Their audience had roared approval while Harley’s gaze had met hers—sizzling hotter than her burning mouth. True, she’d then spent the next thirty minutes curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor. But the stomach cramps were worth catching Harley off guard with an instant of unexpected bad-girl behavior.
It’d been the first bold step in a series of steps that had led to an out-of-control gallop down a path of no return.
Kinda had only herself to blame.
Carter shook his head. “No, Auntie Bree wouldn’t cheat. She’s super-honest.”
With a face as hot as a fever rash, Bree selected a piece of sushi and centered it on her plate. She refused to look at Harley, knowing he’d be smirking. There was honesty, and then there was exposing yourself to someone who, without meaning to, would stomp on your heart over and over.
“You and Auntie Bree should have a rematch,” said Carter. “Maybe you’ll win this time.”
Bree’s hand froze in between her plate and the dish of pickled ginger. She couldn’t prevent her gaze from zipping down the table. But instead of the smirk she expected to find, his face was a blank mask, void of any expression.
Then fine lines creased around his eyes, and he turned a crooked smile on Carter. “Mate, nobody wins in a wasabi challenge. You only end up with pain in your guts and flames shooting out your ass. I think we’ll give it a miss.”
As Harley had likely intended, the ass comment made Carter giggle maniacally, and he quickly lost interest in the idea when Harley switched the topic of conversation to Samurai Dawn and whether samurais ate wasabi.
A shared bottle of white wine smoothed the rest of the meal into tolerable pleasantness, though with all the talk of stomach-churning wasabi challenges, Bree only sipped at her half glass. The sight of Harley relaxed on her sofa with Carter at his side, chattering about sports and his friends and how he hated adding fractions and only got twelve out of twenty correct in his math test touched her heart. Just witnessing Harley make an effort to relate to their son made her feel warm inside.
When nine o’clock rolled around, Bree expected major resistance from Carter—and indeed, when she announced it was bedtime he groaned long and loud.
“Carter?”
The boy cut off mid whine and darted a glance over at Harley.
“Your auntie’s worked hard all day, and now she’s tired. Show her the whakaute she deserves.”
Carter blinked at Harley’s calm but unyielding tone. Then his lips parted into a grin. “You sound like my dad.”
“Then your dad’s taught you well.” Harley stood, collecting his wine glass from the coffee table. “And I’ve got to get going.”
Bree’s chest gave a little squeeze—though she’d rather get a tramp-stamp than admit she didn’t want Harley to leave.
“I’ll see you out,” she said and stood. “Carter, into your pajamas and brush your teeth…properly.”
Carter’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head, but he obediently walked in front of them down the hallway and peeled off into the spare bedroom with a, “Night, Harley.”
Bree started down the stairs, skin prickling with awareness as Harley’s footsteps echoed after. Her hand closed around the front door handle, but a forearm appeared over her shoulder and pinned the door shut.
“Quite a trip down memory lane.”
His warm breath tickled her nape, and a tremble ran through her from scalp to toes.
“What was your ulterior motive when you decided to feed me sushi tonight?” he asked.
“There was no motive. It’s just chicken and rice.”
“And wasabi. Don’t forget the fiery-hot wasabi—though I must say, I prefer you sucking it off my finger to having it served with your chicken and rice.”
Would she ever be able to forget the damn finger-sucking incident? About as much chance of that as forgetting the man crowded behind her.
She turned, intending to give him a good, hard shove. Just so he’d understand she wasn’t trembling and weak like a new born kitten, desperate to snuggle into a warm embrace. But somehow, the shove got lost in the process of her turning from the door to face Harley. Her hands ended up either side of his chest, the rapid boom-boom-boom of his heart beneath her fingertips having the bizarre side-effect of loosening her tongue.
“I’m not sucking anything of yours ever again,” she blurted.
His eyelids crinkled, and the dimple appeared as he tried not to smile.
“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.” Bree ignored the full-blown smirk on Harley’s face by squeezing her eyes shut.
“You mean I shouldn’t let any of my body parts anywhere near your mouth, just to be on the safe side?” His voice lowered to a gravelly rasp. “I wouldn’t want to lead you into temptation.”
Too late for that.
“You won’t.”
Said the woman whose pulse tapped out a sultry tango, blood surging through her veins, swirling lower and lower until it settled in her womb with a heavy throb. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, but there was nothing she could do about his scent filling her lungs or the feel of hard, warm flesh under her fingertips.
“I’ve never been good at resisting my impulses.” Harley’s breath tickled her cheek. “I take what I want.”
Her eyes slitted open beneath her lashes, zooming in on the scruff surrounding his lips. His beautiful, soft, kissable lips. Her fingers itched to slide up to that scruff—which was practically a beard—and use it as leverage to yank his mouth down to hers.
“And to hell with the consequences?” she asked. Like silly girls who get their hearts broken?
His head dipped in acknowledgment or maybe only to position that kissable mouth closer. “To hell with the consequences.”
Her heart beat against her breast like a small bird smashing itself against a glass pane, frantic to reach freedom. She stilled, wanting to slap a hand over his addictively sexy lips and order him to stop flirting. Be strong and resist, Queen Bee ordered imperiously. Instead, Bree trembled, so needy for his touch that when he lowered his mouth to hers she made a soft hum of acquiescence and melted.
Harley cupped her face, the pads of his fingers rough against her jaw. Angling his lips over hers, he kept the kiss soft and unobtrusive. Not taking what he wanted, not demanding her unconditional surrender, but tenderly coaxing and beguiling. And because tenderness was the last thing she expected surrender was just what she offered.
This was not the same man who’d banged on this very door seven weeks ago, on the night after he’d buried his estranged birth mother. His eyes had been hollowed with grief and shadowed with the expectation that she’d slam the door in his face. She hadn’t. She’d offered him her hand and he’d taken it, coming in out of the dark. Whether he’d seen that as weakness she didn’t know, because he’d kissed her then—kissed as if she was the only thing preventing him from flinging himself off a cliff. Desperate, hungry kisses against this very door. Kisses that hadn’t stopped as he’d picked her up and carried her upstairs to the bedroom. Kisses that hadn’t stopped until he’d left her bed before dawn the next morning.
She sighed into him, parting her lips to encourage him to take…everything. He made a small, rough noise in his throat, and his tongue danced against hers, giving her a flickering taste of sweetness.
A taste wasn’t enough, but it was all he offered tonight. And perhaps she was the one taking from him. Taking something she didn’t deserve.
Harley pulled back, eyes once again unreadable. He stroked a thumb along her cheekbone.
“You should hate me,” she said. “Or at the very least, never want to speak to me again.” She removed her fingers from where they’d somehow become hooked into the thick hair above his nape. “You definitely shouldn’t want to kiss me.”
“Yet I do. Every damn time I see you.” He ran a light hand down her arm and stepped aside.
Bree opened the door, and a cool breeze swept inside, bringing with it the haunting cry of a morepork and the
scent of her potted miniature roses. Harley brushed past her into the night. He paused a few feet away and glanced over his shoulder, light from the hallway slanting across his jaw but leaving his eyes still in shadow.
“I don’t hate you, Bree. You shouldn’t ever think that.” His mouth quirked up in the corner. “Goodnight.”
Bree shut the door behind him.
No, he didn’t hate her because hate was a powerful binding emotion, and Harley would rather parachute from an airplane or heli-ski off Mount Aoraki than allow any sort of bond to shackle him to a woman.
Chapter 8
“I’m out. And I officially suck.” Harley tossed the game controller onto the coffee table.
Ford and Carter, both glued to the TV screen with matching do-or-die concentration, ignored Harley and continued to play. He sneaked a glance into the kitchen, where Bree and Holly were chatting. Bree’s smile had been a little strained when she’d arrived with Carter for a big fry-up kiwi breakfast at Ford’s place that morning, but otherwise, she appeared to be coping okay with it being Carter’s last day on the island.
Amy and Paul were due on the morning ferry. According to Bree, they’d sorted out their shit and wanted to meet both Harley and his family while they were here for the day.
Awesome.
Harley stood and strolled into the kitchen. He was dreading any of the kumbaya “we can all parent Carter” bullshit. The kid was great, and yeah, hanging out with him these last two weeks while Harley’d worked on the mural hadn’t been so bad. But that was pretend-parenting mode. Part-time, relatively stress free. Without the daily grind of school and sports games, and stomach viruses where you cleaned up puke and survived on thirty minutes of sleep. Or so he’d heard. He was still no less baffled by the whole “dad” thing than he was before he discovered Carter’s existence.
So what the hell was he meant to say to Paul? Thanks for taking on the puke-cleaning job, and keep up the good work, because, dude, I’m outta here?
Awesome.
Heading to the fridge for a Coke because, dammit, nine a.m. was too early for a beer when a nine-year-old watched your every move. Harley grimaced. Ordered himself to get a fucking grip, since no one had asked him to don a hair shirt and do any daddy-ing crap. He’d somehow twisted himself into knots about being something to the kid, when in reality, he wasn’t anything. Just a DNA provider. Like Harley’s own father.
Bree cut Harley a sideways glance as he yanked open the fridge door. The shelves were stocked with every manner of fruit and vegetable, and was that honest-to-God prune juice? He poked through Ford’s fridge until he located a solitary Coke can. Added a mental memo to give Ford hell about the sudden addition of plant matter to his diet.
“You gave up?” Holly said behind him.
“Yeah.” Harley popped the tab and nudged the door shut with his hip. “You taking my place?” he added with a not-so-subtle raised eyebrow angled toward Bree, who wiped down the kitchen counter with the focused precision of someone prepping the surface for emergency surgery.
Holly’s mouth twisted, but her eyes danced. “You realize I’ll make you look bad in front of your kid.”
“Whatever.”
She sauntered out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with Bree.
“Hey.” He took a sip from the can and placed it on the counter-top.
Bree sent him an arch look and snatched up a coaster—Ford has coasters now? What the hell?—and slid it beneath the can. Harley resisted the urge to tease her like he once would’ve done, back in the days of student flatting when a clean kitchen meant only a day’s worth of dirty dishes piled up in the sink. He braced spread palms on the counter and leaned forward until he captured her gaze. “You okay?”
Clear blue eyes skittered away from his.
“Bree.”
Something in his tone must’ve caught her attention, because she stopped her restless cleaning.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“Is this where you put on your I’m listening mask and act as if you care about what’s bothering me?”
“Yep.” He smoothed his mouth into a straight line. Added a slight eyebrow lift and angled his chin. “Is it working, do you think?”
As intended, he got a small quirk of her lips that was almost but not quite a smile. “It’s very polished. Congrats.” She moved to the sink and turned on the tap.
With a sigh, Harley followed, trapping her by gripping the counter either side of her hips. Unlike almost every other woman he knew, her feels had to be pried out with a crowbar. On any other topic—art, sport, politics, movies—she had an opinion and wasn’t shy about sharing it. Something he’d always admired. But emotions? She was the female equivalent to his twin, who at one point, pre-Holly, would’ve rather stitched his lips together with a rusty needle than admit his feelings.
“Harley.” Her voice was ninety-eight parts irritated female, one percent sexual awareness and one percent raw pain.
Guess which one percent clawed at his insides?
She dropped the cloth into the sink and twisted. Froze as her curvy little ass bumped into his groin.
Okay, guess which two…
“Someone will see,” she said. “Carter will see.”
“He might.” Harley couldn’t help dipping his head to catch a closer whiff of warm, spicy flowers and riled female rising off her nape. “But then I expect at nine, his dad has already given him the birds and bees chat.”
She huffed, drumming her fingernails on the rim of the stainless steel sink. “Nothing was hidden from Carter. We told him about his adoption when he was five.”
“But not about who, exactly, his father was?”
“By the time he was old enough to understand, you were already flavor of the New York art world and making big, splashy waves here because of it. I didn’t want to risk Carter being exposed to media scrutiny if he accidently let your name slip.”
With a tiny population of just over four and a half million, privacy for New Zealand celebrities worked very much like it did in smaller, provincial towns where everyone knew everyone else’s business.
“You made the right call,” he said. “Though the cat’s out of the bag now.”
“He’s old enough now to cope with the truth.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Nobody but close friends and family need to know who his birth father is.”
He chuckled. “Close friends and family plus the entire population of Oban.”
“Yes.” The crease reappeared in the corner of her mouth. “There is that. But they’ll protect their own, even though Carter and Amy and Paul aren’t locals.” The semi-smile flat-lined.
Harley gripped the counter until his knuckles burned. “You don’t want him to leave.” He didn’t ask it as a question since the stiffness of her spine told him all he needed to know.
“I’ve enjoyed having him here for the last two weeks. I’ll miss him.”
From the living room, Carter whooped and then laughed like a hyena.
“I miss him every time I have to say goodbye.” A rapid bump-bump-bump of blood coursed through a tiny vein at the side of her throat. “The first couple of days are the worst. I thought, when he was a baby, it wouldn’t hurt as much as he grew older. That I’d get used to bringing him home to Amy and Paul after I’d taken him to the park or the beach. And when I still lived in Christchurch, saying goodbye was bearable, because I knew I’d see him again in a few days or a week or two. But when I moved here…” Bree’s shoulders pulled upright, rigid like her spine, and then slumped forward, followed by a hitching sigh.
“Why did you leave? Because of that guy you were living with?” Yeah, he’d heard the bare bones of that via Ford a few years ago. Something about the man being a douchebag and Bree dumping his ass.
A soft, derisive snort from Bree. She’d stopped squirming to get away, and in distraction from reminiscing about the past, had lowered her guard enough that her body relaxed into his. And God, she felt so damn good pressed up against him, ev
en if it were only a temporary truce.
“Partly. Scott resented the time I spent with Carter. He said if I’d focused more energy on being inventive in bed instead of interfering in my nephew’s life, he wouldn’t have had reason to stray.”
Harley’s molars clicked together, and a furnace blast of heat roared to life in his gut. “He screwed around on you?”
“Multiple times—so I found out later.”
And told her she was boring in bed? The very idea of Bree being boring in any way, least of all between the sheets, was laughable. Only he didn’t feel like laughing. He felt like flying to Christchurch and teaching her ex a lesson in Komeke justice.
“I’m surprised one of your friends didn’t rip off his tiny dick and give it to you as a party favor.”
“Don’t worry, my brother-in-law took care of him.” She laughed and shook her head.
A knee-weakening relief that she didn’t sound as if she still had a thing for the asshole surged through him.
“Did I tell you Paul’s a cop?” she asked.
“Yeah. Carter mentioned it too.”
“Well, let’s say Scott had a number of Christchurch police officers watching out for his cherry-red Porsche over the next few weeks. And after clocking up over a hundred demerit points for speeding offenses, his licence was suspended. He was forced to take the public bus to work for three months.”
“Inventive.”
“And much more painful than the type of payback you were thinking about.”
“Reading my mind now, are you?”
She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder, and a couple silky blonde strands caught on his scruff-covered jaw. “You stood up for us girls when you were younger, you would’ve paid him a visit and scared the hell out of him if I’d asked you to.”
“But you didn’t ask.”
“New York is a long way to come to defend a friend’s honor,” she said lightly.
Drawing Me In: A New Zealand Secret Baby Second Chance Romance (Due South Series Book 7) Page 10
