Hold On Tight (Man of the Month Book 2)

by J. Kenner

  The revelation startled him. "You—what? Why?"

  She lifted one shoulder. "It was a few weeks later. I-I always liked Richie."

  "He liked you, too. Told me I should fight for you."

  "Did he?" She rested her chin on her knees. "Why didn't you?"

  "Would it have done any good?"

  He saw the flicker of something that looked like pain on her face. "No," she whispered.

  "I didn't think so. And honestly, back then I wasn't sure I wanted to."

  "No." She licked her lips. "Of course, you wouldn't have."

  "Right." He wiped his hands on his jeans, feeling ten kinds of awkward. She was right there, just inches from him. The woman he craved with all his heart and soul—and he was making fucking small talk. "So, you saw Richie," he prompted because right then, that was the best he could think of.

  "Yeah. I would have gone sooner but, I was afraid I might see you there, and—"

  "Yeah. Couldn't have that."

  "No," she whispered. "I was afraid I couldn't bear it."

  He wanted to cry out that she'd been able to stand being with him for the two years they'd dated. Sleeping in his bed. Squeezing every bit of satisfaction from him as she screamed his name over and over in pleasure. That she could handle, but seeing him would have killed her. Because she'd had her epiphany. She'd realized what a fool she'd been, and she'd run away from him far and fast.

  But all he said was, "Why did you go see him?"

  Another little shrug. "I had my reasons. Mostly, I wanted to see that he was okay." She licked her lips. "And I thought he would know if you were okay. I couldn't imagine that you wouldn't have been by to see him yet."

  "I had. I told him everything. Pretty goddamn selfish of me considering all he'd just been through, but then again, there's only so much you can say after thank God you're still alive. Well, thank God and the governor, anyway."

  "Right," she said, her face tilted down as she twisted her fingers together. He frowned as a chill raced up his spine. Something was off. He just couldn't figure out what. "Brooke?"

  When she lifted her face, he saw tears in her eyes.

  "Brooke?" he repeated. "What is it?"

  "It's just so tragic, what happened to him. And I was so relieved when his sentence got commuted." She flashed a smile, a smile that looked forced. "I'm just emotional, is all."

  He didn't believe her, but he wasn't going to press. God knew, he'd pressed her enough that night.

  He shifted on the seat, maneuvering into a more comfortable position. The seat was designed for two, but it was still crowded, especially if the two were adults trying very hard not to touch each other. When he was resettled, he realized that his leg was bumping up against hers.

  And, having noticed it, that one tiny point of connection was all that he could think about.

  "How's your dad?" she asked, apparently unaffected by their contact.

  "He's doing okay. Mentally, he's still gone most days, but there are some good ones when he remembers me. Some bad ones when he only thinks about Richie." He'd had a stroke after Richie's first appeal had been denied, and had been in a nursing home ever since. "He's been in that home for years now," Spencer said with a shake of his head. "It's the longest he stayed in one place his whole life."

  His father had never had a place of his own. He'd dragged Richie and Spencer from rental to rental, sometimes living out of a toolshed while he did renovation work on someone's house. Always building or fixing a home for someone else, never for himself or his family. Not enough money. Not enough time.

  The irony was that now Spencer was nomadic, bunking with friends from the old neighborhood while he waited for title to the mansion, not wanting to spend a dime of his remaining cash on something as ridiculous as rent.

  "I'm sorry," she said, but he just shrugged.

  "We live a hard life, we Dean men. My dad worked his ass off, even if he never got the golden ticket."

  "He did a good job with you."

  Spencer ran his fingers through his hair. He'd forgotten how easy she was to talk to. How much he enjoyed just having her beside him. "He tried, that's for sure. And how did I repay him? I dropped out of the school he and Richie worked so hard to get me in."

  "Cut yourself some slack. We both know there were extenuating circumstances. Your brother had just been sent up. Then later, your dad got ill. But you got your shit together, Spence." She shifted, the denim of her jeans scraping against his. "You made something of yourself."

  "Did I?" He met her eyes, hyperaware of her proximity. Of the contact between them. "All I can do is work with my hands. All that corporate bullshit? The financial planning? It's a fucking nightmare to me, and that makes me weak."

  "Nobody likes that stuff."

  "Do you know why I'm doing this show?"

  "Because you owe them one show under your contract."

  "True, but that's not the reason. I've been paying for his care. So he's got a decent room, you know? And then boom, the money's gone. Because I fucked up and didn't pay enough attention to my own damn finances. I need this show to keep him in decent digs. Otherwise, he gets shipped off to another facility across town, and I'm pretty sure they won't put fresh flowers in his room every day."

  "I had no idea." She leaned forward and took his hands, and the shock of connection went through him like a bolt of lightning. "You're a good son. A good man."

  "Yeah, I sure as hell proved that today, didn't I?"

  "You were an ass, today," she said baldly. "But it's almost midnight. So you can start fresh."

  He met her eyes, blue ice flashing in the moment. "Can I?" he asked, his voice cracking with the words.

  He felt need tighten in his chest. His head was spinning, and some annoying voice in his head was saying that it was too fast. But five years didn't seem fast. Five years seemed like a hell he was ready to climb out of.

  "Can we start fresh?" he asked, the question almost a whisper.

  "I—Spencer." She swallowed, but she didn't say yes. Then again, she didn't say no, either.

  "I'm going to kiss you, now," he murmured, desperate to taste her. "Not because I want to punish you. But because I want you. And if that's a problem," he added, as he leaned toward her, "you better stop me now."

  Chapter Twelve

  I'm going to kiss you now.

  The words rumbled through Brooke, filling and teasing her, warm and wild and delicious.

  She leaned forward, knowing that she shouldn't want this. There'd been so much pain between them. So many lost opportunities. And way too many secrets.

  She'd missed him so much—so damn much. The Spencer who'd been her lover and her friend. For years, she'd lived with the knowledge that she'd lost him forever. And then when he'd made his horrible demand, she'd been certain of it.

  But here they were, and she realized for the first time that he'd been as lost tonight as she'd been. Both of them clawing their way through years of loss and longing.

  Maybe he was still unreachable. Maybe they'd never truly be able to make it right.

  But for the first time, she had the chance to capture a bit of the past. And that wasn't a chance she was going to walk away from. Not when she craved him so much. When she could barely catch her breath, and when her pulse skittered beneath her skin, alive with desire.

  Gently, he cupped her chin, those brown eyes searching her face. She knew what he saw. Fear, longing, and just a little bit of daring.

  Slowly, she curved her mouth into a smile. "I'm not saying no," she whispered.

  "Thank God," he said, then kissed her. Not the wild, demanding kiss she'd been expecting. No, this was gentle. Almost sweet. His lips brushing over hers. His tongue tasting.

  His hand closed at the nape of her neck, pulling her closer, his thumb stroking as his mouth moved tenderly over hers, his beard tickling her mouth and her cheeks.

  He was taking his time, and she let herself settle in, tasting him and remembering all the times he'd touched
her. Kissed her. His hands exploring. His mouth demanding.

  The heat of those memories rushed through her, and she wanted more. She craved the realization of those memories now, in the present. She wanted him to claim her mouth. To take what she was giving. To kiss her so thoroughly it erased all the bad memories and all the loss.

  "Spencer," she murmured against his mouth, and that was all it took. He knew what she wanted, just as he’d always known.

  His fingers knotted in her hair, and he tugged her head back, his lips moving from her mouth to her throat as she shivered with pleasure, her entire body warming up, like an ember about to burst into flame.

  His lips traveled up her sensitive skin to her ear, where he teased the curve with his tongue, then whispered her name, his voice infused with so much heat that she felt her sex tighten and pulse with desire.

  He traced kisses over her temple, brushed gentle lips over her eyes, and then attacked her mouth once again, in a take-no-prisoners kind of kiss. Tongue and teeth and desire and possession, it was all there in a kiss as intimate as sex. A kiss that claimed and took and owned.

  And, still, she wanted more. “Yes,” she said. “God, yes.”

  He pulled away, gasping.

  "Spencer." His name was a plea; her tone a whimper. "Please."

  He shook his head. "I left you in The Driskill after I caught the look on your face when you saw the bed."

  She swallowed, then glanced down, afraid that he would ask what had put that fear on her face.

  "Brooke?" His thumb traced her jawline. "Angel, please look at me."

  Slowly, once she knew she'd pulled herself together, she lifted her eyes to him. "I don't have that look now."

  "No, you don't, and I'm so glad. But I want you to be certain. Ready. Are you?"

  She considered the question. She wanted to be—good God, her body wanted it so damn badly. But sleeping with him now would be sleeping with a memory. If—and it was a big if—they were going to move forward, it wouldn't be with a ghost.

  She drew in a breath, then shook her head a tiny bit. "I should get home," she said. "If I don't go now, I'll end up wearing these clothes to tomorrow's meeting. And I don't think that would scream professionalism."

  "You look great." His quick grin flashed with amusement. "But I see your point."

  She slid off the window seat, then smoothed her clothes. Then she reached for Spencer's hand and squeezed it, just a little. "Thank you," she said, and then hurried for the door before she changed her mind.

  Brent Sinclair opened the door to his cute little bungalow sporting a dishtowel over one shoulder and a teddy bear clutched in the crook of his arm.

  "Will he be leading our meeting?" Brooke asked, smiling. She didn't know Brent well yet, but Jenna had introduced her to all of the players at The Fix, so Brooke knew that he was one of the owners and was in charge of the bar's security. And if she hadn't already known he was a single dad, the sight of a teddy and Brent’s harried expression would have suggested as much.

  "Come on in," he said, pulling the door the rest of the way open to usher her in. "Sorry for the craziness, and thanks for agreeing to meet here. I know it's not ideal."

  "It's no problem."

  "My daughter spiked a fever last night. She's doing okay today, but there's a twenty-four hour no-fever policy at her kindergarten, and my babysitter's not available."

  "Really, it's fine. To be honest, I love driving in this neighborhood. Crestview has some great restored houses." She glanced around at the small, but well-designed house. "Someone did a great job with the built-in cabinets and bookshelves."

  "Someone not me," Brent said. "I bought it fixed up. Diapers, play dates, surveillance, and bad guys I've got the hang of."

  "Bad guys?"

  "Ex-cop," he said. "Law and order I can do. But I'm mostly clueless at Home Depot. That's more Reece's territory."

  He cocked his head toward the back. "We're in the dining room. Head on back through the kitchen and help yourself to some coffee. I've got to give Faith her little friend and then I'll be right there."

  Brooke gave him a thumbs-up and hurried that direction, wondering if she'd beat Spencer. But the second she stepped into the kitchen, she knew that he'd arrived first. Not that she saw him. No, she just felt him. His presence. His energy.

  And when she moved through the kitchen area, then turned into the small attached dining room, there he was, standing in the corner laughing with Reece and Jenna.

  He held a cup of coffee and took a sip from it. As he did, his gaze cut to Brooke over the rim of the mug, and though she couldn't see his mouth, she saw the smile in his eyes, and crossed to him, drawn inexorably to him as if he were a magnet and she was solid steel.

  "Hey," she said.

  "Hey, yourself." Pretty basic as conversations went, and yet there was a familiar heat in those words that shot all the way to her toes. His free hand moved to rest on her lower back, and she took a step closer to him. It felt comfortable, like coming home.

  Slow, she reminded herself. You're supposed to be taking it slow.

  Wise words, but she didn't heed them. Didn't step away into her own space. Instead she stayed, secure in that gentle touch, and joined in the conversation, which was meandering between kids and cars and the best places in town to grab breakfast.

  "Sorry about that," Brent said, coming into the dining room with Molly and Tyree right behind him. "We're all here now, and Faith's settled in with Blue's Clues, so I think we're good to go."

  Tyree spoke as they all grabbed a seat at the dining room table, to which some folding chairs had been added to make room for everybody. "I want to say how grateful I am—we are," he amended, indicating Reece and Brent and Jenna, "that you're doing the show. It's not something I would have thought of, but I've got to say I can see how it could bring in the customers. And that's my bottom line these days."

  "And our bottom line is viewers," Molly said. "So it works out well for us, too. Your bar has a great look, and yet it can benefit from a remodel. And you have the Man of the Month contest going on. I won't deny that was a big part of our decision-making process."

  Across the table, Jenna buffed her nails on her chest, making Reece laugh. Brooke had never asked, but she assumed the calendar contest was Jenna's idea.

  "Shouldn't Andy be here?" Brooke asked, suddenly realizing that only Molly was representing the network. "For that matter, shouldn't the crew be here as well?"

  Molly shook her head. "Andy's back in LA, so I'll be your in-town contact. And as for the crew, we like to do reality shows with as limited a crew as possible, and no interaction from the on-camera talent. That means that I'm not even going to introduce you to our camera guys—and they'll be using very unobtrusive handhelds for the most part." She turned to Tyree. "I would like to set up a few permanent cameras, if that's okay. Mount them near the ceiling, maybe a few eye-level locations. We can pull footage as needed."

  The big man held up his hands. "Whatever you need."

  "One of the regulars asked me about being an intern," Brooke said.

  "That must be Mina," Reece guessed. "She works for Griffin, but has less to do when he's between seasons."

  "I'm guessing the answer is no since there's a limited crew?"

  Molly lifted a shoulder. "We can give her a camera. The more footage the better. And there are minor jobs that will need to be done. Give her my number and I'll talk to her."

  "Thanks," Brooke said, already feeling proprietary about the eager grad student.

  "That's all for me," Molly said, holding up her hands. "Brooke, do you want to run through what the plan is for the renovation and how it breaks down into our episodes?"

  "Sure." She shot a quick glance to Spencer. "I put together a lot of this before you were on board. If you have changes or—"

  "I'm sure it's fine. Dive in. I'll comment if I have something to say."

  "And this is where I feel guilty again," Brent said. "I'm sure this would be much easier
if we were in the actual bar."

  Brooke waved a hand, dismissing his words. "Nobody knows the place better than you do, and if you guys can't figure out what I'm talking about from my sketches, then I need to work on my presentation skills."

  She opened her portfolio and began to pull out her mock-ups, starting with the stage. "Since you use the stage for the contest and for performances, I'd like to completely demo what's in place now and put in a larger stage, only in removable sections, like this." She pulled out a few other sheets, showing how the pieces of the envisioned stage would fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

  "We can do the same thing with seating, too. Have some tables that fold and combine to be either two or four tops, some even combining to seat eight. Basically the idea is to maximize as much space as possible. The more customers the better, right?"

  She looked up to meet all their eyes and saw that everyone was looking back at her with interest. Except for Spencer—his eyes were full of pride, and she felt a surge of pleasure at having impressed him.

  So much that it knocked her off her game, just a little bit.

  His lips twitched—the bastard knew he'd thrown her—but she laughed, delighted with the turn of events. Of the feeling of fitting with him again.

  With a little start, she realized the others were waiting for her to continue. She cleared her throat. "Right. Moving on. I also want to update the interior a bit—not a lot, actually. It has such a great vibe. But I think we can declutter the back of the bar so you can see more of what's happening in the mirror behind the shelving. And I'd like to add a smaller, free-standing bar over near the stage for when the place is really hopping. I bet that could up your drink income significantly."

  "No argument from me," Tyree said. "Show me what you have in mind."

  She did, then moved on to how the specific renovation projects would work into the schedule for the show. "The truth is, we could finish easily before the end of the contest, especially as the contest for each guy is spaced out every two weeks."

  "But that doesn't work with our plans," Molly added. "So we'd like to do some work on that smaller bar area you have in the back as well. It wasn't part of the original proposal, and we know it won't be used for the contest, but we hope that providing materials and labor will be incentive."