“Yep.” Louis nods. “Thanks to you, Brent’s gonna owe me a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch.” He winks at her. “I’ll think of you every time I enjoy a glass.”
After he walks away, Kennedy turns her back on me. I lean in, hissing right against her ear. “Don’t do this—don’t you fucking dare. He was at the birthday party at my parents’ house, and he bet me that my mother would have me married by the end of the year. That’s it. So help me God, I’ll cut my other fucking leg off if I’m lying to you.”
I spin her around and her eyes are wide, uncertain. Looking for some reassurance that I’m not sure how to give.
“Do you believe me?”
She inhales slowly. “I want to. But . . . it’s hard.”
I curse under my breath. And wrap my hand around her arm.
“Let’s go.”
We pass Calvin on our way toward the door—I tell him Kennedy has a migraine and we won’t be able to stay for the rest of the evening. Outside, I spot Harrison parked down the street and motion to him with my hand. Then I get Kennedy in the backseat and press the button to raise the divider that separates us from the driver’s seat.
For a minute, the backseat is silent.
Then she says in a tiny voice, “Please don’t be angry with me.”
“Angry at you?” I bark out a laugh. “Sweetheart, I’m furious with my younger self—I want to go back in time and punch that kid in the nuts. And I am livid with the guy who messed with your head in college. It’s taken everything I have not to find out where he is now, where he works, buy the company, and ruin him.” I cup her jaw and soften my voice. “But I would never be angry with you. Not about this.”
Her brows draw together. “Then why did we leave? Where are we go—”
“You don’t trust me. So we’re going back to my place, and I’m going to make love to you until you do.”
Great plan, right? I think so too.
Her eyes go golden with heat. “That . . . could take awhile.”
“Then it’s a good thing my stamina is unparalleled. We’re screwing until you trust me—or we starve to death—and that’s final.”
She sounds breathy. Excited. “Harrison would never let us starve.”
I wink. “Exactly.”
? ? ?
Two days later, Kennedy’s still at my house. As I pet her awake, she tells me if she has one more orgasm—even a little one—she’ll drop dead. So, I take pity on her and go for a run. When I get back, she’s curled up on the chaise longue in the living room, wearing a pair of my blue-and-white-checkered boxers and a Green Lantern T-shirt. Her soft hair falls over her shoulder as she turns the page in a brief and sips her coffee.
And warmth blooms in my chest and down my arms—making my fingertips tingle. With the rightness of it all. What did Waldo say about relationships? Satisfaction. Having her in my house, wearing my clothes—it’s so much more than satisfying. It’s fucking joyous. Exuberantly fulfilling in a way I can’t possibly describe.
I still want to live my life free—but I want to live it free with her.
Kennedy must feel me watching, because she peeks up. “Everything okay?”
I nod, slowly smiling. “Yeah—everything’s perfect.”
I kiss the top of her head as I walk past, heading up the steps to take a shower. When I walk out of the bathroom with the towel around my waist, I hear voices coming from downstairs. One definitely Kennedy’s, the other too deep to be Harrison. Still dripping, I walk down the stairs—and listen.
“. . . you know his family. But you need to understand that we’re his family too. Don’t fuck with his head.”
That’s Jake—talking to Kennedy in my living room. There’s no hint of a threat in his voice; he’d cut his tongue out before he’d ever threaten a woman. But he has this way of putting things that makes the simplest sentence sound like a warning.
“You think I could do that, Mr. Becker? Fuck with Brent’s head?” Kennedy sounds almost surprised.
“Watching the way he’s turned himself inside out over you the last few weeks—absolutely.”
There’s a pause, and I imagine the look on her face, her stance—the way her eyes probably narrow, her arms cross, and her hips cock—like when she’s in court, sizing up her adversary. “You’re very protective of him, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Jake says simply and without hesitation.
And then Kennedy sounds defensive. Maybe even . . . offended—on my behalf. “Why? He doesn’t need it. He takes care of himself just fine. If you think patronizing him is helping—”
Jake’s deep, rumbling laugh cuts her off. “I have no doubt that Brent is fully capable of handling his own shit. It’s not about that.”
“Then what’s it about?”
Now Jake pauses. And I know he’s analyzing the angles, choosing his words to efficiently convey his position. “I never had brothers . . . not until I met Brent and Stanton.”
That’s when I make my presence known. Stepping from the hallway to the living room, still wrapped only in a towel. Which Jake doesn’t appreciate.