by Emilia Finn
“Beckett…”
My heart stops, and my eyes whip to Tabby’s. But hers remain closed, sleep still holding her captive.
“Tabby?”
“Mmm.” Her lips wrinkle into a soft smile as consciousness battles to bring her around.
“You awake?” I whisper. “You in there?”
“Beckett,” she purrs and turns to her side.
Her hand leaves mine for a beat, and my pulse speeds as she repositions herself. But then her hand dangles once more, turned so her palm is exposed and the lines folded into her skin draw my attention.
I’m certain there are fortunes in them. The lines mean something. The intersections. The shapes they make.
I glance at my own palm as though that might help me decipher what hers means, but giving up on that—why spend this time looking at mine when I could be looking at hers?—I reach up and slide the tip of my pointer finger along one of the lines on the heel of her palm.
Her fingers twitch at my touch. Her hand curls open and closed. But her lips, they remain in a smile.
“What does this mean?” I stroke another line and ponder. “You will have a large family, maybe. A bunch of kids, and a Labrador, since we both know you adore animals.”
I follow another line on her palm. “Does this one mean a picket fence and a mom van? No.” I shake my head. “You’re a vet. A fucking good one. Which means no mom anything. Maybe a van, yes,” I concede, “but not a mom van. You and your husband will shuttle the kids evenly. Because he’ll respect that you have a career. He’ll respect that you want to be you, Tabitha Lawrence, and not just Mom, not just Wife. And if he forgets it,” I chuckle and slide my finger along her wrist, “you’ll remind him with a swift kick up the ass.”
Tabby’s snores went away with her change of position. But she still sleeps. Her breath still comes evenly.
“The worst thing I’ve ever done to any woman, ever, was make you my assistant. You’re so much more than that, but now I’m addicted. Don’t you see?” I push up to my elbow and study her closed eyelids. “Don’t you see that I can’t give you up now?”
“Mm.” Tabby steals her hand back and tucks it beneath her cheek.
Now she’s gone. Just as close as she’s been this whole time, yes, but the connection I had is now stolen from me.
Then she mumbles, “Mark.”
And it’s all fucking shattered.
The air leaves my lungs. “Yep.” A minute ago, my heart raced for Tabby, but now it races for a whole new reason. Feeding a bubbling, poisonous pool of rage.
Shaking my head, I toss my blankets off and push up to my feet, then snatching fresh clothes from my bags, I snag a towel and make a beeline for the hall. I’m going to have a shower, and if I’m extra lucky, I might find bleach and swallow enough to burn away the memory of Tabby speaking Mark’s name while I’m professing my damn feelings for her.
Stepping into the hall, I find Samara leaning against the opposite wall, one foot propped up behind her. But she’s not as fucking terrifying as yesterday.
I mean, she is. And any new person who comes into this home is gonna piss their pants with worry. But constant contact with this horror show means I’m quickly becoming desensitized.
“Hey, kid.”
“Mr. Rosa.” She pushes off the wall as I pass and follows me along the hall. “Sleep well?”
“Uh huh. I’m heading in to have a shower.”
“Oh, great timing. Bathroom’s free, and Mother is cooking breakfast. She’s doing bacon and eggs, but the eggs are benedict, not fried.”
“Any eggs work for me. Thanks.”
I shove through the bathroom door and step onto tile that sends a chill up through my bare feet and into my fucking soul. My nipples peak from how cold it is, but the thought of a steaming hot shower is enough to make the five-foot trek worth it.
I drop my fresh clothes and towel on a closed hamper, flip the taps on in the shower, then I turn back to strip, only to find Samara still standing in the doorway.
“Uh… I’m gonna need you to leave for this.” Making my way back to the door, I close it slowly to allow the girl room to move back.
The alternative would be to slam a solid timber door in her face, breaking her nose and a few teeth. The girl might be creepy, but she doesn’t deserve maiming on top of it.
Hitting the ancient door lock that I doubt even works, I turn back and study the steam pouring from the shower stall. I was worried there would only be cold—another slap in the face from this crazy-ass murder house—but there’s a water heater somewhere on these premises powerful enough to fill a small bathroom with billowing steam and make a tired man happy.
Stripping my clothes off and tossing them to the floor, I make my way to the shower and adjust the taps so I don’t peel the skin from my bones. Maybe I spent a little time with Graciela last night, the pregnant mare kept out back, but soap and water will do to clean myself up; there’s no need to pressure-wash the skin straight off my body using boiling water.
She—the horse—is about due, well and truly over it all, and likely to drop her baby any day now. But if the universe wants to treat me right, it’ll make sure that foal doesn’t come in the next twenty-four hours.
I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to help. I don’t want to spend all night in the barn and risk losing another foal so close to my recent failure with Chip.
And yet, my need to help, my want to make things better, messes with my initial wishes, and there’s at least a part of me—like, two percent—that would prefer she go into labor soon. If not, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering how she did and if the crazy family ate her and her baby for dinner the very next night.
Stepping into the shower when I’ve got the temperature exactly right, I groan and tip my head back to allow hot water to wash through my hair and dribble along my back. I woke as I do most days, with a hard dick and a thought about Tabby, but the moment she muttered Mark’s name, that issue resolved itself. And now… well, hell, what’s a man supposed to do in the shower if not pull his own dick?
I could probably consider exfoliating, I guess. But I won’t.
Washing up quickly, scrubbing a little of the sandy body wash Darla supplies for guests all over my skin, I shampoo my hair and steal a packaged toothbrush from the shelf just outside the shower, then I brush my teeth and do my best to freshen up and rinse away the dregs of unrequited feelings and the whispers of another man’s name from my memory.
Moments after stumbling my way into the shower, I cut the water and stumble out again. The room is filled with steam, and even the tiles are now warm beneath my feet. I snag my towel and go to work drying off. My legs and feet. My stomach and chest. I work on the back of my shoulders as the steam slowly dissipates, then my lower back as the sound of a slamming door down the hall grabs a small fraction of my attention.
Bacon wafts in the air, coffee follows close behind. My stomach growls, painfully so, so when the smell of toast follows everything else, my mouth waters and my heart beats a new tune.
Who has time to think about women when a man is as hungry as I am?
When I’m done drying myself, I toss my towel to the floor with the rest of my dirty clothes, then turning to grab a fresh pair of boxer shorts, my eyes whip to the door when it flings open.
My intruder doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow as she storms in and slams the door.
Tabby spins, preparing to have her own shower I guess, but then our eyes meet. Her cheeks pale, but her eyes drop to my cock.
“Agh!” she screams, like we’re in a slasher film.
I scream right back. “Agh!”
“Agh!” Tabby drops her things and slaps her hands to her eyes. “You’re naked!”
“I was in here first!”
“Your p—” She tries to speak. To argue. To do any damn thing. “Your p— Your pe—”
“My penis?” I look down and grin when I find it stiff as a rod and pointing right at her. “Men have th
ose, ya know.”
“It’s naked!” she shouts.
Spinning on her heels, she fumbles with the door, with the ancient handle, then when she gets it open, she does so with too much energy, too much strength, and slams herself in the face with the solid timber.
She makes a pain-filled gurgle in the back of her throat. Genuine pain. And because I caught some fucking feelings for this woman, I rush forward to help.
“Shit, Tabby. Are you okay?” I spin her and find blood gushing from her nose. I still have my boxers in hand, so I press them to her face and elicit a squeak of agony from the woman in front of me. “Jesus. Did you break it?”
Her eyes leak. Tears pour over her cheeks. Blood runs into our hands. And still, I’m naked as the day I was born. And better yet—worse yet?—my cock touches her hip.
“Tabby?” I shake her when she stands frozen. “Is it broken? Do you need a hospital?”
She slowly shakes her head. Still in shock.
“No, it’s not broken?”
“I don’t think so,” she squeaks out, nasally enough to make me want to laugh. “Not broken.”
“There’s a ton of blood.” I lean closer—more cock on her belly—and try to peek past the boxers. “But it doesn’t look bent.”
“Can you, uh…” Tears continue to flood her cheeks. “I need you to step back.”
“Too close?” I don’t move. I hold her hands while she holds her nose. “Too much?”
“Penis,” she chokes out.
I burst into piggy snorts while she tries with all her might to stay serious.
“Sexual harassment case,” she growls.
“I think the most crucial piece of evidence in that case will be the fact you’re the one who impeded my privacy. I was in a private bathroom, Tabby. On my own. You stormed in on me.” I smile and watch as her eyes glisten—with tears, and possibly with a little humor. “Are you sure you want to file that complaint?”
“You’re such an ass.” She pushes me back but keeps hold of my shorts, her eyes firmly locked on mine. She doesn’t dare let her gaze wander. Doesn’t dare encourage that pending lawsuit. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
“Fucked that up.” I chuckle and lean in to inspect her nose. “I would like to point out that, if this situation were in reverse, if I’d walked in on you in the bathroom, you probably would have already called the cops. Double standards at their best.”
“Still considering calling the cops,” she sniggers… nasally. “Maybe they can give me a ride to the auction.”
I bark out a fast laugh. “I don’t think we’re making it there. What will we do without that radiography system?”
“Guess which bones are broken,” she quips. “Ironic, I think.”
“Considering your nose? Yeah.” I chuckle. “What the fuck is wrong with you and doors, huh? Don’t act like this is the first time.”
“I swear,” she murmurs, tearfully and embarrassed, “I’ve never in my life had so much trouble with doors till I met you.”
“Oh great. You walk in on me, you invade my privacy, but still, you blame the door on me.”
“Shut up.” She shakes her head and lowers the shorts from her nose. She moves slowly, testing, and glances down to see if blood continues to dribble.
My cock is right between us, and hard, because speaking to this woman is enough to get me started—even with her bed hair, and the blood all over her face.
I’m certain there’s something wrong with me.
“I think it’s stopped.”
I bring my gaze up and my mind away from my dick. “Huh?”
“My nose.” Her voice remains high pitched, but she’s right; she’s not bleeding. “I think we stopped it.”
“We should take a picture of you like this,” I joke. “We’re in the murder house, after all. It fits.”
“Shut the hell up.” Now that her nose is doing alright, Tabby leans to the right and snatches up the clothes I brought in for myself. “Put these on and get the hell out so I can clean up.”
“If you’d waited, like, two more minutes, I’d have been done and you could avoid the aching face.”
“Could’ve avoided seeing your penis too,” she grumbles. “That’s not going to help us.”
“Helped me.” I step into my jeans, sans underwear, and wrinkle my nose at the feel of denim on my ballsack. “I was in the shower wondering where my erection was. It’s part of my routine, see? But there was nothing for me to work with today.”
“You are a horrible human being!” She grasps my shirt and slams it to my chest, then she shoves me toward the door. “Get out!”
I turn back in time to see a new dribble of blood coming from her nose. “Stop shoving me.”
“Stop harassing me. Stop being inappropriate. Stop confusing me!”
With her final declaration, the air in the room changes, only to turn more glacial when I let my shirt drop and I rush forward to pin Tabby against the sink.
Her shoulder blades press to the mirror above, her hands wrap around the lip of the porcelain. Her eyes widen in surprise, and perhaps fear, but there’s definitely a little lust thrown in too.
“If you were sure of Mark,” I snarl, “deep in your soul sure, then you wouldn’t be confused. There isn’t a man on this planet who could make you question your feelings. That’s all on you.”
Like yesterday, I nip at her jaw and elicit a gasp of surprise. “You were already questioning what you feel, but now you wanna put that on me? It’s fine, babe. If it helps you bridge the gap and entertain the thoughts in your head, then I’ll be your scapegoat. But the cold hard fucking facts are that this is all you. Your indecision, your worry, your confusion. It’s all you, and you admitted as much on the phone the other night. I’m just the frog ready and willing to become your prince.”
I press my lips to hers. Closed mouth, completely dry, but I make a fucking point when she cries out and swaps cold porcelain for my shoulders. She grabs on, holds on… and whimpers when her mouth opens and mine doesn’t.
Pulling back with a gasp, I remain close enough to taste her breath, but I stop touching, stop demanding, and only grin when her wildly beating heart makes her chest lift and fall.
“You could consider the murder house a type of Switzerland. A timeout, even.” I back away. Slowly. Panting. My hands raised in surrender. “I won’t tell if you don’t. And by the time we leave, you’ll know.”
“Know what?” Her pulse races so fast that I see it in her throat. “What will I know?”
“Your feelings for him,” I scowl. “Your feelings for me. You’ll know which way to turn. Then it’s on you to make the next move.”
Picking up my shirt, I shrug into it with quick movements and only a little dried blood on my hands, then I turn toward the door and leave.
I step into the hall with sensations of Tabby on my brain. Her racing pulse. Her heady breath. Her lips opening for me, despite the words she says out loud. My cock is rock-hard, restrained behind my zipper.
But then I run into Samara again, her foot on the wall, her back pressed against the old wallpaper.
I sigh. “Hey, kid.”
“Mr. Rosa.” Again, she pushes away from her standing place and follows me along the hall. “Are you okay? You got a little blood on you.”
“Oh, yeah. That was an accident.” I step into my room, but since Tabby is gone and I’m dressed, I don’t slam the door in the girl’s face. “I’ll wash up in a sec, then we’ll come to breakfast.”
“I already ate,” she murmurs in that tone she has—the one straight from a fucking horror film. “My brother and I don’t get bacon and eggs, Mr. Rosa. We have to have oatmeal on weekdays.”
“Yeah?” I stop in the corner by my bags and snatch up my phone. There are dozens of calls, another dozen texts. Some from women I hardly know. Many more from my siblings who were probably in on the book Beck into a fucking murder house for a couple of days plan. “Oatmea
l is good for you.”
Distracted, I unlock my phone and scan my texts. I’m not opening those from women who aren’t related to me; not today. Possibly not ever.
“It’s good for me,” Samara agrees, “but it’s boring. I’d prefer bacon and eggs.”
“What do you get on weekends?” I open a group chat with my siblings and read their usual chatter.
Most of it has nothing to do with me—Abby is in the process of adopting, which means she and Spence are now meeting potential children who need a home. Mitch and Nadia are bickering; typical. Nix and Idalia are asking for advice about their son, though of course, none of the rest of us have kids. Idalia is the most experienced in the entire chat to give advice, but it’s Spencer who waxes on about discipline and love and how everyone’s favorite nephew will come out of his shell more as time goes on.
Quicker, if we teach him how to throw ninja stars, apparently.
Even Tabby is included in this chat, since she’s successfully wedged herself that deeply into my life—plus, I’ve never been great at returning texts in a decent amount of time, so once Tabby was hired and proved herself to be awesome, Nadia pulled her into that chat, and now gets most of her info on me via the woman I title my ‘assistant’.
The women of the family—Arlo, Nadia, Idalia, and Abby—ask how the auction is going, and how our accommodations are. Not once do they include innuendo or in any way make it sound like I’m here trying to make Tabby fall in love with me.
These people know me. They know her. And though they know damn well I’ve been in love with my assistant since the moment I brought her home for family dinner, they don’t screw anything up by texting about it and making their new friend uncomfortable.
Sighing, I shake my head and remain silent even as the chat continues, despite my lack of answers.
“On weekends, we get cereal,” I hear Samara reply. “Not even the healthy kind, but the sugary stuff.”
“Yeah?” I glance over my shoulder and smile when I find her with her foot once more on the wall, hands behind her back, hair a little too mussed to claim ownership of a comb. “Coco Pops?”
