by Tawna Fenske
Bree’s chin lifts a fraction of an inch, while Mark mutters a creative string of profanity. I’m itching to run to the kitchen and throw together a six-course meal that will make us forget about this conversation and our mothers and our collective messed up childhoods. Open communication is not my specialty, but salt-baked leg of lamb is. Or salmon poached in white wine. Or—really, anything but this conversation.
“I get it, I do.” I look at Bree. “I know my mother wasn’t very gracious about evicting your mom from the New York penthouse after the settlement. And James, you have every right to be pissed about the way things went down with the Aspen property.”
Mark folds his arms over his chest. “It’s not about that,” he says. “My mom was broke as shit with nothing for your mom to steal. I still don’t trust her any farther than I could throw her.”
My brother’s arms are the size of tree trunks, and I don’t doubt he could throw my mom pretty far. I also don’t doubt he’s considered it.
None of my father’s divorces were friendly.
I turn to James, eager for his rational approach to things. “You’ve been in touch with her lawyer?”
He gives a tight nod. “She’s not wrong. There’s definitely something odd about the titles on some of the parcels that got added together to form this ranch.”
“Odd like ‘ha ha,’ or odd like, ‘let’s lawyer up?’” Bree asks.
“Somewhere between those two,” James says carefully. “I’ve got our lawyers looking into it.”
I take a deep breath and run my hands down the thighs of my jeans. “Look, I don’t blame you guys for not trusting my mother.”
Bree’s expression softens, and she looks at me for a few minutes before speaking. “It’s nothing personal. We just—” she hesitates, then glances at the others before speaking. “You’ve always had a blind spot when it comes to her.”
“We all do,” James says. “With our own mothers, that is.”
Mark gives a grunt of acknowledgement but doesn’t add anything. He once saved his mom from a house fire, so he doesn’t need to say a damn thing.
Bree sighs. “Having a serial philanderer for a father probably gave us all big gobs of trust issues.”
“True enough,” James says. “And it goes without saying that we’ve all heard unflattering stories about each other’s mothers.”
“That’s for damn sure,” Mark mutters.
I feel myself stiffen but try not to let them see it. How much do they know?
For that matter, how much do I know?
I clear my throat and look to James. “I can appreciate your concern,” I say. “And I’m all for looking into things with the attorneys. But for right now, can we take it at face value that she’s just here to visit?”
Three pairs of eyes flash with skepticism. Mark and James are the first to look away, but Bree watches me until I feel myself shifting in my chair. “Aren’t you at least a tiny bit suspicious?” she asks. “About why she’s here and what she has up her sleeve.”
“Of course,” I say.
More than you know.
“Look, our goddamn livelihood is on the line,” Mark says. “Dad left this shithole to us, and we’ve turned it into something pretty fucking amazing.”
“I’ll be sure to use that line in our marketing materials,” Bree says dryly. “Seriously, though—let’s be careful.”
“Agreed,” James says, and we all nod. I say a silent prayer this conversation is almost over.
I feel Mark’s eyes on me, and I turn to see my brother staring. He’s looking at me like he can see straight through my skull, and I wonder what he’d say if he could read my mind.
“Keep your fucking eyes open,” he mutters, then slugs me in the shoulder. “We love you, asshole. And we don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“Or to the rest of us,” James says. “We’re in this together.”
“Like the motherfucking Brady Bunch,” Bree says. “With adultery and backstabbing.”
“There’s something for the brochures,” Mark grumbles.
I survey my siblings, wishing I could say more. Wishing I knew more. Wishing there were something I could do to set their minds at ease.
Wishing, for the thousandth time, I could do something about my mother.
Chapter 5
AMBER
I’m ten minutes into my meeting with another bride-to-be when I notice the smell. Sort of a funky, sweet-and-sour odor with strange notes of lilac.
“You promise you don’t think I’m a psycho?” Beth Cahill’s expression is so earnest that I stop sniffing and reach across the table to squeeze her hand.
“You’re not a psycho,” I assure her, though I’m not totally convinced. “I think it’s natural to reflect on past relationships as a way of growing and moving forward.”
The bride-to-be stares down at her engagement ring with a sheepish expression. “I’m not sure that’s why I asked you to tell me about Greg’s wedding,” she says softly. “But it’s sweet of you to say so.”
I do another discreet inhale, noticing the scent again. At first I thought it was Beth, but it seems like it’s on my side of the desk. Maybe I stepped in something?
“Weddings bring up a lot of funny emotions in people,” I offer, my brain only half on the conversation.
“That’s true,” Beth says. “I know our wedding’s not until June and Greg’s is next week, but that’s still pretty close together,” she continues. “You’re sure you don’t mind doing some investigating?”
Spying is what she means, but I refrain from saying so. I also refrain from admitting that I’m starting to think the funky smell might be me. Did I forget deodorant?
“I was planning to be at Greg’s wedding anyway, so it’s really no big deal,” I tell her.
“Just a few notes on flowers and dresses and centerpieces and things like that,” Beth continues, oblivious to the odd odor. Am I imagining it?
I clear my throat to focus and ask the question I probably should have asked at the start of this conversation. “You’re not still in love with him, are you?”
I wouldn’t be this blunt with anyone who hadn’t shared my 64-pack of Crayolas in second grade. Beth shakes her head so violently a bobby pin falls out of her hair.
“No! Absolutely not.” She bites her lip. “It’s just—have you ever felt like you had something to prove after getting out of a relationship that was all wrong?”
“Relationships,” I murmur, emphasis on the plural. “Yes.”
All the damn time.
Beth gives a shaky smile. “I knew you’d get it. And I promise I’m not looking for top secret info. Just stuff about decorations and the ceremony so I can be sure I don’t duplicate anything.”
“I’ve got you,” I assure her. I glance down, wondering if there’s something on my shoe. It doesn’t smell like reindeer droppings, and there’s no discreet way to check. “I’m usually pretty observant at weddings anyway, so I’ll pay extra attention for you.”
“Thanks, Amber. I knew I could count on you.” There’s that slightly embarrassed look again, but Beth holds my gaze this time. “I used to be crazy jealous of you.”
“Of me?” I frown at her, weird smells forgotten for the moment.
She gives a self-deprecating little shrug. “You were always so damn perfect. Flawless Amber, captain of the soccer team, student body president, nicest person anyone could hope to meet.” She winces and shakes her head. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing. I don’t know why that came out sounding snarky.”
“It’s okay,” I say, wondering if she’d think I’m Miss Perfect if she knew I’m pretty sure I’m wearing a funky-smelling bra. When’s the last time I washed it? I clear my throat. “It’s been a long time—um—since high school.”
Beth laughs, oblivious to my distress. Not just from the bra-stink, but from this line of conversation. “All the girls wanted to be you,” she says, “and all the boys wanted to scr—”
“So I’ll just email you those quotes from the DJ,” I interrupt, tapping my pen on the desk. “And we’ll go from there on deciding how to handle your music.”
Beth gives me an apologetic smile and gets to her feet. I follow suit, and she pulls me into a Chanel-scented hug. I grimace, hoping like hell she doesn’t inhale too deeply. “Thanks, Amber. You really are the best.”
“You, too.”
I watch her exit my office in the corner of the barn and make her way to the side door and out into the crisp spring afternoon. The second the barn door closes, I yank my sweater off one shoulder and sniff my bra strap.
Nothing. It just smells like the lilac body lotion I’ve been wearing lately.
But I know I smell something, and I’m pretty sure I’m on the right track. I pull both arms inside my shirt sleeves and contort them behind me to unhook my bra. Mission accomplished, I snake the offending garment through the left sleeve of my sweater and pull it out at the wrist like a deranged magician.
I hold up the bra for inspection, but it looks fine. Lavender and lacy, it’s one of my nicest pieces of lingerie. But when did I last wash it?
I hold it to my nose and have just started to inhale when the barn door flies open.
“Amber, hey—oh.” Sean freezes halfway to my office, blinking against the dim light of the barn. And at the sight of me smelling my bra.
Slowly, I lower my hands to the desk and lay the lacy scrap there like a dead pet. “Sean.”
He looks at me, then at the bra, then back to my face, detouring only a little at my unsupported assets hidden beneath magenta cashmere. “I—uh—” He steps forward, hesitating at the door of my office. “Your sister said you were out here. I came by to grab my coolers?”
A quicker-thinking woman might shove the bra in a desk drawer or try to pass it of as a hanky.
I’ve never been that quick.
“So—I—right.” I take a deep breath and gesture toward the lavender lace laid out on my desk with the cups pointing jauntily at the ceiling. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m smelling my bra.”
“The thought did occur to me.” He leans against the doorframe, and I can tell he’s trying not to smile.
I drop into my desk chair with a little more bounce than expected. Sean’s eyes flicker, but he keeps them on my face.
“Right, see, there are certain things no one really tells you when you’re a girl.”
He hesitates, then settles into Beth’s vacated seat. “Okay.”
“Like everyone knows you wash your panties every day, right?”
“One can assume.” He’s having a harder time holding back laughter, I can tell.
“But no one ever sits you down and says, ‘here’s how often you should wash your bras.’ Like is it once a week? Every few days? Monthly? I honestly don’t know, and then how do you remember which ones you washed when and whether there’s this one random bra in the back of the drawer that got skipped the last time you did delicates, and now you’re pretty sure it’s been years since the damn thing saw soap and water?”
My voice has risen to the pitch of a crazy person, to say nothing about my actual words. My God, he must think I’m insane.
Slowly, the smile spreads over his face. He folds his hands on the desk, and I’m conscious of the fact that his knuckles are scant inches from my favorite bra. Is it wrong that I’m wishing my boobs were still in it?
“You remember what I said in the chapel?” he asks. “About how you’re way different from Ethereal Mermaid Amber I used to imagine?”
I nod, not trusting myself not to say another damn word.
“I like this Amber better,” he says. “The quirky one who says stuff other people are probably thinking, but don’t actually say? I’m digging that about you.”
“Right.” I swallow hard and lift my own hands to the desk, lacing my fingers together just a few millimeters from his. “Not a lot of people have met that version of Amber.”
“Too bad for them.”
We sit there looking at each other for a second. I really want to shove my undergarment off the desk, but I’d just be drawing attention to it. And to the fact that I’m sitting here braless talking to the hottest guy I’ve met in ages. A guy who groped me in my kitchen just a few days ago.
Stirred by the memory, my nipples rise to attention like soldiers reporting for duty. I fold my arms across my chest, but not before Sean’s eyes go molten. He doesn’t even pretend not to notice, but he does lift his gaze to mine after a few beats. “Did you—uh—want to put that back on?”
I look down at the bra, wondering what etiquette calls for. I’ve never seen this in Miss Manners’ column. I’m still not sure if the bra smells funky, in which case, maybe I don’t want to put it back on. But I’m not about to sniff it in front of Sean, so maybe I just shove it in the drawer and call it good? Or maybe I’m better with it on, weird smell or not.
“I can turn my back if you want,” Sean offers. “Or leave.”
“Don’t leave.” The words come out with more urgency than I intended. I yank open the top desk drawer and shove the bra inside, then slam it shut and bite my lip. “Admit it. Is this the most awkward start to a business relationship ever?”
He smiles. “No. That would be me falling off a ladder and conking my head when the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen shows up holding a dead turkey.”
“Right.” My skin goes hot, and I’m having trouble breathing. “There’s that.”
His smile turns thoughtful. “If it makes you feel better, guys have stuff like that, too. Things we’re just expected to know, but no one ever really tells us.”
“Like what?”
He leans back in his chair, politely averting his gaze from my boobs. “Well, take jumper cables. When you’re a guy, you’re just expected to know how they work.”
“Or when you’re a farm girl.”
“See?” He leans forward again, and I admire the flex of his pecs under the thin T-shirt he’s wearing. “It’s just one of those things certain people know, but then you find yourself in a parking lot at a black tie fundraiser with a dead battery and no idea what to do with the damn cables.”
I can’t say I relate to most of that, but I do get what he’s saying. “I was in college before I realized not everyone has eaten Rocky Mountain Oysters.”
“Rocky M—you mean calf testicles?” He grimaces.
“Yep. There’s a whole festival for it out here. Happens during castration season.”
Sean looks pained, and I wonder how the hell I managed to circle back to the subject of testicles. “My junk just shriveled knowing there’s an actual season for castration,” he says. “Remind me to stay home that week.”
I laugh and do my best not to think about Sean’s junk. “The Testie Festie has been going for more than twenty years,” I tell him. “It’s one of those weird traditions that you grow up thinking of as normal until you realize not every kid in your college classes has eaten love spuds.”
“Sounds like a real ball.”
I smirk. “Yeah, it can be pretty nuts.”
He laughs, and the sound makes my whole body vibrate pleasantly. Since I’m still braless, the vibration does not go unnoticed. My nipples pop to attention again, and I consider removing them with my letter opener.
Sean clears his throat and stands up. “I should probably go.”
I stand up, too, careful not to jostle too much. “Don’t you need me to get the cooler for you?”
“Your sister already grabbed it,” he says. “I just came out to say hi.”
I press one palm against the desk and hold his gaze for a moment. “You mean you weren’t wanting to talk about what happened the other night?”
Crap. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
But now that I’ve pointed out the elephant in the room, it seems dumb not to stroke its trunk and offer it a scone. Sean seems frozen, so I walk around the desk and plant myself in front of him. “I didn’t mean to let thin
gs get out of hand the other night,” I tell him. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”
“We’re really doing this?” Sean looks pained. “Talking about it, I mean?”
“You were planning to avoid this conversation?”
“Always,” he says, his expression a little guilty. “That’s kinda my MO.”
“Good to know.” It is, actually, and I file the information in my brain for future reference.
“Amber.”
For a second I think that’s it. He’s going to say goodbye and walk out without another word. The last thing I want is for a guy to stick around talking about a kiss he regrets.
That’s why the next kiss is such a shock. One second Sean’s standing there looking like a guy ready to flee the premises. The next second his fingers are laced in my hair, and he’s kissing me with a softness that rivals the feel of cashmere against my bare breasts.
When he draws back, he keeps one hand cupped against my cheek. There’s something explosive in those dark green eyes, and I feel myself go dizzy.
“I don’t regret it,” he says. “Not one bit.”
I lick my lips, tasting his minty Chapstick. “Neither do I.”
He drops his hand and takes a few steps back. “I really should go,” he says softly. “I don’t want to take advantage of—” he gestures to my chest and steps back again.
“You don’t trust yourself?” I’m not trying to sound flirty, but Sean gives a guilty smile and shakes his head.
“Not one damn bit.” Another step back. “But I really do have to get home. There’s a meeting I’m supposed to be at in ten minutes, and my sister will kill me if I’m not there.”
“Duty calls,” I say faintly, wishing he didn’t have to go. Wishing he’d slide his hands up my sweater and cup my breasts in those palms as he presses me back against the desk and—
“To be continued?”
I’m not positive if it’s a question or a statement, but I nod anyway. “Yeah. Too be continued.”
Even though we said we wouldn’t. Even though we both agreed it’s not a good idea.
