by Angel Payne
I jolt up, not sure which would make me scream louder—only to release my breath in a stunned whoosh as my beyond-beautiful boyfriend fills the doorway. His gaze is so brilliant, it makes him look a little crazy. His grin is even brighter, almost out-dazzling the sunshine. His arms, with biceps bulging out of a black and purple Judah & the Lion T-shirt, are spread wide due to carrying a tray with a decadent breakfast spread on it, complete with a little red rose tucked into a cut crystal vase.
“Well, there she is.”
“Uhhhh…” I manage to stammer as he strides in, humming a tune I don’t recognize. That’s likely because it’s off-key, but even after the viral video craziness of yesterday, I realize the man and his warbling are better for my mood than all the rose-embellished breakfast trays on earth.
Though damn, does that food smell good…
“Time for fuel, beautiful. We have a big afternoon ahead.”
“After…” I don’t get a chance to finish. As Reece scoots the tray onto the bed near my feet, I realize the breakfast spread is actually a lunch array, with finger sandwiches, homemade potato chips, veggies and hummus, a chopped green salad, and huge cookies sprouting thumb-sized chocolate chips. “What the hell time is it?” And nearly as important, what the hell is with his wardrobe? I blink in wonderment, realizing I never knew he owned even one rock band tee, let alone a kick-ass one. My amazement doubles as my gaze travels down and turns into a gawk at his ripped jeans and loose-laced black Chucks.
Chucks.
The man owns jeans and Chucks?
“Nearly noon,” Reece supplies, but stuffs a carrot stick into my mouth before I can get out a gasp of horror. “And you’re not going to give me a syllable of lip about letting you sleep in, woman. After the paces you got put through last night”—he hitches up one side of his gorgeous, full mouth—“both the crappy and the carnal, you needed the rest.” As he loads up a plate with at least two of everything for me, including the cookies, he adds, “And now you need to recharge. Big-time. So you will empty this plate, with one happy watchdog sitting right here to make sure.” As he slides the plate next to me, his gaze swirls with lusty smoke while dropping to my bare breasts. “Don’t worry if you drop crumbs or anything. I’ll be happy to…tidy them up for you…”
Slowly—very slowly—my bowling ball starts to shrink. I even think I feel a smile approaching my lips as I finish the carrot stick and reach for a sandwich square. The hint of gourmet cheese on French bread hits my nose, and my taste buds instantly thank him for bringing an entire plate of those. “Hmmm. Do you have time for…crumb duty?” I tease. “Wasn’t there something you said about a big afternoon?” As I lean over for another sandwich, I purposely push my shoulders together to create some significant cleavage for his ogling pleasure. I’m so bad but so enjoying it. “Or maybe your idea of ‘big’ perfectly matches mine right now.”
And should have been nearly nine hours ago, when he was a naked, half-erect Adonis in front of me…
“Oh, baby.” With one move, he whips the plate to a spot several feet away on the mattress. With his second, he nosedives his face into my cleavage, lapping at my skin with desire-filled strokes. “There’s always time for crumb duty.” But a couple of minutes later, after he’s ensured nothing’s spilled on my chest except his kisses, bites, and sucks, he pushes away with a gritted groan. “But right now, fuck me, there’s only time for that.”
In the bright light, I echo his dark sound. Falling back against the headboard, I jab him with a disbelieving glare—moaning again when it doesn’t stir his resolve. “I thought fucking you was the general idea, hotshot.”
The line is good for a definite spark of reaction. He’s beyond gorgeous as his nostrils flare, lips part, and nipples stand out against his T-shirt, especially as he rolls his shoulders and sets his arms back. If we were in the weight room, I’d swear he was prepping to get in some reps with a well-loaded dumbbell.
But it turns out I’m the dumbbell.
The shrieking, flailing dumbbell—as he ducks his shoulder into my middle, wraps one arm around my thighs, and rises from the bed with me over his damn shoulder.
“For that line, missie, you’re getting dunked in the shower before the water heats up.”
“Whaaat? Reece! What the hell?”
I’m not sure whether it’s my goosebump-covered nudity or my strangled goose screams that ultimately do the trick, but the big sap gives me a mixed collection of tender and torrid kisses while we wait for the shower to heat up. I return his sexy “mercy” by attempting to grind my nakedness up and down his sinewy frame, my lust only aided by his bad boy rock god look. There may even have been a few filthy suggestions in his ear about pretending I’m his shameless groupie, ready to take his wad in my mouth for an autograph. In the end, he’s still intractable about indulging any action with me beyond sucking face beneath the pelting spray.
Whatever he has planned, this better be damn good.
When I reemerge in the bedroom with a towel around my body and another around my hair, the man has loaded my plate with more food and laid out clothes for me on the bed. Like him, my attire for the day is jeans and a T-shirt—only mine is a basic red crew neck with the Richards Resorts logo silkscreened over the upper left corner.
And now…so is his.
I push my brows together and crank my head on my neck, not hiding my curiosity as he walks back into the room, plate in hand, sucking hummus off his thumb. He can’t be blamed. Chef Bruno’s homemade hummus is the best in the land.
“Okay…” I draw out the end of the word. “I guess the big afternoon doesn’t include a Judah & the Lion concert.”
“Dope idea,” he returns, biting into a cookie. “But no. They’re not in town until next month.” He winks, his eyes alive with happy silver glints. “Today is for even better fun.”
“That I don’t get to know about?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re still naked.”
“Huh?”
“If I tell you and you’re still naked, you’ll start crying. And even if you’re crying in happiness, I’ll want to kiss away your tears. And if I kiss away your tears, and you’re still only dressed in that towel…”
“Got it. Got it.” I chuckle and hold up my hands, which loosens my towel and turns it into a puddle at my feet. Its plop on the floor is muffled by the stringent groan from my boyfriend’s chest. I have to swallow down another laugh as he openly ogles, hummus on his lips, need in his eyes, and a rock star-sized bulge in his fly.
Before he pivots and stomps out of the room, he yells, “Great. You got it. Now get your sweet ass dressed before I give you something we both don’t have time for, woman!”
* * *
“Gah.”
The word isn’t usually one of my key vocabulary go-tos, but this occasion—an astounding logistical feat of a surprise by my incredible boyfriend—more than warrants its second occurrence in the same day.
Though “surprise” doesn’t serve this moment by even a fraction.
As we turn down a humble street in the southeast corner of LA, Reece is still telling me about where we’re headed: the home of a Hotel Brocade employee I don’t know because of our opposite shifts but whom I now can’t wait to meet.
“So everyone just calls him Cal?” I eagerly ask. “But I’ll only have just met him.”
Reece wraps a hand around my fidgeting fingers. “And you’ll only weird him out more if you go by the name on his paycheck. Relax, Bunny. It’s going to be great.”
“Okay,” I mutter. “Okay.” But after a second of gazing out at the passing cottages and tiny homes, I prompt, “Just tell it all to me again. I don’t want to forget.”
The man doesn’t reply at once. Instead, he sweeps my fingers up to his lips and presses a couple of fervent kisses into them. “You take my breath away, Emmalina Crist.”
And just like that, impossible as it seems, I melt by a few more degrees. “And y
ou’re not answering my question, Reece Richards.”
“You’re just amazing. You need to know that every day—but today especially.”
I snort. Hard. “Says the man who made this all come together with a few hours of texts and God knows how many phoned-in favors?”
As anticipated, that gets the man to circle back around to the subject. With one hand still on mine and his other effortlessly steering the large utility truck he introduced as “the epic ride” back at the hotel, he states, “As you know, Cal’s been working full-time in the engineering department for about three months.”
“And he’s only twenty-one.” I shake my head in bewilderment while confirming the additional facts he’s already revealed to me. At twenty-one, my “engineering” knowledge consisted of replacing light bulbs and scoping out coffee houses for outlets in which to power up my laptop for homework. “Employment” was a seasonal part-time thing at one of the souvenir kiosks in Downtown Disney.
“Well, he was nineteen when that bad flu season killed his mother,” Reece goes on. “Things were rough for a while—”
“Rougher than now?”
“Topic for another discussion.” His jaw tenses, filling in enough of that answer for me to know he means it.
“But he got through.” Again, I reiterate the basics of what he’s already disclosed. “And when he was old enough, he petitioned the court for custody of his sisters. They’re both seven now, right?”
“Right. And both thriving because Cal won’t accept anything less. They’re earning straight As in public school, just like he did. The kid did well and was offered several full-board college scholarships, but he had to turn them all down. Between making payments on the medical bills, keeping the twins clothed and fed, and maintaining all the utility bills on the house, the kid has to work full-time at the Brocade just to make ends meet.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
There’s so much more I want to know about Cal and his story, but at the moment, Reece pulls the truck to a stop in front of a house that’s tidy but sparse, with a waist-high chain link fence bordering a small but well-kept lawn. The home itself appears clean but in need of repair. The front step is missing, and the window screens are torn.
My heart swells and then bursts to see the small group of people waiting just outside that little fence, all proudly wearing T-shirts that match ours. Among them are Neeta, Wade, and Fershan, as well as some familiar faces from the housekeeping and catering departments. As soon as Reece swings me down from the truck and gallantly pecks my cheek, everyone surrounds me with hugs, smiles, and high-fives. Now, my heart’s beyond the bursting point. It’s a flood of emotion, gratitude, joy, and excitement.
That’s before the day gets even better.
A pair of high, joyous shrieks hits the air—as a matching set of pigtailed beauties bound out of the house, across the porch, and down the front walk. Both of them even know to leap extra far to accommodate for the missing step, which makes my heart wrench. How long has that step been in disrepair? Worse, how long have these two cuties, with their pink and purple dresses, their crooked smiles, and their wiggly, infectious energy, lived in conditions like this?
I look at Reece, despite knowing he won’t be able to supply the answer. He gave me as much information as he could during the brief trip from downtown to here.
With that explanation still echoing in my head, and now the two adorable munchkins hugging my legs, I suck in a huge breath to face a challenge twice as huge as the press mob from last night.
Blinking back a million tears.
Like the grins from these two upturned faces are going to make that one drop easier.
“Hi,” the first one chirps, her cheeks as rosy as her pink pinafore dress.
“Hi,” her sister in purple adds.
“Well, hello there,” I answer, spreading my arms to pat both their backs. I tell myself they’re just kids, but the jut of their shoulder blades makes me wish we’d brought food too. As much as their refrigerator can hold. “Now, who do we have here? Princess Sparkle Bottom and Princess Unicorn Breath?”
The twins erupt into laughter. “Nooooo!” they yell in unison, having to release my legs in order to let out some excess energy with excited squirms.
“I’m Tosca,” says the imp in pink.
“And I’m Jina,” says her sister, brandishing her auburn pigtails like little whips.
“Is that so?” I throw my widened gaze at both of them. “Well, those are great names. Made for warriors instead of princesses, I’d say.”
Tosca pops her mouth wide. “You think so? Really?”
“Pssshhh.” Jina drops her hair in order to brandish her hands as fists. “I already am a warrior. Cal says so. I can kick his ass in five moves or less.”
Unbelievably, Tosca gapes wider. “Ummmm! You cussed, sister.”
Jina glares. “So?”
“So…I’m telling Cal.”
“Telling me what?” The interjection comes from a handsome guy now emerging from behind the gate—and earning my instant gawk, despite my efforts at concealment. But my astonishment can’t be helped. If I passed Cal on the street, I’d peg him not a day younger than twenty-six or twenty-seven. There’s a balance, perhaps a confidence, that a man’s movements gain once they hit the halfway point to thirty—a weight I’ve always just attributed to the passing of chronological years. Now, I see it has everything to do with emotional burdens instead. This kid is too damn young to heft this huge a load.
And today, thanks to the force of nature that my man is, we’re going to help lighten that weight.
In one small way, by just one small increment, we’re going to help change the world.
Though Cal nods toward Reece and me, he gives the first priority of his attention to his little sisters. “Tell me what?” he prompts once more to Tosca—who turns as bright as her dress and vehemently shakes her head.
“Nuffin’.” It emerges as a nervous slur.
“You mean nothing?” Cal corrects.
“Nothing.” Now she’s just pissed, throwing a glower at her preening sister. “Except that Jina cussed!”
“Well, then.” Cal folds his arms, looking for all the world like a young movie star with his broad chest outlined beneath his dark T-shirt. “You know what happens now. Ten seconds with the soap bar for you, J. And T, instead of policing her, you can scoot yourself into the bedroom and finish cleaning out that closet. You were supposed to be done an hour ago.”
Two little faces scrunch up in fury. But nearly in unison, both girls grumble, “Yes, sir,” and go back to the house with doomsday stomps.
As I watch them, I shake my head in obvious awe. “Wow. Cal.” I snap my focus back to him, knowing I should be helping the rest of the Richards gang in unloading all the materials Reece has gathered for repairing and improving the house today. “Are you sure you’re only twenty-one?”
He laughs softly. “There are times when I wonder, like when Jina’s got me glued to the floor under her Wonder Woman sword. Those are the times I wonder if God’s decided to just fast-forward me into my forties.”
I feel my lips quirk. “And Tosca’s method?” Because even after three minutes with those girls, I can tell the warrior term applies to them both.
“Lightsaber. She’s a Rey girl.”
I pump a fist. “And a soul sistah.”
Though he joins me in another chuckle, gravity settles back over his posture almost immediately. “I…don’t know what to say about all this, Miss Crist. Honestly, I’m a little overwhelmed. I’m just so used to handling everything on my own, so this is kind of weird…”
I grab him by one of his forearms, which are still settled protectively across his body. “I know.” I pause for a swallow as he blinks, exposing the tragedy that’s forced him to go from his teens to his forties at the speed of light. “Probably not in all the same ways that you do, but I know.”
After another couple of blinks, he’s cloaked h
is pain once again. But the vulnerability it exposed is still a presence on his chiseled face. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I can see that you do.”
It’s a brief conversation, ending with a sentence that’s less than ten words from the reserved guy, but even from that collection of syllables, I extract a strange yet stunning kind of energy…
Energy that turns into thoughts. Thoughts that blossom into inspiration.
Inspiration that formulates into a dream.
A dream that, six hours later, I’m all but bursting to tell Reece.
Yeah, even though I’m exhausted and dirty and splattered from head to toe with plaster and paint, every pore of my being is still overflowing with anticipation and excitement, a special verve I only seem to be sharing with two other people on this block right now. Still, I’m not sure either of them is up for listening to my grand plan at the moment. They are only seven.
But damn if they aren’t worth quadruple their weight in gold for the entertainment value—a dose of double girl power, wielding lightsaber and sword, as the rest of us watch from our weary sprawls across the new furniture we’ve brought to complete Cal’s new front porch décor.
“Get the dragon, Diana!” Tosca screams, circling her blinking plastic lightsaber in the air. “He’s got the magical crystal in his claw!”
“And if he delivers it all the way to General X, it could be used to blow up the entire planet of Flixsa!” Jina yells back.
“It’s no use.” The first girl stops with melodramatic flair. “We won’t get there fast enough. We need Transformatron to take us.”
“Yes! Transformatron! He has the laser blaster rockets given to him by Starman. He can surely help us!”
“Who wants to tell Hollywood they’re missing the next blockbuster genre mash-up idea?” Wade murmurs.
“On my list,” Neeta mumbles back. “As soon as I can move again.”
“I’ll never be able to move again,” Cal adds—punctuating it by joining our collective gasp as a third figure races in from the side of the house, all ten fingers spread out and glowing.
