Hot Mess (Life Sucks Book 2)

by Elise Faber

  Shannon’s face relaxed, her mouth twitching up at the corners. “Rylie is pretty good at cleaning up after herself—though I’ve all but given up with her room. After spending many hours organizing and then re-organizing her toys, both with and without her, I now abide by the there’s a door, so close it, and move on mentality.”

  He snorted, remembering the chaos in his home, being one of five kids who ran wild, and as his mom frequently stated, giving her a multitude of gray hairs. “I think that was the only way my mom made it through our childhood.”

  She chuckled. “Well, I’m definitely glad I’m not alone.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Shannon froze. Probably because his words were soft, and his tone sounded real crazy. Repeat, real crazy. Quiet and husky, as though they were lovers sharing a moment, and not virtual strangers.

  “Um . . .” She bit her lip.

  He cleared his throat, pushed down the desire. For God’s sake, he was an actor. He’d pretended his whole life. He pretended for a living. This—making light conversation with a beautiful woman—should be easy.

  “That is, you have Rylie,” he said, thankfully pulling something semi-normal out of nowhere. “Your daughter is great.”

  Shannon’s face softened. “She is.” A beat, lips curving. “Also, it should be noted that the person who’s made the biggest mess on this couch is me, drinking—or well, spilling, a glass of red wine”—she rolled her eyes at herself—“luckily for me, the covers come off, and everything is machine washable.”

  “Smart.”

  Her lips curved up fully, and she shrugged. “Occasionally.”

  “I think,” he said, considering the warm and cozy house, the lovely little kid on the porch, the self-effacing humor and the solid parenting, “a lot more than occasionally.”

  She stared at him for a beat. “Thanks,” she whispered, then, “Please, sit,” she added, sinking down onto the couch.

  And immediately popped to her feet on a wince.

  Finn opened his mouth to ask if she was okay, but then she moved a pillow and held up a plastic unicorn with a seriously deadly-looking horn. “What were you saying about not seeing toys scattered everywhere?”

  He snorted. “To Rylie’s credit, it appears to be less scattered and more strategically placed.”

  She laughed.

  His breath caught, heart squeezing at the lovely, light sound, one that seemed to fit so well in this room and yet one that he had the feeling was rare.

  Because even during the conversation, even though she was bantering with him, the hurt was still there. Beneath the surface, calling his white knight tendencies to high alert, even though he had a boatload of his own problems and had absolutely no business even considering playing the white knight.

  But also . . . this woman didn’t need a white knight.

  Just as he could feel the sadness, he could sense that much as well.

  She might be hurt, but she was also strong. Fragile exterior, steel beneath.

  And that push-pull made her the most interesting person he’d met in a long time.

  “I really am impressed by the space you created,” he said into the quiet that had fallen, taking a seat next to her when she lowered herself back onto the couch.

  Shannon frowned. “You’re not a real estate agent, are you?”

  “What? No,” he said. “I just . . . studied design for a bit.” Which was true, if someone considered a bit being three weeks in preparation for a movie role where he played a designer whose life was falling apart.

  Maybe he should have studied the life falling apart portion of the story more than fleshing out his design skills.

  “Sometimes good window dressings make all the difference.”

  “That and closed doors,” he quipped.

  “True.” Her lips quirked. Her eyes warmed.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” she asked, gesturing toward a doorway that led through to the kitchen, if the glimpse of white cabinets Finn could see was any indication.

  “Got anything that goes well with apples?”

  There.

  Every nerve in his body stood at attention.

  Because there it was. Finally.

  And her smile—a real one—was just as incredible as he’d thought it would be. It was almost tangible, caressing his skin, warming him from the inside out, making his lips tingle with need, his cock twitch.

  All from a smile.

  Inner alarm bells rang out, signaling danger.

  But it was danger he didn’t want to avoid. It was danger he wanted. A slippery slope that was both intoxicating and terrifying.

  “Come into the kitchen, Finn,” she said, pushing to her feet. “And I’ll rock your world.”

  “Why does that sound like a challenge?” He lifted a brow.

  “Have you ever had peanut butter milk and apples?”

  “Can’t say I have.” He made a face. “Also, I can’t say that peanut butter milk sounds good.”

  “Okay, honey.” The real smile never left her face, her soft words drifting down Finn’s spine. “You come into my kitchen, and I’ll rock your world.”

  His breath caught and he followed her into the other room, ready to be rocked

  But the truth was that she’d already rocked his world.

  With her smile and her sad eyes. With her laughter and poking fun at herself. With how she looked at and talked to her daughter. Even before he tried her peanut butter milk—which was really more milkshake than milk and delicious as hell.

  It should also be noted that rocked his world as well.

  Seven

  No Tears Spilled, Only Milk

  Shannon

  She hurried to the kitchen, cheeks blazing.

  Honey.

  Why in the devil had she called him honey?

  Because he was gorgeous, because she used the word honey a lot with her students, with Rylie, with—

  Because his eyes were the color of honey.

  Dripping, golden honey, warmed and readied to be poured over hot oatmeal or dribbled into her tea, or—

  Those eyes were on hers, questions in their depths.

  Shan got moving. Peanut butter, cups, and the blender from the cabinets, milk from the fridge. Realizing she’d left the apples on the table, she moved to get them, but Finn asked, “Where are you going?”

  She froze. “Um . . . we need apples to have peanut butter milk and apples.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  “Oh—” A shake of her head. “You don’t have to. I can—”

  He left the room.

  Shannon’s mouth fell open, trying to remember when Brian had ever offered to get something for her, much less had actually gone to get it when she said he didn’t have to.

  And, damn.

  Brian invading her thoughts again.

  She was really fucking tired of that.

  Pretty hard for her ex to not be doing that. Especially when she’d spoken with her lawyer that morning and had heard her only course of action was to contest the divorce and hope a judge would allow her to do it so late in the process.

  Almost done with Brian . . . and then pulled right back in.

  Now, wasn’t that the story of her life?

  Finn walked back in on the heels of that thought, basket in his hands, gorgeous face open and relaxed. And yet, she had the notion that it was a mask, that his inside was as messed up as hers.

  Twisted, knotted, damaged . . .

  And she was just standing there again.

  Finn grabbed three apples from the basket, not two, and warmth filled her. Without a word or prompt, this man had thought of her daughter.

  A curl of cynicism wove through her, quickly chasing away that warmth.

  Hell, he was a big guy. He was probably planning on eating two apples himself. But just as she was going down the dark spiral of cursing all men on Earth, Finn held up one shining red fruit. “Will Rylie be too full for another apple?” A beat. “O
r have tummy trouble?”

  Cynicism disappeared.

  Hope bubbled. Okay, maybe there was more than one good guy in the world (that one good guy being, Derek, Pepper’s husband, of course), because this man, quite literally bearing fruit, remembering that her daughter would want a snack, too, being nice and funny, even though she was just a neighbor, was displaying serious good guy street cred. Well, that and using a phrase like tummy trouble.

  Her lips tipped up. “Tummy trouble?”

  A shrug, but his profile gave her a glimpse of a slightly-reddened swathe of cheek, one stripe of pink skin topping the dark brown stubble adorning his jaw. “My sister has reinforced in me the danger of too much fruit.”

  “Why does there seem to be more to that story?”

  More red.

  But less talking.

  “Finn.” Her teacher voice came out unintentionally, something that Brian had always hated, something she didn’t use on purpose, but also . . . something that just happened sometimes.

  Instead of getting mad, however—like Brian would have done—Finn turned enough to meet her stare. “That tone is dangerous,” he teased. “Threatens to make a man want to give up all of his secrets.”

  Her breath caught as she wondered what kind of secrets this gorgeous man might have, but just as she was mentally paging through the possibilities of him being a secret agent or a professional surfer or an Italian chef, he asked, “Can you tell me where your knives and cutting boards are?”

  Surfer. With tanned skin like that, he was either a surfer or an Italian chef, but he was here in Stoneybrooke. In a cottage on the beach. So, surfing.

  Definitely that.

  Though an Italian chef, one who specialized in all types of pasta, would be awesome.

  Also . . . special agent was still a possibility, especially with those secrets in his gaze.

  “Shannon?”

  “Hmm?” she murmured, lost in the image of him prowling down the street, taking out bad guys left and right. What? Yes, she knew it was unrealistic. No, the idea of him handcuffing her, pinning her against the wall, or better yet on a bed was a bad one. But still tempting—

  She shook her head, snapping herself out of it.

  Though, maybe she was finally snapping out of it, of how she’d been with Brian, of how she’d shrunk into herself, trying not to feel anything, including desire, in an effort to not be hurt again.

  Because desire was a big feel.

  And that made her think that finally, a year after finding out about the lies and deceptions, that someday she might be whole—

  No, that someday she might be more.

  Yeah, more. More than just a woman with a man. But a person, fully-formed with ideas and thoughts and not a wilting flower who shrank herself down, just to fit.

  And . . . she liked that. A lot.

  Another promise to herself, to her daughter. Keep growing. Keep strengthening.

  “Cutting board and knife?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Do you have a cutting board and knife?”

  “Why?” she asked, brows drawing down.

  “To cut”—his honey eyes danced with amusement—“the apples.”

  “Why?” she repeated, totally flummoxed. Was he seriously offering to help her cook? Or cut, rather?

  He tilted his head to the side. “Does your fancy peanut butter milk and apples recipe have a special way of slicing the apples?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “So”—his mouth twitched—“I’ll cut them.”

  “But—”

  “Cutting board?”

  She took a step toward the cabinet that held her cutting boards. “Here, I’ll—”

  “No, Blue Eyes,” he said, putting his hand on her arm. “Just point. I can get it myself.”

  She bit the inside of her lip, a thrill skirting through her. More. Yes, maybe she could be more than she’d ever hoped.

  But she had to actually speak and talk like a live human being.

  Or, well . . . point anyway.

  She indicated the cabinet.

  He grinned, opened the door, rustled around inside, and extracted a wooden cutting board. Which gave this man, this neighbor she barely knew, extra points. Because he knew without her telling him that plastic was for meat and wood was for fruits and vegetables.

  “Knife?” he asked.

  She pointed again.

  Another grin as he opened the drawer, grabbed out a chef’s knife, then reached for the towel she kept by the sink, folded and tucked it underneath the cutting board— ensuring the wood wouldn’t slip on the counter as he was using it. Then he picked up the three apples and carried them to the sink. “I’m guessing you’re used to supervising in the kitchen.”

  “Um, yes?”

  He turned on the water.

  “I promise I can cut three apples.”

  Now, her cheeks went hot, but she just nodded, turned to the cabinet in front of her and snagged three glasses—two glass, one plastic, because as Finn had noted, Rylie would definitely want in on this.

  Milk into the blender. Three heaping spoons full of peanut butter.

  Flick the switch.

  And thick, creamy, frothy peanut butter milk was born.

  Also, yes, she was well-aware of what kind of images thick, creamy, and frothy conjured up, but she also didn’t care because her peanut butter milk was that delicious. Add in dipping slices of fresh and juicy—ha!—apples, and it was the best snack on the planet.

  Ry had appeared in the kitchen by the time the blender switched off, her eyes wide as she bounced on her toes.

  “Peanut butter milk?” she exclaimed, still bouncing as her gaze flicked to Finn. “And apples?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said, pouring the milk into the three glasses.

  “My favorite!” Ry danced her way over.

  Shan pressed a kiss to her head. “Want to carefully take these out to the table on the deck?”

  “Okay!” She grabbed two of the glasses and made her way carefully outside.

  Smiling at the dainty steps her normally bull-in-a-china-shop daughter took as she was careful to not spill a single drop of nirvana, Shan watched her head out the front door, then turned and grabbed three small plates, setting them in front of Finn.

  Who was deliberately cutting the apples into the most perfect slices she had ever seen.

  Evenly cut. Not a trace of a core in sight. Skin removed and piled neatly in one corner of the board.

  Italian chef.

  Tall, dark, and with killer knife skills . . . yeah, that would still do well for her fantasies. Though, really, Shannon couldn’t argue that she could, just as easily, picture this man as a firefighter or a politician or that secret agent, who’d shown up looking uncertain on her porch with sand toys a few days ago, with fruit today and had commented on the placement of her furniture then had made himself comfortable in her kitchen before efficiently slicing fruit.

  Different faces.

  Yet, this man wasn’t lost in them. His essence never seemed to fully leave.

  So, a chameleon, but not deceiver—not like Brian.

  He was just . . . a crystal turning over in her palm, the sun hitting different angles, reflecting the light in constantly changing ways—rainbows and white light, shadows and the sun seeping through into her skin—but still, intrinsically, that crystal in her palm. This man in front of her was exactly that.

  Revealing different layers, showing off different facets.

  Layers. Onions have layers.

  She smiled, thinking of the quote from Rylie’s favorite movie about a green ogre who found his heart.

  “What is it?”

  A soft question that made her realize she’d been staring at him, pondering too heavily to realize he’d filled the plates with apples, that he’d turned to face her.

  Now, more cheek heating—on her part.

  Because she had been staring . . . and because for the first time, in a
long time, she was studying a man and finding him not only beautiful and desirous but also fascinating.

  This wasn’t a sexy A-list celebrity on a magazine cover she was appreciating at a distance. Or Pepper’s Derek who was gorgeous, but not hers, so there wasn’t room there for desire—wouldn’t ever be room there. This wasn’t even Brian, who she’d once wanted so badly, the hormones of teenagedom intense and overwhelming.

  This was . . . peeling off her layers of hurt.

  This was her realizing clearly that just because she wanted Rylie’s life to be different, to be more, that just because she would fight tooth and nail for her daughter to have a full life, that it also didn’t mean Shannon’s couldn’t be different and more, too.

  Fingers on her cheek made her jump.

  But not pull back.

  They should have. This contact from Finn, who she’d barely spent any time with.

  Except, it didn’t feel wrong. Rather, it felt as though that touch, the soft brush of roughened fingers on her skin was a lightning rod, cracking through the numb, the fog of pain and betrayal, arrowing straight for her center and making her feel.

  And God did she feel.

  “Shannon?” he asked, concern on his face.

  “Shrek,” she blurted.

  Finn’s head tilted to the side. “Shrek?”

  A nod. “I’m Shrek. I just—” She shrugged. “I just . . . I’m Shrek.”

  “The ogre?”

  She nodded again.

  His brows drew together. “I—”

  She was so distracted by their conversation—well, by her thinking and random blurting—that Rylie had slipped in undetected.

  At least, until she heard the crash.

  As one, they turned, saw Ry standing in the kitchen, the last cup of milk having slipped from her hands and hitting the floor. Of course, it was a glass one, and now her daughter was standing over a growing puddle littered with shards.

  “Oh, honey,” she groaned, unable to stop herself.

  And, as one would predict, that was the exact wrong thing to say when a kid made a mistake and clearly felt bad about it.

  She knew that.

  She’d gone to school and learned techniques to avoid just this exact reaction.

  Which was Rylie’s face crumpling, tears pouring down her face.