Legally Mine (Spitfire Book 2)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Contact Nicole French
Legally Mine
A Novel
N I C O L E F R E N C H
Raglan Press
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or rendered fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2017 Raglan Press
All rights reserved.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailed and purchase your own copy.
Kindle Edition
Dedication
To the women in my family, the baddest chicks I know.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Contact Nicole French
Prologue
She's everywhere.
My sheets. My skin. My clothes.
My feet hit the ground as I wind my way around the Charles River. Two-and-a-half miles up. Two-and-a-half down. I plod down the beaten dirt path that runs by the river's edge. I arrive when the water is still smooth, when the crew teams are just starting their morning workouts with early sun gleaming off their oars. I pad up to the Harvard campus and back down to MIT, running away from her face as much as I'm running toward it. Because she's everywhere to me. I can't escape her. And the fucked-up thing is, I don't want to.
It's springtime in Boston, almost summer. The trees and plants in the Commons are in full bloom, a mosaic of color, green, pink, yellow, white, smack in the middle of a city that's mostly brick and stone. This city of mine, a city I love, a city that's as gritty and ugly as it is beautiful. I thought for a long time this city was my heart, more than any person ever could be. But that was until I met her.
My body clock is off. I used to wake up every day at 5:30, like a machine. Now I wake earlier and earlier to catch the sunrise, just to see that blend of red, yellow, and orange as it peeks over the jagged city skyline. Scarlet. Mustard. Burnt Sienna. Crimson. Goldenrod. Butterscotch. Too many to name, but all the same plethora of colors as her hair. It's like my body yearns for her as much as my soul does.
Every day I get up to see that color, no alarm clock, nothing. The same way I did to watch her sleep all those times. She never knew I did that, never knew I'd lay beside her for hours just watching her face, memorizing the maze of freckles across those high cheekbones, the fringe of long auburn lashes that tremble when she dreams, the bee-stung lips that blow kisses in her sleep. Waiting for the moment when she would wake, aching for when I could see her eyes, the color of ripe kiwis, gleaming with everything I'd ever hoped for.
Adoration.
Admiration.
Lust.
Love.
I never knew I was such a fool until now. Not until I managed to fuck up the best thing that ever happened to me.
Now my life is back to normal. As normal as it can be with half my heart, the heart I never knew I had, torn out of my chest. But still I wake, just as the sun seeps through the blinds. And I can only lay in my bed heartsick for so long. So I run to catch the dawn and then continue with my regimen, with the schedule that keeps me in line. Barely.
5:30 AM: Work out with my trainer.
7:30 AM: Breakfast and review the early Tokyo returns.
8:00 AM until 10:00 PM: Meetings. Lunch meetings. Staff meetings. Board meetings. Coffee meetings. Dinner meetings. All. Day. Long.
10:00 PM: Home. Watch the fire. Try not to think of her.
Fail fucking miserably.
The lab used to provide a distraction, but now all I can see is her, stretched out on my work bench, her heart-shaped mouth rounded into that "O" of total pleasure only we can make together. I found a strand of her hair on the table, bronze and bright against the dark wood, the color of the evening sun as it sinks below the horizon.
I tore the fuckin' place apart.
I'd give it all up for her. This house. This life. This business. This firm. And she doesn't know it yet, but that's exactly what I'm going to do. Whatever it takes. Whatever she needs.
But for now, I wait. Because if there's one thing I know about my girl––no, my woman. My perfect, beautiful, brilliant, stubborn, sometimes unreasonable, hot-tempered woman––it's that she can't be forced.
So I'll wait, forever if I have to. Because that's what you do when you belong to someone, body and soul.
And I do, Red. I do.
~
Chapter 1
I woke up with a smile on my face, something that hadn't happened in a long time. The familiar room was airy and bright. Thin rays of sunshine streamed through the bay windows that looked over the Public Garden. It was hard to beat the Commons in full bloom: the vivid green of the grass and willow trees was set off by the brilliant patches of color. The soft pink of late cherry blossoms. The thrill of irises and rose bushes lining the paths. This morning in particular, everything seemed to gleam, like the old Technicolor movies that Bubbe, my grandmother, loved so much.
I grinned lazily into the warm, white sheets and inhaled. Nothing smelled better. That light scent of fabric softener combined with something infinitely less definable, a delectable blend of mint, almond
s, and something else that only smelled like one thing. I inhaled again.
How could I have ever thought of leaving this behind? Of leaving him?
The door to the bedroom burst open with a clap, startling me from my reverie. I sat up, holding the soft cotton sheets to my bare chest as Brandon eased backward into the room, carrying a tray of food. My head cocked appreciatively. Even in just a pair of worn flannel pajama pants, the man seriously had an ass that wouldn't quit. It helped that he wasn't wearing anything on top. Nothing but a broad-shouldered expanse of tanned muscle that tapered to his trim waist.
He kicked the door closed, humming a song under his breath. When he turned around, I found myself on receiving end of his full six feet, four inches of glory. Wide pectoral muscles smattered with a dusting of dark blond hair. Biceps that would have threatened the sleeves of a T-shirt had he been wearing one. A well-defined six-pack that stacked evenly down to the V-shaped muscles at his hips. An athlete's body that was lean and toned, not bulky. Perfect.
But none of it compared to his smile, that thousand-watt smile that lit up every room he entered and sky-blue eyes that seemed to shine brightest when he was looking at me. He made the sun seem dim in comparison. Even on a day like this.
My heart fluttered. It literally fluttered. What had I ever done to deserve someone like this? How could I ever have thought of throwing him away like some piece of garbage? The thought made me feel sick, so I shook my head and smiled back at him.
"Hey, beautiful, you're awake," he said warmly as he walked the tray over to the bed.
I pushed myself up and stacked a few of the massive down pillows behind my back before answering. "I just woke up. I slept like a rock."
"Good," Brandon said with another sweet grin that revealed the dimples in his ruddy cheeks.
He set the tray on the nightstand and then perched over me on his knees so he could give me a long, lingering kiss.
"And good morning," he murmured against my mouth.
I smiled again, my nose wrinkling against his. God, I loved this man. I couldn't love anyone or anything more.
"Good morning to you," I murmured against his soft, full lips. There was that scent again, in the flesh.
Brandon moved to sit beside me on the bed. He picked up the tray of food and set it between us, and I peered over all the accoutrements, not even trying to contain my obvious enthusiasm.
"And what do we have here?" I asked eagerly.
"I might have had Anna run over to Mike's for some pastries," he said, pointing to the plate stacked with flaky, buttery goodies. "But I cut up the melon and scrambled the eggs myself. You impressed, Red?"
I grinned. Brandon wasn't exactly a cook. I was honestly surprised he knew how to do anything more than boil water.
"You're going to make me fat," I said blissfully as I reached for a chocolate-filled sfogliatelle.
"Good," Brandon said with a satisfied grin. "More of you to love, right?"
I rolled my eyes at the corny line, but took a massive bite anyway. Who was I kidding? I loved it.
The merry expression on Brandon's face quickly turned almost predatory as he followed the movement of my mouth, zeroing in on my lips as my tongue slipped out to snag a stray bit of chocolate. I finished swallowing, but couldn't take another bite. With deft hands, Brandon plucked the pastry out of my fingers and set it back on the tray, which he then put back on the side table.
When he turned back to me, I was a statue. He reached up to tuck a few morning-tousled strands of my red hair behind my ear.
"Do you know..." he said as he leaned in slightly.
"Do I know what?" I asked as he ran his nose up and down my neck.
I dropped the sheet from my bare breasts, instead wrapping my arms instinctively around his warm shoulders. My nipples just grazed the hard planes of his chest, and I shivered at the feeling. I had no shame with this man. I was his, body and soul. He knew it, and I knew it. But even so, he also knew how much I loved to hear him say it out loud.
"You are..." he trailed off again as his mouth found the edge of my shoulder and he began to feather his lips along my collarbone.
"I'm what?" I murmured as I leaned back, opening myself up to his eyes and his kisses.
I laid fully back into the pillows, allowing him to cage me under his big, warm body. I moaned under the delectable feel of his stubble along my clavicle, the soft flick of his tongue at the base of my neck, the wet press of his mouth between my breasts. But he knew what I wanted to hear. It was another game we liked to play. And I wasn't going to be distracted.
"Brandon," I said even as I clutched at his thick mane of gold, wavy and curling at the base of his neck. "Brandon, I'm what?"
With a groan, he pulled away from his ministrations and pushed up onto his forearms to hover over me, blue eyes kind, clouded with desire, and glazed with sudden vulnerability.
"You're...everything to me, Skylar."
His voice was thick, and the Boston accent, which he normally kept well-hidden except for moments of extreme emotion, was obvious in the way the "r" all but disappeared as he spoke. I could hardly breathe, but my heart thumped loudly between us.
Brandon leaned down to touch his nose to mine.
"Everything," he whispered. "I love you."
And there it was: everything I wanted to hear, everything I wanted to know. My entire body relaxed at the sound of those three perfect words. Our lips met around them, echoing with our bodies what we'd just proclaimed. God, he tasted so incredibly good. Like butter pastry and sugar and something else that made me just want to...
Vomit?
My stomach lurched. A split-second later, I was shoving him off me with sudden violence. Away. I just needed him away.
"Skylar?"
His voice was frantic as I sprinted off the bed, too concerned with making it to his pristine en suite bathroom to bother with grabbing a sheet to cover myself. Fuck, the last thing I needed to do was lose my breakfast all over Brandon's spotless white sheets. My feet seemed to thunder across the plush carpet, and my body lurched again.
"Skylar?" Brandon called behind me, but his voice seemed far away.
"Skylar?"
~
I sat up suddenly in my childhood bed, a thin sheen of sweat across my forehead as an increasingly familiar wave of nausea rode through me. The motion sent a series of creaks through the old spring mattress that echoed through the darkened room. Shit. I'd woken up too fast again.
A small bag of Saltine crackers sat on the worn table next to my bed, along with a dish of ginger cookies. I grabbed for them, but it was no use. The nausea was already here, and once it was here, there was really nothing to do but ride it out and try my hardest not to lose whatever was left in my stomach. If there was anything to lose after a night of waking up like this every few hours.
Just the thought of it caused another wave to roll through my aching belly as I laid back down on my pillow and silently willed the feeling away. I was maybe six or seven weeks pregnant, but I was already thoroughly sick of it––pun absolutely intended. Pregnancy glow, my ass. My breasts ached, I was exhausted all the time, and in the last week I had actually lost weight from vomiting so much.
In hushed tones from Chicago, Jane, my best friend and former roommate, had told me I probably had something called hyperemesis gravidarum, which was a fancy Latin term for sick as a motherfucking dog. This was according to her cousin, the anonymous OBGYN, whom I was about ready to fly to Chicago to punch in the face. Seriously, that chick never had anything but bad news for me.
It was funny how your entire life could change in the space of a few hours. Only a week ago, I had watched those two lines turned pink, and two hours later, the first waves of nausea began. I had ridden the four hours from Boston to New York in the backseat of my grandmother's station wagon, my things jammed into the trunk and onto the roof, Dad and Bubbe up front bickering while I tried my hardest to focus on something, anything, that would keep me from throwing up all o
ver Bubbe's macramé seat covers.
Too bad the only thing that worked was a pair of blue eyes I'd had to say goodbye to. Turns out grief beats hormones if I'm willing to substitute one pain for another.
We had arrived at my childhood home in Brooklyn late that night, and I had immediately dropped my duffel bags on the floor and sprinted for the downstairs toilet. I'd somehow managed to unload my things from the car, but since then, I'd been camped out in my small attic room, making periodic runs for the bathroom.
When my symptoms persisted, I had told my dad and Bubbe that I had come down with mono after working so hard to finish law school. Dad, ever in a perpetual daze these days after losing most of the use of his left hand (including his ability to play the piano) in a brawl with a debt collector and his thugs, had nodded and told me to rest up and feel better.
Bubbe was a bit harder to fool. A Ziploc bag of Saltines appeared on my nightstand the next morning, and ginger cookies the day after. To her credit, however, she was waiting for me to say something. That was Bubbe for you: someone who preferred to suspect more than actually know. She hadn't even asked what had happened with Brandon since seeing him at my graduation.
Brandon. God.
My stomach heaved again, this time with sadness. Why did I have to be one of those people who carried every emotion I had in my gut? Just like every other time I remembered the way I had willfully and forcefully shoved the love of my life out of said life, my eyes welled up and a giant sob choked my throat. I swallowed it back and shut my eyes again, willing the pain away.
It didn't work.
But Brandon was still in the middle of a very contentious divorce. And then he had made arrangements, behind my back and against my express wishes, to give money to my father's loan shark––the small-time gangster who was also responsible for Dad's smashed hand and a bevy of other injuries that had landed him in the hospital last March. I had known there was no way I could make it work with someone who would keep such secrets from me. I had had enough of those kinds of secrets because of my father, and I couldn't be with someone I couldn't trust.