At Last

by Addison Fox

  She was on the slender side—too slender, though he’d had many a girlfriend who’d assured him there was no such thing—and he sensed the state was self-inflicted vs. naturally designed. A light hollowness filled the spaces under her cheekbones, and her makeup couldn’t quite hide the circles under her eyes.

  Who hurt you?

  Unbidden, a memory of his mother filled his thoughts. The first time he’d seen her, actually, at the ripe old age of ten. He, Landon, and Fender had been out on the playground at recess, and a woman walking by had dropped her dry cleaning.

  She’d looked so sad, Nick remembered.

  He didn’t understand the whys of it then—still didn’t fully—but he’d known the look all the same, and he’d never forgotten it.

  Funny that the look on Emma’s face reminded him of that day. The urge to leave her in peace was strong, but she’d already tried to give him the bum’s rush more than once. Somehow he sensed letting her fall asleep in his office wasn’t the way into her affections.

  And when had that thought taken root?

  Nick shook it off, his voice gruff and a little too loud when he finally spoke. “You doing okay?”

  Her eyelids fluttered open, and she struggled to sit up from the depths of the couch his brother had lovingly dubbed “the Monster.”

  “I must have dozed off.”

  “Sorry it took me so long. Hector got a lead on where that asshole outside might have gotten his supply, and I wanted to check it out.”

  “You’ve got a business to run. You don’t need to babysit me.” She sat up straighter. “Did you turn up anything?”

  “Nothing. Whoever might have been here slithered out in the commotion.” Nick fought down the irritation. He knew the drugs and occasional crime came with the territory of owning a bar. But fuck, he’d be damned if he was going to be complacent about it. Refocusing on Emma, he added, “And I’m not babysitting you. You were hurt at my place and I’m going to see you get home okay.”

  Whatever protest sprang to her lips never manifested as he hefted the tray of brownies. Fascinated, he watched as her dark eyes—well, one dark eye—narrowed in clear interest. “Patty sent these in with her regards. I figure you can eat with one hand and keep this ice pack on with the other.”

  “Are these Stewey’s brownies?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then you figure right.”

  He sat down next to her and handed her the plate. Even with the shiner, a look of sheer ecstasy filled her face at her first bite of Stewey’s gooey goodness, fondly known around their neighborhood as “crack.”

  So Emma knew Stewey and his legendary brownies, which meant she was familiar with the neighborhood.

  “Are you from around here?”

  “Was. I’ve been in Chicago for a long time.”

  “And now you’re back?”

  She nodded around the mouthful of brownie, then spoke after delicately wiping her lips. “It’s changed a lot. For the better, I think. Although these brownies have always been a highlight of the neighborhood.”

  Before he could ask her when she’d lived here, she pressed on, the gaze out of her one open eye clearly speculative. “You’ve really made something out of this place. Although . . .” a small smile hovered around her lips, chasing those hollows under her cheekbones away, “ . . . I think that desk has seen better days.”

  “I made a lot of changes in here, but I couldn’t get rid of Chili’s desk.”

  “Why not?”

  “He claimed Joe Willie Namath sat on the edge of that very desk the week before he won the Super Bowl.”

  “And that’s a reason to keep it?”

  “It’s got ass magic.”

  “Excuse me?” She began to choke on her brownie and he patted her back, immediately intrigued by the warmth under his fingertips.

  Shaking off the thought—he was helping her for cripes’ sake—Nick refocused on his point. “Ass magic. That potent combination of believed good luck and nostalgia that makes people hang on to utter crap.”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . .” She hesitated for a moment. “How’d you come up with this tidbit of insight into the human psyche?”

  “Have you ever noticed the things people hang on to?”

  “Memories are powerful.”

  “They are, but I’m talking about the human belief in talismans. Inanimate objects we believe have some sort of innate power.”

  He’d seen it over and over again in his years in sports. Special jerseys or a specific pair of cleats. Or worse, odd game-day rituals that often involved something gross, like too many hard-boiled eggs, or vomiting in a particular toilet stall.

  In many ways it brought a strange sort of comfort—all humans had quirks—but at the same time, he fundamentally chafed at the thought that he needed an external source of power.

  He made his own luck, forged his own path, and he’d be damned if he needed some charm or ritual to do it.

  And still, he hung on to Chili’s desk, proving he was as vulnerable as the next person.

  “So you feel this way yet you hang on to that desk instead of heading down to IKEA and getting a snazzy new one.”

  He couldn’t hold back the grin at her logic—and the immediate way she boxed him in. “Proof I’m a sucker, too. Such is the power of ass magic.”

  She polished off the last of her brownie before an impish spark filled her uncovered eye. “I suspect you’ve left a lot of ass magic in your wake, then.”

  He’d grown used to the idea that people knew who he was, but her absolute lack of acknowledgment up to now had him thinking she was unaware of his NFL career.

  The fact that she wasn’t was a huge surprise.

  “I don’t have any Super Bowl rings.” Nor did he have a career in the NFL that spanned decades. Despite having come to grips with his exit from pro sports long ago, it never failed to surprise him how that reality could reach up and grab him by the balls every now and again.

  “No, but you are the hometown hero.”

  “Then Park Heights is aiming too low.”

  Nick watched her face, but she held it as still as a poker ace. Her only tell was the furtive glance at the plate of brownies.

  “Have another.”

  “I do not need two of Stewey’s brownies. I shouldn’t have had one.”

  “Live on the edge.”

  The small smile that hovered about her lips faded as she firmly planted her hands in her lap. Nick had no idea what he’d said, but something doused the comfortable camaraderie between them.

  “Would you like something to drink? I keep a few things stocked back here.”

  “I’m fine.” She grabbed the water off of the small end table he kept parked next to the Monster. “I’ve intruded on your hospitality enough. I should get going.”

  “Humor me and keep that ice pack on a little longer. I gave you a pass while you ate the brownie, but you need to keep the cold on it to avoid swelling.”

  “I think I’m too late.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He reached forward and ran a fingertip across her cheekbone, the raw, red flesh shooting off another shock wave of anger through his gut. Ignoring that flare, he kept his voice soft. Easy. And at total odds with the fury that churned in his stomach. “Between ice and medicinal brownies, you should be better than you think.”

  He knew he didn’t have a right to touch her—he didn’t know her—but the moment his fingertip met the soft skin of her cheek, need and desire nearly overwhelmed him.

  Who was she?

  He saw the lines of her neck contract as she swallowed, before breathy words came out in a rush. “And superstition. Don’t forget that. I’ve now been exposed to the ass magic of Nick Kelley.”

  “Maybe I can show you a different kind of magic.” Before he gave himself another moment to think, he leaned forward and took.

  Chapter Three

  Emma sensed Nick’s actions before he moved, as if she hung suspended over a cliff. N
erves rumbled in her belly while anticipation infused her limbs with a heavy sort of gravity.

  And then his mouth was on hers, drawing her in effortlessly, and she was soaring.

  The incessant throbbing in her cheek faded, replaced with the desperate need to breathe in the man next to her. With his mouth, he dragged a response from her. And with the gentle pressure of his lips, he coaxed forth the needs she’d kept long buried.

  His tongue met and merged with hers, an artful dance of need and desire. And as one moment spun into the next, the terrible, heavy weight of failure that had hung about her neck and shoulders for so long faded.

  This man knew nothing of those days. Knew nothing of her keen sense of disappointment, the pain of bone-deep loss or the horrible, off-the-rails loss of control that had consumed her since her divorce.

  He simply shared the moment. Shared his body. Shared himself.

  With one final push against the walls of her mental museum, Emma focused on the moment at hand and reveled in the experience. Hesitantly, she ran her hands over the heavy fingers that rested on her shoulders, then, growing bolder, shifted over the firm flesh of his forearms. And as she continued her exploration, Emma tilted her head, allowing him better access to her mouth.

  Another wave of need burst through her like sunshine, and a hard gasp caught in her throat at their erotic play of tongues.

  She heard a light groan from the depths of his throat, delighting in the hot, heavy sound of need, and it pressed her on even more urgently than before. Her hands continued their exploration over the thick muscle of his biceps before she settled her fingers on the hard planes of his shoulders.

  This was a man in his prime.

  The thought was fleeting—abstract, even—yet powerful in its truth.

  His fierce devotion to his business. His unwillingness to allow her to leave unescorted. Even the sculpted body beneath her hands was yet another example of how he lived his life.

  Hard. Unyielding. And intent on doing what was right.

  Her mental flight of fancy shifted, morphed as one of his hands drifted from her shoulders, down the skin of her throat to cup her breast. His motions were tender, yet firm, as his fingers floated over the material of her blouse and she leaned into the press of his thumb over her nipple.

  Need cratered through her body at light speed and the last vestiges of thought vanished as he matched the thrusts of his tongue with the exquisite torture of his hands.

  Had she ever felt anything so delicious?

  Even as the memory of Stewey’s brownies still lingered on her tongue, she knew the flare of heat between them was sweeter than any dessert.

  And far more fulfill—

  The moment evaporated as a hard knock broke the moment, followed by a heavy holler through the door.

  “Nick!”

  A soft curse fell off the lips still pressed to hers before Nick sat back, disengaging his hand from her breast. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

  Desire hazed the grayish blue of his eyes, and his breath continued to exhale in ragged puffs. But as another heavy knock sounded at the door, Emma watched him reach deep inside for the legendary focus he was known for. “What’s up, Hec?”

  “Got a lead on that asshole from earlier. Worm’s outside, but we’re losing time.”

  Emma nodded toward the door, finally trusting herself to speak. “Go. Please do what you need to do.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Go. Really.”

  On a muttered curse he stalked toward the door and flipped it open. As she watched him walk away—her brief interlude in an otherwise uneventful year—Nick turned to look at her. “I’ll be right back.”

  She just nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else. No matter how hard she tried, Emma knew herself.

  And knew she’d run at the first opportunity.

  “Make sure you put that ice on your eye.”

  She nodded once more, counting off the seconds until she could escape.

  “Fuck it to hell.”

  Nick shifted the flowers in his hands along with the box of more of Stewey’s brownies as he climbed the front stoop of his mother’s brownstone.

  He’d barely slept for two days, his interrogation with Hector and some neighborhood lowlife running into the early morning hours of Saturday. He’d followed that gem up by spending most of Saturday watching security feeds, all while trying to run a business. The work would have been mind-numbing at best, but he’d had to watch the feeds while sitting on the Monster, Emma’s subtle scent torturing him throughout the viewing of that footage.

  As he’d suspected she would, she had vanished the first moment she’d had a chance. Even with Patty’s reassurances that she’d put Emma in a cab and paid for it out of the petty cash fund behind the bar, he was still spitting mad.

  Why had she left?

  And why the hell couldn’t he place why he knew her?

  He’d tortured himself with images of the two of them on the couch, interspersed with the fleeting sense that he knew her.

  Remembered her.

  Had spent time with her.

  Was that why she’d disappeared at the first opportunity? Had he offended her because he didn’t remember her?

  Even as he tested the theory between every other restless thought, he shook it off. They didn’t know each other, it was as simple as that. And because he’d been stuck chasing leads all weekend, he hadn’t connected with Tommy to ask him if he knew anyone named Emma Bradley.

  But damn it all if the puzzle of a prim, gorgeous blonde named Emma didn’t have him caught up.

  Nick reached for the heavy door handle, juggling his cargo, and couldn’t quite shake the urge to knock. The brownstone on Cherry Street had been home for many years, but in the last few he’d come to fully think of it as his mother’s house.

  Garlic and the yeasty scent of baking bread assaulted him the moment he stepped through the door as the sound of baseball from the living room, Puccini from the kitchen, and his brothers’ loud argument over an umpire’s call from somewhere in between hit him like a wave.

  “Hey, Princess! So glad you finally decided to show up.”

  With his hands full, Nick couldn’t offer up the normal finger gesture he’d send Fender’s way, so he settled for a mumbled, “You’re an asshole,” and headed for the kitchen.

  And stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of his mother.

  Her normally bright smile was dimmed as she stared into a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. He knew she hadn’t sensed his presence yet, and he took the stolen moment to really look at her. The slender lines of her neck curved as she stared into the pot, her shoulders drooping beneath that slim column.

  Unbidden, a wave of panic slammed into his gut, but before he could say anything, she caught sight of him. Arms extended, the storm clouds in her gaze faded in the light of her smile. “Nick!”

  Her still-strong arms wrapped around his waist, her head coming to the top of his chest. He stiffened for the briefest moment—as he always did—before sinking into her embrace.

  Damn, but it was good to be home.

  Louisa Mills might not have been the mother who brought him into this world, but she was the one who’d ensured he faced it with dignity, grace, and a certain “give ’em hell” attitude that had served him well.

  She squeezed his waist once more before stepping back, her movements brisk and efficient, as always. “Here, let me take those.”

  Despite appearances, Nick couldn’t keep himself from searching her face once more. Something had her upset, even if she was bound and determined to hide it. But with the sure knowledge she wouldn’t talk until she was ready, he shifted gears. “I’m sorry I’m late. Bad weekend.”

  “What happened?” Mama Lou looked up from where she settled the bakery box on the counter.

  “Had a bad drunk who mixed something dirty with his cocktails on Friday evening, thereby becoming the night’s main event.”

  Her warm
brown eyes narrowed even as her voice stayed calm and even. “Did he bring it in with him?”

  “That’s what Hector and I spent until around three A.M. trying to figure out. Hec got a line on a guy through an acquaintance and hit him up for some information. It took me damn near all of yesterday to review security footage, but I don’t think the deal went down in my place.”

  He and Hec had talked it over and Nick was ninety-five percent sure the End Zone was clean of the problem. He still needed to watch about an hour more of video feed, but chances were slim he’d housed the exchange.

  Still. None of it changed the fact he didn’t want to be around the ugliness and waste of lives that came with addiction.

  He’d lived with it for too long, he’d be damned if his bar would provide a backdrop for that sort of thing.

  And why the hell did this have him so riled?

  He owned a bar, and this wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with something like this since opening his doors. It was rare—people knew he ran a tight ship—but things did happen. And not everyone could keep their vices from veering into troubling waters.

  And then he hit on it: Emma.

  She was the reason he was so upset. He had a distaste for drugs in any form—knew they were a trigger to memories he’d prefer to leave buried—but his inability to settle was tied to something more. Something like the gorgeous woman you had in your arms.

  It had been a kiss—a kiss along with the promise of a bit more—but the taste and feel of her hadn’t left his mind for longer than two minutes at a time.

  Which made no sense. Hell, he’d been copping feels since he was fourteen and Melissa Jennings had let him stroke her glorious breasts underneath her school uniform.

  So why had those moments in his office felt less like the forbidden and more like something perfectly right?

  The words were almost out of his mouth to ask his mother if she knew the Bradley family before he stopped at the sound of voices. The makings of a heated argument traveled down the hallway toward the kitchen, followed swiftly by his brothers. They’d moved on from the bad sports call, and Landon had taken over, his lecture on computer safety bouncing off the back of Fender’s head.