Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Rhett
I think I now have an idea of what Mary London’s brother is worried about. The woman works way too hard. I barely got my hands on her feet and she started letting out little breathy moans, her eyes fluttering closed. She was asleep even before the oven timer went off.
’Course, I wasn’t gonna get up and get the brownies out.
Not with an indecent erection now part of the movie marathon.
Thankfully, Rylan came back down, took one look at Mary London and got the brownies out himself.
I’ve had to twist uncomfortably to the side to keep my hands to myself.
My head rests against the back of the couch, thinking of every detail I need to take care of on the bar this next week.
The to-do list is long and yet I make myself memorize it.
Anything to keep my mind off the gorgeous woman tucked next to me with her legs in my lap.
“These are stupid good,” Rylan mumbles, shutting off the kitchen light and walking into the living room with his mouth stuffed full of chocolatey goodness.
“Pretty sure you’re supposed to let them cool first,” I whisper wryly.
He just continues to shove more into his mouth while he stares down at his phone screen. “I’m going to head to bed. Got a job tomorrow.”
“I’m going to wake Mary London up and make sure she gets home and then I’m heading to bed too.”
Rylan doesn’t blink an eye at his dad snuggled up on the couch with a woman.
Either he doesn’t care or he’s so involved in his own life he doesn’t notice.
Either way, I’ll take it. I wait until his footsteps die out and his door closes upstairs before I suck in a deep breath and twist back to look at Mary London.
It’s pretty dark in here now, even with the television flickering as it drones on.
She’s cute as can be, tucked up against the back of the couch, her cheek smashed into the cushion.
Her one foot twitches slightly every few seconds.
Her toes are painted a bright pink that makes me think of blended drinks with little umbrellas in them on a beach getaway.
There are strap marks on the tops of her feet and an angry red welt on the outside of her ankle bone. I shake my head.
“Women and their fashion,” I whisper to the empty room. I shut off the television, plunging us into darkness.
Of course, now that I’ve been looking at her, the erection is back, painful and insistent behind the restrictive denim.
I absolutely cannot wake her up until that’s gone.
I work for her, a position I take seriously.
She’s told me it’s not easy to be a female business owner in a small Southern town.
I won’t add to that by coming on to her inappropriately.
I look up at the ceiling and start mentally going through all the projects I need to do on this house. Several minutes later, I’m finally in a place where I can dare to wake her up. I lean in and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She’s soft and warm and—
Fuck, don’t think about that.
“Mary London.” I pause my whisper for a moment, feeling her jolt. “It’s getting late. We gotta get you home.”
Her eyelashes flutter and then I see her pretty blue eyes trying to focus.
Her head comes up next, her gaze locked on mine.
Then her mouth tips up into a smile, and I swear it hits me square in the chest. There’s something intimate about seeing someone sleep.
To be the first thing they see upon waking and to know your presence brings them a smile.
I’m not sure I’ve done anything to be worthy of that.
“Your hands are magic,” she says, voice scratchy and deeper than normal from sleep.
Shit. That’s a morning-after voice that makes me think of whispers in the dark, naked skin under sheets, followed by lazy mornings.
“You must get all the ladies,” she adds playfully.
I scrub a hand across my face and try in vain not to be attracted to her. Pretty sure that’s an impossible feat.
“No, that’s…not the case,” I grumble back, now looking over her shoulder instead of straight at her. “I’m all about Rylan and that doesn’t allow for relationships. Of any kind.”
Mary London tilts her head. “Why is that?”
I look in the direction of the stairs, fairly certain Rylan’s in his room and not eavesdropping on the stairs.
He’s too caught up in his own life to be hanging out in the dark spying on his ol’ dad.
I’m not one to talk about his mother or anything personal, but there’s something about Mary London that makes me feel like it’s safe to share.
That she asks simply to understand, not to judge.
I’m sure Papaw would vehemently disagree, but I don’t want to live my life through his lens.
So I take a leap of faith and share the bare bones of it.
“My father died when I was super young. My mother, just like my grandfather, is an alcoholic. I was mostly raised by Papaw.” I let out a little snort. Calling how Papaw treated me growing up “raising” is generous at best. “More like I was raised by wolves and our neighbors.”
“That sounds like Heaven. The neighbor part,” Mary London clarifies in a soft voice.
There’s only a ribbon of moonlight streaming through the window to light up the room. Not sure how I ended up whispering in the dark with Mary London, but I’m not mad about it.
“I grew up without parents, and the second I found out about Rylan on the way, I swore I wouldn’t do that to my son.”
Mary leans her head back on the cushion. My hands find their way back to her feet, slowly massaging them like before, like touching her is natural now.
“Well, I had a father my whole life so far and yet I feel like he abandoned me too. Emotionally, at least. Especially after Mama died. There are so many ways to show up as a parent. So many ways to get it wrong. I’m thankful I had Mama to show me the right way. I wish you had that too.”
I don’t need her feeling sorry for me. I got that enough growing up. When Papaw would show up to the elementary Christmas concert drunk as a skunk, I’d get all kinds of looks. Some disgust, but so many of them pity. What good is fuckin’ pity? Pity didn’t get me a new set of parents.
“I’m sure I’m fucking up plenty with Rylan, but the effort is there and that’s more than I got.”
Mary London’s hand comes up to cup my jaw, pulling my face toward her until she’s staring into my eyes. “You’re a good father and a good man, ’Lanta.”
I swear to God my face heats from the most sincere compliment I’ve ever received. Not sure anyone’s ever told me I’m doing a good job with Rylan. The words seep into my chest and settle, something I didn’t know I needed to hear.
“Thanks,” I manage to whisper back, knowing that one little word isn’t nearly enough to convey how much her compliment means to me. But then she winks and drops her hand and I think she knows.
She swings her feet off my lap and straightens her dress where it’s shifted as she napped. When she speaks again, she’s not making eye contact. “I assume Rylan’s mom isn’t in the picture?”
I frown. Yet another topic I don’t like to discuss.
Mostly because of my failures to give Rylan the life he deserved.
Adults make so many bad choices, the consequences of which the innocent children have to deal with.
I wanted the generational bad choices to end with me, and while I’ve made significant strides, I haven’t done nearly enough to lift our family out of the bullshit we’ve been stuck in for several generations.
“No. She died when Rylan was a toddler.” I don’t add that the accident was her fault. That I’d repeated patterns and married an alcoholic. It’s simply what I knew. At twenty-four I still wasn’t self-aware enough to see what I was doing.
Mary London pushes to her feet and I follow suit. She doesn’t shift back, which means we’re almost touching as she tosses her hair over her shoulder and looks up at me. Goddamn, she seems short without those heels she wears every day.
“I’m sorry to hear it.” She nods her head, like that’s final. Then her head tilts and I swear her eyes are sparkling in the dark. “But now I won’t feel guilty for flirtin’ with you.”
My hand instantly goes to the back of my neck.
I’m at a loss for words. She’s stunned me stupid.
She pats my chest and walks around me, tinkling laughter trailing in her wake.
I swallow hard and follow her, pretty sure I should say something—anything—so there’s not some awkward silence between us after that bomb of a statement.
Mary London’s leaning against the front door, purse over her shoulder and bending down to slip her foot back in one of those ghastly heels.
I can’t imagine the buckle rubbing on that sore is going to feel good.
Doesn’t seem right for something so pretty to be in pain.
Which is why I walk right up to her and scoop her into my arms.
She lets out a squeak that shouldn’t be cute, but is because she’s Mary London Winthrop. Everything about her is perfect. Her arm wraps around my neck and her shoes dangle from her other hand.
“Well, this is quite the transport!”
I shake my head at her exuberance. What was I thinking?
Mary London would never allow things to be awkward between us, simply because of her good manners.
Managing to get the door open, I walk across my dilapidated porch in bare feet.
Fireflies zip across the grass that needs to be mowed soon.
The whoosh of after-work traffic is gone, leaving a stillness in the air that always makes me a little uncomfortable.
I’m used to noise at night after living in a suburb outside of a big city for so long.
The pavement below my feet is still hot from the long day of sunshine.
Mary London’s perfume fills my senses, making me goddamn lightheaded.
Or maybe that’s her curves hugged against my chest. Or the way her fingers have started to toy with the hair at the back of my neck.
If she keeps touching me like that, I’ll be back to having an unexplainable problem below the waist. She giggles as I spin her in a full circle before coming up to the driver’s side door.
I get the door open as fast as I can and deposit her inside.
Her dress has inched up her legs again, drawing my gaze like a moth to a flame.
I deserve to have my wings burned for the thoughts that flash through my head without warning.
I can see it as vividly as if it was real.
My hand sneaking between her thighs, my mouth exploring her smooth skin, the way those thighs would hug my hips as I thrust into her.
“To return tonight’s favor, I’m fixin’ to bring dinner to the bar after working hours tomorrow. What’s Rylan’s favorite?”
Mary London’s innocent question stops the X-rated train of thought in its tracks. I have to clear my throat to buy myself time to think.
“You don’t need to do that.”
She rolls her eyes, dropping her voice to a throaty whisper in the dark of night. “I know I don’t need to, but I want to. You gonna let me do what I want, ’Lanta?”
That little devil. She knows exactly where my brain keeps going.
She’s purposely talking suggestively to get a rise out of me.
Hell, she’s probably a master at it. She’s a true Southern belle who can blister you with flowery language that leaves a trail of blood from the thorns.
Here I am feeling grateful she thinks of my son when she plans dinner and now she’s got me thinking about what else she wants to do and if I’m gonna let her.
Spoiler alert: I’m definitely gonna let her.
I grab the door and go to close it, giving her my answer right before I slam it shut. “He’s like his father. He’ll eat anything.”
I see her eyes widen through the glass, right before she throws her head back and silently laughs. The ends of my mouth tug upward at the sight. She twists her neck, her gaze snagging on mine before she blows me a kiss. It’s sweet, but the wink she sends with it isn’t.
I watch her back up and out my driveway, staring after her long after the taillights disappear into the night. The fireflies dart about again, oblivious to the turmoil in my head. What the hell just happened here tonight?
And why, for the first time ever, do I feel like I’d break my self-imposed rules for a woman.
What is it about Mary London that even has me considering it?
I’ve seen scores of pretty faces over the years.
Had women innocently flirt and women who were damn right obvious with what they wanted from me.
None of them had me twisted up like this.
Not one had me wishing my last name wasn’t Price.