Public Relations

by Tibby Armstrong

  She had let Peter fuck her simply because she craved human companionship. Like an emotional vampire, she’d fed off his sexual energy; and like an addict, she craved more. Not just because he was the best she’d had, but because she was fundamentally unsatisfied. Empty of true sustenance, the interlude had only highlighted how much she’d missed. And she wanted more—so much more—than this man could give.

  And why should she be angry with him about that? If there was anyone to blame for this entire, messed-up situation, it was herself. Not him. She saw that now, but damn her if she could figure out what she might do to fix it. Revealing her identity was out of the question. Quietly disappearing, impossible. So she followed him up his parents’ freshly shoveled walk to a place she knew instinctively, under different circumstances, she’d very much have liked to call home.

  Before they reached the top step, the door swung open. On the other side of the aluminum-and-glass storm door, a man in a white T-shirt held a piece of pepperoni pizza in one hand. He leaned his left forearm above his head along the edge of the door and quirked a lopsided grin at them both. “You’re late.”

  Peter trudged up the steps with his bag and Georgia’s clothes. “Did you leave any pepperoni?”

  Raising one brow, the guy glanced at the slice in his hand and took a bite before saying around the mouthful, “Last one.”

  “Thanks, Niall. A lot.” Peter glanced over his shoulder at Georgia, who’d paused on the bottom step to watch the interaction. “Georgia, meet my pain-in-the-ass youngest brother, Niall. Niall, this is my per—girlfriend, Georgia Whitcomb.”

  Blond hair falling rakishly over his forehead, blue eyes dancing with mischief, Niall swept Georgia with his gaze. “Purr girlfriend, huh? Are you sure you don’t mean purring?”

  Niall stepped back as Peter shoved through the door. “Fuck off, Niall.”

  “Mouth!” Niall laughed and looked over his shoulder toward what Georgia assumed was the kitchen. “Ma still knows how to wield a bar of soap.”

  Georgia giggled. Niall winked at her, and she decided she liked him already.

  Stepping into the modest foyer, she wiped her feet on a welcome mat emblazoned with shamrocks and the Irish Gaelic word for welcome, fáilte. The scent of pizza, its tangy tomato notes and the zip of oregano, teased her nose along with the homey warmth of laundry detergent.

  “Peter? Is that you?” A petite woman with silver hair cut in a pert bob strode from the kitchen with a dish towel in her hands. She put her hands to her hips and tipped her head back to give her son a narrow-eyed look. “You missed your father’s birthday dinner.”

  Standing back a little, more than willing to observe this alien exchange between a parental figure and the great Peter Wells, Georgia tried to remain inconspicuous. Peter dropped their bags on the stairway landing to the left of the foyer hall. A living room beyond a wide, arched doorway to the right featured overstuffed furniture and the kind of coffee table that invited family members and guests alike to put up their feet and stay awhile. Colored Christmas lights blinked on a tree otherwise devoid of decorations. The kitchen entry, concealed behind a swinging door, comprised all there seemed to be of the little house.

  “Sorry, Ma.” Peter moved toward his mother, his height and stature dwarfing the woman. “The roads weren’t the best.”

  He bent and pecked her cheek, and his mother popped him on the butt.

  Georgia’s bark of laughter swung everyone’s attention to her. Dropping her hand from her mouth, she shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve been wondering how to handle him.”

  Peter gave her the look, but amazingly he kept his mouth shut. Georgia grinned. This just got better and better. He came to her and dropped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her toward his mother.

  “Ma, this is Georgia Whitcomb.” He glanced to his brother. “My girlfriend. Georgia, this is my mother, Mrs. Wells.”

  Conscious of the warm, comfortable weight of Peter’s arm, Georgia waited for his mother to hold out her hand. The briefest moment passed during which Georgia instinctively knew she was being assessed and cataloged. The woman would be wondering if she’d received any money for this visit, and, if not, whether she was worthy of her son. A slight nod seemed to seal the deal, and Mrs. Wells held out her hand as a relieved smile reached eyes bluer than her son’s. “You’re very welcome, Georgia. And please call me Brenna.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The warm clasp of this woman’s hand filled Georgia with longing for the family she’d never really had and the mother she’d lost.

  “Peter, you’re in time for cake,” a gruff voice called from the kitchen. “Come on in.”

  “The cake can wait, Ronan,” Brenna called over her shoulder, then gave Peter a look of her own. “Take her coat, Peter. Georgia will think we live in a barn. Come on in. I’ll heat you both some stew.”

  “Good thing you’re here,” Niall said as Peter drew off Georgia’s coat. “She’d have sent him to bed without supper.”

  “Jesus Christ. Shut up, Chatty Cathy,” Peter said, opening a hall closet overflowing with boots, shoes, scarves, and all manner of outerwear. The thicker garments jutted outward, their sleeves appearing poised for flight. He jammed the coats between parkas and slickers before forcing the door shut.

  Male laughter drifted from the kitchen, perking up Georgia’s ears, and she remembered he had two other brothers. If they were as devilishly charming as Niall, the entire East Coast female population was in serious trouble. A back door banged shut, cutting off the sound of conversation.

  Peter pushed open the kitchen door and held it for Georgia. She ducked under his arm as Brenna placed a stainless steel pot on a glowing burner.

  “Your brothers took the rooms upstairs,” she said. “You’re sleeping in the boathouse.”

  The kitchen appeared to be straight out of the 1980s. White countertops made of square ceramic tiles flanked enameled appliances that, for their age, seemed remarkably well taken care of. A built-in banquette, large enough to fit a small army, took up the area in front of a bay window overlooking the back lawn. Through the window, an outside light illuminated a red-and-white structure blurred by blowing snow. Beyond, inky darkness loomed. It was…a lake?

  Niall opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. Biceps popping, he twisted off the top. “Actually, we took the rooms out of self-preservation. We didn’t want to listen to you two lovebirds.”

  Without looking up from the stove, Brenna snapped her dish towel behind her. Niall jumped away, but not before the towel connected with his hip, just above his waistband.

  “Ow.” Niall winced and rubbed at his hip. “Jeez, Ma. You got a permit for that thing?”

  Brenna stirred the contents of the pot and ignored her son. A man in a black-and-red plaid flannel shirt, his salt-and-pepper hair close cropped in a military style, stood from a captain’s chair to one side of the table.

  “You must be Peter’s girl.” The man extended his left hand, his right sleeve an empty flag of material pinned to his shoulder. “Come in and make yourself at home. I’m Peter’s father, Ronan.”

  Niall, who had perched on a folding step stool his mother probably used to reach the kitchen’s top shelves, regarded her closely. Brenna stopped midstir to glance Georgia’s way. Though she couldn’t see him behind her, Georgia felt Peter’s eyes boring twin holes in the back of her head. Make this man feel uncomfortable in the least and she’d be out on her ass, hitchhiking back to Manhattan.

  Mentally giving Peter the finger—as if she’d ever behave so badly as to remark on someone’s handicap—Georgia took Ronan’s left hand in both of hers and squeezed warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I can see where Peter gets his handsome looks.”

  Ronan’s pleasure lit up his face, and Georgia gasped at the resemblance between the older man and his son. So that’s what Peter’d look like if he really smiled. The surreal sense of suspended animation receded, and the room kick-started to life. A hum sounded from the fridge, and Bre
nna scraped her wooden spoon along the bottom of the pot. Niall took a long draw of his beer, and Peter cleared his throat.

  “Have a seat, Georgia.” Brenna nodded toward the table. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Georgia smiled as Ronan released her hand and settled into his chair. “That would be heaven.”

  With her back to the bay window, she slid onto a bench covered in blue-and-white floral fabric, and let her gaze drift around the kitchen. Well-loved, tin dry-goods canisters covered in decoupage daisies called to her, along with an explosion of family photos tacked to the fridge. Memories of summer picnics, beach weekends, and Christmases past formed a colorful collage she longed to study. Mail and newspapers were piled on a desk by the back door, and a folding tray close by Ronan’s left arm held materials and tools for a partially built model of a schooner.

  “Kevin and Liam are firing up the woodstove to warm your sleeping quarters.” Ronan fingered a tiny wooden dowel from his model as he considered her. “You like fires?”

  “Love them.” She smiled, relieved to have something safe to talk about. “It’s been awhile though.”

  “Living in the city, I imagine there aren’t too many fireplaces.”

  “No. Not really.” She glanced to Peter, who leaned against the door frame, regarding her with quiet intensity. “And Peter’s looks as if it’s never used.”

  He pushed away from the door and joined her at the table, his approving expression an implicit thank you for lending legitimacy to their relationship. If she’d been at his place often enough to notice consistent details about the fireplace, they’d known each other for a while, right?

  “Actually, it’s gas,” he said.

  “Oh.” She blushed at the oversight. “The logs do look rather real.”

  “Natural mistake.”

  The warm spice of Peter’s cologne tickled her senses, compelling her to lean toward him as he squeezed her leg. Heat from his hand permeated her jeans and sent a lazy tendril of need to her sex. Rather than withdraw, Peter settled his hand on her thigh, his thumb drawing circles on the inside.

  “Here come the boys,” Brenna said, her “mother’s ears” picking up the murmur of voices before Georgia detected their quiet rumble.

  Feet stomped against the wooden back stairs, preceding the door creaking open. A blast of cold air ushered in a lively debate between the two brothers.

  “It’ll be frozen over by New Year’s.”

  “You try to skate on that before mid-January and we’ll be hauling your”—the first brother in the door glanced to his mother—“butt out with ice tongs.”

  “Did I say anything about skating?”

  Two men, almost identical, with sandy hair and clean-cut good looks, shed denim jackets. The second brother pushed up the sleeves of his navy henley and faced off with the first. One blue eye and one brown eye, both startlingly long-lashed and vividly hued even from a distance, set him apart from his brother, whose chocolate-brown eyes were no less gorgeous for their absence of the trademark family blue.

  Niall swung his beer by the neck toward his lips, pausing to gesture with the bottle. “A hundred bucks says you’re both wrong and it’ll be a warm winter.”

  Thumb ceasing its movement, Peter tightened his hand on Georgia’s thigh. She glanced up in time to see the black scowl he directed at Niall. Apparently his mother saw it too. Brenna rested the spoon on a ceramic dish and stepped in the line of fire to make introductions.

  Placing her hand on her only brown-eyed son’s arm, she smiled toward Georgia. “Georgia, this is Kevin. And the daredevil there is Liam.”

  Peter relaxed his grip on her leg.

  “Hey, Georgia.” Liam nodded in her direction as he lifted one foot to yank off a boot. “Cool name.”

  She grinned as his sock came off with the boot and he bounced around on one foot to put the sock back on.

  “My parents would be pleased you think so.”

  “You don’t like your name?” Peter sat so close, when she looked into his eyes, she could see the darker ring of navy around his irises and feel his breath on her cheek.

  “It’s…” She cleared her throat. “Pretentious.”

  His brows arched. “Hardly. It’s warm. Southern.”

  Across the room, his mother said, “It’s a lovely name.”

  Opening her mouth to tell him her parents’ only knowledge of the American South extended to some polo ponies they’d imported to England from Virginia, she stopped short and shook her head, settling on, “You don’t know my parents.”

  Kevin and Liam took a seat at opposite ends of the curved bench surrounding the table. Ronan leaned toward the fridge and popped it open to grab a beer.

  “Hand me one, Da?” Kevin asked.

  “Your name’s better than Niall.” The man in question leaned against the wall and regarded Georgia, his lids at half-mast. “Who names their kid something that sounds like a genuflection? And spells it wrong to boot? Do you know how many times I had to hear Nile instead of Neal on the first day of school?”

  Brenna gasped, but Ronan chuckled, deep and low as he handed his son a beer and then the bottle opener. “I told you, Brenna. I told you.”

  “Told me what?” Brenna ladled stew into two large, handled mugs. “He’s named for your grandfather, for pity’s sake.”

  The corners of Peter’s lips twitched upward as he watched the exchange. As his parents argued over who had chosen the name, and its ultimate suitability, his magic fingers trailed back and forth along the seam of Georgia’s jeans, inching ever closer to her apex. She shifted but somehow only managed to bring him closer.

  “Get a room, you two,” Niall muttered, flicking a glance under the table, where his low seating on the stool gave him a direct view.

  The kettle chose that moment to send up a wail. Blushing furiously, Georgia glanced from Brenna to Ronan, neither of whom had seemed to notice the exchange. Peter shot Niall a glare that promised retribution but kept his commentary to himself. He kept his hand high on her thigh, perhaps in direct challenge to his brother.

  “What do you do, Niall?” She wanted to change the subject before these two began arguing again.

  Beer bottle dangling negligently from two fingers, Niall flicked his gaze to Peter and back to Georgia. “I’m the family rogue.”

  Something in Niall’s darkening stare aborted Georgia’s laughter.

  “He’s a professional gambler,” Kevin supplied. “Don’t let him get you thinking he’s Captain Jack.”

  “I’d hardly apply the word ‘professional’ to what he does for a living,” Peter sniped.

  Classic.

  She’d completely stepped in the middle of a topic designed to foment an already established family feud. Only Ronan, who’d begun using a pair of tweezers and a C-clamp to manipulate the ship’s model he worked on, didn’t seem to notice the brewing storm.

  Niall rolled his eyes and stood. “Know what? I’m not in the mood for this. Ma, call me for the cake. I’m gonna log on and place some bets.”

  “Let him alone, Peter.” Brenna placed a bowl of stew in front of her son and one in front of Georgia. “As long as he can support himself, it’s none of your business what he does.”

  The meaty-sweet scent of beef and carrots wafted from the steaming earthenware cup. Scowling, Peter removed his hand from Georgia’s leg. Heat radiated from the spot he’d been touching, leaving the rest of her chilled in contrast. Scooping up his stew, he seemed to consider his spoon.

  “I think he wants to tell you it is his business what we all do since he gave us the seed money.” Liam regarded Peter as he spoke.

  Georgia glanced between the two men as she took her first bite of the stew. Flavor burst in her mouth, melding sweet carrots, earthy potatoes, and tender meat. Fascinated to gain this glimpse into a real family structure, she chewed and observed, riveted not to the discord but rather the love behind it.

  “Don’t mind these boys, Georgia,” Brenna said, plunking a stea
ming mug of tea in front of her along with a sugar and creamer set. A tag and string dangled from the cup. “They came out of the womb taking swings at one another.”

  Picturing the testosterone fest of their teen years, Georgia breathed out a disbelieving laugh. “I don’t know how you brought up four teenage boys.”

  Brenna’s smile preceded a glance to Peter, who spooned up his stew and chewed without commenting on his brother’s assessment of his feelings. “Mostly it was three boys. Peter was gone at boarding school and away on summer programs during break.”

  How had a family of six on an obviously limited income afforded boarding school? Swallowing another bite of stew, Georgia furrowed her brow but otherwise kept her skepticism to herself.

  “Ma…” Peter’s tone warned his mother not to divulge his personal business.

  Pretending not to hear him, Brenna gave Georgia a conspiratorial look before she turned her back and set about removing a stack of dessert plates from a cupboard. “He’s always been a planner. Never failed to do right by us all.”

  His father’s quiet harrumph brought Georgia’s attention around to him, but the man never looked up from his work.

  Peter hunched over his bowl and scraped at the bottom. Catching his uncomfortable posture, Georgia took pity on him.

  “I enrolled myself in boarding school when I was fourteen,” she said, pouring a little cream into her tea.

  Hand stilling, Peter turned his head to snare her gaze. “You enrolled yourself too?”

  “What school did you go to?” Kevin asked. “Peter went to Choate.”

  “Kevin…” Peter growled his brother’s name.

  “Well, you did!” Kevin expelled a laugh with the statement. “God, Peter, what has your underpants in a bunch? It’s not like you’re not getting l—”