Brothers in Blue: The Complete Trilogy: Brothers in Blue Boxed Set - Books 1-3

by Jeanne St. James

  He was nervous; he rubbed his damp palms against his jeans.

  He sucked in a breath when Amanda opened the door. She was wearing a pink tank top and skintight black yoga pants. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Without a stitch of makeup on, she reminded him of a high school cheerleader. A very perky one at that.

  He reached out his index finger to brush white powder off the tip of her nose.

  “Are you staying out of trouble?” He rubbed his fingers together and brought it up to his nose to sniff. “What is this?”

  Amanda rolled her eyes. “Puh-leez. It’s flour.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Right.” When Amanda turned away, he followed her inside. “So what do you want, Max?”

  “I don’t like the way we left it the other night.”

  Once in the living room, she walked over to the antique secretary’s desk and found sudden interest in it. She let out a long, deep sigh. “Neither do I.”

  “So what are we going to do about it?”

  “Look, you’re the one who had to come over here. What are you going to do about it?”

  He swung her around to face him, studying her. An instant later he released her and stepped back. “Apologize. Say that I’m sorry for being such an idiot. Tell you I wanted you to stay; I really did. But…”

  “But?”

  “But…you heard my mother at Christmas. All she does is nag the three of us to get married and produce children. I just don’t want to give her…false hope.”

  “So basically what you’re saying is that you’re not looking for anything permanent.” She straightened, standing a little taller. “Well, maybe neither am I. I don’t know how long I’ll be here in Manning Grove. As soon as I can convince Greg that he’d be happier in Miami, we’re leaving.”

  That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. She was just blowing smoke. Because there was no way he was going to let her leave. Ever. This was her home now. This was Greg’s home. She had to stay. He liked spending time with her—when they weren’t rubbing each other the wrong way. He liked when they were rubbing each other the right way.

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, I like you, Amanda. I really do. I thought it was obvious. But whatever is going to happen between us…whatever is happening between us, I want to do on my own timeline. Not my mother’s. Can you understand that?”

  “Oh yeah. I can understand not wanting someone else to make decisions for you.”

  “I deserve that. I get it.” He shifted closer to capture her hips, pulling her just a breath away. “But I do know one thing…” He brushed his lips along her temple, winding his fingers in her ponytail, and tugged gently until her head tilted back, exposing her neck. He nuzzled the little dip at the base of her neck, then moved to capture her lips. She tasted so good—

  “Sweetie, we need to finish making the cream-cheese icing for—” Mary Ann stopped. “Oh! Oh, Max! Hi, honey. I thought I heard voices out here.”

  “Mom!” He dropped his arms, quickly stepping away from Amanda. Heat crawled up his neck. He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why, I come over here all the time. Amanda didn’t tell you?”

  He closed his gaping mouth with a snap. He shot a look at Amanda before replying, “No.”

  “I’m teaching her to cook. We are having so much fun together. She’s going to make someone a great wife.”

  Max groaned. This was what he was trying to avoid: his mother seeing Amanda as daughter-in-law material. And even worse, his mother thought she was training her to be a good wife. This wasn’t good. This was extremely bad.

  “How did you get here? I didn’t see your vehicle out front.”

  “Your father dropped me off.”

  His father knew what his mother was doing and hadn’t warned him? Max was going to have a talk with him.

  Max approached his mother, taking her elbow firmly. “I’ll take you home.”

  His mother jerked her arm away. “No, Amanda and I have to finish this red velvet cake.”

  “You can finish it another time.”

  His mother looked at him with disbelief. “No, Max. Your father will pick me up. But I’ll go back into the kitchen and give you two a couple minutes alone.” She winked knowingly at him.

  Max gritted his teeth. His mother went back into the kitchen with the mistaken belief that they needed some privacy.

  Max whispered fiercely, “What are you doing?”

  “Baking.”

  “How long has this been going on? How much does she know?” His voice lifted and then cracked like a teenage boy’s.

  Fuck!

  “About us?” Amanda shrugged. “She’s not stupid, Max.”

  They stood staring at each other in a standoff: ice blue versus emerald green. The seconds ticked by in silence.

  “Sweetie, are you coming?” Mary Ann called from the next room.

  Keeping a steady, pointed gaze, a wicked smile crossed Amanda’s face. “Yes, Ma. I’ll be right there.”

  Max was the first to break eye contact as he grabbed his chest. “Ma?” What was that shooting pain in his chest? He was having a heart attack. “Why are you calling my mother Ma?”

  “She said I could. It’s her initials. Mary Ann…Ma, get it?”

  The hole in the earth was widening; he might as well just leap in now. His mother was hanging out with the woman he’d been sleeping with. The woman he’d been sleeping with was calling his mother “Ma.”

  “That’s screwed up. I’ve—I’ve got to sit down.” He sank onto the nearby couch, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “No, it isn’t. It’s great. She’s a great mother, and you should be proud of her.”

  “Oh, I am.” Proud that she’d found someone to groom to be his future wife. Proud that she has stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. Hey, that sounded familiar. How many times had Amanda accused him of doing the same? Like mother, like son? He grimaced.

  “She has been spending her spare time teaching me to cook and bake because I asked.” Amanda shook her head. “All I had to do was ask her. And you know what? She was thrilled that I asked.”

  “You could have asked me.”

  “To teach me to cook?”

  “No, damn it. You should have asked me first if I minded my mother—” Max stopped, watching Amanda’s face darken. Oh shit.

  He stood up quickly and caught her arms before he got belted in the mouth. With a sigh, he let her arms go. If she cracked him upside the head, he deserved it.

  He had come over to apologize for being a jerk, and here he was again…being a fucking jerk. It was becoming a pattern for him. One he needed to break.

  “Amanda, I came over here to apologize for the other night. I did it, and now I am apologizing for what I just said. And let me just get this out of the way now: I’m sorry for every asinine thing I do or say in the future. There, that should just about cover it.”

  “If you think a simple apology is going to be a Band-Aid for all our—your problems… Well, it’s not. Your apologies come too little, too late. If you think you can do or say what you want, that you can be bossy, try to control my life, and then just say, ‘I’m sorry’ when you want to get me into bed? And then everything is all right? It doesn’t work that way. It hasn’t. It won’t. It never will.”

  “You know, we need to talk about this more when my mother”—his eyebrows rose—“isn’t twenty feet away in the next room.” He jabbed his finger a few times toward the kitchen.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine what?”

  “We can talk about it later.”

  “Oh.” He wasn’t expecting her to be so agreeable. That was a switch. Wait a minute. There probably was a catch. Or it was a trap. With caution, he asked, “Okay, when?”

  “Tonight. After Greg goes to bed.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Come around nine.”

  Mary Ann peeked her head out of the kitchen. “Max, honey, why don’t
you come help us finish up this cake?”

  Panic shot through him. “Got to go, Mom!” he yelled. To Amanda he whispered, “See you at nine.” He took one last look at her “cheerleader” outfit. “Don’t change.”

  Then he bolted; he had to get out the door before he got roped into wearing an apron.

  After making sure Greg was tucked into bed, Amanda stayed a few minutes by his bedside, talking with him until, after a final yawn, he drifted off to sleep.

  Amanda had just descended the stairs when she heard a soft rap on the front door.

  This was one of the few times that she had known beforehand that she was going to see Max, and she had been anxious ever since he had left earlier. In fact, the rest of the velvet cake lesson had pretty much been a waste, as she couldn’t pay attention. Mary Ann had given up and had taken the un-iced cake home to finish it herself.

  Amanda’s pulse raced as she went to let Max in.

  When she opened the door, she stood there mesmerized for a moment. He was wearing a worn—so worn that they were almost white—pair of jeans that fit real nicely. And under his leather jacket, she noticed a snug black T-shirt that she was sure would expose that tattoo—the one that drew her eyes every time. As her inspection moved upward past his broad shoulders, she noticed he hadn’t shaved the five o’clock shadow he had been sporting earlier—and it was damn sexy. The only thing that stopped him from looking like a full-blown rebel was the severe law-enforcement haircut. Not enough hair there to run her fingers through or to grip onto when—

  “Done?” He raised one eyebrow and grinned. “Want me to strip right here on the stoop, or can I come in first?”

  Amanda answered him with a smile and stepped back, but not enough to give him room. He had to turn sideways and brush against her to enter the house.

  “Oh, you’re evil. I’m supposed to be here to talk, Amanda, remember?”

  She shut the door and locked it. “I remember. Let’s go into the sunroom. That way we won’t disturb Greg.”

  As they walked through the kitchen, she nodded her head toward the screened addition. “Go on in. I’ll get us a snack.”

  Within a minute she had thrown some of her cookies onto a plate and carried them into the sunroom.

  Max was sitting relaxed in the love seat, his legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles crossed. He had turned on only one of the table lamps, giving the room a soft radiance. Soft and romantic.

  Amanda shook her head to clear it.

  He looked at the plate hungrily. “Peanut butter?”

  “Yep.”

  “What happened to that red velvet cake you were making earlier?”

  “Your mom took it with her for the ladies at bingo.”

  She didn’t want to tell him that Mary Ann had taken it unfinished, complaining good-naturedly about certain young lovers.

  Before Amanda could even put the plate down on the side table, Max snatched one. He bit into it with enthusiasm. His chewing slowed, and he struggled to swallow. He cleared his throat.

  “These aren’t like the other ones.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, not to be rude, but…uh…they aren’t as good as the ones you brought to the station. New recipe?” He gave her a hopeful look.

  “No…” She caught her lower lip in her teeth, wondering if she should do it. “I have something to confess.”

  A cop. A confession. Max sat up, alert. “Shoot.”

  She had to come clean. “Those cookies…”

  “Yeah?”

  She turned away to hide her guilt. “Well, I didn’t make them.”

  “Oh. So? Big deal.”

  “And…” It wasn’t like she’d intentionally fed him tainted cookies. Right?

  “And?”

  All right, maybe she did, but he’d survived and he never had to know. “Mrs. Busy—Mrs. Myers made them.”

  “Well, they were good. Thanks for sharing them with us.”

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t admit to letting him eat cookies iced with dog spit. That secret was going to go with her to her grave. “Sure.” She turned back to face him. “I might not be the best baker yet, but I swear I can make us the best pitcher of Alabama Slammers.”

  He looked up at her in surprise. “You can? You know how to make Alabama Slammers?”

  “Of course. I was a bartender for three years. I was good at it too. It was fun. I worked at a top nightclub. I made some good money. Met some cool people and some celebs too. Plus, the free drinks didn’t hurt either.”

  “I could see you slinging drinks—especially wearing outfits like that. You probably pulled in some nice tips. Do you have the stuff to make Slammers?”

  “Sure. I put a lock on one of the kitchen cabinets. I’ll be right back.”

  As she turned to go, he stopped her. “Amanda, you can take the plate.”

  She picked up the cookies. “Now you know why I asked your mother for help.” And went back into the kitchen.

  Amanda unlocked the makeshift liquor cabinet and pulled out the Southern Comfort, sloe gin, and amaretto.

  She heard his deep voice behind her. “Want help?”

  Amanda turned to see Max leaning a shoulder on the doorjamb between the two rooms.

  “All right. Go in that cabinet over there and get us a couple of big glasses. Oh, before you do that, grab the bin of ice out of the freezer.”

  She pulled the blender away from the wall and plugged it in.

  Max stopped her. “You can’t use that!”

  Amanda laughed. “Oh yeah. Poor Greg, he would have jumped out of his skin.” Unplugging it, she pushed the appliance back against the wall. She reached into a nearby cabinet and found a shaker. “I’ll just shake them gently.”

  “Shaken, not stirred,” he said in a bad James Bond accent. Max slid the bin of ice next to the shaker. “What else?”

  “Um. I need the lemon juice. It’s in the fridge door.”

  When she was done mixing the concoction, she poured it into a big pitcher and carried it, while Max followed her with two large glasses, into the sunroom.

  He settled back into the love seat while Amanda, after filling their glasses, sat in the rocker across from him.

  Max took a drink. “Now that’s a lot better than those peanut butter cookies.”

  Amanda took a sip. She had to agree. “Mmm. That’s good.”

  They were silent for a few minutes as they savored the drinks and contemplated each other, the alcohol quickly relaxing the both of them. Before she knew it, Max’s glass was drained, and she reached to fill it again. “More?”

  “Sure. Keep them coming. So…” Max’s cool blue eyes pinned her into the rocker. “Did any of those celebs hit on you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And?” he prompted.

  “And they are like anyone else. They’re human.”

  “From what I’ve seen of them on television, I don’t know if I’d call some of them human.”

  “Call them what you like. I had my fair share of attention.”

  “So you went out with some?”

  “No. I had a boyfriend. Believe it or not, I’m very loyal. In fact, so loyal I consider it a fault.”

  Max frowned. “Why?”

  Amanda just shook her head. “Never mind. I thought we were going to discuss us.” She emptied her glass. The strong alcohol was starting to warm her belly and give her a nice little buzz.

  Max reached out to fill it again. “We were. We are,” he corrected.

  “Okay, so start.” She watched him down his second round of the Slammers. He was clearly struggling with his emotions. Did he need the booze to bolster him to talk about their relationship? If you could call it that.

  Max grimaced and shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Okay, so I’ll start. Look…” She crossed her legs and with one foot put the rocking chair in motion while she tried to organize her thoughts into words.

  Maybe th
e Alabama Slammers weren’t the best idea. Her thinking was a bit fuzzy. What the hell, here goes…

  “I don’t know if I can deal with your indecisions. I’m having a hard enough time dealing with my own. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. I don’t know where I’m going to end up. I don’t know what I want to do when it comes to staying here in Manning Grove or heading back to Miami.”

  “So what you’re saying is that you expect me to accept your indecision but you can’t accept mine?”

  “I don’t know. I’m so freaking confused. You frustrate me. My mother is so controlling. I don’t need that in a man.”

  “I can’t help it. That’s me. That’s why I’m a cop. I don’t know if I can ever change that.” He shrugged matter-of-factly. “Genetic makeup, if you will.”

  “Bull. That’s the easy way out. Genetic makeup…please.”

  “So don’t believe me. But believe this…I told you to keep that outfit on. And you did. I think you like it, and you just don’t want to admit it.”

  Was he right? Did she need someone who was controlling in her life at all times?

  “Give me a break. Maybe I kept this outfit on because I didn’t think you were worth changing for.”

  Max chuckled at her blatant lie. He filled his glass for the third time. He emptied the pitcher. “Look, let’s just have a compromise. Another truce? Let’s agree to take it slow and see where this goes.”

  “Another truce?”

  “How about we call it a compromise this time, since we failed at our so-called earlier truce. I promise to try not to be so controlling—”

  “Bossy, overbearing—”

  “Okay, okay. And you give Manning Grove—and me—a chance.”

  “Max, I can’t promise that I will stay in this town. But, how’s this: I won’t say that I am definitely leaving.”

  “Good enough. Now about my mother—”

  “No, that’s not in the ‘compromise.’ I get to spend as much time with your mother as I want.”

  Max leaned back with eyes hooded, his lips pressed together.

  “Max,” Amanda warned. “Do you want to fuck this up before it’s even started?”

  “No. But I want you to discourage her if she starts picking out invitations and cummerbund colors.”