by Kate Meader
He nodded gravely. Did that word come from grave, as in the hole you dug to bury someone?
“When did this happen before?”
“Two years ago. It runs in my family, and while it was only in one, there was enough about my genetics to encourage me to have the double mastectomy. It’s not supposed to come back, Bren. It’s not—”
His thumb stroked her lip, as much comfort in it as a hug. “It might not have. We’ll get you in to see a doctor tomorrow. Today. We’ll get it taken care of. You can handle this. You did before.”
With her mom and aunts around. She didn’t think she could go through this again, not with these people. Shared DNA, yet strangers to her. But she would, because the only way out was through.
He followed her home to the cottage at Chase Manor. Only when he got out of the car did she think to ask, “Who’s with the girls?”
“I took them next door to visit the neighbor kids, the Nicholses.”
“Oh, okay. Tristan and Balthazar. You should get back to them.”
“They’ll be fine for a while.” He followed her into the cottage and closed the door.
In her small kitchen, the one she had decorated with thrift store bits and bobs, he looked solid and present and surprisingly at home. “Thanks for seeing me back.”
“We should call Harper.”
“No! She’ll call a million people, drag some doc out of his golf game.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
She opened a cupboard to get a glass for water. Her mouth was dry, words hard to form. “I don’t want her or Iz to know. Not yet. There’s so much happening with the play-offs that this is just a distraction.”
“A distraction.” He leaned against the counter. “That’s what you do best, though, isn’t it, Violet? Distract?”
She stared at him, trying to reckon with his meaning.
“You’re the queen of distraction.” He raised a hand away from his body. “Telling people to look here because you’re doing something over here.” A gesture with his other hand in the opposite direction. “With Cade. With other players.”
“That’s not why I was with Cade. He needed a cover and he’s my friend.”
“Aye, but it suited you, too. Kept you safe when you knew I’d be gunning for you if I thought for a second you were free.”
How the hell did they get onto this topic? She had bigger problems than whether Bren St. James thought she was a tease.
“Like I said, you had your shot.”
“And you’ve spent the past nine months reminding me of how I fucked up that day in the bar.” He shook his head, shook off his frustration with her. “But that’s a conversation for another day. For now, we’re going to focus on the current problem, and when that’s resolved, you and I will have that reckoning.”
She was a fake-boobed, possibly cancer-riddled mess and he still wanted her. Or wanted her enough to get some sort of revenge for the torture she’d put him through these past few months. Her entire body warmed at the prospect of being . . . used.
“Why wait?”
“Why wait for what?”
“This reckoning.” She moved forward and placed both hands on his chest. His breath caught, his pecs rose beneath her fingertips. “Maybe you should just take that revenge now.”
“Revenge? That’s not it. A little punishment, perhaps.” His fingers dug into her hip, a subtle display of dominance. “But you’ll not use me to blank out your problems, Violet. I know all too well the dangers of using. Sex. The bottle. When I fuck you, there’ll be nothing clouding your judgment.”
“So sure it’s going to happen, Scot?”
“It’s inevitable, lass. We can fight it or accept it. First, we’ll take care of you, then we’ll take care of each other.”
She had started to shake, and the only way she could think to stop was to sink into him, all that strength. His arms encircled her and pulled her flush. She knew she must look a fright with her half-rinsed hair and his oversized sweats, but none of that mattered while Bren held her. Head tucked beneath his chin, she closed her eyes, inhaled his scent. Soap and a hint of coffee. She knew he wouldn’t break first. It would be a point of pride with him.
In the arms of this warm, breathing monolith of a man, she felt safer than she had in years.
“I should take another shower,” she murmured against his hard, wonderful chest. “Rinse out the shampoo.”
He drew back. “Do you have an oncologist in Chicago?”
She shook her head.
“Go take care of yourself and I’ll make a few calls.”
“Not Harper.”
“Not Harper. But this isn’t how we’re doing this going forward, Violet.”
“Doing what?”
“You need help, you ask for it.”
“I don’t—” He stopped her midsentence with that famous St. James scowl. “I got through this before.”
“On your own?”
“No, my mom. My aunts.” Her mom was back in San Juan and no way was Violet calling her or Tía Cecy—next in line to the mom throne—with news of a possible recurrence. This is how she’d handled it back then. Didn’t spill until absolutely necessary. It was weird sharing this with Bren, and while it should have felt like a relief, it didn’t. It felt like another weight in their already taut relationship.
She was too tired to argue. “I’m going to take that shower now.”
She walked back into the kitchen to find Bren still there. This shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. Reflexively, she tightened the knot on her towel.
He looked up, and she assessed his gaze for changes. Would he view her differently now that he knew she wasn’t the same person as he’d suspected? Would he think she was a fraud because she had provoked and teased, sold him a fake bill of goods?
She felt different because of what she’d found under her arm and the knowledge he now had about her. This last part should have made no odds, but it did.
“I thought you would have left.”
“What gave you that idea?” He gave her an up-down look filled with what could only be called carnal interest. Maybe he did it to make her feel better. It’s okay, Vi. I’m no longer attracted to you, but I’ll play along to make you feel better.
“The girls need you,” she said.
“They do,” he said simply, and there it was again. That unshakeable feeling that every time he mentioned his girls, she was included.
“I made a few calls,” he went on, “to get the names of the best oncologists in the city. Everyone I talked to said you’ll need to see your regular GP first. You have one? Nearby?”
That’s what she’d figured. “Yes, she’s at the Riverbrook Medical Building. I’ll call her on Monday morning.” Today was Saturday, so she’d have to wait.
He nodded. “And you’ll take one of your sisters with you. Or Cade.”
Probably not. “Of course.”
He nodded, so assured that what he said would be taken as the law of the land. “You’d best get dressed and dry your hair. You’re coming back to our place for lunch.”
She swallowed. “No. I mean, thanks, but I’m not good company.”
“I’m not letting you stay here to brood. One of us with that attitude is bad enough.”
Said as if they were a couple who needed to balance each other out. Shut up, Vi, that’s your underarm lump talking.
“I’d really prefer to be alone.” It was a lie, and he knew it. She always did better around people. She could go stretches without them, but she needed the energy of others to refuel her. She looked around at her kitchen, this place she felt ownership over. This place she was prepared to leave in a heartbeat as soon as the dumb hockey season was over and she had that big, fat check in her hand.
He waited. As before, when he held her in his solid embrace, she got the impression he could wait her out forever.
She didn’t want to be alone here. She wanted to be surrounded by love, even if it wasn’t for her. “
I’m going to get dressed.”
Not a word from the Scot, but then he’d known she just needed time to get used to the idea.
“You’ll be here when I come out?” She tossed off the question as if his stubborn streak was annoyingly inconvenient, but her breath held in anticipation all the same.
“Aye, lass. I’ll be here.”
FIFTEEN
Bren put his head around the door of Franky’s room. She was parked in front of Slugville, taking notes.
“All right there, sprite?”
“Yep, Dad,” she said without looking up, but as he left, she called out to him.
“What, love?”
“Is Violet okay?”
He stepped back inside. “Why do you ask?”
“She seemed less . . . Violet yesterday.”
Yesterday being the day she’d found out her cancer might have recurred. He’d brought her back to their place for lunch, and she’d tried valiantly to be her usually cheery self. They’d eaten pizza, then settled in and watched movies, including The Princess Bride and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, a favorite of Caitriona’s.
The shock at Violet’s news had lingered overnight, and he’d awoken this morning with his mind chock-full of thoughts of his children’s nanny—except this time, it wasn’t the usual overheated sexual fantasies. This time, he was thinking of how he wanted to hold her forever like he had in her kitchen. Tell her it would be okay. He would make it okay.
“She wasn’t feeling so good,” he said, soothing his worried daughter. “A headache. But today’s her day off, so she’s probably resting after we wore her out.”
Franky wrinkled her nose, a signal that she was plotting something. “Should I call her and ask her if she needs anything? She might want to come over and see the slugs. Or make an apple pie.”
“You could text her, I suppose. Just to check in.” He could text her, but he didn’t want to crowd her. Instead he’d rather use his youngest child to do his dirty work. Classy, St. James.
“I’ll text her,” Franky agreed.
Rather than wait around like an idiot, he went in search of his other daughter. When he’d only had one weekend a month with them, he’d filled the time with trips to the zoo, cupcake runs, and movies. They’d loved it. Now that he had them constantly, they didn’t seem as interested in his efforts to entertain them. This was more like his life when he was still married to Kendra, who went to great lengths to shove them off on neighbors and slumber parties when he wasn’t playing. She’d never enjoyed doing things that involved all of them. Said he’d be bored.
His daughters could never bore him. He loved spending time with them, loved especially watching their faces light up when they came across something new to them. They were still young enough to perceive wonder, and it made him feel young to see that wonder filtered through their eyes.
He found Caitriona curled up on the sofa in what Kendra used to call the music room because it contained the piano. The instrument that Caitriona hadn’t played once since she’d come to live with him a month ago.
As he entered, Caitriona looked up guiltily from her iPad and turned it off.
“Texting with one of your friends?”
Her eyes flew wide. “Yeah. Sophie from my old school.”
He wondered. His recollection was that one of the Nichols boys had been sweet on her when they all lived here together last year. Maybe Bren had jump-started that again when he dropped them off with Skylar yesterday.
“I know you must miss your friends back—” He almost said home. “Back in Atlanta.”
“It’s okay here. It’s quieter.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mom and Drew fought a lot. Kind of like you and Mom, which makes me think Mom might be a bit of a drama llama.”
“Neither of us are saints.” He refused to criticize Kendra in front of the girls. God only knew he was a tough man to live with.
Taking advantage of the unusually pleasant father-daughter vibe, he ran a finger along the piano. “Do you want to start up lessons again?”
“Not really.”
“Thought you liked playing.” She loved music, had every soundtrack of every Broadway musical memorized.
She shrugged. “It’s kind of lame.”
He sat beside her on the sofa. “Lame? You’ve been playing for five years. When did it become lame?”
“Mom likes it. She thinks it’s elegant.” Air quotes around elegant. “But . . .”
“But what?”
No response. Caitriona had always had a hard time expressing her feelings. She was so like him in that respect.
“I know you miss your mom, love. Have your grandparents mentioned her?”
“They said she wishes she could be here, but she has to take care of herself.”
That sounded like Kendra, looking out for number one. He couldn’t believe that she’d made no effort to get in touch with her children. To be honest, Bren hadn’t pushed the issue with her or her parents, because Kendra’s bad behavior would be to his advantage during any future custody hearing. He hated that his daughters were suffering because their mom was so selfish, but if it meant he was one step closer to getting them back permanently, he was prepared to put up with it.
“Well, she needs a long rest. But you’ll see her again soon and she might like it if you could play her a tune on the piano.”
Franky wandered in. “I texted Violet. She said she’s fine and she’ll see us tomorrow.”
Two minutes later, he headed into the kitchen and shot off a text to his children’s nanny.
Sorry about Franky bothering you on your day off. She was worried.
A full minute passed before she responded.
She’s sweet.
. . .
Like her dad.
He didn’t feel sweet toward Violet. He felt positively savage.
What the hell was wrong with him? The woman was sick with worry and he wanted what, exactly?
To drive deep between her thighs until she was shaking with the force of the orgasms he’d given her. That’s what.
He texted back: I’m not sweet. I’d just prefer not to look for another nanny.
Shit, that came out all wrong. He was going for a joke but it sounded like he thought she might not be around. As in, permanently not around. He started typing again, then stopped because he had no idea what to say. He hit the call button.
She answered immediately. “Nessie.”
“I’m sorry. That was in poor taste.”
“Forget about it. I know your big thick Scottish fingers and puck-concussed brain are virtually incapable of stringing a sentence together.”
When had it become so easy with her? The strains of “Gold Dust Woman” filtered in from Violet’s end, and he was reminded of how she’d been playing another Fleetwood Mac song in the car yesterday. And “The Chain” that day he came across her filling his fridge.
“Do you have some sort of Fleetwood Mac kink?”
“Kink? No. I’m a fan, like any right-thinking human.”
“Okay, weirdo.”
“Name three songs of theirs you don’t like.”
“ ‘Don’t Stop’ is pretty overplayed,” he said, warming to the subject. “ ‘Tusk’ is sort of strange, but also crazy compelling. And . . . that’s about it. Touché.”
She laughed. “See? The Mac are near perfect, and Stevie Nicks is the greatest rock ’n’ roll frontwoman of all time.”
“Vasquez, I already acknowledged that they have a decent catalog, but this Stevie Nicks business is a bridge too far.”
“Name another,” she challenged.
“I’ll name five others. Joan Jett. Grace Slick. Ann Wilson. Tina. Aretha.”
Violet scoffed. “They’re all power. None of them have the ability to do vulnerable and raw sensuality. None of them have that smoky-sweet quality like Stevie. And she’s a fashion icon as well as having led a life of great drama. It all combines to make her a true artisan.”
&nbs
p; “You’ve given this an oddly specific level of thought.”
“I have!” She chuckled softly. “And nothing you can say will change my mind.”
He laughed, feeling unexpectedly joyful. It surprised them both enough to create a taut silence in its aftermath. There was a moment’s pause while they both figured out how to navigate it.
“Caitriona used to play the piano.” So it might’ve sounded like a non sequitur, but they were talking about music.
“And she doesn’t anymore?”
“Says she’s not interested. I feel like she’s punishing me. She knows her misery makes me miserable.”
Violet snorted. “Right, she’s that evil, every thought and action centered on how to ruin your life.”
“I knew you’d understand.”
“She’s eleven and she misses her mom. It’s hard on all of you.”
Bren sighed, wondering if he should share more of why Caitriona wasn’t happy with him and how he had betrayed his daughters.
One hand on the wheel, another turning the ignition. Headlights illuminating the drive to the street, but not enough to overcome his blurry vision.
Sharing might be initially cathartic, but ultimately would result in Violet looking at him differently. He found himself desperately wanting her good opinion, this warm glow of basking in her good favor.
“Have you talked to your sisters?”
She hesitated. “Not yet. I was going to head up to Chase Manor later and fill them in.”
“If you need a ride to the doctor, you just have to ask.” He assumed she’d be on it tomorrow, Monday. He’d cut practice if necessary.
In the distance, he heard something crash, then the sound of raised voices. One of his daughters called the other one stupid. Ah, the poetry of parenthood.
“The girls are fighting. Want to come over?”
Her husky chuckle went straight to his balls. “Adios, St. James. And thanks for—well, just thanks.” She clicked off, and he went to break up World War III.
SIXTEEN
The waiting was the worst.
Doctors’ offices. Preop prep. Postop recovery. Test results. For a girl who wasn’t patient, it made her the worst patient in the world. (Ha, see what she did there?)
