Chapter 4
Kaleb
I enter my sister’s dining room with my heart in my throat.
That’s an expression I’ve heard my whole life, but never got what it felt like until now. There’s a throbbing ball hooked on my Adam’s apple, a blob of meat stealing my air as I scan for my mother. There’s Jake by the window, talking with Peter, while Hazel shows Harper something on her phone and Mason pours ginger beer into a?—
“Kaleb?” I turn at Lucy’s voice.
My sister stands by the counter, a ladle in one hand. She gives me a look full of kindness. “Mom’s not here,” she says softly. “She couldn’t make it. She asked me to tell you hello.”
Hello?
That’s it? That’s?—
“A fucking relief.” I let out a big rush of breath as Harper bops to the makeshift buffet line beside me.
“No swearing, Uncle Kaleb.” She takes a plate off the stack on the counter. “You know how it gives me the urge to punch kittens.”
I ruffle her hair, aware of my hand shaking. Of my mom’s face stamped on the inside of my skull.
She’s not here.
Those words nudge a memory awake.
That day in Eugene, when we went out to find Mom, it was my job to check all the homeless camps. I began by the one near the U of O campus, showing her photo to a caseworker handing out ham sandwiches. Holding my breath, I watched his face for recognition. Part of me knew he’d point to the morgue.
“She’s not here.” That’s all he said.
“But she was here?” I held out the photo again. “Her name is Sarah Lou Spencer. Could you just check the?—”
“Son, I know you’re desperate.” His eyes were kind, but he’d clearly been down this road. “Folks living out here, living like this—” He gestured to a stringy-haired couple, huddled on a dirty sleeping bag at the edge of the underpass. They weren’t even hiding their needles. “Don’t get your hopes up.” The pity in his eyes unzipped something inside me. “Almost no one comes back from this.”
Almost no one.
I held on to that word like my last shred of hope. Like a life ring in a churning, angry ocean.
One week later, my uncle’s investigator found her. Owen ID'd her body, and that was it. Case closed, game over. We spread Mom’s ashes near Spencer’s Rock just down the beach from my shop.
As I take my seat now at Lucy’s table, that thought strikes me. What the hell was inside that urn, anyway? Fireplace trash or something scraped from a vet’s crematorium? One of many questions Uncle Owen will probably never answer. It didn’t come up at his trial, where arson and fraud took top billing.
Cousin Hazel shifts in the chair beside me. “Are you all right?”
I nod once and gulp Mason’s new ginger beer. “Yep.”
She knows that’s not true, but my cousin doesn’t push. “I had coffee with your mother Tuesday. She looks healthy.”
“Good.” At this point I might be the only one who hasn’t seen Mom. “Guess she met with my dad last week.”
Hazel nods primly, spreading a napkin on her lap. “They’re forging ahead with divorce.” She says it carefully, like she’s not certain I know.
“So I heard.” In truth, my parents’ marriage ended long before Mom disappeared.
Hazel doesn’t ask how I feel about it. Maybe she knows I have no idea. As she passes a pint of sour cream, she speaks again. “I went to visit my father yesterday.”
“Oh?” Fury burns through my chest, but I breathe it back. Hazel isn’t to blame. “Must be hard seeing him in prison.”
“Sometimes.” My cousin picks up her glass. “It’s hard seeing parents as fallible.”
Ain’t that the truth.
She turns to Mason on my other side, asking him something about brewery hours.
Brooke touches my arm. “You were right.”
About why we shouldn’t kiss again? “Uh?—”
“About your sister’s chili.” She smiles. “Don’t tell my mom, but it’s better than hers.”
A chuckle slips out before I can stop it. “My lips are sealed.” I break off a piece of cornbread. “Don’t tell my brother, but I just found a dog hair in his cornbread.”
“Really?” She stares at the edge of my plate. “You pulled out the hair and kept eating?”
“Sure. I like Orfy.”
Brooke lifts a brow, along with a spoonful of chili. “And that makes his fur more sanitary?”
“Everyone knows that’s the rule.” Talking with her has my shoulders untwisting. “Maybe that’s a sign I should get a dog.”
“Fur in your cornbread?”
“I’m a sign seeker. What can I say?”
It’s her turn to laugh, a musical sound that rubs the last round of knots from my shoulders. I chat with Jake about crabbing and Mason about microbrews. By the end of our dinner, I’m full and content and not thinking at all about Mom.
And I’m definitely not thinking how great Brooke smells. How warm and alive she felt in my arms.
“Who wants dessert?” Lucy gets up and starts stacking dishes, but I cut her off.
“I’ve got it.” I stand and take bowls from my sister, glad to do something useful with my hands. “Can all of this go in the dishwasher?”
“Ugh, it’s on the fritz again,” Lucy grumbles. “Just leave it. I’ll hand wash.”
“Nah, I’ve got it.” With an armload of dishes, I move to the sink while my sister starts plating dessert. “Soon as I’m done here, I’ll take a look at the dishwasher.”
“I’ve already called a guy,” she says. “They’re sending a repairman soon.”
“My tools are right by the door. At least let me take a look.”
Lucy shakes her head. “You’re sweet, but no thank you.” She piles mini cheesecakes on a tray. “Just be with us Kaleb, okay?”
“Fine.” I’m elbow deep in suds, but I sense Brooke behind me as Luce bustles out. How much of that did she hear?
She leans back on the counter, watching me scrub a cast iron skillet. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
I’m lost. “What’s what?”
“Fixing things.” She tugs a dish towel off a hook by the sink and starts drying the skillet. “That is your way of being there for people, isn’t it?”
“Thought you didn’t diagnose people at parties.”
“It’s not a diagnosis. Just an observation.” She makes a face. “I’ll stop.”
“It’s fine.” I scrub a plate as Brooke begins drying bowls. “We already fucked up your rule about romantic entanglements. Maybe it’s a rule-breaking kinda night.”
“Maybe it doesn’t count if it’s just a one-time thing.”
“You should add that to the next edition.”
She smiles and takes the next plate to dry. “We all have our ways of working through emotional stuff. My older brother, David—he’s the lawyer, and he works all the time. Even more since Grace passed, and Brady—that’s my younger brother—he pours himself into his kids.”
“Toddler twins.”
“That’s right.” She sounds surprised I remember. “Anyway, I’m just saying. We’re in good company.”
“Glad to hear it.”
We finish the dishes in silence, but it doesn’t seem awkward. Just easy and calm, like Brooke’s always been here.
I’m wiping my hands on my jeans as we walk back into the dining room.
“—Oh, that sounds amazing!”
I look over and see Maxine smiling at Sam. She’s tugging one shiny red curl as she talks to Peter’s sister. “I know this is nuts, but I’ve never seen the full moon over the ocean.”
“And you live in California?” Sam can’t seem to believe it.
“It’s smoggy and I work a lot.” Maxine shrugs helplessly. “I need to get out more.”
“I’ll say.” Sam looks at her brother. “Please tell me you at least take Lucy on moonlit beach walks once a month. If not, I’m revoking your license to live on the coast.”
Peter puts an arm around my sister. “You know I could easily circumvent licensing authorities.” His hand cups Lucy’s shoulder. “Rest assured, we’re romantic as hell.”
Harper looks up from dessert. “Bad words give me the urge to steal bikes.”
Lucy shoots her a stern look, but Peter just smiles. “We walk on the beach in the moonlight at least once a month,” he assures Sam. “And we make out like teenagers when we do.”
While Harper fakes gagging, Brooke looks up from dessert. “You should do it, Maxine. Go walk on the beach.”
Mason swipes a piece of Jake’s dessert. “It’s a clear night,” he says as our big brother growls. “We don’t get too many of those.”
Jake snatches his cheesecake back. “Tide’s low, too. Good for walking.”
“All right, you guys make a good point.” Max turns to Sam. “I accept. Let’s go for a walk.” She frowns and looks at Brooke. “Oh, but wait?—”
“You two drove together?” I already know that’s the case.
“It’s fine,” Brooke says. “I can come back later to pick Max up.”
Sam looks between them, her expression a little bit guilty. “I’d drive you home, but my car’s at Kaleb’s garage.” She gives me a glance of warm gratitude. “Thanks again for the family discount on new brakes.”
“I’ll drive Brooke home.” The words leap from my mouth before Peter or Lucy can offer their car. “It’s no problem.”
Brooke bites her lip. “I can just call an Uber, you guys. Max, take my car.”
“Uber?” I shake my head. “You’ve clearly not lived in a small town.”
“We have Uber drivers,” Lucy argues. “Doesn’t Greg Riley do it?”
“Bowling night,” I remind her.
“Claire Cannon?” she tries.
“Author event at the library,” Cassidy says. “Zoe texted a pic of her new haircut.”
Lucy sighs. “Jack Duncan?”
“In the hospital,” Mason says, “having knee surgery.”
“That’s right, I signed up for the meal train.” Lucy frowns, flat out of Uber drivers.
I turn back to Brooke. “You might as well let me drive you.”
She bites her lip again. “I don’t want to pull you away from family time,” she says, “but I do need to leave early.”
“How early?”
“Maybe eight?”
I glance at my watch. It’s a quarter ‘til. “I’m good with that.”
Max looks from Sam to her boss, weighing her next move. “I don’t like the thought of you going into that huge house alone.”
“I’m perfectly fine looking out for myself.” Brooke’s gathering dessert plates, stacking one on top of the other. “I’ve got mace on my keychain and the world’s most elaborate alarm system protecting the McMansion.”
“Still.” Maxine looks uneasy. “Some of that fan mail you get creeps me out.”
I’m on instant alert. “Creepy how?”
“It’s nothing,” Brooke says, darting a look at Maxine. “Perfectly normal for someone in a high-profile position giving life advice.”
That may be true, but I don’t like the sound of it. There isn’t much crime in Cherry Blossom Lake, but Brooke’s fame adds a wrinkle. “I’m taking you home and walking you in.” That sounded more caveman than I meant it to. “I insist.”
Brooke’s eyes meet mine. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
There’s a little more murmuring about timing and tides, and Brooke gives Maxine her keys. It’s another ten minutes until we’re out in the driveway by my Bronco.
Brooke touches the hood. “This is yours?”
“You thought I drove a tow truck everywhere?” I open the door and give her a hand into the passenger seat.
As I climb into the driver’s seat, Brooke surveys the vintage knobs on my dash. “It looks old, but also brand-new.”
“It’s a classic 1966 first-gen Ford Bronco,” I explain. “One of the first cars I ever restored.”
“How long have you had it?”
“This time around? A few months.” I mourned the whole year we spent apart. “I was fifteen when I rebuilt it.”
“Wait.” Brooke tilts her head. “Did you give it up for a while?”
“I sold it,” I explain, not wanting to get into the story. “When we were trying to reclaim our land. Peter tracked down the buyer and bought it back.”
“Seriously?” She gapes as I fire up the engine. “That’s a good brother-in-law.”
“Believe it or not, he and Lucy weren’t even dating yet.” The stereo blares, paired with my phone, and I turn it down fast. “Sorry about that.”
“I love The Police.” She clicks her seatbelt in place as “Every Breath You Take” hums through my sound system. “Sting was the first artist I ever saw in concert.”
“Really?”
“This was ages after The Police disbanded.”
“I saw him, too.” Probably not the same venue. “Lucy was studying at UC Berkeley and I drove down to visit. Surprised her with tickets for her birthday.”
That was right before Luce got pregnant with Harper.
“No way.” Brooke chuckles. “I saw him with my sister. It was LA, not the Bay Area, but still.” She smiles and shakes her head. “Small world.”
“For sure.” I turn up the sound as I steer along past Driftwood Drive while Sting croons about creepy behavior.
“I know it’s meant to be romantic—” I begin, and Brooke laughs.
“You mean a guy who describes stalking a woman, following her every move, watching every step she takes because he misses her and thinks she belongs to him?”
“Yeah that.” I signal and turn onto Beachcomber Road. “I was worried I’d ruin the song for you.”
“Oh, I’m aware.” She shrugs. “Sometimes you can’t listen to music too literally or you’ll start dissecting all the mental health ick.”
“Example?”
“Oh, let’s see.” She’s drumming her knee to the beat of the song. Creepiness doesn’t seem to diminish her enjoyment. “Have you seen Grease ?”
“My mom loved that movie.” We’d watch snuggled together on my grandparents’ couch. My siblings all hated it, so it was just Mom and me. “The whole message of Grease always bugged me.”
“How so?”
“Here’s Sandy, just doing her thing, maybe a little buttoned-up and sheltered, but so what?” I watched mostly for Mom and the car stuff, but I’ve seen Grease a hundred times. “Then Sandy sets out to win a man by changing her hair, smoking cigarettes, and dressing like a dominatrix? It just seemed?—”
“Toxic?” Brooke chuckles. “Yeah, I get that. Her song—Olivia Newton John doing ‘Hopelessly Devoted’?” She plants her hands on her knees, slipping into shrink mode. “It’s classic co-dependency. I have to shut off my clinician voice and just enjoy the music sometimes.”
“I hear you.” I’m no shrink, but I know what she means about toxic messages. “You know what song always drove me nuts?”
“Is it something about cars where they get the details wrong?” Brooke snaps her fingers. “Maybe Wilson Pickett’s ‘Mustang Sally’ or ‘Drive My Car’ by The Beatles or Prince’s ‘Little Red Corvette,’ or maybe ‘Jesus Take the Wheel’ by Carrie Underwood?”
I slide my eyes off the road to stare at her. “For a woman who doesn’t know wrenches from pliers, that was an impressive roundup of car-themed songs.”
Brooke laughs. “I’m sorry, go on.”
“I lost my train of thought.” Not from the car songs, but the sight of Brooke’s legs stretched out in my passenger seat. “Oh! Songs that bug me. Remember, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’?”
“Of course.” She whistles the opening notes of Bobby McFerrin’s classic. “The ultimate feel-good song.”
“Sure, except it seems like really bad advice.” I drum a hand on the steering wheel. “Like, he’s got no cash, his landlord’s threatening legal action because he can’t pay rent, but please don’t frown because it’ll bum people out?”
“Solid point.” She considers that. “To be fair, I doubt Bobby McFerrin meant it as a literal framework for major life decisions.”
“Does this mean I should rethink my plans to trust Taylor Swift lyrics for financial advice?”
“No, you should definitely do that.” Brooke grins. “‘Mad Woman’ makes a good cautionary tale for all men.”
Does she think I’m the kind of gaslighting asshole Taylor’s singing about? “I’m partial to ‘Nothing New’—the version with Phoebe Bridgers?” When Brooke doesn’t reply, I hum a few bars. “The music industry’s such a dick to women. Props to her for calling it out.”
Brooke looks startled. “You know Taylor Swift?”
“Please. I’m the world’s coolest uncle.”
The Police song ends and my phone shifts gears to ‘I Will Always Love You,’ Whitney Houston’s version. This must be one of Lucy’s eighties playlists.
“My mom is a big Whitney Houston fan,” Brooke says. “Even as a kid, I got creeped out over the lyrics to ‘Saving All My Love for You.’”
“Is that the one where she’s waiting around for a married man, hoping he’ll leave his wife and run off with her?”
“Bingo.” Brooke shudders. “To be fair, I challenge you to listen to, ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ and not immediately bust out your best dance moves.”
“Challenge accepted,” I say. “I can’t dance to save my life.”
“And now I’m imagining a scenario where you’d be required to dance for your life. Some messed up kidnapping plot or something.”
A snort slips out as I steer us into Brooke’s driveway. “You are so weird.”
There’s a moment of silence where I think maybe I shouldn’t say that to America’s top advice guru.
Then Brooke smiles. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome?”
“No, I mean—people don’t usually tell me I’m weird.” She’s quiet a moment. “Grace used to.”
“Your sister called you weird?” It makes sense that writing a book about grief would bring up these memories.
“Fondly, I think.” She uncrosses her legs and folds them again, bringing her closer to my side of the cab. “I’d be studying on a Friday night and she’d be getting dressed for a party, telling me I should get out and have fun.” Her tone turns a little bit sad. “I’d insist studying is fun—for me, anyway. Grace would shake her head and say, ‘you’re so weird.’”
“Can’t quibble with your sister on that one.”
Her laugh sounds far away. “Or travel. Grace had major wanderlust. Loved to roam the globe any chance she got. She couldn’t believe the rest of us weren’t obsessed, too.”
“You don’t like travel?”
“Not like Grace did. I mean, I’ve been on an airplane.” She smiles so I know she’s just teasing. “She’d tell me I’m weird for not wanting to drop everything and go photograph goats in Costa Rica.”
“I’ve seen her photography.” I hope it’s okay to say this. “I helped Cassidy hang the one at her boss’s house. It’s a great shot.”
“I agree.” She takes a shaky breath. “I know a lot of people take pictures of Kneef’s Lighthouse, but Grace’s images of it are magic.”
“I know what you mean. It’s like—” I fumble for words, a little like Brooke when she dug through my toolbox. “Like she captures the spirit of the place, not just the look of it.”
“Yes,” she breathes. “That’s it exactly.”
Silence fills the cab of my Bronco. “I lied.”
Brooke blinks. “What?”
“I don’t really think you’re weird.”
The tiniest smile tugs at her mouth. “I don’t mind if I am.” Her voice sounds wistful. “I liked when my sister called me that. It was more like, ‘I see you’ or ‘I honor our differences’ or ‘I love you.’”
“There’s a chapter for your next book.” I yank the parking brake and kill the engine. “Just a long list of different families’ code words for ‘I love you.’”
“Like, ‘fuck you’ for Spencer-Kings?”
“Exactly.” I glance at the front of her house. The porch light’s on, but the rest of the house looks dark. I remember what Maxine said about creepy fan mail. “Let me walk you inside.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
I watch her face in a pale slice of moonlight. “Are you saying that because you’re a self-reliant woman who doesn’t need male protection, or because you’re afraid I’ll try to kiss you again?” Her mouth falls open, but I keep going. “Or maybe you’ve got dirty laundry and severed heads strewn all over the floor.”
Brooke laughs. “The latter, obviously.” She bites her lip. “Okay, I’ll admit it—I wouldn’t mind having you walk in with me. There’s an alarm, but it’s set up strangely with different rooms on different systems, and sometimes it’s a little scary to?—”
“Say no more.” I pop open my door and hop down, glad to be useful again. “I’ll even bring a tire iron for protection.”
She watches me dig one out from under the seat. “I’m not sure whether that’s terrifying or weirdly hot.”
“Let’s go with hot.” I shift it to my other hand as I remind my libido she’s joking. “Lead the way.”
With a glance at the tire iron—or maybe my hand? Brooke turns to the path leading up to her porch. As she fumbles with her keys, I move back to let her punch in the alarm code.
“Will you see Zoe sometime soon?” she asks.
“Zoe?” What does Cassidy’s sister have to do with anything? “She’s coming by the garage at noon tomorrow to drop off stuff for the clothing drive. How come?”
“Cassidy said she’s a librarian.” Brooke leads the way through the door, and I follow. “Somewhere in this house, I’ve got a box of limited-edition hardbacks with embossed covers and sprayed edges. I thought she might like one.”
“I can answer that one—yes.” I know Zoe, and she’d flip for free books. “That’s nice of you.”
“Hang on, let me disarm that room.” Frowning, she punches more keys on a pad in the foyer. “This is the world’s weirdest alarm system.” She mutters a curse, then consults her phone before punching the keypad some more. “I swear the guy who built this place set it up like Fort Knox.”
“I could take a look at the wiring for—” I stop myself, cringing. “For the record, I’m not always showing affection when I offer to fix stuff. Sometimes, I just want to fix stuff.”
“I think it’s sweet.” Brooke slides her phone back into her bag as we step from the foyer to a gigantic hall. It smells like new paint, window cleaner, and a ghost of Brooke’s perfume. Her eyes slide to mine, and she bites her lip. “Want to come up?”
I know she doesn’t mean that how it sounds. She’s finding the book and securing her house, not making a beeline for the bedroom. “Sure.”
With the tire iron gripped in one hand, I follow her up a massive staircase. I stay several steps back, not wanting to look like I’m staring at her ass. Which I’m not.
“It’s this room, right here.” She turns in an arched doorway and I tear my eyes off her butt. “Sorry, it’s messy. I’m still unpacking.”
“How long are you here again?”
“The lease is three months, but my publisher wants it to be less.” She nearly trips on a box, and I catch her arm.
“Thanks,” she says as I steady her. “Even if I don’t get this book finished fast, there’s some urgency to get me back out on tour.”
“Book signings, you mean?”
She bends and opens a box, then mutters a curse and moves on. “Signings, yes. And speaking engagements.”
I survey the room, which is piled high with boxes on every flat surface. “What’s in all these?”
She peels open a box with a sigh. “Not the books I’m looking for. This one’s bookplates.”
“What’s a bookplate?”
She stoops to open a box at her feet, and I’m faced with a fresh round of ass-shaped temptation. “Labels you stick in a book.”
I take a step back and shove both hands in my pockets as Brooke holds up a colorful sticker. “Sorta like those ‘property of so-and-so’ stickers you’d have as a kid, only these ones get autographed.” With an embarrassed shrug, she sticks it back in the box. “It’s all part of author life.”
“I see.” I’m not seeing her butt anymore, since she’s stretching to reach the top of a really tall pile. Her sweater rides up to expose a sweet swath of skin at her waist. “Want me to get the lights?”
That seems better than searching this half-lit space, but Brooke laughs. “Good luck finding the switch. Did I mention the weird construction?”
“Once or twice.” I scan a few walls, then give up and move toward the windows. A spotlight of moon splashes in through the blinds, bathing her carpet in gold. I spot several big stacks of boxes by a couch in the corner.
It’s just like the sofa my mom used to want, with buttery leather the color of cream. There’s room for six kids and two grownups, with matching recliners where Grandma and Pops could relax.
Mom herded us all through the furniture store, hollow eyes wistful as she touched a plump cushion. “Someday, sweetie. We’ll have a sofa like this one.”
I wanted that couch more than anything. Not just the sofa, but what it meant for our family. A dad who wasn’t gone all the time. A mom who seemed healthy and happy.
A mom who’d stay with us, in mind and in body. No trips to rehab or jittery dinners where my siblings slid sidelong glances at each other. Where we knew without speaking that Mom had gone back to the dark place.
“This is taking longer than I thought.” Brooke’s voice moves closer. “Maybe I should find the light switch.”
Tearing my eyes off the couch, I survey the wall behind it. “Maybe it’s hidden behind one of the bookshelves?”
“I swear it’s right here.” Brooke’s voice bounces off the pillar beside me. “I thought it was next to the— oh .”
As the heel of her hand strikes my chest, I catch her wrist without thinking. Her pulse taps my fingertips as her chin tips up, eyes flashing with moonlight. Brooke licks her lips.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were?—”
“The light switch?”
She doesn’t move her hand. “Yes.”
I somehow know that’s more than her answer to my question. It’s consent, clear as day, filling her eyes as her pulse ticks up. Her tongue wets her lips, and I cave.
“Brooke.” That’s all I get out. Then my mouth’s claiming hers like something’s possessed me.
The tire iron falls from my fist with a thump. My hands find her hips, not rushing this time. We’re not sneaking this kiss like a treat before dinner. We’re alone in this dark room dripping in moonlight. Her palm claims my chest, pinned between us with her breasts grazing my ribs.
As my tongue touches hers, she moans. “Kaleb,” she breathes, breaking the kiss “I know we shouldn’t?—”
“Fuck it.” I kiss her again. “We should .”
“Right?” A laugh slips out, drenched in desire. Pushing me back, Brooke presses her hands to my pecs. “Just this once,” she whispers as the backs of my knees hit the couch. “We already said it doesn’t count if it’s just once.”
Like I’m going to argue with that logic. “You’re the expert.”
I let myself drop, pulling her with me to the cloudlike cushions. Her thighs land on each side of my hips, folding me into her warmth. Brooke kisses me again.
Time goes on forever as delicate hands undo the buttons on my shirt. I shrug off the flannel, cursing my thick thermal undershirt. I want to be skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.
But we’ll get there in time. Brooke’s calling the shots, her kisses growing more urgent.
“Sorry,” she says as she draws back for breath. “I don’t normally throw myself at strange men.”
“Good thing I’m not strange.” I go under again, losing my mind to the sweet, hot warmth of her mouth. To the tug at the hem of my t-shirt, her fingertips stroking my abs.
Cupping her ass, I let my thumb trace the pale slice of skin where her sweater rides up. My fingers follow the bumps of her spine like a road map to her bra clasp. My breath’s coming fast as Brooke squirms on my lap. The heat at her core melts me as her hips tilt.
A groan rattles out of me, and she smiles. “You’re hot,” she murmurs, then giggles. “Sorry.”
“For calling me hot?”
“I don’t mean to objectify you.”
“Objectify away.” I nip at the base of her throat, tasting salt and vanilla. “You’re pretty fucking hot yourself.”
“I have to warn you,” she says, breathless as she wrangles my shirt over my head. It takes my hand less than two beats to find its way back under her shirt. “My bra definitely isn’t hot.” Her moonlit smile goes sheepish. “It’s ugly and ratty and I apologize in advance for what you’re about to witness.”
“I think I can bear it.” I try to unhook it one-handed but give up when the clasp won’t budge. “This might be a two-handed job.”
I tug at her bra clasp and feel one of the hooks start to give. “Did I just rip it?”
“I don’t care,” she says, tossing her hair back. “Just yank.”
I do as she says, satisfied by Brooke’s gasp as her breasts spill free. The weight of them fills up my palms and it’s my turn to groan. As my thumbs stroke her nipples, her eyes flutter shut.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Is she telling herself or me? “Just one time. It’s a basic, biological function, like breathing or eating. We can?—”
“Honey?”
Brooke’s eyelashes lift. “Yes?”
“Is the justification for you or for me?” I lift one hand to brush hair off her face. “Because I’m good.”
She rolls her hips slowly to grind on my cock. “Yes,” she breathes. “You certainly are.”
Laughing, I peel off her sweater, leaving her in a lacy tank top. It’s pale pink and thin, a little bit lumpy with her bra dangling out through the armhole. I try to free her, to untwist the straps from her arms. But she kisses me hard and I lose track of all rational thought.
I roll to the side, pinning her under me as I kiss my way down her throat. I linger to taste her, the floral-sweet heat of her skin. The pulse in her throat, the warm cove behind her ear where she dabbed whatever smells great. It’s woodsy and warm, like the fringe of the forest where my tire swing sways in the breeze.
Brooke arches beneath me, nails spearing my shoulder blades. “There’s a condom in my purse.”
I stroke her tongue with mine until her palms flatten out on my back. “We’re not in a rush.” I’m convincing myself more than her, because the truth?
I might die if I’m not inside her soon.
Brooke Fucking Braham.
If you’d told me last week I’d be shirtless and groping America’s leading advice guru, I’d have laughed in your face. No way, not in this lifetime. Not the woman whose words gave me comfort the day I learned my mom had come back to town.
As Brooke sighs beneath me, she’s sliding both hands in the back of my jeans. I want this to last, but holy shit . With the way I’m feeling, I’ll come the second I slide inside her. My only shot at taking my time is delaying all that.
Cupping her breast, I vow to go as slow as I can. I’m learning her skin, memorizing how each stroke of my tongue makes her shudder.
“Kaleb.” She sits up on top of me, her hands pinning mine on her breasts. She’s stunning in moonlight, hair falling free at her shoulders.
“My God.” My dick throbs at the seam of her jeans. “Okay,” I breathe. “Where’s your purse?”
“It’s right over?—”
A sharp, screeching wail cuts off her next words.
She jerks, eyes flashing to mine with dread and some fear. I can’t hear her voice, but my eyes on her lips fill in words.
Alarm.
Someone’s inside the house.