by Becky Flade
“Screw her. She’s a bitch.” Henley’s laugh rewarded him. It also reassured him. She was a survivor—she just couldn’t see it. Yet. He smiled at her. “Okay; we’re close to my home. And I should warn you about a few things. My mom always cooks a big Sunday dinner that the whole family has a standing invitation to attend. However, with the exception of Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, the entire family doesn’t turn out every week. But it’s hardly ever just my parents. Be prepared for at least one of my siblings, their spouse and children, in addition to Mom and Dad. They will insist you call them Mom and Dad, by the way. Figure out now if you’re comfortable with that or if you’re more comfortable with first names. Either way, they won’t accept mister and missus.
“It’ll take about an hour for the word to spread, and then the rest of my family will make an appearance. And though they’re going to be happy to see me, they will still find a way to interrogate you. It wasn’t often I brought women home. If you get weirded out, let me know, and I’ll intervene.”
“I do know how to handle social situations, Carter.” He heard the humor in her words.
“Yeah, this isn’t a social situation. This is the McAlisters.” He took a deep breath. “Try not to be alone with Jenna if you can help it.”
“Why?”
“Your sister isn’t the only bitch we’re going to encounter this weekend. She loves me. They all do. But with Jen, I’m more than a brother, I’m a friend. Her best friend. We are close enough in age that we grew up more like twins than not. She’s overprotective and opinionated. She won’t merely be curious, she’ll be rude. She and Aidan have an uneasy relationship; you can use that to your benefit.”
“You’re not kidding.”
He looked down into her golden gaze as he slowed in front of the yard where he’d thrown a football through the bay window. “I’m not kidding.”
“Shit.”
He raised an eyebrow at the expletive. She sounded upset. He parked across the driveway, blocking in his father’s truck.
“Why didn’t we go to the hotel first? I would’ve liked to freshen up, wash or change my clothes. Something. Am I wrinkled?”
“I made you nervous.” He laughed. “I’m sorry, Doc. That wasn’t my intent.”
“Do I look okay?” she asked. She wore white capris in a light fabric that, to his eye, must’ve been comfortable and a pale yellow scoop-neck shirt. She was wrinkled from the plane and car rides. Her hair was in a thick braid down her back, although some of her hair had escaped. The breeze from the air conditioner made the tendrils dance around her flustered, frantic features. He depressed the release on her seat belt and pulled her into his lap.
His mouth found hers, still formed in an O from surprise, and his tongue delved between her parted lips. Her palms landed on his chest, and he felt her restless fingers clenching and releasing. Again he pictured her hands on his most intimate parts. With his hands on her waist, he pressed down to feel her bottom against his arousal. She moaned into his mouth and thrust her fingers into his hair. He slanted his head, giving her better access to his mouth, and groaned when her tongue slid against his.
He pulled away first, touching his forehead to hers. “I haven’t necked in a car since I was in high school. And never in broad daylight right outside my mother’s living-room window.” He felt her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. “What are you doing to me, woman?”
“You started it.” She gave him a quick peck on the mouth and slid back over to her side of the vehicle. “And you never did answer my question.”
He checked her out again. Her nipples pebbled under her shirt. More hair had escaped her braid. Her lips were as plump and red as they’d been when she’d stepped from the elevator in Cleveland. “You look great, Doc.”
“You sure? Maybe we should check into the hotel first.”
“My mother would be crushed if I didn’t stay with them. There will be a bidding war later over who gets me, but Mom will win.”
“We’re staying here?”
“You’ll have your own room.” He laughed at her expression and stepped out of the car. He stretched and circled around to the passenger side. When Henley stepped out, he pulled her in close and started up the walk with his arm around her shoulders. Her arm snaked around his waist.
“Thanks for being here with me.”
He had never knocked on his parents’ door. This house was symbolically always open to him, and he had a key—they all did—if it was physically locked. He pushed the door open and pulled Henley through the entrance with him. With as much stealth as he could muster, and fighting back a chuckle, he led her into the archway between the dining and living rooms.
“What’s for dinner?”
Chapter Fourteen
Heads turned at the sound of his voice. In the blink of an eye, the room erupted.
“Carter!”
“It’s good to see you.”
“We missed you!”
“Uncle Carter! I lost a tooth.”
“Why didn’t you say you were coming?”
He smiled, answering all the questions being thrown at him. From Henley’s perspective, Carter glowed. A beautiful older woman approached, and the McAlisters cleared a path without prodding. The voices quieted to a murmur, and Henley caught the sound of a soft sob from within the crowd. The woman was tall and slender. Her salt-and-pepper tresses were shorn close enough to her head to minimize the fuss. The style drew an observer’s gaze to sharp cheekbones and the magnetizing blue eyes she’d passed on to her son.
“Hi, Mom.” Carter released Henley and stepped forward, embracing his mother. She hugged him tightly and then held him out at arm’s length. Henley watched—the entire room did—as she stared into Carter’s eyes. Henley swore she caught the glimmer of tears. But whatever the older woman saw reflected in her son’s gaze met with her approval. Her face split into a joyous smile.
“Hey, baby.” She kissed his cheek. “Welcome home.”
Her voice was deeper than most women’s but no less feminine and thick with emotion. Several people were struggling with tears. Henley felt like an intruder. She took a step backward, dropping further into the living room. A hand gripped her arm and pulled her.
“Who are you?”
The woman addressing her was attractive and well groomed, but the pinched, accusatory expression riding her features gave Henley the distinct impression of a bulldog. This had to be his sister Jenna. The woman braced her hands on her hips and glared. Henley found it difficult to believe this hostile woman was best friends with the open-minded, friendly, overt Maggie Gael.
“Henley Elliott, this is my sister Jenna. Jenna, be nice to Henley.”
“You’re Henley Elliott? The woman renting the cabin from Maggie?” She didn’t wait for an answer before addressing her brother. “Why would you bring the station’s dispatcher?”
“Jeez, Jen. I haven’t been here five minutes, and you’re starting crap already.” He hooked his arm around Henley’s waist. “We’re friends and I invited her.”
“Oh.” Henley caught the hurt look the woman shot her. “I get it. She’s the new me, right? It’s you and her and Maggie now.” The woman strode from the room.
“I’ll be right back.”
Henley nodded her understanding. Then the enormity of his abandonment struck her. She was alone with a room full of strangers who were now channeling their emotions into curiosity—about her. She felt the heavy weight of their questioning stares and raised her chin. He’d chased his sister into the living room; Henley had no avenue of escape. Her options were to invade a private moment between Carter and Jenna, step further into the dining room, or stand her ground.
“Henley, is it?”
Henley glanced at the man to her right who had spoken. He had a dark, thick mustache sprinkled with white that matched his hair. Kind, hazel eyes regarded her. He was about her height and had a charming potbelly. He winked, and Henley smiled—despite their physical differences, Car
ter’s resemblance to his father was unmistakable.
“Yes, sir.”
“None of that sir crap. Makes me feel old. You can call me Dan or Dad.” He loosed a quiet whistle. “Boy has good taste. But awful manners.” He leaned in and whispered, “Got his taste in women from me, if I do say so myself. We’ll blame the rest on his mother.
“Now,” he continued, his voice booming, “let’s get these introductions out of the way and get you fed. You hungry? My Margo roasts a mean chicken.”
She was swept into the room by Dan McAlister’s gentle but firm hand cupping her elbow. She met Jenna’s husband, Mike Gavin, a soft-spoken man with whip-quick wit, and their two children, Sawyer and Millie. Nine-year-old Sawyer had golden hair, his grandfather’s mischievous hazel orbs, and Carter’s charm. His twin was the image of her mother but not as outgoing. She shyly hid behind her father’s leg.
Mike apologized for his wife’s rude behavior and attempted to pry his daughter from his thigh when Dan pivoted Henley to the left to meet his son Peter and his husband, Sean. They were a striking couple. In fact, the McAlister clan was a good-looking family. She felt frumpy and wrinkled in comparison.
“I’m sorry.” She turned more fully toward Dan. Carter and Jenna were returning, both sporting smiles. “I missed that.”
“It won’t take long for word to spread that Carter’s here; how about dinner before the next wave hits?”
“I’ve got this. Why don’t you sit with Carter?” Margo suggested with a peck on his cheek. She called out, “Sawyer, move over a seat and make room for Ms. Elliott,” and led Henley into the kitchen.
“You have a beautiful home and family, Mrs. McAlister.”
“Margo or Mom, please.” The older woman glanced behind Henley and leaned in close, saying, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For whatever part you played in bringing my boy home. Don’t deny it. I don’t figure it was his idea. But more than that, the shadows that haunted his eyes since Justin’s death have finally faded.” She opened a glass-paned cabinet and pulled out two plates. “He’ll never forget that night, it’s a part of him now, but it’s a part of him he’s learning how to live with, and I think that, in part, is thanks to you.” She clasped Henley’s hands in hers.
Instantly, the woman’s strength flowed into Henley’s consciousness, and Henley fought the urge to weep. The love and thanksgiving the woman conveyed were like a beacon of light that stole Henley’s breath for all its beauty.
She was thankful for the momentary reprieve when Margo turned to fill a plate with chicken and vegetables. By the time Margo faced her again, Henley was composed.
She hesitated at the doorway. Carter sat at the table surrounded by his family, appearing completely at ease. In fact, she’d never seen him this relaxed. The closest he’d been was dinner at Maggie’s. He looked up, perhaps he’d felt the heat of her stare, and met her eyes. The smile that drew across his face was incomparable and at the same time encompassing. She hiccupped a sigh at her responding tug of desire. She heard the low hum of understanding Margo made in her throat but chose to ignore it and took her seat between Carter and his nephew.
• • •
It was a comfortable bed in a pleasant room. The house was quiet. But Henley couldn’t sleep. She had laid there for more than an hour, staring at the furnishings, the ceiling, the pictures on the wall and dresser, all in vain. Her mind was replaying the day in a constant loop. Jenna hadn’t warmed to her by the time she and her family had made their goodbyes.
His parents were wonderful, and they’d done everything in their power to make her comfortable. The remainder of Carter’s siblings appeared warm and welcoming. But Henley hadn’t been able to fully relax. She made a conscious effort to avoid physical contact with Carter. She didn’t want or need anyone else’s emotions competing with her own confused feelings.
What were those feelings? She admired him, respected him, enjoyed him. Certainly there was lust. And the most amazing thing, to her mind, was acknowledging that she trusted him. With only the childish infatuation she’d experienced with Jacob with which to compare, whatever this was felt more substantial. There was friendship. A friendship that had become important to her. Was this love?
With a heavy sigh, Henley threw back the light throw she’d cuddled under and slid from the bed. She caught her image in the mirror over the vanity. Her pajamas and the thick socks she preferred to slippers were decent cover. She wished for a robe but hadn’t packed one. It wasn’t like anyone would see her anyway—the house had been quiet for the last hour.
Using her cell phone as a flashlight, Henley made her way through the house, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. The only illumination shone from a plug-in nightlight on the counter backsplash. Though framed in muted darkness, the kitchen maintained its homey feel. There were drawings on the refrigerator, canisters of various sizes and colors, baskets of flowers, fruits, and herbs littering different surfaces. It was clean, and despite the friendly clutter, Henley was confident that Margo had it organized exactly as she saw fit. This room held memories of family discussions, laughter, school projects, and cookies. Henley imagined she could hear their whispers. It was only natural that she compared it to her mother’s sterile, regimented kitchen.
She much preferred Margo’s.
Henley stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips, at a loss. She wished for a cup of bedtime tea but didn’t know where to find it or if Margo stocked it, and, in addition to her hesitation to root around in another woman’s kitchen, she didn’t want to wake anyone. “Now what?” she asked the night.
“My question exactly.”
Henley jumped, spun, and stifled a scream when she spotted Carter lounging against the doorframe. He wore a pair of men’s pajama bottoms. And that was it. She cast her eyes over his wide shoulders. Appreciated the hint of muscle she could see hiding under dark, curly hair, his narrow waist, and the vee formed by hip bones. His pajamas hung loosely on his pelvis. Her heart continued to race, but the tempo set by fear gave way to desire.
“You scared me.”
“Trying to make a break for it, Doc?”
“In this?” She swept her hair out of her face and wished she’d thought to pull it up or at least grab a hair tie. She didn’t know why, but she felt more vulnerable with her hair unbound. “I couldn’t sleep and thought a cup of tea might help.”
“I’ll get it.” He pointed to one of the stools that sat along the length of the island. “I could use a cup myself.”
Henley sat as Carter retrieved a rooster shaped kettle from a lower cabinet. He’d filled it and set it on the stove, turning the flame high. He set a pair of ceramic mugs, painted to match the teapot, on the counter. She enjoyed watching him. The play of muscles across his back as he reached for the tea captivated her. He moved quietly, with masculine grace, and the simple tasks of setting out cream and sugar struck her as sensual.
“I’m not going to let this get hot enough to whistle. Let me know if the tea isn’t warm enough.”
She nodded. He turned back to the stove and she stared at his calves. Amused with herself, she pulled her gaze up as Carter lifted the pot and turned to fill their mugs. Without looking, he placed the kettle on a trivet and leaned his elbow on the counter. He was easily as comfortable in his mother’s kitchen as he was in his own home.
“You didn’t need me here for moral support. Your family was delighted to see you and you them,” she reproached. “Anyone who didn’t know better would never have guessed that you’ve been absent from the nest for two years. The understanding and laughter, the arguments, all of it spoke to the depth of your love for them and theirs for you.”
Henley removed the teabag and added a scoop of sugar. She took a testing sip and found the tea excellent, the temperature just right. “I’ve never seen you that happy. Maybe you should consider moving back.”
He lifted his cup and considered her over the rim. She held his gaze. When he low
ered his mug, she could see the twitch of his lips. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“It would make things easier on Deputy Doug and me.” Henley smothered her laughter when he choked down more tea. She’d timed her response with his next sip. It prevented a glib response.
“Not funny, Doc.”
“I disagree.” She winked and sipped her oolong. “I’d miss you. But I’m your friend, and friends are supposed to want what’s best for the other, not what’s best for them. I can’t help but think you’d be happier here, with your family close. Perhaps it’s time to put an end to your self-imposed exile.”
“And what about us? This?” He waved his hand between them.
“We haven’t known each other but a few months. Why would you base life decisions on our association?”
“Why indeed?” Carter moved around the island. “Your speech becomes more formal when you’re rattled. Did you know that?” Henley shook her head. He closed the distance between them, literally and figuratively. She had to swivel the stool to maintain eye contact with him. “I like your pjs, and I like your hair better this way. But if you were in a suit and had your hair in a bun, I’d still be thinking about that kiss in the car. I’ve been thinking about touching you since I found you standing in the dark.”
“You have?” He stopped moving one step from being bracketed between her knees. She clutched her mug in front of her like a shield.
“Yep. That is why you’re awake, right?”
“Why are you awake?” she heard herself whisper as she nodded.
“’Cause I can’t stop wanting you. If I had kissed you last night, would you have invited me into your bed?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
His nostrils flared. “If we weren’t in my parents’ house . . . ”
Henley didn’t need him to finish the sentence—her imagination filled in the blank—but internally she screamed for him to complete his thought. His body was close enough to touch. She reached out her hand. His chest hairs were crisp against her palm, the skin underneath taut and smooth under her fingertips. His muscles quivered, and he sucked in a breath. But he didn’t stop her from mapping the planes and valleys of his torso. His arousal thrummed through her being. She was drowning in their mutual desire. Henley gulped in air and pulled her hand back as though scorched.
