by Cate Lawley
Michael grinned that all-male, cat-ate-the-canary grin that men get when they think they’ve rocked your world.
“Don’t start.” I pointed a finger at him.
He shrugged and just grinned all the wider. “You want me to throw your clothes in the dryer. You know, so you’re not running around bare-bottomed all day.”
The man had groped my tush, so naturally he knew I was bare down there.
“I have no idea what you mean,” I said in the primmest tone I could muster.
And that’s when my dad popped in. Literally. Into the living room. No warning, no nothing. Just bam, right there in the middle of my very embarrassing conversation with my fake fiancé.
“Why is my daughter running around half naked with you, Michael Kelly? You know, she’s an engaged woman.”
CHAPTER NINE
Michael looked surprised enough that I’m guessing he thought the place either unfindable or protected from such incursions.
Forget surprised, I was pissed. “Why are you here? This is a private home. You can’t just pop in wherever, whenever you like.” I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. “You need to leave. Now.”
How could he? All these years, he’d been fine with a few visits a year while I dodged Don and kept on with my life. Now, all of a sudden, he invades my life, my privacy. My pulse ticked up a notch—Michael’s privacy. Michael’s secret shack wasn’t going to be a secret any more. Not if Dad had found it and popped in. And that made my blood boil.
“Leave? I don’t think so. You bronzed Don! What were you thinking? He’s your fiancé, for crying out loud.” His face was flushing an unattractive bright red. “And this…this…” He waved a hand dismissively in Michael’s direction. “A leprechaun? What are you thinking, child?”
And the world stopped spinning for the barest of seconds when Michael stepped in between us and said, “Mr. Smith, why don’t you take a step back.”
I hadn’t even realized how much Dad had encroached on my space. Actually, I think it had been mutual. The unattractive image of two territorial hounds facing off against each other, posturing and growling, came to mind. And that image had me taking a nonchalant step or three backwards.
But I couldn’t believe Michael had just spoken to my father like some kind of referee at a kids’ sporting event. Especially since the mental image I had of the rabid dogs was probably more accurate.
Dad’s eyes glowed a fiery red when he looked at Michael, but he said, “I am calm, focused, and relaxed.” He took a step back, all the while pinning Michael with his glowing red gaze.
My eyeballs about bugged out. Someone, something, had possessed my dad. The glowing red eyes? No problem. The weird uber-calm and following someone else’s lead? Possessed. The bizarre response—calm, focused, relaxed? Definitely possessed.
Looking at my dad, Michael said, “You need anger management, and a little more respect for your daughter. She’s a grown woman, sir.” Then he turned to me. “And you,” he moved to stand next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. That’s all. No admonishments for my own display of temper.
I melted. Not in a panting, I want to have your babies or my ovaries will burst kind of way. In relief.
I was exhausted by the fighting. I hated it. And I hated not knowing how my dad felt about me—but his reaction seemed an indication that Don fell higher on the priority list than I did.
I took an imperceptible step closer to Michael. Michael made me feel safe—whereas my father made me feel like a rabid dog.
“Why are your hands all over my engaged daughter?” Not a peep about the anger management comment. Or respecting his child. Surprising.
“Because your engaged daughter is engaged to me.”
The red in Dad’s eyes flared even brighter. “I am calm, focused, and relaxed.” He shot Michael a nasty look. To me, he said, “You and I will be speaking shortly.”
Then he disappeared.
“That was…odd.” Michael rubbed my arm. “Any idea what’s with the ‘calm-focused-relaxed’ comment?” Michael asked.
“Not a clue…unless he’s possessed.” And then my knees wobbled. Michael propped me up until I made it to the best arm chair on the planet and sunk into its downy softness.
Several minutes went by with Michael puttering around. He washed our lunch dishes, tossed my clothes in the drier, wiped off the counters and table—all without comment. And then he grabbed a book and settled into the chair next to me.
A girl had to love a guy who could give her a little space. I didn’t delve too deeply into that thought, because I fell asleep.
Falling asleep in the middle of the day wasn’t typical for me, but I also didn’t usually zap a guy with more magic than I knew I had or have a fight (a near fight?) with my dad. I guess I’d been worn out. I do know I hadn’t felt so safe in a long time. Or maybe it wasn’t so much safe, as I just felt less alone.
Michael flipped a page, not commenting though he must have known I’d woken. He read another page or two then glanced at me.
That’s what I get for staring. But I didn’t mind getting caught. It was worth it to see him in such a private moment. It was more intimate in some ways than bumping into him half-dressed earlier that morning.
“What has you grinning?” He marked the page and set the book aside.
Since telling him that I’d been thinking of him bare-chested and tangled up in my arms would blow his ego even more out of proportion than it already was, I landed on another reason. “Images of Don being used as a bird bathroom.”
“You know, at some point you’ll have to try to unbronze the guy.”
“Not today, though.” I stretched and yawned.
“No, not today.” He took a second to respond, and I realized he’d been staring at my breasts, the little lech. My grin broadened.
And then I remembered, my dad. “Has the king tried to call?”
“Texted, me not you.” He pulled his phone out, unlocked the screen, and handed it to me.
An address in Austin, tomorrow’s date, and a time, along with a directive to be there and to bring his wayward daughter.
A sliver of fear snaked through me. “Is this some bizarre punishment? And he’s expecting us to deliver ourselves?”
“Ah, no.” Michael rubbed the back of his neck—which made me want to rub his neck.
All fine and dandy, except that thought led to some imagined shoulder-rubbing which led to his back, his bum, and then other delicious body parts. Somewhere amidst my heated thoughts I caught the words “family” and “therapy.” “I’m sorry—what did you say?”
A broad grin was plastered to his face. “A little distracted?”
He stood up, and his book fell forgotten to the floor. Before I could more than stutter, “Family what?” he’d scooped me up.
In the blink of an eye, he was back in the twin to my armchair with me deposited in his lap. I considered protesting, realized only a crazy person would be so silly, and then snuggled closer.
We kissed, we cuddled, we touched, we played. I discovered that a certain leprechaun had magic in his fingers and that maybe panties should be optional when making future clothing choices.
But that’s where it ended.
I panted more, and he said marry me.
“What?” I panted, trying to focus on words and not the wonderful sensations pulsing through my body.
“You heard me. Marry me.” He smacked my thigh.
I think that was supposed to have the effect of making me pay attention to his words, but his hand on my thigh in any capacity was always going to make me squirm. And when I wiggled, he gasped.
Twining his fingers with mine, he said it again, “Marry me.”
But there was nothing teasing in his tone. In fact, he sounded deadly serious. “You mean it.”
“I do.”
Holy hell.
CHAPTER TEN
“Not tomorrow. Or next week, or even next month. I’d rather not wait a year, but I
will. So long as you say you might.” Michael handed me my coffee, light no sugar.
And just when I thought we’d dropped that conversation yesterday like the hot potato it was.
My heart secretly fluttered at the idea. But no way. Not like this. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”
He crossed his arms.
“Okay, I am a damsel and in distress. But I’m not a damsel in need of rescuing.” I considered everything Michael had done for me. “In need of much rescuing.” I frowned at him. “Not the marrying kind of rescuing.”
“I don’t want to marry you to rescue you. Do I look like an idiot?” With his arms crossed in a way that made him look all buff and manly, I had a hard time thinking straight.
This is what came of the supposed common sense we’d applied last night. He’d slept in his bed, me on the sofa, and never the two shall meet—not even if the hardwood floor had started to look good around midnight. No hanky-panky had ensued.
Okay, hanky-panky had absolutely ensued prior to our migration to separate beds, but no sex. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Michael was holding out for a wedding…but that was ridiculous. I’d known him long enough to know he “dated” a lot. I wouldn’t call him a player, especially recently, but the guy was no virgin. No way he was saving himself for marriage.
Long story short, no sex meant sexual tension. I didn’t care how many orgasms I’d had (a lady never tells,) there was still that simmering take-me-now vibe twanging between us.
Michael lifted an eyebrow. “I do look like an idiot?”
“No, of course not.” I chucked a tea towel at him. “I’m just distracted, because someone is keeping his equipment locked up.”
Someone I adore. I’d almost said it, too. My lust-crush had blossomed into more over the last two days. Although, I suspected it had always been a bit more than a lust-crush. Those don’t usually last years.
“Sex complicates everything, and our situation is currently complicated enough. Don’t you think?”
I eyed him suspiciously. “If sex complicates everything, then maybe we shouldn’t have…” I lifted my eyebrows and glanced at his glorious package, now sadly encased in a pair of well-fitting jeans. “You know.”
“Hey, let’s not be hasty.” He flashed me another of his oh-so-charming grins.
I glanced at the clock. “I can’t believe I’m meeting my father at a therapist’s office.”
“At a human therapist’s office.” Michael looked intrigued by the prospect. He seemed to think that Dad was actually trying.
I wasn’t so sure. Or rather, I was sure he was trying, but trying to do what? Manipulate me? Pull one over on me? I sipped my coffee as so many scenarios, none good, played through my mind.
“At least you know he’s not possessed. All of that calm focus stuff must be a trick his therapist gave him.”
I nodded. That was an upside. Dad might be king of the demons, but it wasn’t a guaranteed thing. Positions in hell were all about power and connection, not birthright. There were struggles for power aplenty, and I wouldn’t put it past some demon to try something so underhanded as possession to undermine the king.
“I don’t actually wish possession on anyone, even Dad.”
Michael took my coffee cup and put it on the kitchen counter, then he wrapped his arms around me and tucked my head under his chin. “You might consider that your perspective in regards to your father has been shaded by your upbringing. A human mother struggling to raise a daughter she might not entirely understand and resenting the man who’d fathered you—perhaps for his differences, perhaps for his inability to commit to her.”
“Right. So how do you explain my engagement to Don? What father thinks that’s a good idea?” I didn’t even touch on the fact he’d abandoned me to sort out the magical side of my life all on my own.
“Don’s a player, but who’s to say he won’t settle into marriage well? Don’t get me wrong. I’m going to make sure any settling he does is with someone else. But the right woman might be the making of Don.”
Snuggling closer, I admitted, “I don’t actually know much about him except that he’s arrogant—”
“He is a prince of hell.”
I sighed. “Okay. But it’s still obnoxious. My point is, all I know of him is his arrogance and his terrible reputation with women. Which means my dad knows those things—and he still chose him. And that’s not even touching on the fact that the man arranged the marriage for personal gain.”
“That you could have refused to acknowledge from the beginning.”
I would have smacked him, but his arms were still firmly wrapped around me and he kissed the top of my head. So I fessed up instead. “Right. But then we’d have had World War III demon-style.” Or worse—I’d have discovered exactly how much my father didn’t love me.
“Really, that bad?” he said in a wickedly sexy tone. Then he kissed my neck.
“No fair. You’re going to get me all hot and bothered, and then refuse the goods.”
“I’m not a tease, I’m just using the leverage I have.” He bumped one of my favorite parts of his anatomy against me. “Marry me.”
And I groaned. I probably would marry the foolish leprechaun at this rate, and then where would we be? I tipped my head up and kissed him, hoping I might convince him to give just a bit of that leverage away.
Twenty minutes later I was a puddle on my favorite arm chair. Leprechauns had magic fingers and mouths as I’d just discovered. And marriage was looking less terrible.
Michael returned from the bathroom looking his normal relaxed, easy-going, charming self.
I gave him a narrow-eyed look. “How do you manage that?”
He tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. “It’s about the long game, Smith. All about the long game.”
When he approached and I didn’t even twitch a muscle, he reached down and pulled me to my feet. “You’ve got twenty minutes to freshen up before we have to leave.”
That got me moving. Wouldn’t want to be late to the therapist’s office. For family therapy. With my dad the devil, Mr. King of Hell himself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“He stays, or I go.” I crossed my arms—much like Michael does when he’s being all firm and resolute. That thought made me glance his way in hopes that I hadn’t just over-stepped by further ensnaring him in the ongoing daytime drama, The Devil and His Daughter.
And, sexy, sweet beast that he was, he winked at me. “Happy to be here, honey.”
The way he said “honey” had me tingly in all the right places.
“This is all highly unusual.” Mr. Nutterman, our unfortunately-named therapist, frowned in displeasure.
His name aside, I’d thus far had the impression that Mr. Nutterman might be good at his job. Normally. When he was dealing with actual human people.
As it was, we weren’t human, and we’d thrown Mr. Nutterman in a tizzy. He hadn’t expected me, and he certainly hadn’t expected my…whatever Michael was. When we’d all appeared at the allotted time, Michael and I discovered that Mr. Nutterman was Dad’s regular therapist. As in, the man known as the devil was seeking guidance on a regular basis for family issues.
We’d also discovered that this was a regularly scheduled appointment, not a family session. Poor Mr. Nutterman wasn’t expecting me and certainly not my as-yet-undefined other.
But the surprises just kept rolling. It appeared I was only one of a number of issues dear Dad was dealing with, because the beleaguered therapist asked, “Which daughter is this?” Making it quite clear that Dad had issues with more than one of his kids.
Oddly, that made me feel better.
So much better that I was almost cheerful when Mr. Nutterman, with a harried look in his eye, instructed his administrative assistant to shift his schedule to accommodate us.
From the appalled look on the admin’s face, I had to assume one did not reschedule therapy appointments. That was Dad, assuming the world would shuffle itself to accommoda
te him. Unfortunately, it frequently did, and the little stinker was rewarded for his bad behavior.
I slipped into Mr. Nutterman’s office with Michael close behind. At the last minute, I reached behind me and grabbed his hand. He held my hand all the time, so it was probably okay—right?
Michael gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze.
Maybe I could do this.
Ten minutes later I wasn’t so sure. Affirmation or no, my dad was not calm, focused, or relaxed. The man was a ball of tension, and I didn’t care how many times he said aloud that he wasn’t.
“I am not a ball of tension. I have terrible, willful children.” Dad did manage to keep his eyes from glowing the flickering red-orange of flames.
I guess I wasn’t filtering from my brain to my mouth any better with Dad than I was with Michael. Oops. I glared at him. “You win the worst dad of the year award, which might explain the willfulness of your children.”
Mr. Nutterman ground his teeth. “Let’s try not to label here, folks. Focus on specific actions and how those actions make you feel.”
We all ignored him. Michael even went so far as to start texting, even though Mr. Nutterman had explicitly forbidden the use of cell phones during the session.
Michael’s phone pinged with a response, and I thought the poor therapist was going to lose it when Michael opened the text.
Once he read it, Michael leaned back in his chair and assumed that supremely relaxed demeanor that I recognized. Something was afoot. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Nutterman, you’re at a disadvantage because you don’t have all the facts. I think you’re a good guy and you’re trying to do the right thing.”
Mr. Nutterman, Bill as he kept telling us to call him, clasped his hands together and gave Michael a serious look. “It’s difficult to work with people who are both hiding important information and failing to follow simple procedures and policies. I do understand that you didn’t have an opportunity to complete the appropriate paperwork, but—” He looked at Dad with some censure. “Simon has read and agreed to our policies and claims to understand how important honesty is to the therapeutic process.”
