Bourbon on the Rocks (The Barrel House Series Book 2)

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Journey, you’re an incredible person. Do you know this?”

  “Yeah, what can I say,” I reply, trying not to get emotionally tangled up in the conversation. “The money won’t last forever, but I gave it to Adam’s parents, and they invested some to prolong the worth, and it’s given them time to put money aside for if or when the funds run out.”

  “Everything happens for a reason, and we learn from those reasons. I’m just glad that whatever reason led us to reconnect has become something more than I could have imagined.”

  “Don’t be all mushy on me now,” I tell Brody, smirking.

  “I can’t help it. You make me mushy,” he says, pinching my arm.

  “I wouldn’t go around bragging about that,” I jest.

  Brody rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “You’re a dirty bird, fireball.” He leans over the center console and reaches behind my head, bringing his lips to mine. A gentle kiss for a sweet moment. I like the varying sides of Brody.

  “I have to tend to the job you think I don’t have, and I’ll be there most of the night, but maybe we can have breakfast tomorrow morning?”

  “I think I’m free,” I tell him.

  “I’ll pick you up at nine,” he says.

  “How about I pick you up at nine?” I reply.

  “No, I insist,” he says, keeping his polite smile intact.

  “Okay, then.”

  He doesn’t want me to come to his house. Is it just because of the so-called mess?

  “Now, get out before I take you out and run you back upstairs for another round of mind-blowing, ‘Yeses.”

  “With a threat like that, what’s a girl to do?” I ask, placing my hand on my cheek, faking a look of flattering shock.

  Regardless of preferring to play into his threat, I step out of the truck and do my best to strut into my apartment, leaving him with the view of my behind to think about while he’s at work all day.

  I spend the night alone, aside from the few text messages I receive from Brody. He asks me what I ate for lunch and dinner, staying on top of his medical support duties. Then, he sent me an inappropriate picture of himself alone in a warehouse full of barrels. I had to delete it in fear of anyone ever seeing my phone.

  But with a rested mind, I slept well beneath the glistening stars shining in through my window.

  I woke up earlier than planned, which meant I had time to beat Brody at the game he started, using the same methods of research he used. It turns out his brother and my sister are great at handing out answers to what they think are innocent questions. That’s what innocent people do, I guess. Another reason why Melody and Brett are perfect for each other.

  I pull into Brody’s driveway, surprised to see such a nice house after the way he described his style of living. He’s in a newer development, which I guess Brett lives in too. It’s nice they live near each other since Hannah and Parker are so close, and they help each other out with carpools to school.

  It’s eight-fifteen when I plop down on his front step with two coffees in hand. His truck is here, so I know he hasn’t left yet. I only end up waiting five minutes before the front door opens.

  “Aw come on, why are you here?” he asks, opening the storm door.

  “What a nice greeting when I’ve brought you coffee?” I say, standing up, getting ready to push him away from the entrance of his house.

  “No, you can’t come in,” he says.

  “Yes, I can,” I tell him.

  “I said no,” he replies.

  “This kind of ‘no’ can be ignored.” I play the words he used on me, right back at him.

  “Journey, please, come on. You don’t want to come in here,” he continues. His words are forming into a whine, and it gives me more motivation to make my way in than I had when arriving.

  “I sure do,” I say, pushing him to the side while handing him one coffee. His mudroom was fairly neat, so my curiosity was piqued, but as soon as I turned the corner, I was no longer wondering what he was hiding. “Well, I guess you weren’t lying.”

  “This is embarrassing,” he says, following me as I walk through his house.

  The sink is filled with dirty dishes, piles of laundry are stacked on the kitchen table, magazines and books are scattered across the living room with paper plates and plastic cups. I walk past the bathroom without glancing in because it’s not a sight I’m intrigued to see, but Hannah’s room wins the competition of the messiest area of the house. Brody’s room is surprisingly spotless, very masculine with dark gray walls and black furniture. His bed is made, laundry is in a hamper, his closet door is closed, and his furniture isn’t covered with a layer of dust. Sun beams in through his corner windows, offering light to the darkness of the space. His bedroom has a cozy feeling, unlike the rest of the house.

  Could a tween girl truly be responsible for such a large mess across the rest of the house? I don’t remember being that bad at her age, but maybe I’ve forgotten.

  “Happy now?” Brody asks.

  “This looks like a lot of work to keep up with,” I say.

  “I clean, and the mess is back within hours. She doesn’t care, and I’ve lost the energy to keep up. I know it’s not an excuse. I’m the parent, and blah, blah, blah, but I don’t have a ton of free time, despite what it might look like to you, so it’s hard deciding to spend my spare moments cleaning when I know the mess will be right back.”

  Not that I don’t blame Hannah for a lot of this, but the dishes in the sink means he cooked and didn’t do the dishes after. Plus, the laundry. I’m sure his wife used to take care of a lot of the household chores, and he’s still trying to figure out how to do it all, but yikes.

  “You want to know something weird about me?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure I can take more weirdness from you,” he replies with one squinting eyes as if afraid of what I might say next.

  “I kind of love to clean. It relaxes me, but I never have much of a mess at my apartment since it’s just me.”

  “You’re a liar,” he says.

  “Give me a box of trash bags, two rolls of paper towels, and whatever cleaner you have. Go sit down and watch TV until I’m done.”

  “No way, you are not cleaning my house. That is the least romantic thing in the entire world, and we were supposed to go out for breakfast this morning.”

  “Romantic?” I question.

  “Do I seem like the girl who needs constant romance?”

  “Well …” Again, with the squinting eye. I sock him in the stomach. “Go sit down and drink your coffee.”

  “I can help, at least,” he offers.

  “You’ll get in the way,” I reply. “Go, go, move.” I swat at him again, and he jumps.

  I thought it would take me a little longer, but I got in a rhythm and had the house clean and sparkly within two hours or three episodes of Kardashian reruns.

  “Is it rude of me to say this is kind of hot?” Brody asks, staring at me wearing a pair of rubber yellow gloves, holding a roll of paper towels under one arm, and a bottle of cleaner in the opposite hand.

  “I can start in your room next. Are there any delicacies you’d like me to stay away from?” I ask.

  Brody stands up from the couch and steps toward me as if he has a meaningful purpose. His eyes are sinuous, but I don’t move as he approaches me, staring down with the look that should make me weak in the knees. “My delicates don’t need to be cleaned,” he says.

  “Oh,” I utter.

  Brody loops his arm around my back and lifts me up with ease, allowing my legs to wrap around his waist. “Who would have thought a clean house would be such a turn-on,” he says, dropping me down onto his bed.

  “If that’s the case, please keep it a mess while I’m not here.”

  “Will do, fireball.”

  Our clothes are piled up on the floor within minutes, and his tidy bed with red and black checkered linens has been rearranged into a mess of sheets and blankets haphazardly covering our naked
bodies. I run my hands up the length of his chest, enjoying the stubble and dips and grooves from his muscles. Brody owned the control the night before in the shower, but it’s my turn to show him I can take control too. I try to remove the yellow gloves, but he moans, “No, leave them on.”

  I push him down onto the bed, mounting him as I gently skate the gloves up his chest. I enjoy watching his face as I make the moves, control the pace, and pressure. His eyes close, and his mouth is ajar, his breaths rapid and heavy. I follow the changing look on his face to increase the pleasure, and the action of him grabbing the headboard from behind his neck pushes me to the brink of losing control. I nearly collapse on top of him, feeling the stubble on his chest scratch the delicate skin of my breasts. The sensation sends shivers down my spine, and quakes of uncontrolled tremors to rattle my core. “Yes,” he groans. “Yesssss.” His body continues to arch toward mine, faster and harder before he pulls me into him, rolling us over, so he’s on top of me. He kisses me like there won’t be a tomorrow or even another hour in this lifetime.

  “Does your ‘yes’ mean I win this round?”

  Rather than a direct response to the score of our game, he says something that shocks me—something I never expected to hear from anyone in my life: “How are you so perfect?”

  “Perfection is obviously in the beholder’s eye,” I say. “Because I’m anything but.”

  “You’re my kind of perfect, Journey.”

  Maybe two imperfect people can make a new kind of perfect.

  22

  I’ve never missed someone in the capacity of being away for just a couple days and purely wanting to be by their side. Text messages and video chatting doesn’t always curb the desire of being touched or held and I didn’t know this was a thing people experienced, but after a lazy Saturday afternoon, life needed to return to a state of normalcy, so Brody could head out early on Sunday to pick up Hannah from her mother’s house in Connecticut.

  Our lives with interference have set a good pace for us. I’m sure too much at once would be overkill, and I’d rather have the chance to miss him a little to appreciate the moments we get to be together.

  I’ve been wondering about Hannah’s reaction to her clean bedroom. I knew it could go one of two ways: either she’d hate me forever for touching her stuff, or appreciate the cleanliness, but I’m not sure what the silence on the matter means.

  I’m heading out of town for half the day to shoot a newborn session in the middle of a tulip field and I need to clear my mind, to put the heart doodles swirling around my head away for the time being. Of course, I can’t help it and check my phone for any missed text messages before opening my front door.

  Nope.

  With my bag slung over my shoulder, I grab my sweatshirt from the wall hook and turn for the hallway, finding Brody leaning up against the wall with two cups of coffee. A smile forms, it’s instant and uncontrollable—it’s a new automatic reaction he forces out of me.

  “Did you have breakfast?” he asks, walking toward me.

  I twist my lips to the side and shake my head. “I have a shoot—”

  “At ten. The location is an hour away, I know,” he says, proving he listens to everything I say.

  He pulls a white bag out from the pocket of his sweatshirt and hands it to me. “A chocolate chip muffin for the road.”

  Why would his ex-wife do what she did to him? He’s not the man I once thought he was. He has a heart of gold and tries his best at whatever he does. Though, he’s probably wondering about certain decisions I have made and what caused them too. It can go both ways and I wouldn’t want him speculating.

  “You are incredibly sweet, Brody Pearson, and I don’t hand out compliments very often.”

  He grins, showing just a small portion of his pearly teeth. “I’m well aware how tough it is to fish for a compliment from you.”

  “I could work on this, I suppose.” I smirk and take a sip of my coffee. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I have a favor I need to ask, and I didn’t want to do so over the phone.”

  Brody hasn’t asked me for a favor in the time we’ve known each other. He’s been the only one giving and giving. Something else I should work on. “Of course. What’s up?”

  “There’s an emergency PTA meeting tonight about an end of the year event for the fourth graders. They’re having trouble coming up with the necessary funds, so we need to figure out a fundraiser to raise money. I can’t bring Hannah though. We don’t want the kids to know there are any issues with their end-of-year celebration.”

  I had almost forgotten Brody’s role on the PTA. Despite his good nature and willingness to help others, I still have a hard time seeing him fill the role of heading up a PTA, but I like that it’s important to him, especially knowing how little Hannah’s mom is around to take a place in these parts surrounding her life. “I can watch her,” I offer.

  “Are you sure? I know she’s a handful.”

  “We’ll be fine. Was she happy or mad about the cleanliness of her room when she got home?” I smashed my two statements together, but I shouldn’t have said we’d be fine until knowing she doesn’t completely hate me for touching her things, too.

  “She was quite happy and content, actually. In fact, the room has stayed clean since she got home yesterday, which is a long time for her.”

  “Oh good. I’m glad she doesn’t hate me for interfering.”

  “No, she really likes you. I still don’t know why though,” Brody jokes.

  I close my eyes and shake my head at his remark. “What time do you need me to be at your house?”

  “Will you be able to get there by five?”

  “Definitely.”

  “We can order pizza or something when I get back. The meeting should only be an hour or so.”

  “Sounds good,” I tell him.

  “One more thing …”

  Is this where I’m supposed to say, that was too easy? “Uh oh.”

  “I ran into your mom at the grocery store last night. She wants to have dinner tomorrow night with the two of us.”

  “What about Hannah?”

  “My mom is taking Hannah and Parker to a movie tomorrow night, so she is busy.”

  “What does my mom know about us, Brody?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. I’ve been tiptoeing around the subject with Mom and Melody, but I’m almost positive Melody knows far more than what I’ve told her, which means Mom is up to date on the current events.

  “I don’t think she’s thrilled that we haven’t come clean about us—the time we’ve been spending together.”

  I’m in my thirties. I shouldn’t have to confide in her when figuring out my love life, but Mom likes to know all details of mine and Melody’s life. We’re like her personal soap opera. “Things are new,” I tell him.

  “Yes, but are we ending this anytime soon?”

  My cheeks burn at the thought because I don’t want to end things or even consider the thought because I’m enjoying every moment I spend with Brody. “I don’t want to,” I tell him. “Unless you grow the beard back and then, I don’t know … we might have to have a conversation.”

  “Oh my God,” he sighs.

  “Actually, the beard isn’t so bad. Maybe you should grow it back. I might like it more now.” I know I’m messing with him, but I can’t let my guard down completely.

  “You’re like an evil champion of mind manipulation, Journey.” I grin because I’m proud of my strengths. “So, what do you say? Should I make reservations somewhere tomorrow night for the three of us?”

  My gaze falls to the ground as I think through what the night will be like—a million intruding questions, dreamy looks from Mom to Brody, and wedding bells flashing in her eyes. I’ve been watching this happen between Mom, Melody, and Brett. Mom has desperately needed distractions to keep her mind going and from slipping into a state of sadness over losing Dad. Knowing it will bring her some happiness, I suppose it isn’t the worst idea to bring her.
“Okay, we can do this.”

  Brody reaches over and sweeps his thumb across my cheek. “Everything will be okay. We’re fine. Everything's fine.” Until she asks me if I’ve gone to a doctor. I don’t want to send her on that downward spiral again. It’s why I’ve been avoiding Mom for the last week, keeping our conversations short and somewhat rushed. I won’t lie, but if I don’t give her the chance to ask me questions, I don’t have to dance around the truth.

  “Thank you for breakfast, and I’ll be at your house at five tonight.”

  “You’re amazing,” he says, leaning forward and gently brushing his lips against mine. The scent of coffee on his breath and sweet taste he leaves behind lingers on my tongue. “I enjoy starting my day off with a dose of you. Plus, you're smiling, and I feel like I did this—it makes me proud. I just wish I could hang it up on my fridge next to Hannah’s artwork.”

  I don’t mind his hint of cockiness. It’s cute, but I can’t imagine how large his ego would grow if he knew I would spend most of my day smiling because of him.

  Few people make me nervous, but a ten-year-old is making my palms sweat as I pull into Brody’s driveway, parking to the side of his truck. I’m sure at ten, Hannah probably has the mindset of not needing supervision while Brody is away. I was the same way at her age, but the innocence of a tween keeps the scary troubles out of their mind when dreaming of independence, especially at night in a dark house.

  I’ve been curious to see how my cleaning job held up, and I’m pleasantly surprised to walk into a clean mudroom and kitchen. Hannah is at the kitchen table with a textbook and a notepad. She lifts her head and shockingly smiles at me. “Hi, Journey,” she says.