Uncovered Desires_A Single Mom Alpha Male Protector Romance

by Kelli Walker

  “No she doesn’t, you asshole. Both of those boys’ father’s are in jail and she’s doing fine on her own. But she does keep to herself. I don’t trust people who keep to themselves.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Afraid she’s judging you like you’re judging her?”

  “We aren’t sayin’ anything that hasn’t already been said about her. Isabelle likes the bad boys. Like, the real bad boys. Ya know, men that don’t give a shit about taking care of a woman.”

  “So the boys father’s are in jail,” I said. “Why?”

  They all looked around at one another, like they all-of-a-sudden were getting cold feet trashing this beautiful woman that lived across the road from me.

  “Well, DeShawn’s dad-”

  I watched one of my co-workers nudge the man that dared answer my question. What the hell was so bad about the guy?

  “Fine. Is DeShawn Isabelle’s biological son?” I asked. “Because he doesn’t really look like her.”

  “I guess he is.”

  “I mean, if ya seen his dad, he’s the spittin’ image of him anyway.”

  “Wouldn't shock me if she was. Girl doesn’t have standards with me anyway.”

  “Look, Tristan. We like you, okay? Isabelle’s talented with wood, but she’s bad news.”

  “She’s more than talented with wood,” one of them said with a chuckle.

  I wanted to pull my fist back and punch his fucking teeth down his throat. I couldn't stand to ask them any further questions. It was obvious they were operating off nothing but rumors anyway. What disgusting people, trash-talking a woman like that. Even if Dom and DeShawn did have separate fathers, who was to judge a woman for that? She stepped up and did what had to be done to take care of her family. Like any man was expected to do himself. She played the role of both father and mother to those boys, and it sounded like she’d been doing it their entire fucking lives.

  Who the hell were they do spit on her?

  None of what they were saying matched the Isabelle I had grown to know. But their ramblings did give me a little more information to work with. If both of the fathers were in jail, then it probably wasn’t the boys that were in trouble with the lawyer. This Culpepper guy had probably been hired for one of the cases regarding one of her son’s fathers. Had one of them gotten out of jail? Possibly come up for parole?

  Without asking Jackson to do things I wasn’t comfortable with him doing, there was no way to know. The only way I’d figure it out was if I talked with Isabelle about it myself. And since that phone call had interrupted our conversation, that meant I’d have to find an excuse to get back over to her house.

  I sucked up the rest of my day while my co-workers mumbled behind my back. I caught a few of their statements, and what I heard really turned me off to the idea of sticking around. But I was too emotionally invested in this woman and her story to pack my stuff up and leave. Something told me she needed help, but she struck me as the kind of woman that didn’t know how to ask for it. I’d met people like that before. People who had been so mistreated by others in their lives that they didn’t know how to approach someone and ask for help. They didn’t know how to reach out until someone’s life was on the line.

  And that was what worried me the most.

  I was worried that someone’s safety was being threatened and that Isabelle felt pinned.

  I breathed a sigh of relief the second I drove away from that toxic playground of infested gossip. I felt like shit for even bringing it up in the first damn place. Who knew how long they would talk about Isabelle and my questions after I’d left. It didn’t make me feel as guilty as if I’d asked Jackson to break a few laws for me, but it still felt as intrusive. I was poking around in a woman’s life out of sheer curiosity and some gut-wrenching feeling I couldn’t put my finger on.

  But that was how I operated in the CIA. Curiosity and my conscience.

  I got home and showered up, scrubbing the dust, dirt, and grease off my body. I scraped underneath my fingernails, watching as the sides of them stayed black. That was the downside to working with machinery. My hands always looked like a fucking wreck. Small cuts and dings. Stained nails from the grease. Calluses that built up over time that made my hand look like a miniaturized version of the Grand Canyon.

  I grabbed a towel and hopped out of the shower, then padded into the kitchen. I was starving from my long day at work. My eyes panned up and looked out the window, and I found myself staring across the road. Isabelle’s car was in the driveway, but so was someone else’s. A car I didn’t recognize.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  The windows of her home that were usually open and bright were curtained off. The lights looked like they had at least been turned down, and my heart slammed in my chest. She was intentionally walling herself off. It was a common tactic with people who panicked about someone watching them. And it only served to prove my gut was right. Isabelle was worried about something. Rather, she was worried about someone. And her automatic reaction-- like so many other civilians-- was to cut themselves off as much as they could from the outside world.

  It was a dangerous tactic, but one I’d seen with victims and their families so many times.

  My eyes fell to the package of chocolate chip cookies I’d purchased from the grocery store, and an idea slapped me across the face. I pulled out a plate and began to stack them all together, arranging them nicely before I strode back to my room. I dropped my towel and pulled on some clothes, then towel-dried my hair as best as I could. I dipped into the bathroom to give myself a once-over. Make sure I didn’t look like a greasy swamp thing.

  Then I grabbed the plate of cookies and started across the road.

  I could repay her drink in kind with a sweet treat of my own, and in the process I might be able to get a look inside her home. Maybe identify whose car that is in her driveway.

  And maybe-- just maybe-- she’d let me in so we could talk.

  Isabelle

  “Where should I put these?” Tristan asked.

  “Right here,” DeShawn said.

  My son reached clear over Tristan and plucked the plate from his hands. Dom let out a wild cackle before the stampeding of teenage boys could be heard flooding the hallway of my home. How was it that this man could talk into my home and bring such a light into it? How was it possible that my boys instantly felt relaxed and comfortable with him around?

  How was it possible that I felt the same way?

  “Thanks for the cookies,” I said with a giggle.

  “I’m glad someone will enjoy them,” Tristan said. “I figured I could repay you for the drink you offered me earlier today.”

  “Oh that wasn’t a big deal. You don’t have to thank me for that.”

  “Then it’s a ‘thanks’ for the food you brought over to welcome me into the community. You were the only one who did something like that, you know.”

  “Really? Huh. But that’s not a big deal, either. When I cook for the boys I always make too much despite the mountain of food they can put away in one sitting.”

  “I remember my teenage years. I don’t know how you foot the bill for your groceries,” I said.

  “Coupons,” she said with a giggle. “I use a lot of coupons.”

  “These cookies are bangin’!” DeShawn exclaimed.

  “Can we have some milk!?” Dom yelled.

  “Come get it yourself and you can!” Tristan said.

  My eyebrows hiked up to my forehead as he shot me a wink, but the real shock came when I heard the boys’ footsteps walking down the hallway. They came in and got their glasses and quietly poured themselves massive glasses of milk, draining the rest of the gallon in the fridge. DeShawn set his glass down and held the empty plastic like a basketball, and I almost went to go chastise him.

  Until I heard the clapping of hands behind my back.

  “Pass it here, I got it,” Tristan said.

  I watched the jug fly high into the air before Dom rea
ched up and smacked it down.

  “Blocked!” he shouted.

  “Hey, that was pretty good,” Tristan said. “Do you play basketball?”

  “I keep telling him to try out, but he won’t,” DeShawn said. “He’s got skills for a short white kid.”

  “With glasses,” Dom said as he pushed them up onto his face.

  “Let me tell you something,” Tristan said. “Don’t let someone stereotype you into a roll because of the color of your skin or what you wear to help you see. You can do anything you want to do so long as you have a passion for it and you’re willing to work hard at it. No one breaks boundaries and busts through walls in this world by being the same.”

  Dom tossed the empty jug to Tristan as my eyes danced along his face. I had no idea what the hell had just occurred in my kitchen, but it felt a lot like a family dynamic. One I hadn’t experienced since I was a pre-pubescent teenager. I watched Tristan give both of my sons high-fives before they grabbed their glasses of milk, then they walked back down the hallway and left us alone again.

  “You’re a good mother, raising good boys like that,” he said.

  But I was speechless. Flooded with emotions I didn’t know how to process.

  “Isabelle?”

  “Sorry,” I said as I shook my head. “Are you thirsty? I was going to grab myself a beer.”

  “Woodworking, strong, and a beer drinker? Where do I sign up?” he asked with a smile.

  Heat rose up my back as I reached for the refrigerator door. I was relieved when the cool air washed over my body. I needed it to calm the flush rising up my neck. I grabbed to bottles of beer and leaned them up against the kitchen counter, then popped the caps off effortlessly. I turned around and handed the cold bottle to Tristan, and his eyes had a look in them I couldn't explain. The only thing I could remotely relate it to was the look Bella used to give this guy she dated in high school just before they’d kiss.

  I wasn’t sure why Tristan was looking at me that way. I wasn’t even sure why I liked it.

  But that didn’t stop me from enjoying every second of it.

  “Here, take a seat,” I said.

  “Deja vu.”

  “I know. Weren’t you just here earlier?” I asked with a grin.

  “I can’t help it. Your presence is so warming. Did everything work out this morning?”

  “Ah, so you came over to snoop.”

  “Nope. I came over to bring cookies and play basketball with an empty milk jug. But, if I’m sitting at your kitchen table, I might as well ask,” Tristan said.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said as I sat down at the table.

  But my eyes kept glancing out the window of my front door. Checking to see if anyone was there. Or approaching. Or was somewhere they shouldn't have been.

  “Isabelle.”

  “Tristan.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Why do you want to know so badly?”

  “You want the truth?”

  “I always want the truth,” I said.

  “I relied on my gut a lot during my time in the CIA. And my gut tells me you’re being scared.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “I didn’t say you were scared. I said you’re being scared. There’s a difference.”

  My eyes flickered over to him as I brought my beer to my lips.

  “As you can probably tell, DeShawn isn’t my biological son.”

  “Honestly? I figured he took after his father in that regard,” he said.

  “He does look a lot like his father. But I’m not his biological mother,” I said. “But, his biological father is out of prison early on good behavior.”

  “Why does that worry you?”

  “Because he’s not a good man.”

  “To play Devil’s Advocate, a parole board thought differently. The prison system is supposed to reform.”

  “And during your time in the CIA, did you see reform?” I asked.

  “I did. On a lot of men and women.”

  “Did you see any of them that acted as if they were reformed before turning back to their old ways?”

  “Are you concerned his father will do that?”

  “I am.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  I sighed and drank down the rest of my beer, giving myself time to collect my thoughts.

  “DeShawn and Dom were the best of friends in elementary school. And he was always over at my house. Getting off the bus with my son and eating dinner here. They’d play in the backyard and get filthy dirty. Some nights he’d even stay here.”

  “Sounds like they were good friends,” Tristan said.

  “But there were signs. Things that told me that DeShawn’s living situation wasn’t ideal.”

  “Like?”

  “Holes in his shoes that went unacknowledged. Cuts and bruises that weren’t normal for little boys like him. An aggression that lashed out at times when he was over here. And sometimes? He begged me to stay over. Begged me to call his father and let him know I was keeping him for the night.”

  “DeShawn’s father was abusing him.”

  “More than that. He wasn’t just beating him. He was neglecting him. Dom would come home from school ready to tear into the fridge because he split his lunches with DeShawn because his father never packed him any. Never sent him with any money. I bought that boy clothes. Fed him through the weekends if he came to stay. There were times when Darnell-- his father?-- would call me up and ask me if I had DeShawn. And that was after he stayed at my house for three or four days.”

  “How did you come to adopt him?” he asked.

  “I got a phone call from the hospital one day,” I said as I gripped my empty beer bottle. “The doctor, um…”

  I closed my eyes as tears brewed behind them. I could remember that day like it was yesterday. The bruises. The broken bones. The stitches and the tears. DeShawn looked so frail in that hospital bed. So tired and war-torn at only seven years old.

  I felt a warmth encompass my wrist and my eyes whipped open. A tear streaked my cheek and Tristan reached up to brush it away. My eyes locked with his as he scooted his chair closer to me. So close our knees were knocking together.

  “What you did for DeShawn takes a strength not many people possess,” he said. “And it shows me the type of woman you really are. You’re worried now that he’s out, he’ll come after his son. Aren’t you?”

  “I have no idea what Darnell knows,” I said breathlessly. “No clue how he feels about it if he does. I spent all of my time and energy repairing that boy and helping him recuperate, so I hired a Criminal Defense lawyer to deal with Darnell and his sentencing. That’s who called me this morning.”

  “You know you can keep in contact with his parole officer. To keep tabs on him.”

  “Oh, I plan on it,” I said. “But it doesn’t stop me from worrying. He’ll have certain freedoms. We live in the same county, so it’s not like we’re out of reach. I don’t even know if he knows I adopted DeShawn. Or if he knows we changed DeShawn’s last name. Or any of it.”

  Tears flooded my cheeks as Tristan wiped them away from my face.

  “Let me help,” he said. “I still have a contact in the CIA. He could probably get someone to keep tabs on this guy if you’re really worried about him.”

  “All the way in Texas?” I asked.

  “It’s worth a shot. I could see what he could pull up. He’s an old partner of mine. Still a good friend.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I said as I brushed his hand away, “but I don’t want you to go through all that trouble.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble. Just a quick phone call.”

  Talking to him had been so easy. And opening up didn’t have the consequences I thought it would. He was kind. At least, he was acting kind. My hands fell to my lap and I picked at the beds of my nails. But soon, I saw Tristan’s hands envelope mine. The heat that trickled up my arms stood every single hair on its end, and I blushed at t
he contact as my eyes fluttered closed.

  “You have such a big heart, Isabelle. Let me help you. Use the resources around you.”

  His thumbs began stroking my skin, and I found that I enjoyed the way it felt. It was kind. Soft. Unlike the touches I was familiar with when it came to male contact. I opened my eyes as another tear escaped down my cheek, but this time Tristan didn’t reach out for it. Instead, he stood and helped me to my feet, our bodies mere inches away from the other.

  “Thank you for your kind words,” I said.

  “Give me permission to help you,” he said.

  “Why? Why do you want to help me?”

  “Because-”

  His hand lifted up to my cheek and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Shivers melted down my spine and weakened the caps in my knees. He cupped my cheek and that smooth thumb of his continued to grace my skin. A stark contrast to the calluses that littered the palms of his hands. His eyes danced along my face. Taking in my features as I craned my neck back to keep him in view. Years spent raising my sons. Years spent neglecting myself and pushing my own fears and wants and moments of healing to the backburner. Years of self-neglect out of anguish and painful memories that plagued me at night.

  I had refused to entertain the idea of a man at the expense of raising my boys into independent men despite who their fathers were. I had refused the comfort of a man’s touch at the expense of the loneliness that pierced through my fear at two in the morning. I was scared for my child. Worried for his safety. But as I looked up into Tristan’s dark brown eyes, I saw something there no other man had ever shown me before.

  Compassion. Dotted with just a smidge of empathy.

  “Because why?” I asked.

  “Because I want to, but I won’t force it on you. I can’t. It’s not in my nature.”

  With those words, I buckled into him. Words I’d wanted to hear from a man for years had finally dripped along my ears. His strong arms held me closely as he arched down, capturing my lips within his. I fisted his shirt. Steadied myself onto my feet until I pressed myself onto my tiptoes. My lips swelled against his as his tongue begged for entrance, sliding along my skin and filling me with a searing heat my body had yet to experience with a man.