up in the house. Even when he killed himself, he put her first. Loving her brought him nothing but a boatload of misery.” His voice cracked.
Michaela didn’t realize she’d been crying until she stroked Blake’s arm and her fingers came away wet—from her tears. She sniffled softly. “It also brought him you, Blake, but I am so, so sorry you were caught up in their volatile dynamic.”
He patted her hand and, in a voice suddenly devoid of emotion, said, “Don’t be. It’s over.”
Straightening, she blinked away tears and peered at him. He turned, meeting her gaze with hooded eyes. “Thank you for telling me,” she murmured. “I feel like I understand you a little better now, and for that I’m truly grateful.”
Light flickered in his orbs, and he brushed a thumb over her jaw. His fingers unfurled, and he stroked her cheek. “I’ve never told anyone. Even Amanda doesn’t know the whole story.”
Michaela leaned into his touch. “I’m honored you trusted me, and I’ll keep your story safe. It makes so much sense now why you don’t talk about your mother.”
Dropping his hand, he sat upright and pushed out an extended exhale. “Yeah. And she’s going to be here in a few weeks.” Dread was carved into every line on his face.
“I have another question for you, but only if you’re up for it.”
“Yeah. Go.”
“Does any of this have anything to do with why you got drunk tonight?”
His face froze. A beat later, he broke into a lopsided grin. “No, that was me wanting to see you and stupidly thinking a few hits of bourbon could cure me.” Running a calloused hand up her thigh, he teased it higher, sending tingles to all the best places. “Guess that bright idea was a fail. Instead of taking the edge off, it sharpened it, and I nearly crashed down your door, I wanted to see you so badly.” His grin turned wicked.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “That was your whole reason for drinking tonight? You were horny?” She couldn’t muster indignation—he was too damn handsome and sexy, sitting there casually with his chiseled torso on display—though she hoped she had been the only scratch he considered for his itch.
A disturbing thought surfaced, tamping down the small fires he’d lit inside her only seconds earlier with his adorably sinful smile. Everything she was showing him she liked, that he was learning so quickly and enthusiastically, would someday be applied to someone else he took to bed. Possibly many someone else’s. Shaping him into a better lover for her would also turn him into a dynamite lover for them.
With an inner headshake, she dragged herself back to the conversation.
He winced. “It sounds bad when you put it that way. I mean, I guess I was, but I was horny-specific.” His big hand squeezed her thigh, then worked its way up, his pinkie idly stroking the dip where her thigh and pelvis met. “It’s been ten days, M, and I missed you. And not just because of … this.” With his free hand, he waved between them. “I like talking to you. Just being with you.”
Her heart melted, making her speechless. When she recovered her voice, it quavered a bit. “And you say you’re not smooth?”
Surprise popped his eyes wide. “You’re saying I am?”
“You sounded pretty damn smooth to me just then.” She leaned in and bit his earlobe. “Not to mention you’re also damn gorgeous.”
“I am? Now who’s being smooth, little Miss Blow-Smoke-Up-My-Ass?”
She began to protest, but he cut her off, whispering, “You’re the gorgeous one, and you make me fucking crazy. I can’t stop thinking about you.” He sealed her mouth with another searing kiss. Breathless, she pulled away to sort herself before he could distract her into losing her robe and pulling him back on top of her. Willpower fizzled when he kissed her like that.
“I make you crazy?” she croaked.
He chuckled. “In a good way.”
Oh. That was hard to find fault with. Without her permission, her insides cartwheeled over and around her puddled heart. Feeling so desirable was intoxicating. Addictive.
The practical little angel reminded her—again—of the danger she was placing herself in. And once again, she flicked her off her shoulder, handing the reins to the devil girl.
Dear God, plea
se don’t let this be an epic mistake.
M stood at the kitchen island, surveying the omelet fixings she’d pulled from the fridge while Blake sprawled on one of her stools, more relaxed than he’d been in a long, long time. Sure, the post-sex high and regretful booze buzz hadn’t completely waned, but he suspected it had more to do with getting the one-ton concrete block from his past lifted from his chest. In fact, it nearly offset the guilt eating at him over getting hammered. He’d resisted confiding in her, but she’d made it so damn easy that the story had just poured out of him, and now his spirit floated like a fluttering puck finding the back of the net.
She looked up at him and smiled. “Peppers and onions okay? I have mushrooms too.”
“Your choice. I’ll eat anything.”
Vaguely aware of his empty stomach, he was more interested in the way her silky robe molded to her perfect curves, showcasing the evidence that the kitchen was nippy where the fabric draped her chest. He shifted on his stool, rearranging himself. Again.
Entranced, he watched her graceful movements and the way the robe shimmied over her small form. It struck him that somewhere along the line his hyperfocus had shifted from hockey to her. She was the latest shiny piece of hockey gear he wanted to inspect, fondle, and take for a spin. And while he wanted to understand the deepest inner workings of her mind, he couldn’t stop his mind wandering to what he wanted to do with that body. His screwed-up family aside, every time he looked at her, all he could think about was getting her naked and under him … over him … on her knees in front of him. Trying every damn position in the Kama Sutra. Hell, she didn’t even need to be in his line of sight to conjure the dirty thoughts. What the hell was wrong with him? God, was it normal to be so obsessed with someone? Had their sexcapades kindled something twisted inside of him? He was an unhinged Pandora’s box. And while part of him reveled in the sweet wickedness, another part pushed against it. Was this like the spell his dad had been under when he’d sacrificed his life at the altar of his mom?
Blake stuffed the bothersome thought down, letting his dick take over the conversation in his head. He slid off the stool and sauntered up behind her while she stirred milk into the eggs. Gliding his hands over the satiny fabric, he quickly dipped them inside the opening barely held together with a tie, working it loose as he went. In short order, the robe gaped wide.
“Are you trying to distract me again?” The whip she was using on the egg mixture faltered, and he broke out in a smug smile. No trying about it.
He nipped her neck, and she paused to lean back against him, humming as his hands moved over her skin. “Now that you’ve dragged my deepest secrets from me, I have to know if you use the same interrogation tactics on your clients when you’re getting them to cough up information. Because I’m here to tell ya, it’s effective as hell.”
She turned in his hold and looped her arms around his neck, her breasts swaying, her taut nipples grazing his chest. He moved his hands to her ass, cupping it. “First of all, I don’t interrogate anyone. Second of all, you’re the only one who sees me naked. Well, except my doctor. Third, I might have to reconsider how I interview clients from now on.”
Crushing her to him, he growled, “Nuh-uh. Don’t even think about it.” He lowered his head to her neck and sucked. Mine.
She pulled away, squealing. “No hickeys in places where my bosses can see!”
He eyed her breasts. “Which means I can put hickeys in other places?”
“Pretty sure you already covered that. Besides, your lips must be ready to fall off.”
He grasped the lapels of her robe and slipped it off her shoulders. “I see a lot of white here. And my lips aren’t even tired. Lip push-ups. It’s part of my workout routine.”
“No, Captain One-Track Mind.” Giggling, she snatched the robe from his grasp and had it tied before he could utter a protest. Then she pushed up on her toes, gripped his shoulders, and latched on to his neck, the little vampire. He threw his head back with a grin. Wonder if it’ll show up on TV?
Three hickeys later, she lowered herself to her heels. His eyes fluttered open in time to see her inspect her work and give a self-satisfied nod. He’d been grinding against her the entire time she’d sucked him purple, but apparently to little avail because she stepped from his embrace and turned back to her eggs. “Now I’m really hungry,” she enthused.
“What, sucking my blood didn’t fill you up?” Grabbing her hips, he spun her to face him again and gave her his best eyebrow waggle. “I’ve got something else you can suck on.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you do.”
In a total perv move, he dropped his underwear, laced his hands behind his head, and gyrated his hips like his three-year-old self used to before bath time. But the fun he was having was unwinding his knots, especially when he caught her surveying him from head to toe, her gray eyes sparkling with mischief and interest. God, he loved that look on her.
“Much as I hate to spoil my view,” she drawled, “the neighbors can see in. You might want to corral that thing.” Her eyes landed—and blatantly lingered—on his steel-hard erection.
He pulled her against him, wrapping her up in his arms. “They can’t see if we do this.”
“Okay, big guy, but if the goods end up on the Internet, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Bet you’d get a lot of views, though.” She pecked his lips and broke from his grasp.
His chest deflated with a sigh, and he bent to swipe his boxers off the floor. “Gonna have to work on my Magic Mike moves.”
She bubbled with laughter. “Your routine is fine. No complaints here.”
He slid on his boxers, tucking his length in as best he could before retaking his seat. “I know. You need food.”
“So do you, big guy. Gotta keep your strength up so you can show me all your moves.” She threw him a wink that left him feeling slightly less foolish.
“Happy to.” Grinning, he leaned his elbow on the island and cupped his chin in his palm. “Speaking of food, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Fiona and James will be here most of the week, and I planned on cooking us a turkey. I invited April too; she doesn’t have family close by.” She looked up from the mushrooms she was slicing. “You?”
“I’m cooking too. Amanda and Mom will be here through Sunday.”
She poured the ingredients into a hot skillet and seemed to get lost in her cooking while he pondered the looming holiday with his mom and sister. At least Amanda was arriving the weekend before—probably so she’d have an excuse not to stop in Oregon and pick up their mother—and he’d get to spend some time with her before their mom got there and fucked up everyone’s holiday.
“How about Owen?”
He jerked his head up, but she wasn’t looking at him. “No, uh, Owen won’t be here for Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, right. He’s probably spending it with his family.”
He’d have to tell Amanda about Ferguson. Part of the reason she was coming early was to “spend time with Owen too.” On second thought, why not wait until she got there to say, “Ferguson doesn’t live here anymore because I hit him”? Cowardly, but practical.
A band tightened around his chest.
“Man, that smells good,” he said to put his thoughts on a different track. The aroma of onions and peppers cooking hit him square in the olfactory receptors, and his stomach rumbled with anticipation. Apparently, he was hungry.
M maneuvered a perfect yellow omelet onto a plate and slid it in front of him, along with utensils and a napkin. He picked up his fork, poised to attack the steaming food when she wiggled her eyebrows at him. “What would you think of combining our cooking duties and our guests? We could turn two mini-feasts into one big one here, or at your place.”
He paused midway to his first bite, panic growing inside him. He loved the idea of introducing M to his sister, but his mother could send her running. “It means meeting my mom and sister,” he said as he shoveled food into his mouth.
M expertly slid a second omelet onto a plate, her eyes flitting to his. “We don’t have to, Blake. I just thought it might be fun to have a bigger group. When I was a kid, my parents used to invite lots of people: neighbors, co-workers, the mechanic down the street. Our house overflowed on Thanksgiving. They always said, ‘The more, the merrier,’ and I guess that philosophy and the happy memories stuck with me.” She let out a wistful sigh. “I wish they could come this year, but they’re on some Elder Hostel trip they booked eons ago.”
She took the seat beside him. “If we combine our groups, having more people could also diffuse some of the … angst.”
Swallowing his bite, he studied her profile as she nibbled at her food, and his heart expanded. His first instinct had been to say no, but as he turned over her suggestion, something warm that smelled of family blossomed inside his chest. It was a foreign feeling, one he hadn’t experienced since he’d been in elementary school at Christmastime. All of him wanted to sweep her up and hold her to him, but he reined himself in and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek instead.
Her pretty eyes lit up. “Is that a yes?”
Stuffing another bite in his mouth, he nodded. “Yep, but we’re gonna have to figure out the sleeping-together thing. Can’t do it at my place.”
Michaela released a laugh. “With Fi and James staying here, I guess we’ll have to put the sleeping-together thing on hold or limit it to whenever they aren’t around. ’Course, then you might not be around.”
He straightened and rolled his eyes dramatically. “Killing me, woman. I don’t think I can be in the same building as you and hold it together that long. We’d better call off Thanksgiving.”
When she scoffed, he continued. “Or we’d better get in as much as we can now.” He pointed his fork at the food she was pushing around her plate. “You gonna eat that?”
“Why?”
“Since we’re starting now, I need my strength to show you my moves.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and a pretty blush pinked her cheeks. He nudged her with his elbow. “Hurry up and eat, or pass it over to me. I’ve got big plans that involve you out of that robe, and we haven’t got all night. Remember, you still owe me for my hat trick.”
