by Tawna Fenske
Libby looks up in awe. “You can eat a lot of donuts.”
“My mom says I have a stomach like a cow,” he says. “Multi-chambered. Even if the dinner chamber gets full, there’s always room in the sweets chamber.”
My daughter’s eyes go wide. “I think I have that, too,” she says. “A cow stomach.”
I point to her milk. “Work on that. Then we’ll talk.”
She gulps it down, eyes fixed on Mark like he’s the most fascinating creature she’s ever seen.
As I pick at my donut, I acknowledge she has a point.
Chapter 8
MARK
“Mark Bracelyn! Oh, my goodness, it’s you.”
The greeting when I walk into the Humane Society is so effusive that I look behind me to see if there’s some other Mark Bracelyn. Maybe a sports hero or a rock star.
But no, the woman’s looking right at me with her salt-and-pepper perm gleaming under the animal shelter’s florescent lights. She launches herself like a bespectacled missile, throwing her arms around my middle in a grandmotherly hug.
Who the hell is this woman?
“Mrs. Percy,” Chelsea supplies helpfully. “It’s good to see you. How did your event go for the Children’s Welfare Society?”
Ah, got it. She’s one of the charity ladies Bree’s always helping with big donations and free event space. That explains the warm welcome.
“I’m here for a dog,” I say as Mrs. Percy loosens her grip on my midsection and gets to work hugging Libby and Chelsea.
“How wonderful,” she chirps. “Are you thinking big dog, little dog? How about activity level or age?”
I glance at Chelsea, amazed to realize it was only last night we had this conversation. I never did ask her about that doggie style comment I overheard.
The pink flush in her cheeks tells me I’m not the only one thinking about that. I tear my eyes off her face and will myself to stop thinking about it.
“Uh, no preference,” I say. “Just a dog.”
“We’re surprisingly short on dogs right now,” Mrs. Percy says, consulting a clipboard on the counter. “We’ve got four of them out at PetSmart right now for an adoption event, and two are out on walks with volunteers. But if you head through that door right over there—”
“Mom. Mom!”
Both Chelsea and Mrs. Percy turn around, though it’s obvious who Libby’s talking to. She’s kneeling on the floor in front of a cage too small to contain any dog I’ve ever seen.
“Look.” Libby points into the cage. “They’ve got a rabbit.”
“Don’t put your fingers in the cage, honey.” Chelsea moves toward her, and I’m struck once again by how good she is at this mom thing. How she knows stuff like ears get pierced at ten and don’t stick your hands in rabbit cages.
I follow her to the corner, curious about the rabbit thing.
“He came in about a week ago,” Mrs. Percy says. “The usual story, I’m afraid. People who buy bunnies for their kids’ Easter baskets don’t think about the challenges of having a pet rabbit. So many of them end up here when it turns out they’re more work than a stuffed animal.”
I drop to my knees beside Libby and peer through the bars. Inside the cage is a creature five times the size of the little field rabbits we have out at the ranch. He’s white with splotches that looks like someone spattered him with black paint and a little cotton-puff tail with a brown tip. His ears are floppy like he can’t be bothered to hold them upright, and he lies sprawled with his hind legs flat behind him and his arms outstretched. Put a cape on him, and he’d look like a superhero bunny in flight.
Libby’s downright delighted. “Mommy, can I pet him?”
Chelsea bites her lip, and I wonder how Lib decides when Chelsea is “Mom” and when she’s “Mommy.” I make a note to pay attention, and also to go visit my own mother soon. It’s been almost a month, and we haven’t talked yet this week.
“He’s friendly,” Mrs. Percy says behind us. “Neutered and litter box trained.”
“Litter box trained?” I peer at the rabbit. I didn’t know that was a thing.
“Neutered?” Libby scrunches up her nose and studies the other end of the rabbit.
“That’s where they cut off his boy parts to make him behave better,” Mrs. Percy offers helpfully. “To make him a nice boy.”
Chelsea tries unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh while Libby turns her attention to me. “Did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?”
“You brought us donuts, so you’re nice,” she says. “Did it hurt when they cut off your boy parts?”
Oh, Jesus—
Chelsea’s flat out laughing now, not even trying to hide it. I do my best to wrangle the conversation back to safer territory. “When they neuter dogs or cats or rabbits, they uh, make them fall asleep first so it doesn’t hurt,” I offer. “They do it so they can’t make more dogs or cats or rabbits that don’t have homes.”
There. That was good, right? A safe explanation with no curse words or graphic details. Hopefully age-appropriate, though Chelsea’s laughing too hard to weigh in.
Libby cocks her head at me. “How are babies made?”
Uh-oh.
“Um—”
“Libby.” Chelsea pulls it together and musters up a stern tone. “You know the answer to this. We have that book, How Babies Are Made.”
“Well yeah, but I wanted to see if he knows.”
Libby studies me like a schoolteacher issuing a quiz. I have no idea how to respond, but I know I can’t look at Chelsea.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I—um. I think I’ve got a handle on it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Because if you want I could let you read the book.”
“Thanks?” I look at Chelsea, not sure how to change the subject.
She wipes the laughter tears from her face and puts two fingers through the bars of the rabbit cage. “Let’s pet him.”
Good distraction. Libby obliges, wriggling most of her fingers through the bars to stroke a spot near the rabbit’s hind legs. “Ooooh,” she breathes. “He’s so soft.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Chelsea smiles. “Even softer than kittens and puppies.”
Damn.
The sweetness on her face makes my chest ball up tight. What is it about this woman that turns my insides to goo?
I can’t get more than a finger through the bars, but it’s enough. Enough to stroke a spot behind the rabbit’s ear, and holy shit, they’re right. This bunny has the silkiest fur I’ve ever felt. I’ve never touched anything this soft, and I’ve touched plenty of soft things.
Chelsea.
I command myself not to think of her, not to remember the way her breast curved into my palm last night. God, she felt amazing.
I shake my head, trying to clear the X-rated image from my brain. For fuck’s sake, I’m in an animal shelter with a mother and her child. What kind of perv has dirty thoughts in a place like this?
“You should get him.” Libby’s small face is scrunched with seriousness. “He might be better than a dog.”
I hold Libby’s gaze, wondering where she got her eye color. Hers are more hazel to Chelsea’s blue, but they have the same upturned nose and soft sprinkling of freckles. The kid is so achingly sweet that it hurts my teeth to look at her.
Never in my life have I thought of myself as a future dad. Blame it on the whole notion of “dad” getting mixed up in my brain, but I never imagined myself as one.
But sitting here now, bonding with this little person over bunnies and donuts and the fact that we both really dig her mother, there’s a tiny voice in the back of my head.
What if?
“I know!” Libby claps her hands together, breaking the spell.
“You know what?” Chelsea asks.
“I know what we name him.”
“The rabbit?” Chelsea looks at me. “No one’s said they’re getting the rabbit. Mark hasn’t even se
en any dogs yet.”
But I know I’m getting this rabbit. I don’t need to see any dogs.
“His name,” Libby continues like her mom hasn’t spoken, “is Long Long Peter.”
We stare at her. Even Mrs. Percy—who’s been silent for the last few minutes—is staring in dumbfounded amusement. “I beg your pardon?” she asks.
“Long Long Peter,” Libby repeats with obvious impatience. “Peter, like Peter Rabbit.”
“Oooh-kay.” Chelsea’s not looking at me, and I’m guessing she’s on the brink of another laughter explosion. “But Long Long Peter?”
“Because he’s stretched out long,” Libby says, gesturing to the bunny like we might have missed it. “Long Long Peter.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I turn and look at Mrs. Percy. “I’ll take the rabbit, please.”
“You got a freaking rabbit?” My sister looks at me like I’ve just told her I got a tattoo of Mickey Mouse on my ass. “I thought you wanted a dog.”
“I changed my mind.”
She shakes her head and watches Long Long Peter hop through my living room, pausing to inspect my sofa for edibility. “He’s cute,” Bree says. “I thought it was some kind of weird euphemism when you called me to bunny sit.”
James gives her a pained look from his spot against the wall in my entryway. “And you agreed without knowing what the euphemism meant?”
Bree shrugs and takes a slug from the grape soda she confiscated from my fridge. She makes a face but doesn’t put down the can. “So, I’m just supposed to make sure he doesn’t chew cords or poop anywhere, right?”
“Yep.”
Long Long Peter hops over to James and sniffs his shoe. My brother stiffens but doesn’t draw back his shiny-looking loafer. “You’re sure it doesn’t have rabies?”
Bree rolls her eyes. “We’re not sure you don’t have rabies, but we keep you around.”
I glance at my watch and wonder if Jonathan and Sean are already at the bar. We agreed to go separately to guys’ night, since those two were having dinner at the reindeer ranch with Sean’s fiancée, Amber, and her sister, Jade. Jade’s engaged to our cousin, Brandon, so he’s there, too, and might even join us for guy’s night.
Bree’s got an odd little scheming look on her face, and I wonder if she’s plotting to fix Jonathan up with one of her friends. Or James. She already worked her magic on me, even though I’m fighting it. Even though a relationship is so not what I need right now.
“We should go,” I tell James.
“Agreed.” He tosses his car keys from one hand to the other. “Not that I’m not riveted by your pet bunny.”
His tone is cool and aloof, but I heard him baby-talking the bunny when I was in the kitchen putting rabbit pellets in a bowl. James might look like Mister GQ, but deep down, he’s an endearing dork.
I turn back to Bree, who’s stooped down petting the rabbit. “Thanks for watching Peter.”
Bree quirks an eyebrow. “You mean Long Long Peter?”
I have yet to use his full name, which means Bree’s been talking to Chelsea. I wonder what else Chelsea mentioned. The kiss? Er, kisses, plural? Or the fact that I copped a feel when—
“Relax, big guy.” Bree straightens up and elbows me in the ribs. “I’m not asking her about your sex life. My job was to get you together. What you do from here on out is your business.”
“I thought your job was to annoy the crap out of us,” James says dryly.
“That, too.” She grins and sips her soda. “You really should get some pop that’s not pure sugar.”
“Why?” I honestly can’t fathom that.
“Come on.” James starts to turn, but Bree grabs his tie and yanks him back.
A tie. Seriously. To a fucking guys’ night.
“Call if you need a ride,” she says. “Seriously. If anyone has more than one beer—”
“Relax, Bree.” James extracts his tie from her claws and smooths it out. “I’m the designated driver. We’re fine. Have a good night.”
He turns and strides out the door, making a beeline for his black BMW. I hesitate in the doorway and turn back to Bree. “Is it just me, or does that guy need to get laid?”
She laughs and bends down to scoop up Long Long Peter before he can scuttle out the door. “Look who’s talking.” She plants a kiss on my rabbit’s forehead and steps back into the entryway. “Come on, bunny nephew. Let’s watch some Animal Planet.”
I pull the door closed behind me and follow James out to the car. I sling myself into the passenger seat, touched to discover he jacked it back to make room for my legs.
“Thanks for driving.”
“No problem.” He shoots me a wry look as he eases out of the parking spot. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I like being in control.”
I study my brother, a little surprised by the sharing. We’re not super close, James and me. Hell, I’m not sure he’s close with any of us. He’s the oldest Bracelyn spawn, raised by his mother somewhere in New York. That and his former life as a high-powered attorney makes us as different as two brothers can be.
Maybe not even brothers…
James clears his throat and steers us onto the highway. “So, Mark.” He clears his throat again. “Are you happy being part of the management team?”
I stare at him, baffled by the question. His eyes stay fixed on the road, and his posture is ramrod straight. What the hell?
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
He doesn’t flinch the way I expect him to, the way some people might. I guess he’s gotten used to me in the two years we’ve spent getting the resort up and running.
“I mean, are you comfortable in a management role?” James says. “Do you like what you’re doing for Ponderosa Resort?”
I stare at my brother, suspicion creeping into my chest. “Is this your way of kicking my ass to the curb?”
“What?” He jerks so hard the car swerves. I fight the urge to reach for the wheel, remembering what he said about control. “Are you crazy?” He tears his eyes off the road and gives me a hard look. “Even if I could fire you—which of course I can’t, you’re one of us—why on earth would I do that?”
You’re one of us.
The words echo in the darkness of the luxury car, and I wonder if he hears them, too. If he recognizes the uncertainty of them.
“Sounded to me like you’re driving at something,” I say. “Like maybe you think I don’t belong.”
I wait for him to say it. To acknowledge what we both suspect. He must know something, right?
“Jesus, Mark.” He shakes his head and hangs a sharp left on the road leading into town. “All I’m asking is if you like the administrative stuff. The meetings and numbers and business plans.”
“You’re asking if I like meetings?”
“I know you hate meetings.” He gives a dry laugh. “I know you’d rather shove bamboo under your fingernails and soak your hands in grapefruit juice than attend another strategy session. That’s why I’m asking. If you’d rather avoid that part altogether.”
What’s he saying? Is he looking for a tactful way to cut me loose, or is he genuinely gauging whether I’d prefer a different role with the company?
I stare at the side of his face, wondering if I’d be able to read him better if we’d grown up together. If we’d met each other more than a handful of times when our visits with Dad overlapped.
“I like being part of things,” I say carefully. “The business. The family.”
James takes his eyes off the road again and looks at me like he’s discovered a grizzly bear riding in the passenger seat of his car. “Of course,” he says. “You’ll always be those things.”
Will I?
I don’t ask the question out loud, but I’m sure he sees it in my eyes. Maybe now’s my chance. Maybe I should call out the elephant in the room. Maybe we’d all be better off if we stopped pretending.
“James.” Fuck, I’m not sure how to say this. “Have you
ever thought maybe I’m not—”
Bzzzzz!
God dammit.
I jerk my phone out of my pocket, ready to shut it off or maybe throw it out the damn window. The flicker of Chelsea’s name on the screen stops me in my tracks. She knows I’m with my brothers. Unless it’s an emergency, she’d never call.
“Hello?” My heart is hammering in my ears.
“Mark?” Her voice is small and shaky, and I grip the phone tighter. Something’s wrong.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
There’s a sharp intake of breath—a sob or a sigh?
“I’m okay,” she says. “But someone broke into my house.”
Chapter 9
CHELSEA
I’m in the living room talking with Austin when Mark shows up at my house. He knocks twice, then bursts through the door with fire in his eyes.
“Are you okay? Where is he? Where’s Libby? Are you hurt or—”
“I’m fine.” I’m still shaking, but I’m okay. More than okay, now that Mark’s here. My chest floods with warmth at the sight of this giant of a man looking so shaken over—me?
It’s clear he’s not buying it that I’m fine. He scrapes a hand over his beard and turns to Austin. “Is she really all right? Did he hurt her or—”
“No.” Austin shakes his head. “Not physically. She’s had quite a scare. I’ll let her tell you about it.”
I already gave him the broad strokes on the phone. How I got home from dropping Libby at a sleepover and walked into the guest room to find a man rifling through my file cabinet.
I left out the part about going in there in the first place so I could sniff the pillowcase Mark slept on. He doesn’t need to know I’m a creepy loser who’s hooked on the scent of his soap.
I also left out the details of how terrified I was when the intruder turned to face me. Blue eyes. That’s what I remember. He wore a ski mask that hid the rest of his features, but not the shock in those icy blue eyes. He wasn’t expecting me home so soon, and certainly didn’t expect to be caught with his hand in my file cabinet.
