Yours at Midnight

by Robin Bielman

  Lyric pushed back her chair and stood. “Tell Grandma guests don’t do the dishes. I can do them by myself.” She picked up her plate and reached for his.

  “I don’t mind.” He wasn’t about to let Lyric dictate his actions. Besides, she had no idea how much doing his part and being treated like everyone else meant to him. Caroline had always known what to say and do to lift his spirits.

  “Whatever.” Lyric blew a strand of hair out of her face.

  With their hands full of dishes, he followed her out of the living room. But not before he overheard Ella say, “Something is going on with those two.”

  God, he hoped so. Things weren’t finished between them. He’d follow through with his apology, but then he wanted more from her. More time, more debates…just more.

  “You really don’t have to help,” Lyric said over her shoulder.

  “I want to.” He’d been aching for some alone time with her the entire night—and if that meant in front of a sink doing dishes, so be it.

  The kids cleared out of the kitchen, one of them shouting about a game of Hide and Seek. Douglas and Caroline smiled and left. With help from Ella, Quinn brought in the rest of the dishes from the dining room.

  “Have fun, you two,” she said and waggled her fingers.

  Since Lyric had already filled one side of the sink with soapy bubbles and started washing, Quinn found a dishtowel and dried the larger items. In between, he put plates and utensils into the dishwasher after she’d rinsed them.

  They worked in silence, tension definitely radiating from Lyric, like water about to boil over a pot.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “No.”

  It had to be his abrupt departure four years ago. She’d held a grudge against him numerous times when they were younger. He didn’t want her keeping this one.

  He moved behind her, his arms on either side of her body, his hands braced on the edge of the counter. She shuddered, but didn’t try to move away. He lowered his head and whispered in her ear. “I’ve missed you. Not a day has passed that I haven’t thought about you. And for the record, I think your name is perfect.”

  She slowly turned around, still trapped between his arms. They stared at one another for a long beat. The paleness of her blue eyes never ceased to suck him in. He fell into their fervor, his mouth inched closer to hers.

  Her arms slid around his neck. The temperature in the kitchen rose twenty degrees. His blood heated. God, how he’d dreamed about kissing her mouth again. Tasting her.

  Making her his.

  She released a shaky breath. Anticipation, need, and desire welled up inside him. Four years ago, her kisses had set him on fire. Right now, in this kitchen, he wanted to go up in flames.

  “Quinn,” she whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “I want to stay angry with you.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re a jerk.”

  “Sometimes.”

  They were nose-to-nose. Her tongue slid across her bottom lip. His hips pressed against hers, trapping her more intimately. He couldn’t hold out much longer. Another second or two and he’d combust. Stop me now, Lyric, he thought. Or I won’t be able to.

  She sank into him.

  “Mama?”

  Lyric jerked away and twisted out of his arms. He turned and fell back against the counter.

  “Yes, baby?” She knelt and wrapped an arm around Max. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everyone is hiding and I can’t find them. Will you help me?” A big fat tear slid down the little boy’s cheek.

  “Of course I’ll help you.” She squeezed him tightly and then stood, taking his hand in hers. “Come on, let’s go look.”

  Just before she disappeared from view, she looked over her shoulder. A tiny, closed mouth, apologetic smile lifted the corners of her lips.

  Holy fuck. Lyric had a son.

  Chapter Four

  Lyric kissed the top of Max’s head. “Goodnight, love bug.”

  “’Night, Mama.”

  “I love you.”

  Max planted a big wet kiss on her mouth, snuggled into his pillow and closed his eyes. Despite the giggles and chatter of his cousins in the sleeping bags around him, he’d be fast asleep in five minutes.

  She tiptoed out of the room and slipped out the kitchen door, back to the guesthouse. Usually the sight of a full moon in the sky eased her worries, but not tonight. She paused, stared at the silver sphere, and swallowed the dread stuck in the back of her throat. No matter how hard she tried to clear her head, Quinn plagued her thoughts.

  She’d successfully avoided him the rest of the evening, after their almost-kiss. After his face had twisted in shock when she’d looked over her shoulder at him. If that wasn’t enough to convince her he wasn’t father material, she didn’t know what was.

  Not that he hadn’t been great with the kids all night. He’d played Yahtzee with them, given piggyback rides, and even done some freeze dancing—to none other than Madonna. It was one big party at the Whetstone residence…and Max’s dad fit in perfectly.

  She’d imagined Quinn with his son thousands of times, but nothing came close to the reality. She prayed she was the only one who noticed they shared the same coloring, same irresistible smile, same eyes. Every time she stole a peek at Quinn, guilt and shame ate at her. Her decision to keep Max from him, to keep Max’s parentage a secret from everyone, hadn’t been easy. Just simpler.

  He’d left a little while ago with an invitation to the New Year’s Eve party. Lyric had gotten lightheaded when she’d overheard her mother ask him. Nausea struck when he’d accepted. He was staying in town. And that made keeping her secret harder to bear.

  “Know what holds the moon up?”

  Quinn.

  Her stomach clenched. Was he going to show up every time she thought about him? She kept her attention on the sky. If she looked at him, she might give herself away. “I thought you went home.”

  “I thought I’d see you to your door.”

  She ignored her heart’s flip flops. “What holds it up?”

  “Moonbeams.”

  “Funny.”

  “Why aren’t you laughing?” He stood close enough that his scent—something spicy, but sweet, and oh so delicious—made her take the tiniest side step toward him.

  “I’ve heard it before.”

  “Did you hear about the great new restaurant on the moon?”

  God, he was cute. She wondered if she should tell him she knew all the moon jokes. Her dad had a joke book filled with them.

  Nah.

  “The food is excellent, but there’s no atmosphere,” he said.

  She chuckled. “Cute.”

  “Very.”

  Holy shit. He was talking about her. Complimenting her. Being nice to her. The words he’d whispered in her ear in the kitchen sat in the back of her mind. It was one of the nicest things he’d ever said to her. She lowered her chin and turned her head.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Same guy I’ve always been, only a little wiser.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  His eyes darkened. “That’s a loaded question.”

  She shivered. Parts of her body—the parts he’d been the last man to touch—ached with need. That was why she wanted to throw caution and celibacy aside, right? Her stupid body remembered how he’d touched her. Loved her.

  And changed her life forever. Thank God she still had a few brain cells left. “I need to go.”

  She scooted past him, speed walked to the guesthouse, opened the door, closed it—

  “Hang on,” he said, his black dress shoe jamming the door. “We need to talk.”

  “No. We don’t.” Sh
e tried pushing the door shut.

  “Lyric.” He said her name like it was the single most important word in the English language. He’d always said her name like that. And when he did, a tiny piece of her always softened.

  “Fine.”

  He eased his way in. She plopped down on her worn beige chenille couch, tugged off her black boots, and wiggled her toes.

  Quinn looked around the large open room. She wondered what he saw. A lot had changed since the last time he’d been here.

  She followed his gaze: the pictures of Max in the small entertainment center, the children’s books on the bookshelf, the toy cars and building blocks in clear bins in the corner. He stopped when he got to the mantel and the Christmas stocking with Max’s name on it, still hanging there.

  “He didn’t want me to take it down yet. Just in case Santa forgot something.”

  “You have a son,” he stated, like it was essential he get that fact out in the open. He stood there like a mannequin and fixed her with a look that tilted her world.

  If he asked her point blank, she’d tell him the truth. Half of her wanted to blurt it out and be done with it. Yes! You’re Max’s dad. But the other half feared the truth more than she’d ever feared anything else in her life.

  Because if he knew the truth after she’d kept it from him for so long, he might reject her. And not just her, but Max, too. She had a duty to protect her son, and if that meant keeping her secret, then that’s what she’d do.

  Her family wouldn’t understand either. They’d think she was selfish and cruel for keeping something like this from the boy who had been a part of their lives since he was seven years old.

  Quinn had given her the best gift ever, and she’d denied him the chance to feel the same way.

  He sat down beside her and twisted to put his arm on the back of the couch. He propped his head against his hand.

  “Yes, I have a son,” she finally said.

  “Is his father in the picture?”

  Her heart thudded in her chest. “He hasn’t been.”

  Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She’d pictured this moment. Pictured telling Quinn the truth and having him wrap her in his arms and tell her he loved her. What girl wouldn’t want the father of her child to love her?

  “I’m sorry.”

  And just like that her defenses went back up. She didn’t want his pity, and his tone dripped with it. She’d keep this secret for the next few days if it killed her.

  “Why?” She pulled a throw pillow into her lap to give her hands something to do. “I’m perfectly happy. I’ve got a great job and career, family and friends, and a son who thinks I’m the best mommy in the whole world. It doesn’t get much better than that.”

  The thoughtful way he contemplated her, with his drown-in-me-dreamy brown eyes and relaxed posture, really confused the hell out of her. She looked away.

  “I didn’t mean to sound like I feel bad for you.”

  “Yeah, right. Just like you never meant to sound mean or hurtful, either.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “You just can’t let go of the past, can you?”

  “If I did that, I might start to like you.”

  “And that’s a bad thing? Throw me a bone here.” He scooted down the couch, closer to her. “During the dishes you definitely liked me. Where’d that Lyric go?”

  She put her arm out to halt him. “Come any closer and I’m going to ask you to leave.”

  He pressed into her hand, bending her elbow with ease. “Okay. Ask.”

  “Would you please leave?”

  “No.”

  If he got any closer, she’d be wishing she’d eaten that peppermint stick with her coffee. “Quinn! You are so not scoring any points here.”

  “We’re keeping score now?” He retreated slightly. “Where am I?”

  “Negative a thousand.”

  “Huh. What happens if I get to one?” He narrowed those annoying eyes of his.

  “You won’t be around long enough.” Those words, said out loud, said without a second thought, stung. Deeply. She had to remember his life was elsewhere.

  “I’m here for the next few days at least. I have a New Year’s Eve party to go to.” He leaned over. “Give me a chance, Lyric. Let me make up for my past mistakes.”

  “Why?”

  “You ask that a lot, you know?” His arm stretched across the back of the couch, his hand close enough to touch her shoulder. He looked calm and cool and good enough to give a hundred thousand chances.

  “Because with you, I don’t know.”

  “Then I’ll tell it to you straight.” His finger drew delicate circles on her shoulder, sending tingles everywhere. “I’ve cut myself off from people for the past four years. Before that, too, I know. But more so after Oliver died. I came home to fix that, to right some wrongs. Blame is exhausting and debilitating and slowly killing me.”

  This Quinn—this vulnerable, honest, intense Quinn—reached a place inside her only he could. She’d had glimpses of this in the past, but always brushed it aside to concentrate on Oliver instead of his broody brother.

  She pressed her hands into the pillow. She wanted to offer him comfort, but if she touched him, she’d never stop, and she needed to hear what he had to say. “What do you blame yourself for?”

  …

  Quinn let out a deep breath. “Where do…” He raked his hand through his hair and cleared his throat. “Where do I start?”

  “How about with four years ago?” she asked.

  Quinn figured that was as good a place as any. And the sooner he got it out, the better. He didn’t do apologies well. Didn’t talk about his feelings. When he had shit bothering him, he worked out at the gym, ran eight miles.

  But his whole purpose for coming back to Oak Hills was to apologize—and when he set his mind to something, he damn well did it to the best of his ability.

  She reached over and took his hand from her shoulder to cup between hers. Her hands were soft. Delicate. Comforting. A knot lodged in his throat. He’d wanted her support for as long as he could remember.

  “We’d both been drinking that night,” he said, thinking back to that New Year’s Eve night. “Not a lot, but enough. I told Oliver I’d drive. In the back of my mind I thought if we got pulled over, it would be better if I was the one who got in trouble. His perfect record would stay perfect.”

  Lyric rubbed her thumb across his fingers.

  “He said no. That he was perfectly capable of driving the five miles home. He told me I didn’t have to get in the car with him. That I could hitch a ride with someone else. I got in the passenger seat and told him he was a dick. Those were the last words I said to him.”

  Lyric looked up. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

  “I can. I was the designated driver that night. I was the one who agreed to stay sober so that I could drive home. Then at the party, Oliver told me if I took the job in New York, I was abandoning the family, and it pissed me off. So I had a few beers. I should have been the one in the driver’s seat that night. It was supposed to be me.”

  He flinched. When he let himself remember, he could still feel the force of impact vibrating through his body. The SUV had run a red light and slammed into Oliver’s side of the car—but it had shaken the foundations of Quinn’s world.

  “Oh, Quinn, it was an accident. A horrible, awful accident that wasn’t your fault.”

  “There are nights I lie awake in a panic, sweat all over my back, thinking that if we’d stayed at the party five minutes longer, Oliver would still be alive. He’d be married. Maybe have a kid.”

  His eyes wandered to the pictures of Max. Quinn hadn’t had any experience with kids until his crash course this evening, and something had pulled at his heart when they’d wanted his attention…and he’d wanted to give it to them
.

  “What?” Lyric’s eyes widened.

  He met her surprised gaze. “Oliver was going to propose to Julia. He had the ring, and he’d planned some elaborate proposal for her birthday.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she whispered.

  Hurt clouded her eyes. She blinked a few extra times. Quinn looked away. He really was a son of a bitch. He didn’t have to tell her that. But that little part of him? The part that still felt second best to his brother and wanted to get his digs in to hurt Lyric because she’d preferred his brother over him? He came roaring back to the surface.

  “He didn’t tell anyone but me.”

  “Did you tell Julia?”

  “I told her at the funeral. I thought she should know my brother wanted to marry her.”

  Recognition dawned on her beautiful face. She nodded. Quinn remembered seeing her watching him and Julia. And when Julia had laid her head on his shoulder and cried, something damn near close to affection had flitted across Lyric’s face. It was that look he’d held on to the rest of the day, and the reason he’d sought her out that night.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She looked away. “It’s okay. I knew Oliver was in love with her.”

  “No.” He slid his hand from hers and turned her chin toward him until her gaze locked onto his. “I’m sorry I left after what happened between us. It was a shitty thing to do, but I was so full of shame over Oliver’s death, and you had your life planned—and I had a job offer, and suddenly I couldn’t face anyone. Not you. Not my parents.”

  She stared at him, pain creasing the smooth skin around her eyes. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “For not telling you I…” She paused and cleared her throat. “For not telling you sorry about the accident.” She quickly stood and put distance between them. “Apology accepted, by the way. Now I’m about to fall asleep on my feet, so if you could—”

  “I think there’s something you’re not telling me.” He rose to his feet. Her agreement should please him, but something else lurked in those conflicted eyes of hers.

  He was not totally forgiven, and he needed to remedy that.