“Lub you!”
He gathers her in his arms, and I watch with my hand on my chest. She clings to him as I watch the emotions play across his face.
Ian walks to me with a huge grin. “She talked.”
“I know.”
“To me,” he says, looking over at her. “Two weeks and the kid finally talked.”
“Well,” I say with a little smugness. “She never stopped talking to me.”
Ian laughs a real, effortless laugh and it makes me smile. It’s the man I fell for all those years ago. When he wasn’t trying to be a dick all the time.
“You’re just special, Lon.”
“Yeah, don’t forget it.” I tap his chest.
His eyes meet mine and the carefree joking we had a moment ago vanishes. There’s heat in his gaze and my pulse roars in my ears. “I never forgot, I just couldn’t tell you the truth.”
Every breath I take makes my chest tight. “What’s the truth?”
“That he likes you!” Morgan yells from the living room and we both take a step back.
“You have horrible timing!” Ian points to the twelve-year-old that seems hell-bent on driving her uncle to drink.
“I always knew I liked that kid.”
He raises one brow and lifts his lip in a smirk. “Yeah, what’s not to love?” he says loud enough so she’ll hear.
“I’m your favorite, just admit it.”
Ian and I laugh at Morgan and then he looks at his watch. “I have to go.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“Call me if you need me.”
I nod. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He leans in close, touches my cheek, and his voice is a barely a whisper. “Sleep on the left side of the bed, and don’t wait up.”
I slap his hand away. “Very funny. I’ll be on the couch when you get home, thank you very much.”
Giving me one more of his cocky grins, he picks up a leather messenger bag from the floor near the front door, slings it over his shoulder, and heads out.
As soon as the door shuts behind him, I exhale and fan my face. Damn him for looking so good in that suit. And for telling me to sleep in his bed. And for putting all kinds of terrible ideas in my head.
I cannot let him get to me.
I head back to the kitchen and start loading the dishwasher, asking Ruby about her day at school and her upcoming dance recital. While I’m thinking about it, I grab my phone from my purse and text Ian the dates.
* * *
Me: Friday, June 16th and Saturday, June 17th are Ruby’s dance recitals. You’ll have to get that weekend off or go in late.
* * *
Since he’s still driving to work, he won’t reply for a while, so I set my phone aside. “How’s the homework coming, Morgan?” I ask.
“Fine,” she says from the couch. “I finished math and science, now I just have to read.”
“Aunt London, can I be done?” Ruby gives me a plaintive look from her chair at the counter.
I take a look at her plate and see that she’s eaten most of her chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese. “Ruby, what else did you have for dinner? Did Uncle Ian make you any vegetables?”
“No. He said we could pick what we wanted.”
Of course he did. He probably told them to cook it themselves, too. Sighing, I pick up her plate and carry it to the sink. “Well, you should have something healthy. Can I slice an apple for you?”
“Okay.”
I take an apple from the bowl of fruit on the counter, which I’m happy to see because it means he at least purchased some healthy options from the store. Now I just have to get him to understand that the kids need to actually eat them. After cutting it up, I put half the slices on a plate for Ruby and bring the other half to Morgan in the living room. While they nibble on them, I prepare a plate for Christopher, since I know he’ll be hungry when he gets home from basketball—pasta and meatballs with tomato sauce, and broccoli with lemon. The meatballs were frozen and the sauce is from a jar, but it’s better than what the girls ate. There are enough leftovers for dinner tomorrow night, or even for Ian to eat when he gets home from work if he’s hungry. I put it all into plastic containers, label them with sticky notes, and put them in the fridge. When that’s all done and the kitchen is clean, I ask the girls if they have any laundry they need done.
“Yes,” calls Morgan. “It’s in my room on the floor.”
Of course it is.
“Ruby, what about you?” She’s still wearing her leotard and tights from dance class, but I know she’ll need them again for Saturday. “Do you need me to wash your ballet clothes? Or do you have extra?”
“I have extra. Can I color?” she asks, sliding off her chair.
“Sure, honey.” We locate some paper and the art supplies Sabrina’s mom had the foresight to pack up and bring here from their house, and I leave her sitting at the kitchen table.
Then I grab my phone and find a message from Ian.
* * *
Ian: Don’t tell me what to do, woman.
* * *
Idiot. But I’m grinning.
* * *
Me: I wouldn’t have to if you were a grown up all the time.
Ian: Growing up is overrated.
Me: Clearly.
Ian: Heading to the back room where I have no service. But I have one question, do you sleep naked?
* * *
Oh my God. He’s so ridiculous.
* * *
Me: You’ll never know.
* * *
Ian has a first-floor laundry room off the hallway between his bedroom and the kitchen, and I grab an empty basket from it and head upstairs, still smiling from our text exchange. In Morgan’s room, it’s just as she says—clothes are everywhere, and I can hardly tell what’s dirty and what’s clean. I guess as well as I can, sticking some things in the basket and folding the rest, placing things in drawers. In Ruby’s room, I find her nightgown and school clothes on the floor, and add them to the basket.
Christopher’s room already smells like a teenage boy, and I’m a little leery about invading his privacy, so I skip it, deciding I’ll simply stick an empty basket in his room and let him fill it.
Back in the laundry room, I fill the washer and turn it on before joining Ruby at the table.
“What are you making?” I ask as she sprinkles glitter glue on her picture.
“A princess. It’s for Uncle Ian,” she tells me. “He can take it to work.”
I smile, imagining him hanging up the glittery pink artwork in his office. “That’s so nice of you. He’s going to love it.”
My phone has another missed text.
* * *
Ian: I’m pretty sure I already know, but can’t wait to see if I’m right.
* * *
My stomach flutters thinking about the two of us in any bed again. I shut it down, though. That’s a thought I don’t need to entertain.
Ian is bad for my heart.
Nine
London
Christopher comes in around seven and gobbles up dinner like he hasn’t eaten in days. After a second helping, he heads upstairs to shower without saying much. I’m concerned about him, but I don’t want to push. He doesn’t come back downstairs, and when I take Ruby up to bed at eight and then Morgan at nine-thirty, he’s still in his room with the door shut. After debating whether or not I should just leave him be for now, I decide to knock.
“Christopher?”
“Yeah?” His voice is muffled through the closed door.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Well . . . do you need anything?”
“No.”
I bite my lip. “Okay, honey. I put an empty laundry basket in your closet earlier. You can use that for your dirty clothes.”
“Thanks.”
I give it a few more seconds but can’t think of anything else to draw him out, and maybe he needs the alone time, anyway. “Goodnight. I
’m here if you need anything.”
“Night.”
Folding my arms over my chest, I head back downstairs to switch the girls’ laundry into the dryer, but there’s a load of Ian’s darks in there. Tossing it into a basket, I transfer the girls’ things into the dryer and turn it on. Then, since I am the type of person who cannot stand to leave clean clothes heaped in a basket, I figure I might as well fold Ian’s things.
I bring the basket out to the living room, sit on the couch, and turn on CSI. As I work, it occurs to me this evening offers a little glimpse of what my life might have been like had things not gone so wrong with Ian and me. We might be married now. We might live in a big house like this with a pool. We might have three amazing kids like the ones sleeping upstairs. I might be here folding laundry on a Thursday night while he’s at work. I cringe a little at the traditional gender roles implied in this scenario—I like being a woman with a career—but the feeling is actually kind of nice. Cozy. Reassuring. And who’s to say I wouldn’t be getting up in the morning and hurrying into the office once I got the kids on the bus? Women don’t have to choose these days, do they?
I’ve folded a few shirts and matched a couple pairs of socks when I realize the load also contains a few pairs of underwear—short boxer briefs in navy and black. My stomach flutters a little as my mind wanders deeper into the fantasy. Maybe when he gets home, I’m already asleep in bed, but he slips in behind me and curls his warm body around mine. Maybe I feel him start to get hard as his hands move over my breasts. Maybe I reach behind me and wrap my hand around his cock and he says to me, his voice deep and gravelly in the dark, “Want something?” Then he—
“Aunt London?”
I open my eyes, realizing Ruby has just caught me swooning over a pair of men’s underpants. Shoving them behind my back, I clear my throat. “What is it, sweetie?”
“I’m thirsty. Can I have some water?”
“Of course.” I jump up, and she follows me to the kitchen. My nipples are hard and tingling, and my underwear feels damp. I focus on filling a glass with water and shove the thought of Ian naked and hard and reaching for me out of my mind.
It’s not easy.
I give the glass to Ruby. “Here you go.”
After she’s taken a couple sips, she hands it back. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie. Come on, I’ll tuck you back in.” I hold her hand and take her back up to bed, and when I pass Christopher’s room on my way back down the hall, I notice the light is still on and I hear muffled sobs. My heart squeezes, and tears come to my eyes. These poor kids. I knock twice, softly.
The crying stops, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Chris, honey? Can I come in?”
“No!”
I try the handle anyway. Locked. “Please, Christopher. Let me in.”
“I’m fine. Go away.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. So if you won’t let me in, I’ll just sit right here and wait for you to come out. I’ll stay all night if I have to.” I plop down on the hall carpet, legs crisscrossed.
A moment later, he opens the door. His eyes are bloodshot, his nose red. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you.” I scramble to my feet. “Can I come in?”
He sighs. “Fine.”
I follow him into his room and perch on the edge of the dresser while he sits on the bed. “How are you feeling?”
He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Great.”
“You know, it’s okay to cry when you’re this sad.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Of course it is, honey. Everyone cries when they’re sad.”
“Men don’t.” He sits up a little taller, his chest puffing out.
“Says who?”
“Uncle Ian. He told me men are fixers. Men are strong. Crying shows weakness.”
Fury boils inside me. “That is ridiculous,” I snap, standing up. “A real man is not afraid to show his feelings, no matter what they are.”
“That’s not what he says. He told me men have to be strong for the women. I need to be strong for my sisters.” He swipes at his nose with the back of his hand.
“You have every right to cry, honey. Your Uncle Ian is wrong.” But I can tell Christopher doesn’t believe me.
“Well, I don’t want to cry,” he says angrily. “I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being sad and people asking how I’m doing and telling me how sorry they are. It doesn’t fucking matter. I just want to be left the fuck alone.” He turns his back to me.
I could tell him to watch his language, but I don’t. Anger will be part of the grieving process too, and it’s not like his sisters are in the room. “Okay, Christopher. I’ll leave you be. But if you change your mind, I’m here.”
Leaving his room, I shut the door behind me and go back downstairs with a heavy heart. We’re going to have to keep an eye on Christopher—he’s a sensitive kid, and if he feels like he has to bottle up all his sad feelings, eventually they’re going to be channeled into something else.
In the living room, I finish folding Ian’s and then the girls’ laundry, and place everything back in the baskets. The girls’ basket I leave at the bottom of the stairs, but Ian’s I take to his bedroom.
I planned to simply leave it on the floor in his walk-in closet and go back to the living room couch, but once I’m in there, I can’t resist looking around a little. It’s surprisingly neat—he hangs his work shirts by color, his shoes are lined up in tidy rows on two shelves, and his knits are nicely folded and stacked three deep. Gingerly, I pull open one drawer and find two piles of crisp white undershirts. The drawer beneath it holds colored T-shirts. A third reveals neat stacks of underwear. Belts and ties are hanging on cedar racks, all the hangers match, and nothing is out of place—no stray pair of jeans tossed over a hook, no workout wear flung on the floor, no sad, dirty sock crumpled and forgotten in the corner. It even smells good, like leather and wood and a faint whiff of cologne. I inhale deeply, and get a tingly feeling between my legs.
Yes, it turns me on that Ian’s closet is so organized and clean. It also annoys me—who’d have thought that such an uncivilized caveman, one who believes men can’t cry and thinks naked pool parties at three AM are perfectly acceptable, would turn out to have a neat streak? I decide that since I’m in there and can clearly see where everything goes, I might as well put away the laundry I’ve folded. As I do so, I try my best to ignore the nagging voice telling me I shouldn’t like this so much. There’s nothing wrong with doing a little favor for Ian, is there? After all, we’re trying to get along better. It’s not like I’m snooping or something. I’m being nice.
When I’m finished, I leave the empty basket in his closet. A bedside lamp is on low in his bedroom, and I can’t resist wandering over to the bed.
I remember he told me to stay on the left side and I eyeball it warily, wondering how many women have spent the night there. Is Ian the sleepover type? Or is he more like the guy who has rules about staying over and calls a car for his conquests as soon as he’s done with them?
Then I stare at the right side for a moment, imagining his sleeping form beneath the covers. Does he sleep on his stomach or back? Does he stay still during the night or move around? Does he sleep in pajamas or naked? My stomach whooshes, and I place a hand over it. It’s been almost twenty years, but nothing, not even hating him, has erased the memory of his body on mine.
Enough. Get out of his bedroom. You don’t belong here.
But after I’ve turned off all the downstairs lights and stretched out on the couch, I can’t stop hearing his voice. The next time I kiss you, London Parish, it’ll be because you beg me to.
I’m a little worried he might be right.
Ten
Ian
“Don’t you want me to come over to your place?” a half-drunk brunette, named Collette, who drives a Corvette, asks, while running her finger down my chest.
Any other night, the answer would’ve
been, Why wait to get back to my place? I have an office and a lock. But tonight . . .
Nope.
I’m not even a little interested in this woman with legs for days.
Instead, my mind has been traveling back to a different brunette. Instead of blond highlights, the one I’m thinking of has chocolate brown hair with subtle red hues in it. Her green eyes are pure jade instead of the deep brown the woman in front of me has. And while Colette wants to be in my bed, I’m silently praying London is in my bed . . . naked.
“Not this time.” I pull her hand away, and she pouts.
“Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe not,” I say and take a sip of my drink.
Being back has been weird and working off the excess energy is exactly what I should do, but not like this. I’ll run or go for a swim when I get back. Thankfully, my absence didn’t cause the club any major issues, which is a good thing. It means Drea is actually doing her job—finally. Or, at least she didn’t burn the place down. However, I spent a good part of the night fixing orders that were going out tomorrow. Drea is not so good when it comes to the paperwork part.
I came out to the floor about two hours ago, enjoying the atmosphere, talking with customers, and needing to get away from my phone since I checked it about a hundred times. I’ve become a pussy, waiting for a text message from a girl.
A girl that’s not even my girl.
“If you change your mind . . .” She grins.
“I won’t, but have a good night and get home safe.”
Toby lets out a laugh that he attempts to cover over with cough, but I catch it. Collette walks out of the club, feelings probably hurt, but we’re officially closed now. Tonight, we were packed, everything went great, and I felt like myself again, minus the not getting laid part.
Hold You Close Page 9
