Found Underneath: Finding Me Duet #2

by K. L. Kreig

  I didn’t fully understand that, though, until I met Shaw. What I have with him is unmatched. Unparalleled. It’s—he’s—the serenity and peace I didn’t know existed, let alone the kind I’d find. He fits me. He sees me. He makes my blood boil, my heart sing, and my soul crave something I haven’t in a long, long time, if ever.

  To be truly, openly, terrifyingly vulnerable.

  This habit I’ve perfected of staying bulletproof is a hard one to break, yet of any man I’ve ever met Shaw Mercer makes me want to try. He makes me want to shed old skin, leaving the fresh stuff pink and raw and ready to be scarred again.

  The thought gives my heart real palpitations, but I shove away the cynical side that whispers happiness is fleeting and tragedy lurks around every corner. Today I’m walking on sunshine and I’m going to let myself enjoy this remarkable feeling of pure and utter bliss and hope that, for once in my life, it’s not merely a glimpse on the horizon but an actual reality I only have to reach out and grasp.

  Because if Shaw is willing to try, then—deep breath—so am I.

  For the fiftieth time, I look down at the text he sent this morning and grin like a lovestruck fool.

  I didn’t like waking up without you in my arms this morning.

  God. The things that string of words does to my heart is insanity.

  “You’re glowing. You knocked up?”

  I reluctantly rip my gaze away from my phone to face Sierra. It’s just before noon. She’s up earlier than usual and I can immediately tell she’s in a mood, but the sunshine beneath my feet feels balmy and fluid. Neither dynamite nor Sierra’s snide comments will wipe this grin off my face. So I decide to play. Sierra knows I’m sleeping with Shaw anyway.

  “What if I am?”

  I’m not, but damn…the thought it’s not entirely impossible I could be carrying a life Shaw and I created feels so good I need to slam the brakes.

  “Then you’re going to have to pack up your shit and move out. There’s no way I’ll be able to get any sleep with a crying baby in this cracker box.”

  “You’re all talk. You wouldn’t kick me out.”

  “The hell I wouldn’t,” she deadpans. I watch her tug open the cupboard and grab her favorite oversized black mug with gold knuckle-dusters as the handle. An old boyfriend gave it to her as a gag, but the joke was on him when she used it as a weapon a few days later after catching him making out on his couch with his ex. Trust me…you do not want to get on Sierra’s bad side or she will cut you. But beneath her crust, her heart is solid twenty-four-karat gold.

  “What if my baby and I didn’t have anywhere else to go?”

  “You have a rich baby daddy. You’d be his problem.”

  “What if he didn’t want us?”

  “Then sue his fucking ass for everything he has,” she retorts, not kidding in the least.

  “What if I made you the godmother?”

  She stops pouring the thick black tar she calls coffee midstream and stares my way. “You would want that?”

  I cock my head at her disbelieving tone. “Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Her thin, still painted-on brows rise. “Look at me. I’m not exactly role model material, Lowenbrau.”

  She’s right. She’d probably have to get rid of a few piercings or they’d be ripped out by tiny, searching hands. She’d need a different job because you can’t leave a baby all night long four or five nights a week. And she’d have to find that politically correct filter pretty damn fast so the baby’s first words weren’t fuck or tits or ho.

  Shrugging, I answer sincerely, “If my baby didn’t have anyone, there’s no one else I’d want to raise them other than you.”

  Her eyes water.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask reaching across the island top.

  “Nothing,” she sniffs, skirting my touch before turning away. “What the hell makes you think something is wrong?”

  I bite my tongue. I know this Sierra. Another guy is plaguing her.

  “I’m not pregnant,” I tell her softly, feeling stupid my heart dropped a little.

  Her mouth turns down. I see it from the side. She takes a deep breath in and I wait for it. It doesn’t take long. When her now dry eyes meet mine again, they’re filled with concern. “What are you doing, Willow?”

  “What do you mean?” I mentally brace for it. Sierra doesn’t use my full name all that damn often…only when she wants to get a point across.

  She sets down the coffee pot and pushes her mug away, facing me once again. “You know exactly what I mean. I thought this thing was supposed to be temporary. You insisted you didn’t fuck your clients and yeah, after seeing him I maybe get the curb appeal. But not only are you fucking him, now you’re spending the weekend with him and suddenly talking about a fictional baby you’re now trying to saddle me with.”

  I’m not sure which part to be incensed about more. I decide to go with the fictional baby comment since that feels easier than addressing the other stuff.

  “You were the one who brought up said fictional baby. I just played along.” I try to hold off my snarl. I’m not successful.

  A corner of her mouth ticks up. “Yeah, okay, sure. But are you going to sit there and tell me the thought you were baking his kid didn’t get your lady parts wet?”

  “Jesus, Sierra.”

  “Are you?”

  No. “What’s this really about? Because it’s not about my imaginary baby.” Or the sudden fluttering in my womb.

  Setting her palms on the Formica countertop, she leans toward me, widening her already large whiskey eyes. “This is about a playboy who won’t think twice about discarding you at the end of four months when he’s had his fill. This is about yet another person cramming you in behind their needs, Willow, instead of making you a priority. You deserve to be a priority and you are not a priority to him. This is all a lie for fuck’s sake!”

  I’m stunned silent as anger churns and festers. For what seems like forever we stare at each other.

  She’s wrong. It started out that way, yes, but she hasn’t seen the way Shaw penetrates my heart as if he’s always been there. She hasn’t felt the tender way he caresses my skin or plants tiny kisses along the length of my neck. She hasn’t heard the reverence and sincerity in his tone when he says my name. He’s protected me from the media. He’s taken countless hours away from his company for me. He’s sat outside my house just to apologize. He’s worried about my safety in a less-than-safe vehicle.

  He has put me first. At every turn, so far. And as much as I love my family and at one time Reid, they didn’t. But Shaw has.

  She’s wrong.

  Isn’t she?

  Where’s that goddamn sunshine I was walking on a minute ago? Damn her.

  “You were the one who told me to sleep with him!” I shriek, throwing my hands in the air. “‘Break the rules,’ you said. ‘Let him scald your insides,’” I mock in her low-pitched voice.

  “Yes. I told you to fuck the hot coffee,” she says, “not fall in love with its exotic taste. That’s it!”

  I glare daggers, ignoring the love comment. “I think I like sugarcoated bullshit better.”

  She smirks. “I’m not Dr. Seuss.”

  That’s funny but I can’t even laugh because what if she’s right? I look down, suddenly interested in the flecks of gold smattering the weathered countertop. I think back to the weekend, Friday morning, in particular, and Shaw’s heartfelt words: Well, the truth is…you captivate me like no one else has before, Willow, and what I feel for you is…new for me.

  Was I too caught up in the moment and every subsequent moment after that? Was I naïve enough to think a zebra can change its stripes—that I would be the incentive for him to do so? Do I honestly believe a man who doesn’t “do relationships” would suddenly want to be loyal and monogamous? Is being “captivating” enough? Is “new” all that bad?

  Shit.

  I don’t know.

  But he came to the club for m
e.

  He took the day off for me.

  He spent the entire weekend doting on me.

  He wanted to meet my mother.

  Why should I doubt him?

  Damn Sierra and her sunshine-stealing gloom. This is usually my gig. I talk myself out of anything good that comes my way, believing I don’t deserve it. I shared a part of me with Shaw that only Sierra knows about—how I feel responsible for my father’s death—and he still wants me. Still thinks I’m worthy of him. I deserve Shaw, dammit. I deserve this. I deserve happiness, love. A chance, anyway.

  Don’t I?

  “I didn’t think you did relationships.”

  “I’m not sure I do, Willow, but I…I want to try. I’m trying to be as honest as possible here.”

  He’s been up front. I trust Shaw. He’s given me no reason not to. From the time we sat outside his parent’s house and he told me he wouldn’t feed me lines only to get between my legs, I’ve believed him. He hasn’t promised me shit. No condo together, no diamond on my fourth finger, no golden wedding anniversary. No future. He simply said he wants to try. And shouldn’t that be good enough for now until it isn’t anymore? Until he proves to be untrustworthy?

  “You’re wrong about him, Sierra. This is more than a binding agreement now.”

  The corners of her mouth turn down. “He’s thirty-some years old and views commitment like the black plague. Why now? Why you?”

  Snap. That was cold.

  I know Sierra’s simply trying to protect me, but that hurts a little. Okay, a lot. I raise one shoulder. “You don’t think I’m worth it?”

  “Of course you’re worth it. You’re more than worth it.” She sighs. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. This is about him. Not you.”

  I take in my friend. I love her to the ends of the Earth and back, but sometimes I think we’re not doing each other any favors. We protect the other too fiercely. We fan the flames of past pains hot enough to burn the good threatening us with real happiness to nothing but ash. We’re our own worst enemies.

  So I could let that comment—which I know was said with the utmost love and concern—bring me down or I could fight back the urge to do just that.

  I choose to fight. Worse than falling in love and getting hurt would be to let this incredible man slip through my fingers because I’m scared to let myself feel something good. Or feel at all.

  “I think that’s exactly who it’s about, Sierra.”

  She takes a quick, deep breath in and blows it back out. At least she looks contrite. “I’m just worried, that’s all. I mean…you and me? We don’t exactly have the best track records when it comes to men.”

  “I know, but this is different. He’s different.”

  “If you say so.” She turns her attention back to the pungent-smelling brew, announcing nonchalantly, “You had a visitor Saturday.”

  “Who?” I never have visitors. Not that I’m a recluse, but I also don’t have a lot of friends. Certainly not ones who stop by without calling first.

  “Reid.”

  “Reid?” I breathe in confusion. I saw him briefly at the club Thursday night when a fight almost broke out between him and Shaw, but I haven’t talked to Reid in almost a week—when he sat here on my couch, forgave me for the unforgivable, and told me he still loved me. Six days later, I’m still not sure what to make of that night. Or his declaration. Or how I should feel about it. All I know is that everything has changed. In those six days, Shaw and I have morphed from a partnership into a relationship. A real one. Not one for public deception.

  “What did he want?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, what did he say?” I press, wondering why he didn’t call instead of stopping over or why he hasn’t called since.

  “Not your answering service, Lowenbrau,” she clips before taking a long sip of her supposed coffee and sighs with her eyes closed. She takes a few more large gulps before refilling her cup. She drank it so fast I’d be surprised if she didn’t scald off the first layer of skin on her tongue in the process.

  “Better?” I ask, my brows now up to my hairline. I should have known better than to carry on any type of conversation with Sierra before she’s had at least one cup of coffee. She’s angrier than a momma bear defending her cubs before her first injection of caffeine.

  A self-deprecating smile appears. “Getting there.”

  “Bad night?”

  She shrugs. “Same old bullshit, you know?”

  “What happened?”

  “He looked like a lost little puppy.”

  Huh? “Who?”

  “Reid.”

  I let my mouth turn down slightly at her blatant change of subjects. Guess we’re done talking about her and her own life. She’d much rather pry into mine.

  “He’s still into you.”

  I know. I sigh, but keep it on the inside.

  “What makes you say that?” I ask, trying for lighthearted.

  I didn’t disclose much to Sierra about the other night when Reid came over, and I certainly didn’t tell her he admitted he’s still in love with me. She stood by my decision to call off the wedding. She held me when I cried myself to sleep at night for months afterward. She didn’t say a word when I repeatedly refused to talk to him or see him, but she genuinely liked Reid, and though it was one of the few times she held her tongue and supported me unconditionally, I don’t think she agreed with how I handled things with him.

  “Oh, I don’t know…could have been the look on his face when I told him you hadn’t been here since Emfest, or maybe it was when I mentioned your boyfriend’s name.” Boyfriend is said with a little derision. I choose to ignore it.

  “What look?”

  “Let’s just say I thought he was going to go all Yosemite Sam on me and I would be staring down the barrels of his smoking guns.”

  I laugh. “He did not.”

  “Did.” She takes another drink, watching my reaction over the rim. I hold my face neutral.

  “So he just got pissy and left? Nothing else?”

  Her lips purse while she pretends to think. “Pretty much.”

  “Huh.”

  “Huh,” she mimics. “Something you’re not telling me?”

  “What would I not be telling you?”

  She sets down her cup and crosses her arms. “I don’t know. You tell me. I just think it’s awfully coincidental that when you start dating”—she puts dating in air quotes—“a fake boyfriend, who your ex unknowingly set you up with, by the way, that he’s back in the picture. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  I don’t generally either, but in this case, that’s all this is: a bizarre set of flukes. Shaw rear-ending me. Noah—Shaw’s best friend and business partner—rescuing me from Paul Graber’s less-than-honorable intentions. And even though he set all the dominos in motion, there is no way Reid could have possibly known Shaw would have picked me, out of millions of women in this city, to be his girlfriend. I don’t buy there’s anything else to it, though, but sheer, weird coincidence.

  “Just goes to show how small the world really is,” I offer.

  “What does he want?”

  “How would I know?” I feign.

  She shakes her head and smirks. “You’re playing the player here, Lowenbrau.”

  I let my shoulders rise and fall, pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I think he just wants closure, Ser. I mean, we didn’t part on the best of terms.”

  But even as I say it, I know it’s not true. His tirade at the door plays through my head: I’ll call you, and fuck him. He doesn’t need to know. And even if he finds out, I don’t give two shits. I’m happy to take him on.

  He said we were past tense, but after the bashing on Shaw and the almost kiss and forgiveness I’ll never earn, I’m not entirely sure he believes that. Oh, Reid. The last thing I want is to hurt him again because we can’t be what we once were. It didn’t work then. It definitely won’t work now.


  “No. Someone who just wants closure doesn’t get crazy jealous over the mention of another guy.” She tips her glass in my direction, almost spilling the contents when she announces, “He wants you back.”

  I’m saved from responding when my phone rings. I swipe the buzzing piece from the counter hoping it’s the man I haven’t been able to get out of my head since I left him last night, but my hopes die when I look at the screen.

  Reid.

  I flick my eyes back up to Sierra who has a smug grin plastered on her face. Mug in hand she strides out of the room to give me privacy, mumbling as she passes, “Closure, my ass.”

  Chapter 4

  “My God, Willow. This is just as good as I remember.”

  “I can’t believe you still like it,” I tell him, sliding a glance his way. I take a bite of my own sandwich, relishing in the childhood memories it brings back. This used to be my father’s favorite Saturday afternoon lunch.

  “Fat and grease. Best combo ever,” he’d tell me every time.

  Reid is holding two slices of bread that house bologna, potato chips, and a generous helping of mayo between both hands. He leans forward, allowing the crumbs to fall onto the deck instead of his lap. His eyes close in bliss with every bite. It makes me a little wistful, remembering better times.

  “I haven’t had one of these in years,” he announces after shoving the last of it in his mouth.

  “Really? Why?” I set my three-fourths-eaten sandwich down on the table beside me and wipe my hands on my napkin, my appetite suddenly missing.

  I recall the first time I ate this concoction in front of him. We were on a quick lunch break during play practice. He gave me endless shit, telling me how disgusting it looked. Only when I made him try it, he promptly changed his mind and asked that I make him one for the next day. Whenever we’d picnic on the grassy banks of Lake Union, I would bring two BC&M’s, as Reid nicknamed them, four pickle spears, and a box of the cheapest wine I could find.

  Reid laces his fingers together and sets them on his stomach before fastening his gaze to mine. It’s both plaintive and hopeful, making me wonder why the hell I agreed to let him come over for a late lunch when I should have said no instead.