by Josie Kerr
Em knew her body had changed after. Her trim stomach wasn’t flat anymore and she had one wicked scar running down the length of it. The scar had faded a bit now, but you could still see it. She had gotten the tattoos around her hips to disguise it at the beginning, but then, she’d added to the initial design because she liked the idea of turning something life-changing and potentially ugly into something beautiful.
Of course, Tripp thought the tattoos that ran around her hips and waist were trashy, unlike the stupid Greek letters of his frat that he had on his foot. What a waste of ink. Em secretly thought that he hated her tattoos because he was jealous that he couldn’t handle the pain of getting a large piece.
He truly seemed embarrassed by the tattoos. No one other than someone she was intimate with would see the ones on her hips, which, in Em’s opinion, was sexy. Tripp had even shamed her enough that she stopped wearing skirts. She’d had the tattoo on her calf since she was 25, getting the colors and lines touched up every few years. It’s not like Tripp didn’t know about that one.
Hmph. Good grief, she was getting herself riled up into a righteous fury over a man that she hadn’t seen or heard from in almost a year.
Em finished her glass of Scotch and chased it with a spoonful of ice cream. She poured more Scotch and got a bigger spoon.
She sat on the couch, watching a movie about Tokyo car racing and petting Beauregard. She liked how the actor didn’t have to soften his natural Southern accent in the film.
That was another thing about stupid assclown Tripp. He was always getting on her about her accent, wanting her to talk elocution lessons. Elocution lessons! That made her so mad she could spit.
Em always made sure she toned down her accent and curtailed her cursing and idioms when she was dealing with outsiders or partners. Except for Ed, Tripp’s father. Ed seemed to appreciate Em exactly how she was, hick accent and all, even if he was a wealthy Brahmin from Boston. In fact, Ed used Em’s naturally warm, welcoming personality to woo suspicious Southern clients by making them feel like the Holbrook Firm was one of them and not some Yankee interloper. Tripp couldn’t understand it.
“Tripp is a jackass, Beauregard. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you told me that he was no good.” She kissed the pudgy cat’s head and was rewarded with a soft “Mewp!” and a nuzzle. “But you like Mick, don’t you, Beau? You were rolling all over him, showing off, purring. You’re a good judge of character.”
Mick said her accent was cute, and not in a “oh, look at the slow, slack-jawed hillbilly” condescending way, but in an “I sincerely think the way you speak is cute” way. That was another plus in the Pro-Mick column.
Em took another swallow of Scotch and another spoonful of ice cream. She liked listening to Mick, too. A few times during their outings together, he’d whipped out some sort of Newfoundland colloquialism that charmed her. Now that was cute.
As she licked the spoon, her thoughts continued to Mick. Licking Mick. Doing other things to him. Sex with Mick. A man who could kiss that like? Yum with a side of Hell Fuckin’ Yeah. She bet Mick wasn’t selfish in bed. He’d been very attentive every time they were together—changing the subject if he sensed she wasn’t comfortable talking about something, remembering things that she had mentioned previously, opening doors for her, and entering buildings behind her. No, there was no way that man was a pleasure hog. She bet he even enjoyed going down on a woman.
She felt a twinge in her sex and knew she was getting wet. The silly romance books she read to clear her mind from the numbness of statistical analysis often described sexual anticipation as a “stirring of the womb.” She didn’t have a womb, but she had other stuff, and that other stuff was twanging away.
She heard knock on her door. Em squinted at the clock. Dear God, it was only 7:30. Or maybe it was 5:40? Stupid analog clock. Whoever was at the door knocked again. Em sighed and hauled herself off the couch, grabbing the remote to turn the television down. There was a third knock by the time she reached the door.
“Jesus Christ, what?!” Em growled as she flung open the door. Mick stood there, open mouthed, his fist poised to knock again.
“Um, is this a bad time?” he said in a quiet voice. He looked her over. She was adorably rumpled in another ska band t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. Her hair was in two pigtails, her glasses perched on her nose, and she had a very large spoon in her hand. Mick’s eyes drifted down Em’s body, finally resting on the large tattoo that covered her whole calf. His face split into a wide grin, all white teeth in the dark hair of his beard. “Woman, I knew I liked you. May I come in?”
Em nodded silently. Mick stepped into the house, seeming to fill up the entire room with his big body. Man, he was tall. Now that she was barefoot, she felt very small. She gazed straight up at him.
“What’s going on, Em? You look kind of funny. Not like ‘funny ha-ha’ funny but ‘funny I am having a breakdown’ funny.”
Em took one look at the concern clouding Mick’s handsome face and burst into noisy tears. He pulled her against his chest and cupped her head in his big hand, murmuring quiet, soothing syllables against her hair. He picked her up, cradling her against his chest, while she knotted his shirt in her fists and continued sobbing. With Em still nestled in his arms, he sat down on the couch and rocked her gently.
“Em, love, what on Earth happened? Can you talk about it? Did someone hurt you? Breathe, love, just breathe.”
Em’s tears slowed and she managed a few shaky breaths. Mick rested his cheek on her head, rubbing her back while surveying the remnants of her one-woman pity party. Oh boy, this had all the markings of an encounter with an ex. Rory had told him that she’d had a really ugly break-up in her recent past, and by the looks of the booze and ice cream buffet and her semi-hysterical state, it must have been a doozy.
He didn’t know how long he sat on the couch with her, rubbing her back and pressing his mouth to her hair. Mick deeply inhaled her scent of vanilla and oranges, hoping that she would take it as a prompt to breathe and not as a sign that he was some sort of head-sniffing deviant. Em took a deep breath and moved her face to look at him, smiling weakly. Mick cupped her face in his hand and she slowly closed her eyes, relaxing into his big hand.
When she opened her eyes, she said, “And how was your week, dear?”
Mick chuckled and replied, “Obviously better than yours was. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, not really, but I probably need to. Wanna drink? Some ice cream soup?” Em frowned. Was she slurring?
Mick moved Em off his lap, kissing her forehead before scooping up the ice cream container and returning it to the freezer. He got a lowball glass from the bar and made his way back to the couch. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into each glass and held his aloft. Em picked up her glass, clinked it against Mick’s, and drank the contents in one swallow.
“Now you’re not drinking alone. Now, tell me what’s gotten you so upset.” Mick smoothed her hair back from her face.
Em took a deep breath and began.
*****
Nine months ago
“Are you really sure you want to go to this party?” Ashley said. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, Em, no matter how much you and Tripp have been talking these past few weeks.”
“It’ll be fine, Ashley. We’re starting over, taking things slow.”
“Uh-huh. Have you seen him since you walked out?”
“Well, no. But like I said, we’ve talked a lot.”
“How many times have you had phone sex?”
“Just that once, Ashley. Jeez.” And it actually wasn’t that different than face-to-face sex with Tripp, unfortunately, but I sure as hell am not going to admit that.
“Mm hmm. I hope you’re not setting yourself up for heartache, Em.”
“It’ll be fine, Ashley. Stop being such a worrywart.”
Truthfully, Em was very nervous about the party. Yes, she was excited to see a few coworkers, mostly Tom and Bai
ley, but she was most excited about seeing Tripp. He had been so sweet and attentive, actually commenting on the documentation and asking thoughtful questions about procedures and protocol. Sure, he should already be completely familiar with the protocols and procedures, but Em felt sure he was just being very conscientious, like he needed to be in light of the Williams near fiasco.
After 20 minutes of socializing, Em started to wonder where Tripp was. Surely he would be at the party, right? He never missed a chance to partake of an open bar, and what’s more, he had assured her that he was looking forward to seeing her again. He was actually so dogged in his insistence about her being at the gathering that it began to annoy her.
Enough, Em. You know he’s always, always late.
A clinking of spoons against glasses brought Em’s attention back to the party. Edmund Holbrook Jr., Tripp’s father and founder of the Holbrook Firm, made his customary brief speech and handed out various company awards. Em clapped politely, but couldn’t help looking at her watch, wondering where Tripp could possibly be.
After another hour, Em gave up and began to make her way to the coat check. She was ready to get away from this party and out of this outfit. When she was almost out the door, she heard Tripp’s amplified voice calling for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement. Tonight, I would like to announce to the world that I am going to marry the love of my life. Darling, come here.”
Em stood paralyzed with shock as her co-workers smiled and nodded and urged her toward the front of the room. What the actual fuck is going on? Suddenly, a sweet, familiar voice tittered over the speaker. Em’s head shot up. Tripp had his arm resting around the waist of Bailey, the 28-year-old administrative assistant and Em’s supposed friend, who was looking at him like she wasn’t quite sure what was happening. Whispers and hushed, nervous chuckles could be heard throughout the ballroom. A few people looked at Em with pity, some with shock, but most made a point not to acknowledge at her at all.
Em stood in the middle of the ballroom for a moment; then she spun around and walked briskly through the door while she made a call. She knew no one would answer on a Saturday night, but it didn’t matter.
“Rory, this Em Davidson. Holbrook doesn’t need me any more after all. Do you still need me to go Portland to back you up? Let me know and I can be on a flight tomorrow.” She ended the call and hailed a taxi.
Em sank down in the back of the cab. She made another call.
“Ashley, I’m ready to put an offer on that converted Victorian. I’ll explain everything when I get to your place.”
*****
By the time she finished talking, the bottle of Cragganmore was nearly empty, but Mick still had his initial glass. Em had stopped crying and was now speaking calmly, albeit slurring her words. Mick continued to rub her back, making soothing noises and refilling her glass without her asking. She laid her head on his big shoulder and closed her eyes. Mick pressed his mouth against her hair and silently wished Tripp a violent death or even just a terrible case of venereal disease. What a horrible person, acting like that. Who did that? Entitled assholes like Tripp Holbrook, it would seem. Mick kissed Em’s head again and pulled her tighter against his chest.
Em suddenly sat up and put her hands on either side of Mick’s face. “You, Mick Brennan, are the. Best. Listener. Ever,” she declared. Mick chuckled at her slurred words. He smoothed her hair behind her ear and placed a hand on her cheek. Em took another deep breath and said, “You’re also the best kisser ever, ever, ever.” She leaned into him.
Mick knew that he was about to get into a very sticky situation. “Em, love, you’re about half cut. You need to go to bed and sleep it off. Come on, I’ll help you.”
Mick swung her up into his arms and took her into the bedroom. He laughed softly at the hyper-femininity of Em’s room. Jaysus, this was the girliest room he had ever been in, all white wicker and fanciful wrought iron and eyelet lace. It was kind of at odds with her giant stocking tattoo, but in a way, it was totally Em. He pulled the covers back and laid her in the bed, then pulled a blanket over her.
“You joining me?” Em slurred sleepily, running her fingers over Mick’s jaw.
“In a bit,” he said, hoping that she would be passed out before he got back with the glass of water he intended to put on her nightstand.
Mick got a glass and filled it, then rummaged around in her bathroom, looking for pain reliever. He finally found some under the sink, along with a vibrating sex toy that he fastidiously ignored.
When he returned, her delicate snores filled the otherwise quiet room. He pulled the covers up higher and kissed her forehead before placing a wastebasket near the bed. He turned to Beauregard, who was keeping watch from the dresser. “You keep an eye on her, Beau. Don’t let anything happen to her. She’s going to feel right logy tomorrow, so don’t make her get up early and feed you.”
Mick smoothed her hair behind her ear and stroked her cheek with his thumb, giving her one last kiss.
“Love, I’m going to let you get some sleep. I’ll see you soon,” he said.
Mick wrote a quick note and left it on the kitchen island. Then he slipped out the door, locking it behind him.
Chapter 16
He ran his nose up her cheek and over to her ear, nipping the soft curve, his breath almost a purr. His arm lay heavily across her chest, holding her down. The soft hair on his bearded jaw glided along her cheek, teasing Em with its softness. Soft nips at her chin followed more nuzzling. Em offered up her neck for better access to those nuzzles.
“Mmm, that feels good, Mick,” she sighed.
The whisper touch became more insistent, the hushed breathing louder. Em opened one eye. Instead of Mick’s sparkling silvery-blue eyes, a pair of whiskey-amber eyes with slit pupils glared at her.
“No offense, Beauregard, but you’re not who I want to see first thing this morning.” Em sat up and immediately regretted it. She didn’t even remember getting into bed. She swung her feet to the floor, knocking into the small trashcan at the side of the bed. She squinted at the clock and saw her glasses on the nightstand next to some pain reliever and a glass of water. Huh, I am never this well prepared for the morning after a night of drinking.
As she drank the water and took the pills, Beauregard decided that he’d had enough waiting around for his breakfast and attacked her feet.
“Good lord, I will feed you in a minute. My bladder is about to burst.”
By the time Em made it to the bathroom, she was queasy and overheated. She leaned on the counter and looked in the mirror. She looked as bad as she felt.
Em groaned as she sat on the toilet with a cool washrag, trying to remember the lovely dream she’d been having. She could remember strong arms picking her up and carrying her across the threshold to bed, and then soft lips kissing her sweetly on the forehead. She remembered reaching up to touch Mick’s strong, bearded jaw line. If only he had actually spent the night.
Em’s eyes flew open and she launched herself out of the bathroom. She saw an almost empty bottle of Cragganmore on the counter and two rinsed glasses in the drainer. Then she saw the note.
Em,
Hope you don’t feel too worse for the wear today. Come see me when you’re feeling up to it.
Mick
404-555-3678
P.S. Nice tats.
Em’s stomach roiled. Oh God, what had she done? Were those sexy dreams real? Oh no, had she showed Mick her tattoos? Oh God.
Em blew out a breath. Okay, plan of action. She always functioned better with a plan.
First things first: hangover tonic. She knew she was feeling okay now, but she would crash and puke soon. Tonic was definitely first on the list.
Second: call Ashley and ask her what the hell happened.
Third: move away and avoid seeing Mick Brennan’s handsome face ever again.
Okay, maybe not the third thing, but she was going to avoid the big man for as long as possible.
Em fixed a double batch of hangover tonic and drank the first glass down. When the first had done its purgative job, she drank the second and got in the shower. By the time she finished, she felt almost human again.
She called Ashley, who irritatingly found the whole situation hilarious.
“God, Ashley, I think I threw myself at him. I am so embarrassed.”
“How do you know you threw yourself at him?”
“Hello, Whiskydrunk Em equals Flirty Em! You know how I get!”
“Hello yourself , Em! I’ve been trying to get you to release your inner hussy for years! And it’s actually Flirtyfun Em when you’re lit.”
“Why did I have to do this with Mick? He’s such a nice man. He’s probably appalled. Ugh. I’m going to have to move so I can avoid him.”
“Didn’t he say to call him?”
“No, he left me his phone number and said to come see him!” Em practically shrieked. “It’s even worse!”
“How is that worse? You want to see him, obviously, because if you didn’t you wouldn’t be completely freaking out about possibly bad behavior that you can’t even remember. Do you have any real reason to think that you guys fooled around last night?”
“Well, no,” Em admitted.
“Well then let’s just bank on him being a super nice gentlemanly guy, and chalk up the tattoo comment to the fact that he saw that big-ass tattoo on your calf.”
“I was wearing sleep shorts when I woke up. And underwear. And a t-shirt.”
“See? You have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh lord.”
*****
Mick didn’t see Em at all for the next week, but she wasn’t far from his mind. Even drunk and weepy, she was very appealing. Did that make him a weirdo? He hoped not. He thought about her soft hair under his hands and the feel of her sweet curves as he held her. It was nice. Well, the circumstances weren’t nice at all, but the actual holding? Very nice.
