She runs her hand down the back of Riley’s hair. “I know.” Then she turns her head in disgust. “Did you vomit in your hair?”
“Yeah,” Riley groans, sounding miserable.
Chelsea holds her cheek. “Let’s get you into bed—we’ll talk about this tomorrow. There will be grounding in your future.”
She tilts her head toward the family room. “Come on in, Jake. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
And she doesn’t have to tell me twice.
About twenty minutes later, Chelsea walks back into the living room.
“It was kind of cold, so I started a fire.” I gesture to the flickering flames that glow inside the brick fireplace. Heat seeps into the room like a mist, the crackle and scent of live fire comforting. “Hope you don’t mind.”
She gazes at the fire like a woman staring at a chocolate cake the day after she got off her diet. “I don’t mind at all—thank you. You’ll have to show me what you have up your sleeve . . .”
Up my sleeve, down my pants. I’ll show her anything she wants to see.
“. . . I haven’t been able to get it going—the logs smolder but don’t really burn for me.” The orange flames dance in her eyes as she turns to me, teasing. “I was a terrible Girl Scout.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?” I indicate the bottle of Merlot resting on the corner stone-top table.
She looks confused. “Robbie and Rachel didn’t keep any alcohol in the house.”
“I had it in my car.”
A smile tickles her lips. “Wow. Wine, a fire—you’re like seduction on wheels. Do you keep candles in the trunk?”
“I just figured you might enjoy a drink, maybe a little conversation.”
I get the feeling Chelsea hasn’t had a conversation with an adult in a long time.
“I’ll enjoy that more than I can say.” She sighs. “I’ll go grab the glasses.” Chelsea walks toward the door that leads into the kitchen but stops before exiting. Looking over her shoulder back at me, her reddish hair glowing like gold in the firelight, she raises an eyebrow. “So . . . you’re not trying to seduce me?”
I meet her gaze head-on. And wink. “I didn’t say that.”
“Good to know.”
Then she turns back around with a flip of her hair and walks into the kitchen with an extra swivel of that fine ass.
? ? ?
Later, I add another log to the fire and we’re both working our way through glass number two. Chelsea’s long legs are tucked snugly beneath her; one hand holds her glass and the other elbow is propped against the back of the couch, her head resting in her hand. The position exposes the smooth expanse of her neck, and I’m fascinated by the pulse that thrums beneath her skin. It makes me feel like a vampire—I want to put my mouth right there, I want to taste her and feel that spot throbbing against my tongue.
I asked her about what she was getting her master’s in, and the fucking crazy thing is, I’m actually interested in what’s coming out of her mouth—not just fantasizing about what I’d like to put in there.
“I’m an art history major.”
I snort. “So you paid thousands of dollars in tuition to look at pretty pictures?”
“No, Mr. Cynical. There’s so much more to it than that. Art tells us about culture, what was important to the people of that time. The things they valued, the things they hated or feared—their image of what was beautiful.”
I frown. “You sound like a philosopher.”
She frowns back. “And you sound like you don’t respect philosophy very much.”
“All philosophical questions can be answered with one concise statement.”
Chelsea refills her glass. “Which is?”
“?‘Who gives a fuck?’?”
She laughs, and it’s an amazing sound.
“Do you do . . . art . . . yourself, or just study other people’s work?”
Her cheeks blush. “I sketch, actually.”
My eyes are immediately drawn to the framed pencil sketch to the right of the fireplace. It’s an incredibly realistic likeness of young Riley, holding twin babies on her lap. I noticed it when I first walked in—you can practically hear the childish, smiling voice.
“Is that one of yours?” I point.
Chelsea nods, still shy.
“You’re good.” I don’t give compliments lightly.
Later, later—she talks about her brother.
“Robbie was fifteen years older than me. I was my parents’ midlife-crisis child. My dad had a heart attack when I was about Riley’s age. My mom passed a year later when I was in high school.” She sips her wine, a mischievous shine in her eye. “I was kind of a wild child after that.”
I raise my glass. “Weren’t we all?” I drink the Merlot. “So, you lived with your brother after your parents passed away?”
She nods. “Not here though. We were in a smaller place off Cherry Tree. It was just Riley and the boys then—and me, Robbie, and Rachel.”
“You and the kids kind of grew up together, then?”