by J. Kenner
Jenna and the men exchanged glances. "I think we'll all be just fine with that," Tyree said.
Molly laughed. "We thought you probably would be. There's just one other thing..." She trailed off, her eyes aimed at Spencer. "Andy and I would like to add a bit of whimsy to the show."
"Whimsy?" Reece repeated. "Like what?"
"We want Spencer to be a contestant."
Spencer had just taken a sip of coffee, and now he choked as he tried to swallow. "What? Are you kidding? No way."
"It would be great for the show," Molly urged. "Which ends up benefiting everyone."
"Except I don't—"
"I think it sounds great," Brooke said, shooting him a mischievous smile.
"You do, do you?"
"It would be good for us, too," Jenna said. "Right now, we only have ten contestants invited in. Our goal is twelve guys for each month's contest."
"See?" Brooke said, unable to hide her amusement. "You'd be fabulous up there. And it really would be a fun twist for the show. And, hey, you'd get to strut around shirtless."
"You'd like that?"
"I'm thinking all the women in the bar will like that." She cocked her head, challenging him.
And to her surprise, he met her gaze, nodded, and said, "All right. Looks like I'm running for Mr. February."
Chapter Thirteen
"You know why they're doing this, don't you?" Spencer asked Brooke. They were still at Brent's house, though the meeting had broken up.
"What? The Mr. February contest?"
"Don't act innocent," he said, pointing a finger at her. She pretended to bite the end of it, then laughed.
"You said you were okay with it," she said.
"I figured it was better than whatever drama they have in mind otherwise."
She considered that, her eyes widening as she followed his train of thought. "Oh. You think that they're worried about the show since we're getting along." She cocked her head, then smiled at him. "Maybe we should be cold and distant? Or fight a lot? I could throw things. But that wouldn't work since you're so hard headed anyway."
"Watch it," he said, laughing as he hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her into a sideways hug.
She sighed and leaned happily against him. This was nice. Warm and comfortable without any tension.
Well, maybe some tension. But it was the good kind. That she hoped to work out later. Together. In bed.
"Daddy!" A little voice carried into the dining room, and Jenna scooped up the girl as she padded in wearing footie pajamas.
"Hey, Faith. Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"
"Where's Daddy?"
"He walked Uncle Tyree out to his car. He'll be right back."
"Uncle Tyree! Can I go say bye-bye?"
"Okay. Off you go." She put the girl down, then glanced up at Reece, who'd been watching the whole encounter, his expression soft. "I'll follow just in case." She passed him on the way, and Brooke saw the way Reece brushed his hand gently across Jenna's belly.
Jenna hadn't said anything, but Brooke had a feeling the other woman was pregnant. Something sweet and soft twisted inside Brooke, and she forced herself not to look at Spencer. That's what she wanted. A house. A family. Spencer.
They'd gotten so far off course that she had no idea if they could ever get back. And they definitely couldn't if she didn't tell him the truth about why she’d left.
She just wasn't sure how to dive into that conversation.
Several days later, she still hadn’t figured out how to broach the subject, but she also didn’t have time to think about it because they were thick in the middle of things at the bar.
For days, they'd been going pretty much non-stop, working from early in the morning until the bar opened. Then they'd camp out at one of the tables and eat lunch while they planned the next day's renovation.
Everything was going great. The stage was gone, and the replacement was coming along nicely. Brooke didn't have any worries about finishing it on time. That, of course, was the top priority, since it had to be in place by the next show, and she and Spencer were working together with the kind of connection that came from years of reading the other's mind and anticipating needs.
Except they hadn't had years. And that, thought Brooke, boded very well for their future.
He was the best part about the work—and the most frustrating. Because every time they were close, she'd feel the brush of his hand across her back. Or his hip butting against hers as they stood at the bar to go over the plans. He'd brush her hair back behind her ear, the inevitable contact of his fingertips on her cheek driving her a little crazy.
She didn't think he was doing it on purpose, but he was driving her stark raving crazy with need.
He was also, of course, doing it on camera, though they'd gotten so used to the two camera guys hanging unobtrusively in the background that she couldn't say she truly cared about that. Except for the little rush of pleasure when she thought about the fact that those touches would be memorialized on film. They'd be real. Solid. As if capturing them with the camera meant that things would work out between her and Spencer. Silly, she knew, but it gave her a thrill.
But little touches on camera were one thing, bold gestures were something else entirely. So when he came over to her, took her hand, and pulled her close against him, she gasped and swiveled to look for the camera.
"Hey," he said. "Come out with me tonight."
"Tonight? Why?"
It was the wrong question to ask, because all she did was light a fire under already smoldering embers. He leaned forward, his mouth right at her ear. "Because I want you," he said, then teased her ear with his tongue in the kind of way that had her knees go weak, and made her very grateful for the arm around her waist.
"Spencer," she protested, though not very hard. "We're on camera. Not to mention it's noon. The bar's open to the public now."
"So? All anyone will see is me wanting you." He pulled back, his expression mischievous. "The producers want drama, right?" He traced her lips with his fingertip, and she stifled a moan. "If we're not going to fight, maybe they'll be happy with that old adage—sex sells."
She burst out laughing. "Yeah," she said, "I think we can make them happy."
They were both breathing hard. "So you'll come tonight?"
"We need to work. The contest is in a week and a half."
"It's Saturday night. We won't get any work done here. And all the planning is done. Say yes, Brooke," he urged, lowering his voice. "Please."
It was a simple word, but it shot through her, all of the unspoken implications filling her and making her entire body tingle with desire.
"Come on," he pressed. "Say yes."
She was about to say that very thing when she glanced toward the door—and saw her father standing right inside the bar.
"Shit." He might as well have poured ice water all over her. Not only did she not want to see her dad, but his presence only reminded her of the truth she needed to tell Spencer. "I'll be right back."
To her relief, Spencer didn't try to stop her or come with her. "What are you doing here?" she asked when she reached her father.
"I see you didn't pay any attention to our talk the other day."
"Nice to know you don't need glasses, Daddy. You see just fine."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you insist on following this path, at least do it with dignity."
Her brows lifted. "Excuse me?"
"I'll accept that this is your career of choice—the remodeling work, I mean. You clearly have a knack for it, and you have a solid reputation in the community."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "You've been checking up on me. Gee, I'm flattered."
"I'm offering to capitalize The Business Plan. Your business. Not this ridiculous show. Leave the show to Mr. Dean. You go back to your work, and I'll make sure you have enough capital to allow you to take on larger and more prestigious projects. The same result you're looking for with this
show, isn't it?"
It was, but she wasn't going to admit that out loud.
"Why?"
"I already told you. I don't want you in bed—literally or metaphorically—with that man. He's bad news. Did you ask him about his financial issues? You do not need to attach your cart to that horse. Sooner or later, he's going to disappoint you."
Anger bubbled inside her. She wanted to tell him to go to hell. That this wasn't about her—it was about him not getting his own way. About her being with Spencer again, despite her father jumping through every hoop imaginable.
She wanted to say all of that. But she held herself in check. Instead, all she said was, "Daddy, I think it's time for you to go."
Then she turned her back on him and walked toward Spencer, hoping to God that she wouldn't hyperventilate and pass out on the way.
"Is he still there?" she asked.
"Sending me daggers with his eyes," Spencer confirmed.
"Kiss me."
His eyes went wide.
"Dammit, Spencer, kiss me."
He did, and it was exactly the kind of kiss she craved. A kiss with tongue and teeth that ricocheted through her, making her ache with need. Hard and wild and demanding and claiming. That was the key. She wanted him to claim her. To own her. To prove to her, her father, everyone that she was his again, even if she really wasn't. Not yet.
But, dammit, she wanted to be.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. "Tonight," she said. "When and where?"
His grin was mischievous as he handed her a folded slip of paper. "I wrote it down for you. Take an Uber. You won't need your car. And yes," he said, as she unfolded the paper, "it's a test."
Meet me where we first kissed. 7pm.
She looked back up at him and grinned. "I'll be there by six forty-five."
Chapter Fourteen
At almost eight hundred feet above sea level, Mount Bonnell stood as the highest point in Austin, and pretty much everyone in the city had been there at one time or another to see the view of the city, Lake Austin, and the surrounding hills.
Spencer had been coming there since he was a kid. He'd climb the one hundred and two steps all the way to the top, then circumvent the pretty, paved picnic area for the rougher wilderness beyond. He'd find a good, flat spot in the dirt and scrub, then put down a blanket, sit, and watch the world move along below him.
When he got older and began thinking about renovating homes, he'd take a notebook and sketch out his plans.
The place had always held a magical quality to him, and even though he was rarely alone there, he liked to think of it as his own.
Which was why when he brought Brooke there the evening of the second day he'd known her, he'd been as jumpy as if he'd sat in a pile of fire ants. He'd met her only twenty-four hours before, and yet he'd taken her out after he'd repaired her tire, and that non-date had been about the most perfect evening he'd spent with a woman.
He'd been smitten—no other word for it. And though he hadn't kissed her that night, it had been all he'd thought about until the next evening when she joined him on this iconic outcropping.
That was then. But things hadn't changed much, because having Brooke beside him at the park was still all he could think about. And even though it was barely six forty-five, he kept turning back to the stairs to see if she was coming.
And then, like a miracle, there she was.
She stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, the stunning spread of sky and trees a poor backdrop to her beauty. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and looked as sexy as he'd ever seen her.
Frowning, she cupped her hand at her forehead as she glanced around, obviously searching for him. He waited a second—stupid, but he liked knowing that she was seeking him out. Then he stepped into her view, and was rewarded with a smile as bright as sunshine.
"Hey," she said. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Come on," he said, holding out his hand, and then leading her away from the stairs to a nearby dirt path. They followed it a bit, then pushed their way through some juniper branches to a secluded section he'd found when he'd walked the area upon arriving.
"This is perfect," she said, looking at the blanket he'd spread over the rocks and dirt. A few feet ahead, the hill seemed to fall away below them. And though he wasn't about to let her get too close to the edge, even when they were seated, they had a view of the river. And, soon, they'd have a view of an amazing sunset.
He put his arm around her, and she leaned against him, her sigh sounding like a mix of both pleasure and relief.
"You okay?"
She tilted her head so that she could smile at him. "I am now."
He brushed a quick kiss over her lips, making her laugh and murmur, "Tickles."
He chuckled. "Should I shave?"
"Hell no. You're perfect."
The words warmed him, but once again, he was catching that vibe. As if something wasn't quite right. And as much as he hated thinking it, he was afraid it might be him. "Brooke, what's wrong?"
This time when she looked at him, she was scowling. "That obvious?"
"Maybe I just know you well."
"You do," she said. "Even after all this time. This is like a miracle to me. That we're back together. That maybe if we don't screw it up, we'll get a happily ever after."
Her words sent rocket flares of joy careening through him. He'd been thinking along that way—hell, yeah, he had—but he hadn't been certain that she had. And this was the first time either of them had spoken concretely about a future.
"I can see why that would make you upset," he said, his voice deadpan.
As he'd hoped, she laughed. "Yeah, well, you forgot about the monkey in our wrench."
He felt the smile tug at his lips. "Did I?"
"It pisses me off that my dad keeps poking and poking."
"Ah." He leaned back, his hands behind him for support. He should have realized that the encounter with her dad wouldn't simply blow over. "What did he want earlier?"
"Oh, only for me to quit the show and get away from you. And as incentive, he said that he'd underwrite my entire business so that I can take on bigger, more prestigious jobs."
He felt his mouth go a little dry. "Not a bad offer."
She rolled her eyes. "It's a terrible offer. Be in business with my dad? Especially if it meant that you weren't in the picture?"
"I know. But he loves you. He wants to help you."
Her blue eyes went as hard as flint. "What he wants is you out of my life, and this time he’s using my business as leverage."
His radar tingled. "This time?"
She nodded, suddenly looking much younger than her twenty-eight years. "I need to tell you something," she whispered. "You might hate me—I won't blame you if you do. But the thought of losing you again terrifies me." A thick tear dropped from her lashes to the blanket as another trailed down the side of her nose.
Dread raced up his spine. He wanted to reassure her that everything would be fine, but all he could manage to say was, "Tell me."
"It was my father," she said, her words slow and measured.
"Your father? What was?"
"Our wedding. When I met you in the garden and told you I couldn't go through with it." She licked her lips. "I didn't want to—oh, God, I so didn't want to."
He wanted to shout. To shake her and ask why she'd done that to him—to them—if she hadn't wanted to. But that was the story she was telling, and his hurt and anger wouldn't make it easier for either of them.
He kept silent, and she pressed on, watching him as she spoke. He could see the exhaustion—and the relief—in her face as the words flowed. It was as if she'd been holding it all in behind a dam and was finally allowed to let it all slip out, the whole story about the promise her father had made about clemency for Richie. And the terrible choice that Brooke had been forced to make.
He said nothing until she finished, then sat up and put his head down on his knees, his arms curled around
his legs, shutting out the world. Her father.
Her goddamn father had saved his brother. "He'd had the power," he said finally, turning his head to look at her. "Your dad held my brother's life in his hands. And the fucker used that power to play puppet master and pull all three of our strings."
"I know," she said. "Believe me, I know."
"You should have told me. You should have trusted me enough to come to me with that. If not before, then at least after the Governor granted clemency."
"I wanted to—hell, I planned to. But then my dad told me that he'd found out about your record." She licked her lips. "All the stuff from after Richie was arrested, when you said you went off the rails." She swallowed audibly. "He said he was going to tell your producer, and it would be a scandal on social media, and they'd yank the show."
"Christ." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "You should have told me."
"That's the point. If I'd told you he would have held all that stuff over you. He would have destroyed you. Don't pretend I'm wrong. You didn't exactly advertise your past to the producers. I was there, remember? You kept telling me over and over that you had to come across as a guy folks related to."
"And people don't relate to kids from shit neighborhoods who have to scrape by," he retorted, his already on-edge temper flaring. "Who go a little nuts when their brother ends up on death row. Who skirt up against gangs and fight like hell not to get sucked all the way in. No, I guess most people don't relate to that."
She leaned forward and pressed a hand to his knee. "That's not what I mean, and you know it."
"No, you were afraid I'd lose the show, and we couldn't have that." He was talking out his ass, and he knew it. Anger and pain and years of regret fueling harsh words that he wanted to call back even as he spoke them. "A construction worker from the east side wasn't good enough for you."
Her palm flew out and struck him hard against the cheek.
