Sterling

by Willow Summers

  A wave of discomfort washed over him. “No.” His voice had come out too flat and hard.

  She hesitated, her brow crinkling. “No? Must have gotten that wrong. Isn’t your brother a doctor?”

  “He and his wife are both doctors, yes. She’s a pediatrician, and he’s a surgeon.”

  “Jesus,” she murmured.

  “I would say you shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain, but…” He pointed at her shirt.

  She glanced down, and her face flushed a beautiful shade of crimson. “It was a gift.” Her confused look came back. She stepped aside as his things were being scanned, but didn’t leave. “Didn’t one of you test into the top five percent on the bar exam? I swear I heard that.”

  It was his turn to blush. “Yeah. That was me. But I didn’t end up going into law.” It wasn’t totally a lie. After one case, he’d backed out like his face was on fire.

  She shifted, popping out a hip. “Why not?”

  He shrugged. He didn’t like talking about it. “I just didn’t.”

  Her piercing blue eyes delved into him. He worried she’d ask more, because he wasn’t sure he could keep from blabbing. Something about that intelligent, prying gaze made him want to open up to her. She nodded once, about faced, and marched away. “See ya around,” she said over her shoulder.

  “That chick is hot,” the twenty-year-old checker said under his breath, watching her go.

  “She’d eat you alive,” Noah replied, pushing his card into the machine as he watched the sassy sway of her hips. She stuck out from the crowd, and then some, but she clearly didn’t care. Cynthia Bell was all grown up.

  He put his card away and took his purchases before heading to the door. She’d said she was between jobs. That usually meant someone had been fired, which, given what he remembered of her, he could understand. Ellen had always said that Cynthia was a troublemaker. From fighting with boys—never girls—to telling the teachers they needed to up the speed of their classes. Her parents had issued a million apologies on her behalf. He seemed to recall that she’d skipped a grade. Or was that someone else?

  Trying to remember, he made his way to his Range Rover as a beat-up old Honda pulled out of the spot next to his. He clicked his key fob to unlock his door as the Honda started forward.

  Cynthia leaned over the passenger seat to throw him a condescending scowl before speeding off, almost hitting a woman in yoga pants as she went.

  He stopped beside his door and stared after her. What was that about?

  Crazy. The woman was clearly crazy. And while that might’ve been a turn-off back in the day, now it was… Well, it was normal. He hung around crazy all the time. He barely knew what normal was anymore, thanks to his buddies’ girlfriends, Madison, Janie, and the newest addition, Kaylee.

  After he left the store, he couldn’t get the Cynthia-induced smile off his face, but his heart started to sink the closer he got to his parents’ house. His dad was back from a business trip. Noah had half hoped his old man would get snowed in—a long shot, since it was only November. It would’ve alleviated a lot of stress in the house. At least for Noah.

  He parked next to the curb, glancing four houses down at Cynthia getting out of her beat-up Honda. Her head turned his way, but she didn’t raise her hand in farewell. Instead, she just swung her head back around. Her ponytail whipped around, followed by her shoulders. A bag of diapers broke free from the groceries in her arms and went skittering across the street in time to meet a car rolling by. The tire caught the bag.

  Pop.

  Diapers squished out, propelled by the trapped air. The back tire finished the job, probably dirtying all the white diapers.

  Noah couldn’t hear what Cynthia said as he climbed from his ride, but judging by the sharp tone, and the volume, it wasn’t a child-friendly string of terms.

  He headed her way, leaving his groceries in the car. “Do you need help?” he asked as he neared.

  She bent over the squashed package, probably looking for survivors. “What are the freaking odds, do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes. The timing on that was incredible.” Laughter shook his body.

  She glanced up in annoyance while tucking diapers back into the exploded bag.

  “Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. He cleared his throat, now trying to hide a smile. “Sorry.”

  “Think they’ll notice?” She pulled the plastic around the gaping, grime-covered hole in the side.

  He hesitated, thinking back all those years to the woman who had occasionally been his friend with benefits—someone he’d passed the time with whenever they were both single and horny. Based on what he remembered of Ellen, she would not only see every speck of dirt, she’d also throw a conniption about it.

  “Yeah.” Cynthia nodded, clearly having read his thoughts. She shrugged. “They were probably the wrong size anyway. Looks like I’ll be sent to the store again tomorrow.”

  “How old is the baby?” Noah picked up the bags of groceries she’d set on the driver’s seat.

  “I should know that. I’m the worst aunt. One, I think. A little over one.”

  “These’ll probably fit. Maybe you’ll get away with it.”

  She huffed out a laugh as they made their way to the front door. Almost there, she looked off to the side, staring at a small Ford parked in the driveway. Her brow furrowed. “Whose car is that, I wonder?”

  “Looks like a rental.”

  “Yes, it does,” she murmured. “Who did she invite from out of state?”

  “Are all your sisters living in town?”

  She glanced back at him as she opened the door. “One is in San Francisco and the other is in Sausalito.” A booming laugh echoed from the interior, making her flinch. She listened for a moment as a loud voice drowned out all the other chatter coming from inside the house.

  Then she pulled the door shut again.

  “Who is it?” Noah asked.

  “Uncle Art. Crap. I’m not in the mood for Uncle Art. I’m still getting used to Aunt Bessie. Ugh! Why is my family so weird?”

  “Who’s Uncle Art?” Noah asked, racking his brain.

  “He’s my dad’s older brother. He’s some bigwig for a global company and he travels all the time. I rarely see him, thank God. The guy constantly wears blazers.”

  “That’s his big fault? He wears blazers?”

  Cynthia turned to him with that piercing stare. Something about that stare, her proximity, and her smell—fresh cotton and spicy female—flipped his stomach and tightened his balls. He leaned in just a little, warming himself by her fire. Drawn to her wildness.

  One of her eyebrows arched slowly. Adrenaline dumped into his body, activating his fight-or-flight reflex. Suddenly he wasn’t sure if he was turned on by her intensity, or intimidated by it.

  “Come in.” She took the handle, turned, and pushed the door wide, not breaking eye contact. “Come on in. Let’s meet Art the Fart, shall we?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Come on. What are you, chicken?”

  “Does he carry a gun? Why would I be afraid of an older guy?”

  “Yeah. Great question. Why indeed.” She grabbed his arm and attempted to yank him forward. “Good God, what are you, solid muscle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.” She reached for the underside of his arm and pinched the sensitive skin.

  “Ow!” He jerked away, still unsure if he was aroused or terrified. He took a step away from her reaching hand. “No pinching.” A memory floated to the surface. He leveled a finger at her face. She slapped it away before he could say anything. He put it in her face again. “Pinching wasn’t cool back in the day, and it is equally uncool now.”

  “Saying the word cool is no longer cool. And yet…”

  “I’m going, I’m going, stop hurting me.” He laughed and stepped aside to leave the doorway clear. When she didn’t move, he gestured her toward the door. She reached for him with those blasted fingers again, trying to herd
him, making him shake with chuckles. “Ladies first, you nitwit.”

  “Nice way to be a gentleman, calling a lady a nitwit.” She turned up her nose and sauntered into the house. He caught that sassy sway of her hips.

  Desire won over intimidation. His cock hardened, and he was extremely thankful he’d worn briefs and didn’t have to worry about his pants tenting.

  The smell of a fruity air freshener wiped away her tantalizing scent as he followed her across the threshold and into the entryway. The layout of the house was very similar to his parents’. He paused to close the door before catching up with her as she reached the doorway to the den, a place set up for socializing, similar to the one in his parents’ house. Soft jazz drifted through the air rather than the droning of a TV, but it was drowned out by a booming male voice.

  As they stepped through the sliding double doors, Noah saw Mr. Blazer himself, seated at the end of the couch, his fingers wrapped around a sweating tumbler filled with brown liquid and his stomach straining the buttons of his jacket. Beside him sat Mrs. Bell—Tamie—with a painted-on smile and tight eyes. A wheelchair was parked in the corner, and the elderly female occupant had a blank expression on her face.

  A little body ran into the back of his leg, entering the room behind Noah.

  Noah stayed still and looked down, not wanting to move, lest he trample the child underfoot.

  A chubby little face looked up at him as the baby used his leg as a stabilizer. He started moving around the blockade, one wobbly step at a time. The baby’s big brown eyes blinked twice, and then he was off, tottering toward the woman in the wheelchair.

  “Baby Ray, come back here. You need a diaper—” A woman stopped short in her stride as she entered the room. Her eyes glued to Noah, and he recognized another blast from his past.

  “Ellen, nice to see you,” he said with a smile.

  A blush rose to her cheeks, and anger sparkled in her eyes.

  Uh oh. He’d seen that look before.

  He racked his brain, trying to remember if he’d ever pissed her off.

  Absolutely nothing came to mind.

  He was flying blind!

  Four

  Cynthia knew a wicked grin had lit up her face, but she couldn’t help it. Ellen had been so far gone on Noah back in the day, it wasn’t even funny. She’d pined after the guy in high school, dropped boyfriends for him at a moment’s notice, even cheated on her now-husband with him during a couple of college breaks and holidays, probably without Noah knowing. Anytime Noah had turned up wanting some action, Ellen had been ready for him, hoping he’d stick around this time.

  Surprise! He never had. Any fool could’ve guessed that. Of course, Ellen wasn’t the only woman who’d hoped a little action would bring him around. That he would forget his male slut ways and decide she was the one.

  Cynthia snickered as she remembered. All of Ellen’s friends had wanted to tie down the same hot, rich guy, and they’d all learned their lesson the hard way.

  Cynthia might have taunted her sister a time or two for that, which had probably been immature, but Ellen had deserved a little taunting, the jerk. Her sister hadn’t exactly been welcoming when she’d skipped a grade, landing her in the same high school. Ellen had started rumors about her. Stolen school reports off her desk so she’d have to redo them at the last minute. Broken things and blamed it on her. The list went on and on.

  That had been years ago, of course, and Cynthia had gotten over it. Ellen was Ellen, and there was no changing her—only tolerating her. Still, Cynthia couldn’t deny that Noah’s cluelessness and her sister’s fury tickled her funny bone.

  “I met up with Noah in the store.” Cynthia pointed at the bag of groceries in Noah’s large hand.

  “Did you get more butter?” Aunt Bessie asked from the corner, starting to roll forward.

  “Yes, Aunt—”

  “Noah Arnold, Dan Arnold’s boy, right?” Tamie said. Cynthia fell silent as her mother rose with a welcoming smile. “Hello. I was just speaking with your mother the other day. She’s so excited to have everyone home for Thanksgiving. When did you get in?”

  “Yesterday, ma’am.” Noah looked down as Aunt Bessie stopped by his legs and reached for the groceries.

  “Dan Arnold!” Uncle Art boomed, frowning up at Noah. “Now, why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Give that here, son,” Aunt Bessie said, grabbing hold of the canvas bag and pulling it. “Just give it here.”

  Noah relinquished the bag, the crease between his brows turning more pronounced.

  “The neighbor down the street,” Cynthia’s mom said, directing Baby Ray toward the harried-looking nanny who’d bustled into the room. Cynthia had never been properly introduced. “The successful business consultant.”

  “That’s right!” Uncle Art boomed, as though he were speaking in a loud concert hall to someone three rows away. “High-dollar business consultant. Great racket, that. Though I can hardly talk, can I? I’m in a similar line of work.” He laughed, an obnoxious sound. He stood and took two self-important steps toward Noah with his hand out. “Art Bell.”

  “Noah. Good to meet you.” Noah pumped his hand, as if greeting a fellow member of the Silver Spoon Club. Noah was the kind of rich, entitled guy who’d always been handed whatever he wanted, but Cynthia hadn’t picked up the silver spoon vibe earlier. Not at the store, and not outside. Despite his fancy Range Rover with the blah beige seats and the prep-school dress code, he’d seemed like just another average Joe. Down to earth and funny.

  She narrowed her eyes at Ellen—was that why Ellen and the others had always been fooled? Because Noah seemed so honest and genuine and such an all-around cool guy that a girl couldn’t help but assume he was into her?

  “No, no, no!” Tamie rushed after a retreating Aunt Bessie, who had found the butter, dropped the rest of the groceries onto the floor, and was headed for the kitchen. “No, you do not, Bessie! Give that here.”

  “Froot Loops, that one.” Uncle Art put his finger to his temple and made a circle. More memories flitted through Cynthia’s mind as her mother wrestled the butter away from Aunt Bessie, and Uncle Art verbally congratulated himself on being the most successful guy he knew. Nights when Cynthia had eavesdropped on Ellen and her friends. They’d called Noah a stuck-up man-whore asshole. They’d even made voodoo dolls in his honor.

  And yet…something told her that he wasn’t that irresponsible, immature guy anymore.

  Maturity had really been kind to him.

  “Say,” Uncle Art said, clapping his hand on Noah’s shoulder and directing him to the couch, “did you hear the one about the priest, the rabbi, and the minister all walking into a bar?”

  Cynthia smiled, held up the diapers for Ellen’s inspection, and gestured her toward the kitchen. She’d had a rough day so far, and didn’t want to know what the three religious figures had done in the bar.

  “What are those?” Ellen asked, giving Noah a fleeting look before following Cynthia from the room.

  “Diapers. Weren’t you complaining about needing diapers?” Cynthia led the way. “Are they the right size?”

  Her sister took one look at the package and shrieked. “Who cares if they’re the right size, Cynthia?” They’d made it into the kitchen, where Aunt Bessie sat at the table with a scowl and a bag of Cheetos.

  “Her obsession with butter is starting to get frightening,” Cynthia’s mom said as she put the package away. The canvas bag full of the other requested items now sat on the counter next to the fridge.

  Tamie glanced at the object of Ellen’s disgust. “Oh, Cynthia, now what have you done?”

  “It wasn’t my fault. They threw themselves under a moving vehicle. I had nothing to do with the diaper suicide attempt, I swear it.” Cynthia dusted off some dirt—or was it tire tread?—from one of the diapers. “Look. All better. They’re fine. I mean, they get filled with human waste. I think a little dirt is the least of your concerns.”

  “Really, Cynth
ia? Diaper suicide?” Ellen gave her an incredulous look. “Running over a pack of diapers because you’re mad about the way your life has turned out is just sick. Sick, Cynthia. Something is seriously wrong with you.”

  “Ellen, did you see who’s here?” Tera bustled into the room wearing all white, no stains or spills in sight. Cynthia had no idea how she did it. Especially with three kids. “Noah Arnold!” A star-struck grin spread across her face. “He’s looking really…fit. Did you see him?”

  What was it about a hot guy with a lot of charisma that could reduce a grown woman to a crushing teen? Cynthia didn’t know, but Noah had the talent in spades. Thankfully, that kind of blind lust didn’t work on Cynthia.

  She pursed her lips at the memory of how she’d acted in the grocery store. That hadn’t counted. She’d been caught off guard.

  “I saw him, yes,” Ellen said.

  “He is a very handsome young man,” Tamie said as she stowed the potatoes into a cabinet. “Still single, too, the way I hear it.” She glanced at Ellen. “He’s your age, right, hon? Wasn’t he in your class?”

  “Thirty-one, yeah.” Ellen leaned against the counter and her eyes took on a faraway look. Her hip slowly jutted out. She was thinking about the past, no doubt.

  Ew.

  Cynthia crossed the kitchen and grabbed a handful of Cheetos. She’d give it a few more minutes before she rescued Noah from Uncle Art and his off-color, sometimes super-gross jokes.

  “Sarah from down the street mentioned that he was still single. At thirty-one, he has to be looking to settle down. He’ll be realizing he won’t stay young forever.” Tamie’s sly gaze came to rest on Cynthia. “Sarah didn’t say what he did, but he sure looks like he’s doing well. And he has family money, you know. He would be a good match for you, Cynthia. Three years’ difference is nothing at your age.”

  “You should run, Charlotte,” Aunt Bessie murmured. “Get out while you still can. And take me with you.”