Can't Get Enough (The Original Heartbreakers Book 6)

by Gena Showalter

  “Sorry. But I brought advice.” Ryanne moved her gaze to Brock. “Be gentle with Lyndie today, okay. She’s had a tough day and is about to have a full-blown come apart.”

  Instant panic. “What happened?” Had Lambert started bothering her again? “Is she hurt? Sick again?”

  “No, no,” Ryanne rushed to assure him. “She just got a little bad news is all.”

  “What kind of bad news?” Even as he spoke, he gathered his keys and wallet.

  “Not my news to share. Sorry. I can tell you she’s at home.”

  Usually the bond between Lyndie and her friends delighted him. Today? Not so much.

  Brock raced outside, jumped into his sedan, and sped home. Ready to burn the world down, he parked and emerged into the cool evening air.

  Hinges squeaked as he shouldered his way past the front door, entering the house. No sign of Lyndie in the living room. He punched in the alarm code to disengage it, then turned the lock and dropped his keys on a side table, then headed for her bedroom. Nope. Not there either.

  A sniffle, sniffle caught his attention. Frowning, he returned to her bedroom.

  Sniffle.

  Bathroom. The door was closed, but light seeped through the bottom crack. “Scottie?” He knocked but gave no more warning than that. The door wasn’t locked, so he walked right in.

  She sat on the floor, her forehead pressed against her upraised knees. Quiet sobs shook her entire body. The animals perched all around her. Cameow and Mega at her left. Athena and Peanut at her right. Thor and Pepper in front.

  My Little Red and her big bad wolves.

  Heart thudding against his ribs, Brock maneuvered through the animal kingdom to crouch beside his wife. The sight of Lyndie left him raw and broken inside. His heart felt as if it had been ripped to shreds.

  “I’m here, Scottie. Tell me what’s wrong,” he said, voice soft. “Please.”

  Her head lifted, watery, red-rimmed eyes staring at him. “My period started.”

  Twist, twist. Clench. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” What was wrong with him? Now he wanted to cry.

  With a shuddering breath, she leaned against him, the same way Ryanne had leaned against Jude. Brock stopped breathing, too afraid of moving and scaring her off.

  Too late. She started to pull away. Nope. Not gonna happen. He snaked his arms around her, keeping her clasped against his chest.

  “I was so hopeful.” Her fingers wadded the center of his shirt as another sob burst from her.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. Never in all his days had he felt so helpless.

  “I know our marriage is coming to an end.” Sniffle, sniffle. “We might be divorced by the time I ovulate again.”

  His grip on her tightened even as guilt pierced him—because, at the same time, relief flooded him. They were going to stay together a little while longer. He had more time to win her. “We don’t have to divorce anytime soon.” Or ever.

  She used his shirt to wipe her nose, and he had to swallow a sudden laugh.

  “You can’t want to stay married to me.” She released a shuddering breath. “Can you?”

  “I can. I do.” Why not tell her the truth even if she wouldn’t understand the depth of his words? Yet. “I want to stay with you, Red.”

  “Really?” Watery eyes searched his face, so hopeful he wanted to lay the world at her feet, give her anything and everything she’d ever wanted. Red splotches dotted her cheeks, bisected by white tear tracks. Her nose ran, and her lips were dry, but she’d never looked more beautiful to Brock.

  “Really.” More than anything.

  Her tremors gradually subsided, but her grip on his shirt tightened. “All right,” she finally said, and he released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “We’ll give it another month.”

  Or forever. But he chose his next words carefully. “Or longer, if necessary. We’ll get this right, Scottie.”

  “Or just one more month,” she said, fear now drenching her tone.

  Did she fear she was coming to depend on him, maybe even falling for him? A man could hope.

  Either way, the perimeter had been set. He now had four weeks to win her heart.

  Operation Forever is a go.

  Chapter Seventeen

  If Lyndie didn’t better fortify her defenses against Brock—and soon—she was going to be in big-time trouble.

  Enjoy him during this marital vacation, but stay ready to say goodbye.

  Parting with him would hurt for a while, but the pain would fade. Eventually. It always did, right?

  It was just… Dang it, she was coming to care for him. Deeply. She’d begun to figure him out. He wanted people to like him because, thanks to his witch of a mother, he’d always felt unlovable. Perhaps he even blamed his actions as he fought overseas.

  Why couldn’t he see the truth? He was a good man. Honest. Dependable. Trustworthy. Loyal. Reliable. And okay, okay. The description could have fit a car, but it hardly mattered; he was all those things, and those things were wonderful.

  He was so different than his rough, tough exterior suggested.

  Tonight, the day after her breakdown, he was driving her to a restaurant in the city.

  When they reached their destination, he made her feel like a pampered princess, opening her car door for her, keeping his hand on her lower back as he escorted her inside the fancy steak house, helping her into a chair, pouring her a glass of wine.

  Though women openly stared at him, he only had eyes for Lyndie.

  “Have I told you how beautiful you are tonight?” he asked.

  “Twice.”

  “Have I told you that you are the most beautiful woman in the world? Or ever.”

  A lump grew in her throat, but she swallowed it. “Thank you. But you…you are the beautiful one.”

  He grinned at her. “Am I the most beautiful man in the world, or ever?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “Sexy beyond imagining?”

  She laughed. “Yes, you conceited man. Yes.”

  They talked and laughed for hours, candlelight flickering between them. Such a romantic atmosphere, soft music playing in the background. She’d never felt more comfortable with a man. Food had never tasted so good. Brock was better than the triple chocolate cake they split.

  Perhaps he was a magical healing portal all on his own.

  “If—when—you have my baby,” he said, as they finished dessert, “do you plan to name a daughter Olivia? What will you name a boy?”

  She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, hating how desperately she wanted his input about names. He wouldn’t be sticking around or helping her raise the baby, so there was no reason to pretend they were an everyday, average couple, planning a forever after together.

  Needing a moment to collect her thoughts, Lyndie said, “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m going to the lady’s room.”

  Brock’s expression blanked as she stood. Trembling now, she made her way to the bathroom in back, or tried to. An obviously drunk man moved into her path to lift a lock of her hair.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he slurred. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off me.” He frowned. “Off you.”

  She had no time to react. Suddenly Brock was in front of her, shoving the man back.

  “You do not touch my wife.” Rage formed an almost impenetrable force field around him.

  Fear slapped Lyndie upside the head, and yet—shocker—not because she thought Brock would turn his rage on her. She didn’t. She feared the legal ramifications of a public brawl. “Brock,” she whispered, and the muscles in his back went rigid. But he did not back down.

  The other guy bowed up, as if gearing to attack. Then he got a really good look at the fury on Brock’s face, and he backed down in a hurry.

  “Apologize,” Brock demanded. “Now.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Ashen, the drunk stumbled away as fast as his feet would carry him.

  The restaurant had gone quiet, Lyndie realized. She
looked around, and noticed all eyes were now on her and Brock. Ice spread through her chest, making her lungs constrict. “I want to go home,” she said softly.

  Brock offered a stiff nod, led her back to the table where he threw a handful of hundred dollar bills, and ushered her outside.

  “I’m sorry,” he grated after they were settled in the car and speeding down the highway.

  “It’s fine.” Now that he wasn’t in danger of spending the night in jail, relief flooded her. “But honestly, you reacted over thing, Brock.”

  “Nothing?” he roared, then sank lower in his seat. In a calmer tone, he added, “He was going to touch you.”

  “And I would have moved around him.”

  He was gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. His back was still rigid, his muscles clearly knotted under his black T-shirt. “You shouldn’t have to move around some guy.”

  “I once had to move around you, remember?” She cringed as soon as she realized what she’d said. Low blow. Really low.

  He cringed. “I want you protected, Scottie. Always. I never want your smile to go away.”

  Had sweeter words ever been spoken? “I’m sorry,” she said now. “I appreciate all you do for me.”

  “I’ll do better, I swear.”

  She frowned. Do better about what? Protecting her? Controlling his temper?

  Hoping to put back on track, she said, “I had a good time with you, but don’t go thinking I’m sticking you with the bill. I’ll be paying you for my half of the meal.” With the usual currency of orgasms, thank you. “You can—”

  “You are not paying me, Scottie.” The harshness of his tone startled her. “Not a dime.”

  Okay. He was on a short fuse tonight. Noted. No need to upset him further. Her eyes burned as she turned in her seat to peer out the passenger side window, but she wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t afraid of Brock. She was just…sad.

  Silence permeated the car the rest of the drive home. He didn’t make a move, or ask to sleep with her, and she didn’t offer, didn’t want him feeling obligated, especially while she had no idea what to make of his mood.

  “Goodnight, Brock,” she said whisper-soft. The animals followed her to her bedroom.

  When he offered no reply, she shut her door and tried not to despair.

  * * *

  Brock had almost gotten in a fight while Lyndie watched. He needed to be more careful. But unholy fury had filled him the moment he’d spotted some man reaching out to touch her.

  Before Brock had realized he’d moved, he’d been in front of her, ready and willing to commit cold-blooded murder.

  He’d scared her.

  Cursing, he slammed his fist into the arm of the couch. He liked being a gentleman for her. Made him feel like he’d finally become the real Brock, the man he was always meant to be. He needed to make up for his behavior. But how?

  * * *

  Throughout the next week, Lyndie couldn’t shake a persistent feeling of dissatisfaction. Brock had treated her like spun glass ready to break at any moment. He still hadn’t slept in her bed since they’d recovered from the stomach bug. Which made sense. (1) She still hadn’t asked him to sleep in her bed, and he refused to push for things she might not want to give. And (2) She’d been on her period, sex out of the question.

  She’d missed him more with every day that passed. Without him, she spent the nights tossing and turning, wishing his arms held her close as she breathed in his masculine scent.

  Forget getting used to his warmth. She was already used to it, and wanted more.

  At least her period had ended yesterday. Perfect timing. Tonight she was taking Brock on a date, or rather a marital vacation outside the house. Her way of saying “Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for giving me a second chance. Now, please, can we go back to being comfortable with each other?”

  She’d planned every little detail, had even ventured into the city to shop at the world’s biggest thrift store where she’d bought the ugliest dress imaginable, complete with a gag-worthy green-and-yellow floral print, shoulder pads, and, like, zero shape. Oh, and she’d finished the outfit with a bright red faux-fur coat.

  A designer’s nightmare.

  For Brock, she’d purchased a vest embroidered with kittens, a neon-green blazer, and pants with blue and white snowflakes.

  Even though Halloween had passed them by, they were going to dress up.

  “Scottie!” Brock’s voice blasted through the door of his bedroom. “Are you kidding me with this?” He came barreling into the living room, where she waited. Pepper bounded after him, Athena close on her heels. “I’m supposed to wear this? In public? Tell me we’re going to a belated Halloween costume party. And if we are going to a belated Halloween party, I’d rather go as a twister mat with a red dot over my crotch and a spinner that only lands on red.”

  Finally! A reaction other than unending patience. Her passionate husband was still in there.

  “I’m into this Twister thing. Let’s explore it further. Later.” The outfit she’d picked was better than she’d hoped. “Tonight, you’re stuck in this.” As she roved her gaze over him, she burst into laughter. Every garment was a smidgen too tight on his gloriously muscular physique. The vest ended in two points on either side of his navel, and the pants hit the middle of his ankles, making them high-waters. “And I don’t think belated Halloween parties are a thing. Now costume balls, well, those are a thing.”

  “So we’re going to a costume ball?”

  “Nope. Sorry. This is a date,” she said, “and we’re going…to have fun!”

  He pinched the center of her forehead. “What am I dressed as for this fun date?”

  “What else? A poorly attired man.”

  At his outraged look, she burst into another fit of laughter.

  Wasn’t long before a grin bloomed, brightening his features. “Well then.” He gave the lapels of his blazer a tug. “I’ve nailed it, haven’t I?”

  “You have. There’s no one more poorly attired than you.” She bent down to pet her snorting pig, then kiss the dog and nuzzle the cats. “We are the perfect pair. Admit it.”

  His eyes blazed white-hot, startling her, nearly making her crazed. “Yes. Yes, we are the perfect couple.”

  She gulped. “What about me?” The hem of her dress danced around her calves as she twirled. “How do I look?”

  When she stilled, he gave her a once— twice-over. His eyelids hooded, sending shivers down her spine. “You look like you want me to bend you over the couch, lift that skirt, and stake a claim…over and over again.”

  Mercy! Lyndie’s heart raced, and her limbs trembled. Maybe they should stay in and make lo— sex. Make sex.

  Nope. No way. Brock had once romanced the heck out of her. Now it was Lyndie’s turn to return the favor.

  As she reached in her purse for another thrift store gem—a bunch of ties sewn together and embellished with a thousand different buttons—her phone rang. She dug it out, saw the screen and scowled. Unknown number. “Unknown” calls came in daily, and anytime she answered, the other person hung up.

  “Something wrong?” Brock asked, going tense.

  She one hundred percent suspected Rick Lambert was the culprit. A few times the past few weeks, she’d spotted him in the school parking lot, watching her or following her along the roads.

  She’d warned the employees at her school, talked to the sheriff of Strawberry Valley and, with the sheriff at her side, had spoken with the chief of Blueberry Hill PD. Though the authorities had questioned Lambert, nothing had been done despite her protective order.

  She’d prayed Brock never learned the truth. If he found out, he would snap, like he’d done at the steak house. He would either (1) beat up Lambert and get in trouble, or (2) Lyndie would allow herself to lean on him when she absolutely had to stand on her own.

  In other areas, she could—and did—rely on him. There. She’d admitted it. Pleasure. Comfort. Companionship. He
’d become such an important part of her life. A buffer against the rest of the world. But she couldn’t use him as a safety net. If she called or texted him every time something went wrong or she got scared, she’d never learn to fend for herself with confidence.

  And really, she could just imagine the text exchange they’d have after their divorce.

  Lyndie: I heard a strange noise. Come over and check it out?

  Brock: I’m balls deep in a woman I just met. Give me an hour. Or two.

  Okay, so maybe she was exaggerating a bit, but the sentiment remained the same. He would want other women at some point.

  Lyndie’s stomach performed a series of flip-flops. If Lambert continued to call her, she would go back to the cops. But oh, putting her well-being in the hands of others—of strangers—knowing they wouldn’t be able to do anything without proof Lambert had violated the order…

  A sense of helplessness battered at her. Maybe I should trust my husband with my woes? We could work together and—

  Argh! Stop!

  Rather than answer the phone or second-guess her plans, she turned her phone to silent and returned it to the hollows of her purse. Determined, she squared her shoulders and said, “Nope. Wrong number. And couch bending has to wait. We’re going to the Scratching Post.” Something Brock had loved before their marriage. So why not enjoy it with him? “We’re going to dance and pretend these are our normal, everyday clothes. We can’t tell anyone, even our friends, why you look so ridiculous and I look so eighties but screwable.”

  Amusement flared in those light green eyes. “We’re going to act like the kids we never got to be, is that it?”

  “Exactly!”

  He remained in place, as still as a statue. “Like the kid we might have. Together.”

  A sense of foreboding pricked the back of her neck. He sounded hopeful and looked so earnest.

  She’d never before considered the fact that he might change his mind about wanting to be a father. How would he handle the divorce? Would he try to take the babe away from Lyndie?