She went over to him, close enough to rest her hand on his arm. “I doubt you were just some random teenager, or that they were stupid,” she said quietly.
He gazed down at her. Something in his face shifted, opened, warmed. “You do?”
“They paid you what they thought you were worth.” Suddenly she was aware she was touching him, that he’d ducked his head closer to hers. His eyes were dark, gray-blue pools, deep, inviting. “Why are you so convinced they were wrong?” she asked.
He reached up to her cheek, traced the tender skin under her eye. “Why are you so convinced they weren’t?”
Her throat went dry. He was always throwing her off balance. Strong one minute, sweet the next. “I just am.”
“Maybe you’re biased.” His hand glided down her cheek to her chin, caressing.
“Maybe I am,” she whispered.
He smiled slowly and abruptly stepped away. “Do you know how to make a bacon salad? It’s almost showtime.”
Deep breath. Hand on the counter. “I’m more of a lettuce type.”
“That’ll do.”
Still unsteady, she walked slowly over to the fridge. “Just don’t say, ‘That’ll do, Pig.’ You know, like from Babe.”
“Why would I?”
She grabbed the romaine, glanced at him over her shoulder. He looked genuinely stumped.
“Because I’m a plus-sized woman.” She waved the lettuce at him to lighten the mood. “Do you have a salad spinner in this vacation home of yours?”
Frowning, he squatted down, dug around and held out a colander. “That’s all I’ve got.” He leaned against the counter and watched her tear the leaves, rinse them under the water. Finally he said, “I still don’t get it.”
She hit the tap, wishing she hadn’t said anything. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Please. I know I’m an idiot. You have to explain. I’m obsessive like that. I’ll be up half the night trying to figure it out.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, slow, deliberately suggestive. “Of course, I hope I’ll be up half the night doing other things.”
It was amazing how he could make her shivery and heated at the same time. “Your mother tried to put John in a room downstairs. By himself. Pretty sure that was for your benefit.”
“You’re trying to change the subject. Why would I say, ‘That’ll do, Pig’?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Have you seen Babe?”
“Yeah. Talking animal movie. Heartwarming. Evil cat.”
She shook the colander, turning away. “You’re teasing me.”
“I swear I’m not.” His fingers wrapped around her shoulders, turned her firmly to face him. “There was a little, hairless, sheep-herding farm animal. Or is it something to do with the wife? Because she was hot.”
Rose jerked away. “Now I know you’re teasing me.” She reached up to open a cabinet. “Is there a bowl for the salad?”
He captured her in his arms, facing him, his hips pinning her to the counter. “I want you to say it.”
Her heart pounded. “That I’m a pig?”
He pressed his body harder against her, not hiding his arousal. “That you’re not.” His hands came up, cupped her face. He dipped his head but his lips didn’t touch hers, just hovered close enough to feel his breath blend with hers.
“I’m not,” she whispered.
Shaking his head slowly, he sank a millimeter closer.
The dogs chose that moment to tear up the stairs, Trixie shouting behind them to wait. “You’ll get snow all over Mark’s perfect house!”
Right. People. Everywhere. She started to pull away but he held her.
Trixie’s voice was right behind them. “I’ll get them, Mark, don’t wor—” Her voice cut off as if sliced with a knife.
Rose had her hands on the counter, a smile on her face, ready to joke about not even liking wool, let alone sheep—
When he kissed her.
Oh.
He was tender, his lips brushing hers gently but thoroughly. No hurry, just steady pressure, fully covering her mouth with his while his hand caressed her waist.
Slow, luxurious kisses. She forgot everything but the careful, controlled movements of his lips, the feel of his breath, the pressure of his hand—no, his hands, because the other one was sliding around her back and up between her shoulder blades to tangle in her hair, stroke the back of her neck where the skin was soft and particularly sensitive to his touch.
Her knees buckled. He pressed closer, holding her up. His hardness there belied the softness of the rest of him.
It was too slow, too soft. Tension wound tighter inside her belly, between her legs, her heart. She opened her mouth and invited him inside.
Which is when he broke away. Holding her at arm's length, eyes obsidian-black, he seemed to be struggling for breath, like she was, and gradually the noises of the five other people in the house broke through the haze of their desire.
He released her, a faint, wicked smile in the corner of his mouth. She looked past him, expecting to see his mother watching them, wide-eyed, horrified, but she was sitting with her back to them on the sofa with Liam and Bev. Someone had turned on a football game.
“She saw us, you know,” she said.
Mark leaned against the counter next to her, hands on either side, staring at her sideways. A lock of his hair had fallen over one eyebrow. Her fingers itched to brush it back, but if she touched him again right now, she’d never stop.
“I should probably serve the dinner,” Mark said, pushing away from the counter. “Such as it is.”
She took a breath, honest enough to admit she was disappointed. They could’ve run downstairs for a few minutes—
Everybody was right there. His brother, Bev, John, Blair, Trixie.
Nobody said anything.
“I’ll finish the salad,” she said shakily.
* * *
So far, Mark thought, Phase Two appeared to be working. Play her hot and cold, keep her guessing. His initial plan had been to make his big move after Christmas dinner, right when she’d be all soft, sentimental, vulnerable—but that was over twenty-four hours away and he wasn’t sure the wait was necessary. She’d melted when he kissed her in the kitchen, not even scolding him afterwards.
Though his mother had. “You don’t want to embarrass her, honey,” she’d said quietly as they cleared the table after dinner. “She’s the skittish type.”
But Mark had finally figured out how badly Rose wanted the public display. How much she needed it. Standing in the kitchen, he glanced at Rose still sitting at the table. “Just don’t act surprised, whatever I do. I want her to think you’ve been in on this all along.”
His mother patted him on the shoulder. “Oh, honey. I’ve been in on it longer than you have.”
To Mark’s disappointment, Rose said goodnight to everyone, retiring to her room, as soon as the plates were in the dishwasher. John and Blair dressed up to hit the casinos on the Nevada side of the lake, leaving Mark, Liam, Bev, and his mother to sit together in the living room.
While they watched TV, Mark tried to distract himself with websites and playing games on his phone, determined to leave Rose alone for at least an hour. Apparently bored with the sports coverage, Liam turned off the TV, threw the remote into Mark’s lap. “Pretty good lasagna,” he said, kicking him in the leg. “Even though you had to eat it with a spoon.”
Bev, curled under his arm, switched the TV back on, flipped through the channels. “Leave him alone. It was great.”
“I never realized how good lasagna could be without all that cheese,” his mother said.
It wasn’t Mark’s culinary prowess that he cared about tonight. “What are you guys doing tomorrow before dinner?” Mark hoped to have the cabin alone with Rose after they opened the small pile of presents under the tree. Not everything he did with her had to be publicly displayed.
Liam scowled. “Aren’t we skiing?”
“I’m not,” Bev said.
“Yes, you are.”
She laughed. “Nice try, bossypants. I trip over my feet as it is. Can you imagine if my feet were suddenly six feet long?” She snorted. “Forget it. I’m not asking for trouble.”
“How can you come to Tahoe and not ski?”
Bev looked up at him, raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you can think of?”
Liam grinned, then glanced at his mother and made a face. “Hey. Not in front of the parent.”
“I am a little jealous, I admit,” Trixie said wistfully. “I’m a spare wheel around here.”
Mark stood up. It was hard enough discussing his love life, let alone his mother’s. He looked at his phone. Fifty-seven minutes since Rose had gone downstairs. What was she doing down there? He stepped around the sofa, his heart starting to beat faster. “I think I’m going to see what Rose is up to.”
“It’s not quite an hour yet,” his brother said.
Mark turned. “What?”
“Since she went downstairs,” Liam said, batting his eyes.
“Bev, I really don’t understand what you see in that arrogant prick.” Mark strode to the stairs while his brother broke out laughing.
When he was out of sight, Mark jumped down the stairs two at a time, reaching her door short of breath, heart racing, ready. He squared his shoulders, combed his hair with his fingers.
But as he lifted his hand to knock on the door, he hesitated.
What if she rejected him tonight? They’d just arrived. Tomorrow was Christmas. She’d feel awkward, uncomfortable. Everyone would notice. She might even ask to leave—though he had thoughtfully ensured her lack of a vehicle.
But even if she did sleep with him, how could he assume she wouldn’t regret it like she had before?
Closing his eyes, he slowly, agonizingly, lowered his arm. No. She had to come to him this time. He’d act like the smitten lover in public, touch her every chance he had, display every lustful thought on his face so she could never accuse him of being ashamed of wanting her, be seen wanting her.
Loving her.
He walked away and, treading heavily on the creaky wood floorboards, went into the room next to hers.
To wait.
It wasn’t sugarplums that danced in his dreams.
Chapter 28
JUST AFTER NOON, ROSE SANK into the couch with her coffee and stared out at the snow. Christmas Day was white, blue, bright, and lovely. Zeus jumped up onto the cushion next to her, dancing with joy, and licked her on the elbow, the highest spot he could reach.
At least somebody wants me, she thought, sipping her coffee.
Stupid. Mark was playing by her rules, and she was complaining.
She’d gone to bed early, then slept late. She’d turned down the offer to join him and the family when they went out to the slopes a few hours earlier. All of this a month after she’d broken up with him.
Whoops.
She’d been blind, willfully blind. His mother had seen that kiss and walked away without a word. April had known since the beginning. And just that morning, right before they left for the slopes, Liam came by her room to extend his own welcome.
“Mind if I go through Mark’s bookshelf?” Liam had asked. “My mother put some old photo albums in here I wanted to share with Bev.”
Rose, still in her pajamas, half-asleep, let him in. “Come on in.”
He walked past Rose, the hint of a smile on his face, and squatted down at the squat oak bookcase in the corner under the window. He rose, a dusty album in his arms. “This looks like a good old one.” He grinned. “Want to see?”
Intimate pictures of Mark growing up? Hell yeah. “Sure,” she said with a shrug.
His grin deepened. “No pressure.”
“No, I don’t mind. Really.”
To her surprise, Liam sat on the bed, patted the mattress next to him, and started to open the book. Rose sat next to him, wishing she’d been nosy enough to find it on her own when she was alone.
Liam frowned. “Oh, this is just one of Mark’s scrapbooks. He started making these in junior high.” He shut it with a loud thwap and started to get up.
“Wait!” She thrust out her hand.
He turned his head, eyebrow raised as he looked at her. A hint of a smile twitched in the corner of his mouth. “You’d like to see it?”
She should’ve kept quiet and looked at it after he’d gone. “Sure. Why not?” She kept her voice light.
“Right. Why not.” Liam opened the book again. The first page was a yellowed newspaper clipping. In the photo, four lean, muscular, bare-chested men stood at the edge of a swimming pool, big grins on their faces. One of the men was circled with a ballpoint pen.
“You?” Rose asked.
“Yup,” Liam said, and turned the page. Here there were more newspaper clippings, mostly text. A color snapshot of Liam with a Stanford towel tied around his waist took up most of the right side of the page; the ballpoint pen had drawn zigzags and lines around it, like a frame.
Rose felt a twinge in her chest. “He was a fan.”
“My biggest.” Liam turned the next page. “See how he never put in any pictures of himself?”
More photos—these candid, slightly blurry, obviously unprofessional—all of Liam. Some were cut out with scissors and arranged horizontally at the bottom of the page, overrun with hand-drawn blue, wiggly waves.
“How old was he?” Rose asked, her voice catching.
“This book he made when he was about eleven.”
“This book? There’s another?”
He turned several more pages without pausing. Each one was filled with pictures of Liam— swimming, jogging, winning medals, lifting weights, posing at landmarks all over the world. “Look at the shelf over there.”
Biting her lip, Rose turned her gaze to the bookcase in the corner. There were at least ten more books with bindings like the one in Liam’s lap. “Oh, my.”
“I didn’t know about these until a few years ago,” he said. “My mother boxed them up in the attic. I found them when I was looking for my camping gear.”
“She never showed you? Never even hinted about them?”
Liam cleared his throat. “She knew I wouldn’t like it.”
“But it’s so sweet.” She reached out and took the scrapbook from him. “Look at all that love. Wow.”
“I wanted to throw them away, but my mother stashed them here for safekeeping.”
“Throw them away?” Her jaw dropped. “How could you do such a thing? Look at the hours he must’ve spent making these. The days.”
“Exactly.”
They stared at each other. She saw sorrow in his eyes. “You don’t like being idolized,” she said.
“I liked it as much as anybody would. But not from my own brother.” He reached across her and turned more pages, finally stopping at one with a photo of a teenaged Liam. The photo had been carefully cropped to trace his entire torso, though part of his arm had been cut off like the Venus de Milo. The real Liam sitting next to her tapped the blank part of the page to his right. “Guess who was here?”
Rose shook her head. “He seems to cut out everybody else.”
“Not everyone. He usually left my teammates.” She stared at the chopped photo until Liam answered his own question. “It was our father. He devoted his life to getting me to the Olympics. Mark and April were afterthoughts. Which I used to think was lucky for them, but… it messed with Mark’s head, a son being neglected like that.”
She pulled the book closer. “I don’t think his head is messed up at all.”
Smiling at her, Liam let her have the book. “He tends to put himself last. Like he thinks he’s not worth as much as somebody else.”
“He cares about people, that’s all.”
“Most of them can’t see that, given how much time he spends avoiding them,” he said.
“He’s got to protect himself,” she said. “The world’s full of phonies and users. He’s the real deal.”
Liam’s
gaze sharpened, staring at her. “It can be hard to have somebody love you so completely, with no regard to himself.”
“Please. He was your little brother. Of course he loves you,” she said. “You should be grateful to have him in your life.” She hugged the book to her chest, looked at him. “It’s not a burden, it’s a gift. Just love him back.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes.” She frowned, getting to her feet. “He’s easy to lo—” She fell silent.
Liam was grinning at her. “Yes?”
She lifted her chin. “He’s easy to love.”
They stared at each other, any hint of mockery in Liam’s smile fading. He stood up. “Are you going skiing with us?” he asked, reaching out to touch her arm.
Her mind spun. Had she just told Liam—
“No, I—I’m going to call my mom,” she stammered. What had she done? “Maybe go for a walk.”
“Maybe you’ll join us tomorrow, then,” Liam said as he headed for the hallway. He paused there, met her gaze. “I hope you do.”
Nodding, Rose closed the door after him in a daze.
They were all in on it, always had been.
She needed to think. She crawled back into bed and stared at the ceiling, imagining Mark’s boyish fingers drawing blue waves around his strong, famous older brother’s body. Those little stars and frames around the pictures.
An hour later, after the whole gang had left to go skiing—even Trixie—Rose went upstairs to the empty kitchen. Sitting with her coffee and the dogs, she flipped through another one of the scrapbooks. Finally, in the third one, she found a picture of a young Mark in a Return of the Jedi sweatshirt. He stood next to Liam, trying to give him bunny ears but only reaching as high as his shoulder. His shaggy hair was light, almost blond, and the silver braces in his mouth glittered.
Her heart squeezed.
He could’ve become a hard, bitter person and hated his brother. He could’ve blamed him for taking all the oxygen in the room, all the love in his father’s stingy heart—but he didn’t. He made scrapbooks, designed software, taught school. He built a life of his own, quietly, never wanting the spotlight for himself—no matter how much he deserved it.
It would be hours before he came back. Suddenly feeling unbearably restless, Rose slapped the album shut. “Want to go outside, Zeus?”
ThisTimeNextDoor Page 29
