3. Too Many Men
3
Too Many Men
Bre
“S hit, shit, shit!”
“None of that language, please, young lady!”
“FUCK!” The phone flew from Bre’s hand. Normally, she was unflappable, cucumber cool and generally made of sterner stuff. Now, though, after a horrid night of tossing and turning, half happy to be here, half wondering what the hell to do to fix things now she was here, and fully horny, Bre watched her phone arc in slow motion, before it crashed to the floor. The glass screen, like last night’s hope of naked fun times, was smashed to smithereens.
“Well, that was … unlike you.” Holly eyed Bre suspiciously, as cookie crumbs fell from her open mouth to the floor in a slow, embarrassing trickle. “Have the dropsies today, Breanna?”
“HOLLY!” She dived for her phone, as if hiding it would make her feel better about the potential pain she was about to inflict upon this woman and her family. “What are you–” All this extra blood in her system was making her light-headed. Gripping the back of a chair, she tried again. “You scared the shi … uh, heck … out of me!”
Holly chuckled, pushing her dark hair off her face with the back of one flour-dusted hand.
“You know there’s nothing I love more than lurking in my own kitchen to scare the unsuspecting neighbour girl who may as well be my very own daughter.” She laughed again, resuming her work. “Actually, as usual, I’m just preparing to feed the army. Nothing sinister. Well, except for all the arsenic, but no one’s complained about the taste of it yet.”
Bre’s smirk refused to hide. “And they say the special ingredient is love .”
“Fools.” Holly beamed. Dusting her hands, Holly Carmichael, tall and refined, took Bre in with a familiar sweep of her eyes, head to toes, then up again, assessing. How this slender woman birthed four of the biggest human males Bre had ever seen, she’d never know. All of her sons had inherited her height and thick brown hair, but only Billy had inherited that swiftly raised arch in his brow that spoke volumes.
“I’m fine.”
Holly’s gaze flicked back down to Bre’s abdomen, a smile tugging at her lips. “Looks like you’re doing very well. Though I wasn’t expecting you down so early.”
Bre’s stomach rolled, a long queasy feeling spreading through her. “I … need food.”
Holly nodded sagely, trying to suck the smile back between her lips. “Anything you want to talk–”
“Nope.”
“Well.” The smile grew, despite Holly’s efforts. “When you decide to start replying in multisyllabic words … or even if you just want to grunt small words at me, darling,” she added as an afterthought, smiling softly, “I’ll be here to listen. You’ve never had trouble voicing yourself before, so I doubt you’ll start playing coy now.”
That arched brow was back, challenging Bre, who bit her tongue, refusing to take the bait. No way was she confirming or denying, but the truth was plain to Holly, a seasoned mother-of-four, that she, Breanna ‘Bruce’ Henderson, was well and truly ‘Up the Duff’. There was a bun in her oven. A pea in her pod. She was with child. Knocked up. Preggers, and she was eating for two. The list of euphemisms had been growing in her mind since she’d made the discovery, months ago.
“And let me guess –” she motioned to Billy’s Mighty Ducks jersey, “– you haven’t gone shopping for clothing that will fit that bump. Trust me, you’ll need Spandex. Stretch and comfort now trump your usual swimming-in-too-big denim and cotton t-shirt obsession. And while we’re speaking of uncomfortable necessities … Does your mother know?”
Bre only snorted, reaching for another biscuit.
Her mother was one item on her ‘Things to Deal With’ list that never seemed to get struck off. Bre guessed Elanor Henderson felt much the same way about her daughter.
“My mother has nothing to do with this. Or me … generally.” Not unless she wants something , she wanted to add.
Six months ago, Bre had been seeing someone – a few someones, if she counted a string of bad blind dates set up by her mother as ‘dating’. By Bre’s age, her mother insisted, she should be well and truly married. Elanor Henderson wanted her daughter settled and pumping out grandkids, burdened like all the other thirty-something-year-olds, with a mortgage and a husband.
There must be something inherently wrong with her, Elanor had argued. Why else was Breanna still single and dressing like a dirty barn brat instead of wearing pretty dresses like her friends? Having few close female friends, Bre guessed her mother was drawing a comparison between herself and Jillian Maitland, who was the definition of feminine grace. In stark contrast to Bre’s baggy t-shirts, jeans, boots, or dirty work overalls, Jillian’s wardrobe, bursting with bright colours and pretty florals, would have made a fifties housewife proud.
Jillian was still single too, Bre often wanted to argue, but she was also grieving the loss of her mother. That was a valid excuse for singularity, or so Elanor would argue right back.
Sometimes, Bre wished that same excuse could be hers – a dead mother, one could only wish! – but every time her mind travelled down that morbid rabbit hole, guilt swept in like a ghost, tugging at Breanna’s edges until she almost – almost – felt grateful to still have her interfering, argumentative mother in her life. Elanor Henderson was well and truly alive, and unafraid to make herself known.
“Seven dates,” Elanor had warned, “should be more than enough to find a man to settle down with, especially in such a small town as Moonshine, where the single men are on the hunt for a wife to complete them.”
“Complete them?”
It had taken Bre a long time to process this, mouth opening and closing as arguments filtered in and out of her mind. Her brother Seth had been much quicker to react, snorting his dinner into his nose.
The next few minutes had been spent whacking his back, thankfully taking attention away from Bre and the predicament Elanor had forced upon her. She’d been a fool to think Seth’s opinion on the matter would count, and while he’d tried, ultimately, Elanor would not be ignored. Seven dates.
Bre had buried her face in her hands and slumped over the table, sighing, “Fuck me.”
“Such foul language for a young lady!” Then, “Hopefully, one of them will! After marriage, of course!“ Elanor had sniffed, turning to mutter about her indelicate daughter’s potty mouth, the soap required to wash out the filth, and how corrupting those Carmichaels lads were on her sweet Seth and Breanna. “Not enough soap in the world …”
Graciously organising the dates around Breanna’s work schedule – long days at her garage, Rust Busters, and her nights at The Pope, Elanor sent the would-be suitors to the local tavern for after-shift meetings. None of the men had thought it odd to meet a single woman at the local pub, very late at night – yet another reason why Bre questioned her mother’s taste.
At least Elanor hadn’t insisted on acting as her chaperone on the dates she’d pre-arranged. Apparently, that had been Billy’s job, as “the only quiet Carmichael. You know… the one with all the muscles who puts his brains to use with running his own business, even though it’s a –” Elanor’s nose had scrunched, “– tavern.”
Billy was the one person Elanor deemed worthy of protecting her adult daughter, and he’d been unceremoniously appointed to the job. Thankfully, Billy had taken on his task of assessing Breanna’s potential suitors in his own, silently diplomatic manner. By the time Breanna finished her shifts, most of those seven would-be-husbands had been judged unworthy, so unsteady they could barely stand. Her boss and friend plied each one with alcohol until they forgot why they were waiting at the pub in the first place.
One had missed their meet time, too busy hunched over the toilet bowl. The second had finished the evening ramming his tongue down another woman’s throat in the darkened corner by the jukebox. The third had ceremoniously thrust out his hand, burped out the “charmed,” before vomiting something bright green all over Breanna’s Doc Martens.
“Midori,” Billy had murmured, kicking the mop bucket with a grimace. “Sorry.”
Despite being covered in toxic green, she couldn’t blame Billy. He’d always looked out for her. Later, they’d laughed until their ribs ached, pondering what wedded bliss to a man who gorges Midori cocktails while waiting to meet his potential wife might be like. It probably threw up a few red flags, if she was honest. The other dates hadn’t been great, either.
There were simply too many men in her life during that strange time. Only one potential suitor had a shred of romantic potential, and they’d had a great night together – not that she’d ever admit that to Elanor.
“Mum and Dad probably know I’m here,” Bre told Holly, resigned, as her foggy brain re-entered the present. “Somehow they see everything, even if I’m only here for a few minutes.”
Holly nodded, flipping long lines of golden pancakes on the eight-burner stovetop.
“This will certainly be a fun Christmas,” Holly said, chuckling.
Loosing a breath, Bre’s eyes slid to the huge arching window. Beyond the thick trees, and the burnt remnants of a wooden fence, her parents’ house hid in the bushland.
“No, it won’t.”
That eyebrow arch had Bre scrambling for more words. What she wouldn’t give for a coffee right now. Clearing her throat, she added, “We … still don’t talk very much.”
Holly clicked her tongue, dancing around the kitchen, the pots, pans and plates her partners. The motion so reminded Bre of Billy. His movements were a rougher, more masculine version of Holly’s gentler moves, but his ability to whirl around a workspace was almost hypnotic and had long ago earned him the nickname of Holly’s ‘little fournado,’ despite no longer being anywhere near ‘little.’
“Tis the Season, you know …” Holly said, pouring juice from a large pitcher into a coffee mug that demanded KEEP CALM AND DRINK COFFEE . Sliding it towards Bre with a wide smile, she added, “… for little miracles.”
Bre snorted.
This wasn’t the Christmas of the movies. There was no slow, soft snow to lay down and make angels in, no hot cocoa by the fire, no iced-over steps to slip on and fall into Mr Right. But there was, and always had been, magic in an Australian Christmas.
Bre didn’t consider herself a terribly romantic person, but even she had to admit there was something special in the way the trees baked in the sun and filled the air with a sweet thick scent, and how deliciously cold ice-cream slid down a parched throat. She loved hot, sweaty days in the fields of Christmas trees followed by cooler, just as sweaty nights in Billy’s bed. She loved watching condensation climb like frost up the window of Billy’s bedroom while the temperature reached boiling point outside … and within the sanctuary of his four walls, too.
December was sweat and sun and sex. December was licking down Billy’s heavily tattooed chest, fingertips exploring his skin in search of new ink. There was always something new to discover. December was Billy’s body, huge in comparison to hers, flexing and shifting as he dragged trees on and off the trailer for customers, one handed. Billy after a long day of work, an immobile mountain sunbaking by the pool, body glistening with the rapidly vaporising water. Billy towering over her, on his knees, behind her, pulling her flush against him, nibbling on her earlobe, dragging her long hair down over her nipples, tickling overheated, bare skin … Billy, Billy, Billy.
“Breanna, dear?”
A flutter low in her belly brought her back to reality once more, a flood of heat swamping already flushed cheeks. Damned hormones. Bre cleared her throat, blinking away the visions that danced behind her eyelids.
“December is just a month,” she told Holly, wishing she believed it. Bre wasn’t a liar. Better to fill a room with silence than deception. Or so she’d always thought, until last night, when Billy’s thoughts had been so loud, they might as well have had the difficult conversation, anyway.
A voice spluttered behind her. “Just a month? Just. A. Month! What poppycock! Holly, this wee lass should leave our residence immediately! She’s quite lost her marbles if she thinks she can say rubbish like that here, of all places!”
Grinning widely, Bre turned to face Nick Carmichael. Barrel-chested and wide as his sons, grey sprouted from his temples and ran in lines down his neat beard, making him look like a fierce Highland warrior – and a total silver fox, if ever there was one.
Bre rushed into his open arms, almost spilling her juice. “Mr C!”
“Aye, lass, tis me. The one and only.” He appraised her in that same up-down once-over as his wife, his tone softening. “But you’re not one and only, are ye now? May I?” After an initial hesitation, Bre gave a tiny nod and Nick’s large, weathered hand gently curved across her stomach. “Hullo, wee one.” If warmth had a sound, Nick’s voice was it. Drawing back, he offered a watery smile.
“Dad, stop being weird.”
“Yeah, Dad, stop being weird.”
The twins, Liam and Connor, bounded into the kitchen. Only eight months older than Billy, and in their early thirties, they were easily identifiable as Carmichaels, their physical makeup so similar they could have been cloned in a lab. Every Carmichael had been blessed with striking genetics – light blue eyes, dark hair, tall stature, and broad frames.
Smelling of the earth and completely covered in pine needles, like twin echidnas, the brothers took their seats at the table, grins playing at their wide mouths.
“Bruce! Glad to see you’re still hanging around like a bad smell,” Liam said, his fork spearing the pile of pancakes Holly placed on the table.
“Ready for Christmas, Bruce?” Connor chimed in, hoarding the maple syrup, mischief plain on his face.
“Of course she is! Bruce without a plan or a list is an existential crisis waiting to happen!”
Liam wasn’t wrong.
“About this Christmas,” she began. “I’ll need to go over a few of the finer details of those lists I sent you, and Seth–”
The twins chuckled. “Heard from Seth lately?”
Holly and Nick exchanged tired glances but Bre only grinned.
“What have you done to him this time?” she asked, knowing full well their implacably cheeky mood would be the result of some shenanigan involving her brother.
“Nothing.”
“Seth’s fine.”
Plucking a pine needle from her son’s hair, Holly tutted, and the twins’ grins grew even wider.
“Mister Seth Henderson should be gracing us with his presence sometime today …“ Connor chuckled.
“ If he can untie himself from the tree,“ Liam added.
“Boys! What did you do?” Holly’s hands went to her slight hips. “You might not be children anymore, but your father and I are still able to punish you, especially while you’re under our roof!”
Liam and Connor exchanged glances before turning to their father for moral support. Nick didn’t tear his attention from the sports column.
Liam started. “Mum, calm down. He’s just–”
“Tied to a tree …” Connor interjected.
“Butt naked …”
“ Buck naked ,“ a deep voice corrected, preceding heavy feet down the stairs. “ Buck naked is the older etymological form. Butt naked,“ Billy continued, “is a lazy derivative that entered the popular vernacular in the seventies.”
She couldn’t help but stare as he descended the final steps and entered the massive kitchen. Bre’s breath caught. It always did, even though she’d seen it a million times before – the expanse of his tattooed chest, and the long plane of Billy’s stomach. Still, she forced herself to breathe in and out. Repeat. Look away. To remember the strange paradox that while Billy was so casual with this language lesson, she’d ruined their friendship with her inability to speak.
And, she reminded herself begrudgingly, she’d ruined everything with her ignorance of simple math. She’d ignored the simplest equation human beings had ever known – that intercourse minus contraception equals impregnation . Tugging a singlet shirt over his head, Billy nodded a greeting, clearly having exhausted his allocation of words today.
“Well said.” Holly’s eyes lit up, beamed at her youngest son, who filled the doorway with his broad, muscular body.
“Word nerds, the both of you,” Nick chimed in, pulling his wife down for a kiss, full of adoration.
Shaking her head, Bre tried to lighten the mood, to portray a sense of normality. “Who talks like that?”
“People,” Billy said, delicately folding his large body into what looked like a laughably small chair by comparison, “who read.”
Three more words, directed at her. Good. That was a start. Usually, Billy was the quiet, pensive one and she was the talker, but now she found herself wanting him to fill the awkward silences between them.
Open, honest and often called ‘too blunt, ’ Bre was the walking definition of ‘Too Much Information’ … usually. But now? She waddled too much to be a walking definition of anything but a penguin! And more than anything she couldn’t – didn’t want – to talk about anything, let alone it. It , of course, being the baby. The paternity.
“Good morning, William!” Holly beamed.
“Son,” Nick beamed, knowing only his wife got away with using Billy’s full name.
“Brother!” Liam and Connor cried in unison, mocking their mother’s tone. Their jollity died, however, as Billy shot them a look filled with warning. Their pancakes suddenly became extraordinarily interesting. “Boss,” they amended as Billy shot them a look, rubbing eyes dry and red from a lack of decent sleep.
Words weren’t necessary for Billy, and they certainly weren’t his preferred mode of communication. The twins knew this better than anyone. Liam and Connor often worked as security for their brother at Moonshine’s favourite watering hole, The Pope, and were attuned to Billy’s non-verbal communications across the loud, crowded tavern.
Bre had personally witnessed him stop a bar fight with one pointed finger and an equally pointed look from those cool blue eyes. One brief glance or a nod of his head and the brothers knew which patron Billy wanted removed from the premises.
To look at him, you might be forgiven for assuming Billy Carmichael was some kind of rugged mountain man from a fairytale. He could be a towering menace in shadow, especially when in one of his rare bad moods. But Billy was the wallflower in most social situations, too big to disappear despite his wish to do so. He was the quiet, observant, book-lover who preferred the silence of libraries and museums.
Serene , he would label it. Awkward and stifling, she’d argue right back, forced to tilt her chin up, up, up to his heavily bearded face and the bright, light blue eyes that smiled down upon her. She aimed most of her retorts straight ahead, hitting his chest that was easily three hands wider than most men’s.
All of him was big in ways that made her mind boggle. He didn’t have the pretty-boy gym muscles of their good friend Adam James. Adam was, admittedly, lovely to look at, but he was too smooth and evenly tanned, spending so much time shirtless outdoors. Billy’s body was more akin to the gods of old – dark hair curled over even darker inked skin, his physique hardened and honed like a lumberjack’s – the result of years of hard, consistent, physical work. Nothing stopped him – especially not his disability.
Billy’s mere presence filled the air with a quiet authority that was undeniable. He rendered words unnecessary, which was ironic, because he insisted Bre verbalise everything.
And his hair! The man’s facial hair was his most expressive feature. Billy’s eyebrows spoke volumes, and his beard and moustache were able to swallow his entire mouth or part like the Red Sea when he smiled, revealing brilliant white teeth. Billy’s physical strength and ability to kick someone’s arse into next year were mere footnotes.
The woman who’d gifted that hair was speaking, smiling around the table, aiming a wink at Bre. Swallowing a quick gulp of juice, Bre fought the rise and fall of her emotions, which were ebbing and flowing with her nausea. What was Holly saying? Did she need to respond?
No, Billy was responding, his voice rougher than usual, like gravel slowly grating on rocks. “Everything is fine.”
“ Fine .” One of the twins air quoted with big fingers and a grin.
“We all know that’s code for not fine. Bruce’s snoring keep you up?” the other said, before lunging at the pile of crispy bacon their mother had just deposited on the table.
“I do not snore.”
“Uh, yeah, Bruce, you do.” Liam earned the punch.
“Hey!”
Nick scowled. “No fightin’ at the table!”
“I thought our babies had grown into thirty-year-old men,” Holly lamented with a sigh. “I was wrong.”
“Some things never change,” Bre’s mouth said before her brain had time to think.
Billy stiffened at the word: change. Something flashed across her best friend’s face – a thought half formed – but it was gone before Breanna could blink. Clearly, he wasn’t commenting. Everything had changed. And it was all her fault.
Equally wordless, Nick split his newspaper, sliding one half across to Billy, who spread it across the table, immediately immersed. Bre tried not to view it as a dismissal. He always read the paper, she reminded herself. Billy was in no way extra concentrated on the tiny print of the sports section this morning. And he definitely didn’t glue his eyes to the page just to avoid engaging with her across the long wooden table. An Olympic champion of a reader, Billy was also a notoriously closed book – except with her ... usually. Perhaps if she gave him some time and space, he’d come around. She hoped so.
Plonking down a big bowl of fresh strawberries, Holly gripped Billy’s shoulder. “Doesn’t Breanna look lovely this morning? Glowing , some might say.“ she said to no one in particular, but numerous pairs of light-blue eyes lifted briefly, flashing varying degrees of acknowledgement at Bre before resuming their breakfasts. Apart from Billy. His gaze lingered. So, he wasn’t too fascinated by the tiny font, then.
What was he thinking? Usually, Bre could read Billy’s thoughts as though he was screaming them, but honestly, it required a lot of decoding and she was too tired to translate the minutiae of his expressions right now. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, the whole Being Pregnant thing was draining the energy she usually reserved for conversation with Billy, who communicated in a cypher of grunts and facial twitches more than words.
His true thoughts and feelings had always taken energy and focus to decode. Occasionally, he’d offer full sentences, even the odd paragraph, and it was like the sun finally coming out from behind the clouds. He’d always been more open with her than most others, but after the night they’d shared tossing and turning, too hot and horny and with a tangibly growing rift between them, their unsaid thoughts too loud in the too-quiet room ...
“Billy?” Holly prompted, drawing Breanna back to the present once more as he grunted in response. “Doesn’t Bre look lovely?”
Bre wanted to strangle her pseudo-mother and was shocked but grateful when Billy offered an appreciative, though slightly dismissive, noise.
Holly’s brows crashed down. “Everything okay with you two?”
Hoping Billy would hear the apology lacing her tone, and that Holly would gain an explanation as to her son’s darkened mood, Bre said, “Neither of us slept well.” The twins only chuckled. “NOT like that, you nymphomaniacs!”
“Breanna, lass, no sex at the table,” Nick said without looking up from his newspaper.
Liam added, “Or on the table.”
“Or under the table?“ Connor piped up.
“Boys, stop!” Holly poured a round of coffee into familiar mugs.
Bre ran her thumb over the rough, chipped edge of hers, smiling down at the monstrosity. When they were seven, Holly had insisted they all make their own mugs, dragging clay and paints from one of her many craft cupboards. Each one had ended up wonky and wonderful, delightfully ugly, and frequently used. For years, Bre had tried to glue googly eyes onto hers, but they never stuck.
With a knowing smile, Holly refilled Bre’s mug with juice.
“Thanks, Mrs C.”
“You are most welcome, Breanna, dear.”
“ Anyway , back to funner things ... Like Seth …”
“Funner is not a word,” Billy muttered as the twins resumed their previous conversation.
“Seth lost the bet. Buck naked or butt naked,” he shot a look at Billy, “he’s been tied to a tree and tanning his jibblets this morning. He’s probably untied his ropes by now ...”
“Will you lads never grow up?” Nick sighed. “At least you’re honest, I suppose.”
The word ‘honest’ had Bre tugging at Billy’s Mighty Ducks jersey, thinking of her smashed phone, Revv Ryder, and the numerous details the Carmichaels needed to know, as they’d undeniably complicate the entire family’s Christmas plans.
“Well, on to a different topic now …” Holly started, adding a mountain of toast to the table. Her tall, lean body tucked neatly into the space between her husband and son. She looked so delicate, among the gathered brutes.
Bre wondered, for the first time, what she might look like to an outsider – what Piers ‘Revv’ Ryder might see when he arrived. She knew who he was expecting – the red-headed, grinning, grease monkey he’d seen in the profile picture Billy had snapped last year – the flat-chested, flat-stomached car enthusiast covered in freckles and gunk he’d met all those months ago. He wouldn’t be prepared for the lumpy bag of marbles her body now was. And Revv sure as shit wasn’t expecting the baby belly she’d carefully neglected to mention when she’d invited him to the farm to stay for Christmas.
“Everyone except Graham is here,“ Holly amended. “How is our first-born always the last to arrive? Anyway, now that we’re all assembled–”
“Oh my–”
Hysterical laughter exploded from the twins.
“Seth?”
“I know, I know, I’m late!” Nude as the day he was born, Seth Henderson strode into the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear, and bowed like a damn courtier. Countless red scratches criss-crossed his entire body. A long coil of blue rope dangled from one hand, while the other gently cupped his intimate parts. Pine needles spiked from his reddish-brown hair, and colour was high on his cheeks, blurring the freckles all Hendersons shared. Most late arrivals would have included an apology – but saying ‘sorry’ was not the Henderson way.
“Bruce.” Seth nodded to Breanna, eyes pleading. “Help a fella out and hand me a tea towel? Please, sis?”
Bre leant back in her chair, crossing her arms across her chest with a smug grin. “Tea towel is a bit generous, don’t you think? How about a hankie?”
The twins roared louder, banging the table. Plates and cups jumped with the blows, like they’d come alive and were about to start singing ‘Be Our Guest’. Even Billy’s mouth twitched upward slightly, though he was clearly not in the mood for anyone’s antics this morning. Bre elbowed the twins in the ribs, joining the chorus, at Seth’s expense. When Connor and Liam elbowed her right back, Billy’s mood darkened further.
“Careful!” Billy snapped, his voice like a bolt of lightning through the room. Everyone quietened, before chiming in:
“Careful? With Bruce? Nah, she’s fine!”
“She’s one of the boys!”
“She’s not a girly girl!”
“She’s–”
“Pregnant.” Billy said. Simple. Factual.
Bre shuddered. Heads whipped to her, the warm room now feeling so cold and silent Bre could practically hear Seth’s pine needles hitting the floor. While the men spluttered, Holly only smiled, nodding with that smug look that said she hadn’t need confirmation – she’d known it all along.
“ PREGNANT? ”
“Bre can’t be pregnant, she’s–”
“One of the boys!” Liam and Connor exclaimed.
Seth, naked as the day he was born, clearly didn’t know what to do or say. Standing arse-to-the-breeze in the kitchen, he only stared at his sister. The twins continued.
“And Bruce is so small!”
“I mean, she’s put on a bit of weight, but …”
“HEY!” Bre finally protested. “Guys, I’m just pregnant, and I’m not porcelain. I can still kick your arse if I have to. Please don’t treat me differently. There’s no reason why things have to …” She was getting sick of pleading for things to stay the same. Her voice cracked, and the men’s eyes widened at her uncharacteristic display of emotion.
Who was this teary mess? Clearly no one recognised her anymore. All plans for normalcy this Christmas were completely and utterly fucked.
“I couldn’t bear it if things were … weird … this Christmas.” She looked to Billy, who was once again staring intently at the Moonshine Gazette .
“Wanna know what’s weird, sis?” Seth offered, finding his tongue at last. “Having my junk in my hands and my arse hanging out at breakfast.”
“Not like we haven’t seen it all before, Seth,” Bre commented. Laughter filled the room and the weird spell was broken.
“Fiends, the lot of you!” Holly scoffed, whipping her apron off and looping it around Seth’s bare neck. “Let’s get this morning back on track, shall we?”
Seth gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Mrs C. You’re an angel.”
“I know,” Holly replied with a smile, pulling a chair out for him on Bre’s other side. “But leave a butt print on my chair, young man, and you’ll see the devil’s horns emerge, I promise you that!”
Everyone knew that Holly was a great cook, but she also dished out a lot of empty threats. They weren’t required, as history had shown. True power wasn’t with the biggest or baddest in the room, it was with this sweet, motherly woman who had each of these towering men wrapped around her little finger, evidenced in the way they each kissed her cheek each morning.
The rose among the thorns, Holly Carmichael did her best with a household of giant males. She gave her rowdy brood room to get into trouble, but she was always there to bail them out. Oh, she’d let them stew a good long while before posting bail, but she always showed up.
Seth sat down on the wooden chair with a fleshy slap, Holly and Bre flinching while the twins once again howled.
“Shut up!” Bre chuckled, picking pine needles from her brother’s hair and throwing them at Liam and Connor. “Down, you hyenas!”
“ Now that we’re all here ,“ Holly started again, “minus Graham, but we spoke to him last night before they started the trip from Melbourne … Anyway, your father and I have an announcement to make.”
“You’re pregnant?” one of the twins blurted, before swinging an apologetic wince to Bre. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She shrugged. “I’m not.” Unexpected as the pregnancy was, her baby was very much wanted.
The twins looked at each other before saying, “Can we ask–”
“NO.” Billy’s and Bre’s voices rang out in unison. Their eyes met briefly, then looked away.
Another moment of dead silence hung in the kitchen.
“As your mother was saying.” Nick gave each boy his ‘settle down, OR ELSE’ look. “She has organised for some internet person to come play spotlight on the farm.”
”A social media influencer is coming to the farm for a highlight ,“ Holly corrected. “She is a celebrity stylist and interior designer and I am just so excited!”
Bre looked again at her phone.
“And Breanna organised it for us! All those planners and post-its came in handy after all! Boys, you know Sharee DeLuca?”
“Do we!”
Connor grinned. “Mum, you clever woman! Delivering my future wife right to my door!”
“ Our door!“ amended Liam.
Connor guffawed. “There is no sharing Sharee DeLuca!”
“You two barely shared the womb,” Nick chuckled. “Kicking and fighting even then.”
Bre’s phone – what was left of it, with its spiderweb of cracks across the screen – lit up, a pitiful sound attempting to play out.
“Shit.”
“Language!” Holly reminded.
Billy’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t look at her.
“He’s here,” Bre said, to no one in particular. “It’s happening.”
“Who, dear?”
“What’s happening, Bruce?”
Tugging at her jersey, Bre stood, and the table fell silent.
“Revv–”
Billy’s head jerked up at the name.
“Revv Ryder.”
Revv’s horn blasted a merry tune down the long driveway, a long line of dust consuming the two large caravans that followed his iconic Chevrolet. The twins, spotting the procession from the window, sprang from the table and bustled out the front door, Seth’s bare bum trailing behind.
“Is this Sharee?”
“My wife!”
“No, mine!”
Nick and Holly slowly rose and followed, as whoops and whistles began floating in from outside.
“Bre?”
Sweat dotted her forehead; her ribcage aching from the effort to contain the rapid thudding in her chest. Deafening to her own ears, the beat drowned out all else.
“Bruce!” Billy’s grip on her upper arm guided her body down gently. She sunk onto his lap, curling into his broad chest, breaths shallow and quick. He tightened his hold, a silent and reassuring weight.
“Billy, Revv …” Bre gasped, hot and cold all at once. Why wasn’t the oxygen hitting her lungs? “I …” Her throat closed, chest tight. She may as well have been swimming a marathon in a cement swimsuit, the way her body was flooded with adrenaline and struggling for air. “He …” She was stuttering, but Billy waited for her words to tumble in longer processions. He listened intently as she managed half-formed phrases about ‘plans’ and ‘fucking up’ and more than one ‘it wasn’t meant to be like this.’
“Bruce.” Her nickname sounded too soft and too severe, all at once. “It will be okay. Breathe. You can do this. With me. In, out. In, out. Good.”
Fisting his shirt, she fought for control, breathing away the spots that danced before her eyes. Squeezing them shut, she focused on his words, the gentle rumble of his deep voice and the way it vibrated through his chest and straight into her fingertips. She inhaled, her breaths becoming slower and deeper, quelling the rising nausea.
Billy’s fingertips drew circles on her back as she melted her weight against him, comforted by the familiarity of tucking her chin into his neck. Where she belonged. Where everything was known and safe. Or was it? After the night they’d just spent, maybe not. Old habits die hard, she reminded herself.
She knew how Billy had taken her baby news – the image of him lying on the floor would haunt her for years to come. But Piers Ryder? The celebrity she’d admired for years now, who was here specifically to spend Christmas with her … How would he react to her unexpected pregnancy announcement?
“What … will he … say?” Gasps punctuated each word, her small hands tightening on Billy’s colourful, heavily tattooed shoulders as tears streamed down her face.
Billy’s fingers pressed deeper into her back, circling, and she focused on the pressure, breathing in and out with each circle drawn on her skin. The rhythm, so calming, was hypnotising. Despite all the mess, this she knew – Billy’s touch, that beautiful, familiar comfort, was exactly what she needed. Without considering her words, or their implication, she told him as such.
“There she is.” Billy’s smile brushed his tickly beard against her face. “I was wondering where the old Bruce was. My best friend who verbalised every thought.” His voice, so low and deep it came from the depths of his soul, was warm against her ear. Something about it changed the rhythm of that too-loud pump in her chest.
“Have you experienced this often? The debilitating panic?” he asked, his voice low and calm, stroking her neck gently.
She wriggled in his lap and he made an involuntary noise she knew well. What would she have given to have heard it last night – hell, even right now. The distraction would have been a welcome blessing. But morning sex with your best-friend-with-benefits in his family’s dining room probably wasn’t appropriate, especially with Revv right outside, or anyone able to walk in at a moment’s notice. Not that her aching core cared who saw them right now. Most of the people in this house had seen her naked in some form or another, over the years.
“Debilitating panic?” She attempted to laugh it off, trying not to squirm against him again. “You mean a minor heart attack? The lack of ability to breathe? Usually, I only feel that way when you do that thing with your tongue–”
Billy’s rumbling laughter shook the remaining panic from her veins. It was a welcome earthquake that rippled through both their bodies.
“Bruce. Be serious.”
“But that’s your job. Actually, it’s Reece’s. I swear that guy was born with a scowl.”
Billy pulled back, fixing her with those brilliant light blue eyes. “Stop with the deflection, or I will call Dr Reece Hargraves right now. The panic attacks, Bruce. How long? The truth.”
“For a while,” she admitted, breathing as deeply as she could, and exhaling slowly. “Damn, it feels good to admit it. I … I haven’t told anyone.”
He huffed a noise that sounded like gravel shifting in a strong wind.
“I know, I know. But you know me …”
“I do.” Billy gripped the back of her neck, forcing Breanna to look directly into his eyes. “And right now, Bre, Revv Ryder is here.” His fingertips lightly trailed up her thigh, heat and blood rushing to the area so fast her head spun again. “And you,” Billy said, eyebrows rising, “are only in your underwear.”
Her legs opened slightly for the strong fingers that brushed gently over the aforementioned fabric. Just once. That was all it was. A teasing touch that set her body on fire. Her hips rolled, seeking his fingers once more. He breathed a little chuckle against her ear, and if her underwear had been on fire before, the embers were now drenched.
His fingertips dug into her thigh, the delicious pain of it shooting straight to her centre. “Do things have to change? We have a plan, Billy.”
His hand immediately retreated, and she knew, once again, her damned mouth had gotten her in trouble. Speaking or not, she messed it up.
Gently, with only the slightest hesitation, Billy slid his solid palm across the swell of her belly. Deep within, the baby kicked in answer and Billy gently noted, “Nothing is the same Bre. Whatever plans you had …” His deep voice rumbled into nothingness.
Then she was standing, and Billy slapped her Shit Show Supervisor hat onto her head. Adjusting his prominent erection before heading for the door, he didn’t look back as he ordered, “Go get dressed. You shouldn’t keep Ryder waiting.”