Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EMMA
Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.
What the fuck?
Something is hitting my closed bedroom window repeatedly, disturbing my insomnia. But what is it? I’m on the second floor, and after I snuck out for the fortieth or perhaps fiftieth time, my mother cut down the tree I used to use to sneak out, so the sound isn’t the tapping of a friendly oak branch.
I open the window, and am immediately pelted in the face with an acorn.
I glower down at Seamus, standing inside of the gate. He still has a bandage over his wound—a pop of white in the darkness.
He looks like he’s about to shout, so I press a finger to my lips and give him a furious look. He mimes zipping his lips, then points to the front porch.
I’m wearing the same oversized T-shirt I had on last night, so I pull on a pair of pants and a sweatshirt. Shadow, whom I’ve freed from her leash in the captivity of my room, watches me skeptically, then meows a complaint when I squeeze out of the bedroom door before shutting it behind me. I slip on a pair of fuzzy Uggs before turning off the alarm system and heading outside.
He’s waiting for me by the door, grinning. His hair is rumpled, probably from scaling the wall. He’s in his leather jacket over a dark shirt and jeans. Boots. A tall drink of water , my mother used to say to describe men like him, tall and lanky but toned. But he wouldn’t be water. He’d be a Dark and Stormy, or something else a woman could get drunk on.
My body hums with awareness, and a few stupid butterflies flap their wings in my stomach.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” I ask, not totally sure whether I’m asking him or me. After all, according to Rosie, he ignored me all day because he was at lunch with an unidentified group of women.
“Can you be more specific?” he asks, hitching his hand around the top of the door and leaning in a little. It’s sexy, and I have no doubt he knows it. “There’s the mild concussion, obviously, but there are probably half a dozen underlying issues.”
I try not to laugh, but half of the sound escapes.
“Was that a laugh?” he asks, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“ At you, not with you,” I say firmly, planting a hand on my hip. “Now, tell me why you thought it was a good idea to climb a fence when you have a mild concussion? You could have fallen and given yourself a major concussion. And does this mean you drove ?”
I try not to watch his bicep as he continues to do the sexy lean. I fail miserably. He says, “I took an Uber. And of course I didn’t respond, you insisted I shouldn’t use my phone.”
“How’d you summon the Uber?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures. But I can listen, Emma,” he says, his voice pitched lower, almost sultry. “Courtesy helps.”
“So I guess you’ll continue to ignore me. How’d you know where my room is anyway?”
“I didn’t,” he says with a grin. “I tried two rooms before yours. There was a chance I’d wake up your mother, but I figured I’d toss the dice.”
I should probably send him away, but I don’t want him to leave. If he does, I’ll just lie in my bed, restless. So I open the door wider in a silent invitation. He steps inside and shuts it behind him.
“You’re wearing that sleep shirt from the other night,” he comments.
A hot shiver runs through me. “How can you tell? I have a sweatshirt over it.”
“I can tell.”
My gaze darts down, and I see the bottom dipping out of the sweatshirt. “Okay, Sherlock.”
His mouth hitches up. “You look cute. All fuzzy and shit. It’s a new look for you. I like it.”
I try not to smile back. “Want to tell me why you’re here?”
I want to ask him about lunch. About the “ ladies .” But I don’t want him to think I’m interested. I’m not. I can’t be.
Even if he weren’t Rosie’s brother, he’s still a man with a self-admitted criminal history, and I’m a lawyer. Or at least I hope I’m still a lawyer.
He looks me up and down, his brown eyes amused and also hot. “I wanted to see our cat…”
“She’s up in my room. Resting. Like most people do at this hour.”
“Did you just invite me to your room, Emma?” he asks, wanting to get a rise out of me.
“No,” I say, “but I suppose you might as well come up.”
He looks surprised, which I savor. If I could get away with it, I’d find my phone and take a photo. Instead, I start heading up to my room, deeply aware of the sounds he makes as he starts to follow me, his boot-falls surprisingly soft.
“How’s your head?” I ask.
“Maybe we should ask your mother to hit me on the other side to make it even.”
“If you annoy me enough, I might.” I pause, turning to face him. “But how is it really?”
“I’ve spent the last two days sleeping, but sometimes it still feels like I got brained with a paperweight,” he says, making me flinch. “Up until this afternoon, I could only eat dry toast. But I’m still going on Friday. Nothing could convince me not to go.”
“Why?” I ask, studying him in the dim ambient light from one of the nightlights I installed. “Why do something like that for a woman you barely know, whose mother hit you over the head with a paperweight?”
I’m not sure what I want him to say, but I need…something.
He reaches out, his fingers finding a lock of my hair, and tucks it behind my ear, the skin tingling from the contact. I want him to bury his hands in my hair. I want him to kiss me the way he did on New Year’s—with his whole body behind it. He made me feel like the only thing he wanted to do was put his mouth on me, and I’d be lying if I didn’t feel the same way at this very moment.
A tremble works its way through me as I wait to see what he’ll say. What he’ll do.
More specifically: what he’ll do to me.
Finally, he says, “Maybe I want to see you fight someone other than me.”
My lips part, and a feeling of disappointment wells within me. “There’s a lot to go around,” I say at last, swallowing. “It’s why I became a lawyer. It needs to come out somehow.”
“I’d like to watch you in a courtroom someday,” he says with a half-smile.
“Why, do you enjoy being bored?”
“Watching you, Emma Rosings Smith, would never be boring.”
And then he keeps walking, as if he didn’t just metaphorically pull the rug out from under me and leave me reeling.
I follow him to my own bedroom, self-conscious without fully understanding why. Only knowing that this man has a rare power to unmoor me.
When we get to the room, he falls back, as if giving me permission to be the first to enter my own childhood bedroom. I walk past him, and he speaks in my ear, his voice pitched just for me, as if there were any chance my mother would hear him in this enormous house. “Do you have a princess bed? Pink sheets?”
“Please,” I say with a snort. “I never did.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Were you a goth girl? Black eye shadow and sheets to match?”
“I was myself .” I turn toward him, meeting his eyes. “How about you? Did you have a racing car bed until you were a teenager?”
He gives me an easy smile. “Of course. It was a hatchback.”
I push his chest, grinning. “Are you ever serious about anything?”
“Yes,” he says, then turns toward the door. “Let’s see the kitten. But I’m warning you now, if you put a bow on her, it’s coming off.”
“Oh, so you’ve admitted she’s a girl.”
“I know better than to stand against you.”
He keeps saying things like that. I don’t know if he realizes how much I need to hear to them. How much I long to believe I’m still the strong woman I always wanted to be. Even if I don’t feel like her anymore.
I open the door and step inside, my throat tight with emotion. Shadow scurries over, and anxiety thrums inside of me for a second— what if she gets lost in the house? —but she goes directly to him, circling his legs and then rubbing herself against his pants.
I get it. But don’t be stupid about him. He’ll find somewhere else to be.
But he laughs and gets down to give her a rub and then pick her up. I watch, frankly speechless, as he steps into my bedroom and shuts the door behind him, the kitten cradled in his arms.
“Well, well,” he says, taking a look at the space. The bed is as it was when I was eighteen—four poster, with a thick golden comforter and purple sheets. But I’ve done away with the study area, tucked next to the bathroom, and transformed it into a sitting area with a deep purple love seat with brass rivets and wooden feet. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall across from it, and there’s a small glass coffee table in front of the couch. There’s a soft carpet underfoot—a beautiful creamy color that is probably going to be absolutely devastated by Shadow’s soft black fur and claws.
I shrug. “It’s the first space I updated in the house. I wanted it to be comfortable. When I lived here, the only thing I could think about was getting out.”
“Yes, it must have been torture to live in this palace, with your own bathroom and television.”
“All I ever wanted was to be independent.”
Of course that’s when he spots the leash lying on the coffee table.
“You’ve got our cat on a leash?” he asks, his lips tipping up on one side.
“I want her to be independent, too,” I say with a shrug. “But not so independent that she disappears back into the wall.”
Giving me a smoldering look, he says, “No one would find a home with you and choose to climb back into a wall. No leash.”
I’m still reeling from it when he lowers onto the loveseat, sprawling out in the way men do, as if their dick requires at least a foot of space to exist between their legs. He lets the kitten wander on top of him, and she circles and then kneads his leg with her feet before settling in a little circle on his lap.
My heart feels something. I can’t help it.
Seamus watches me as I take the leash and throw it into the trash can.
“Good girl,” he says with a smirk.
I give him the finger. Part of me wants to sit next to him, but my body feels too revved up for me to risk it. So I stand while he sits, studying me.
“You said you wanted to be independent. Don’t you have a trust fund?” he asks after a moment of silence stretches between us. “Your brother does.”
I can hear what he doesn’t add— Little Rich Girl .
“Are you asking for it?”
He shakes his head and laughs. “You think I’m going to pull a con on you? No. I’m not a con artist. Never have been.”
So what were you? What did you do that you don’t want to talk about? What made Nicole so suspicious of you?
But I don’t ask. Maybe I don’t really want to know. Maybe a part of me already does know and doesn’t want to think about it too hard.
“Yes, but I gave a lot of it away,” I tell him. “You know how my father treated my brother. I didn’t want to rely on him.”
His head bobs. “And what did he do to you? You didn’t tell me the other day, but there was a story there. I sensed it.”
“Hardly. I barely existed for him,” I say, bitterness seeping into my voice. “He only cared about me looking pretty and put together. I can’t recall having a single conversation with him. Anthony had to jump through all these hoops to claim his trust fund, but my father gave me mine. He didn’t expect anything from me. He didn’t want anything.”
“He underestimated you.”
“I was only nine when he died.”
“He underestimated you. So did Jeffrey. Your father might be past the ability to feel regret, but he’s not.”
“Lucky for us,” I say. “What were your parents like? I know you lost them a long time ago. I’m sorry for that.”
“Thank you,” he says, tapping his fingers against the arm of the couch. “They were nice. Probably too nice for their own good. Everyone always told me that I was more like my uncle Rory, and Declan took after our dad.”
“Uncle Rory, the gangster.”
He laughs, as if the word is funny, but it’s no exaggeration. I’ve done some research on Rory O’Malley, up here in this room, closed away, where no one had to know. “Yeah, lucky me, am I right?”
“I doubt Uncle Rory puked when he kneecapped someone,” I say, arching my eyebrows.
“You’re assuming he did any of his own dirty work. But, sure, the man had a solid stomach, I’ll give you that.”
“Do you ?” I ask, walking over to my bureau and pulling the flask out from my underwear drawer. Seeing it earns a snort from Seamus. I watch him over the top of it as I open it and take a sip.
“This is Midori,” I say, “and you only have yourself to blame.”
He shakes his head sternly, the gesture belied by the sparkle in his eyes. “I don’t believe it. You don’t drink Midori.”
“Not usually, but you’ve forced me to it.”
Possibly because you were on another lunch date.
He sets the little kitten down and stalks over to me—my pulse thumping faster, harder, with each step he takes—and takes the flask from my hand and lifts it to his mouth.
Then he hands it back, shaking his head but grinning at me. “Goddamn, you really did it.”
“I know, and it’s a disappointment to both of us. Why’d you give it back to me? I’m surprised you didn’t take the opportunity to run off with it.” I pause. “I’d give it back to you, you know. The lighter too.”
I’ve enjoyed the game, but it’s possible I’ve been projecting and he hasn’t.
He shakes his head. “Nah. You hold on to them. I’m not supposed to drink for a few days. You’re keeping me honest.”
“Why are you here?” I ask, out of nowhere, because suddenly it’s pressing on me. Having him here in my space. Having him next to me, nearly touching me. He’s not close enough for me to feel him, but I feel the space he takes up. I smell his spicy aftershave and a whiff of smoke that suggests the lack of a lighter hasn’t stopped him from indulging.
“I wanted to see you and Shadow and thank you for sending food over. Besides, I figured you might need some company.”
More of those stupid butterflies materialize to torment me, and I have a deep, aching need to touch him. But I stay put. There are so many reasons I can’t have him, and they’re good reasons, and I should remember them, including that he’s probably seeing other women, perhaps as recently as yesterday.
Clearing the emotion from my throat, I manage, “Thank you. You were right.”
Grinning, he steps back toward the couch and picks up the kitten. “Did you hear that, Shadow? She said I was right.”
“Leading question.”
Shadow meows, and he snuggles his face into her fur before settling back onto the couch. I lower down next to him, keeping more space than I’d like. “Thank you for coming,” I say.
“You’re welcome for the gift of my presence,” he says with a grin. “Now, what are we going to do? I’m supposed to limit screen time, but I’ve been known to clean up at poker. What do you say, Emma? Take advantage of a man who’s still recovering from a mild concussion?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
I’m a cardsharp, but so is he. I still win three out of five hands.
Raising my eyebrows, I ask, “What do I get?” He gives me a wry look, and I shake my head. “A real prize. It can’t be your dick in a box.”
“What’s your favorite ice cream?”
“English Toffee.”
“Of course it is,” he says, grinning. “I’ll get you some.”
I want to ask him when, but everything feels too uncertain for me to admit that I want this to happen again.
We spend another hour or two talking—about our siblings, his hatchback addiction, and our work. Even though I’m not a car person, I like hearing him talk about cars, about driving the car he restored through the winding mountain roads. And I tell him more about some of the divorces I’ve worked on.
His eyes bore into me, and I feel conscious again of being close to him. We’re both on the couch now, our legs touching in places, and every few minutes I experimentally move my leg the slightest bit toward him to experience the sweet bite of wondering if something will come of it. Of whether he’ll move toward me too. He seems to be doing the same dance, but we still haven’t had more than glancing contact tonight. It’s all suggestion. It’s a sense of wanting that pulses between us like a third heart and charges the air.
I swallow and he watches that, too, then says, “Must be hard, being reminded every day how shitty people can be to each other.”
I shake my head, petting Shadow’s smooth-as-down fur. “No, I grew up with that. Every day. People in that situation need someone to fight for them.”
Now he does grin, but there’s warmth in his eyes as he says, “That’s my sister-in-law. Likes fighting so much she fights other people’s fights for them.”
“Damn straight.”
I change the subject, needing the atmosphere between us to lighten.
Time passes by like water through a stream. It feels like it’s rushing past at least ten times faster than when I was lying sleepless in my bed. And hysterical laughter spills out of me as he tries to “train” Shadow, who is completely disinterested in performing for anyone.
Finally, he yawns and then gets to his feet. “I should leave.”
“I’ve been trying to drop hints for the last hour,” I lie, getting a smile from him. I rise from the couch too.
My hand twitches with the wish to hold on to him, to keep him here with me so I won’t be crowded in by self-doubt and negative thoughts. But I won’t hold him back. I won’t hold anyone back. I know what it feels like to be beholden and stuck.
“You know,” he says, shifting his weight. “I think your mom asked my roommate out.”
I grin. “Yeah, but he’s the one who offered to make sweet, sweet dessert with her. You know, I hope it works out for them. They seem to really like each other.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” he tells me.
“Because I’ve seen countless relationships fall apart? It does make a person cynical, but I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t assume everyone is screwed. I’d like my mother to be happy.”
His smile is slow and sensual, and I’d like to trace it with my finger, or possibly my tongue.
“I feel the same way. I’d be happy to see Chuck move on. But does this mean we’re going to be step-siblings in addition to brother- and sister-in-law?”
I roll my eyes at him. “He’s not your father.”
“Shit, now you tell me.”
I can’t help but smile, and I indulge myself by standing and giving his hard chest a little push. He layers his hand over mine for half a second, the press of his fingers spreading heat through me. Making me want it to travel over my body. But he releases me, and I promptly drop the hand.
His smile is still slightly amused. Indulgent. “What do you give their chances, divorce lawyer?”
I make a show of pursing my mouth to the side, thinking. Then I shake my head. “No, not going there. My mother’s been married three times, although to be fair to her, none of those marriages ended in divorce. The odds wouldn’t be great.”
“So what you’re saying is that marrying her might be the last thing Chuck does?”
I lift my eyebrows and put a hand on my hip. “If he screws her over, it will definitely be the last thing he does. She may be a pain in the ass most of the time, but she’s my mother.”
“There she is,” he says, grinning wider now. “Lucky for you, I don’t think Chuck even knows how to screw people over.”
“Okay, maybe I’ll upgrade their chances.”
“That’s generous of you.” He leans in a bit closer, and I’m so ridiculously tempted to lean in too. To tip up onto my toes. Instead, I yawn theatrically and lower down onto the couch, stretching out and making a pantomime of being comfortable, which isn’t hard, since this piece of furniture actually is comfortable. Shadow immediately pounces onto my belly from the back of the couch, making me laugh as I say, “Well, have fun climbing the wall.”
“Oh, so you’re both going to leave an injured man to his own resources?”
I smile, sitting up quickly enough that I earn a scratch from Shadow before she pads off. Seamus is still standing over me—his body lean and muscular. He took his leather jacket off almost two hours ago, and the sleeves of his black shirt are rolled up, showing off a few tattoos—a Celtic symbol, a raven, some initials. “An old girlfriend?” I ask, pointing to them.
He shakes his head. “My parents.”
“Now I feel like a jerk,” I admit.
“I like jerks.”
“Do you have any more tattoos?”
“Yes,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s an interesting way of asking me to undress, but I’m willing to show you if you ask nicely.”
“No,” I lie, then watch, mouth agape, as he edges up the side of his shirt. “What are you doing?”
I want him to take it off.
I want to run my tongue over his abs and lower down to my knees so I can take power from him, and give it too.
I want—
He reveals a hard, defined chest, with a smattering of chest hair and a tiny tattoo on his lower chest—a red hatchback.
“No,” I say with a gasp.
“Yes,” he says, laughing. “There. I knew I could surprise you.”
I look up at him, asking permission silently, and he gives the slightest nod, so I run the tips of my fingers over his hard, hot flesh—feeling a pulse of neediness between my legs. Noticing the way he tips in slightly, as if he wants more of me. As if he feels this draw between us too. “Why? And don’t tell me it’s because they’re practical. I know you’re not a man who likes practical cars.”
“How do you know?” he asks, smiling as I press my palm to the tattoo before forcing myself to pull my hand away, the skin alive with awareness of him.
“Your sister has shown me some photos,” I admit. “They’re impressive.”
His smile gets broader. “Checking up on me, huh?”
“It’s good to know what kind of miscreants are hanging around.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
He lowers his shirt, but I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget.
“My dad had an old hatchback,” he says. “It didn’t work anymore, but he said I could keep it if I could figure out how to fix it. Obviously, that was several cars ago, but that’s how I got into them.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling more than I’d like to. I try to press it down, to make it smaller, but it’s threatening to gush out like one of those sky dancers at a used car lot. “That’s really sweet.”
“That’s me. Right, Shadow?”
Wherever she is, she chooses not to acknowledge us.
I clear my throat—wanting to thread my fingers through the loops on his jeans and pull him close. Wanting to see if it would be as good as I think it would be….
Instead, I look away. “Would you like an escort to the door?”
“Hell, yes.” He leans a little closer, and I feel myself leaning forward too. He clears his throat. “Otherwise there’s a good chance I’ll get lost, and your mother will find me in the dark and finish me off.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that to happen. Shadow would never forgive me.”
He pulls back, making my breath stutter, and tugs on his leather jacket. Then he surprises me by handing over his phone, his fingers skating over mine. “Guess you’d better do the honors, Em. I don’t want to get in trouble for using my phone.”
The nickname and the request both catch me by surprise. So does the easy way he gives me his code. He’s canny enough to know that information should be kept private, and he knows I know. So it feels like he’s telling me he trusts me. Part of me fears a boob selfie will pop up or a message thanking him for sexual favors, but the only thing that pops up while I’m ordering the car is a Honey Do request.
I hand it back over, and we leave Shadow in the room and walk downstairs together. A feeling of possibility hangs between us, even though nothing has changed.
He’s my sort-of brother-in-law.
He’s an un-convicted former criminal.
He’s also funny, complicated, unexpectedly kind, and always interesting.
I could lead him back upstairs.
I could strip him down and count his tattoos.
I could savor every last inch of him.
But sex between us wouldn’t be simple—because I don’t just want him. I like him. Begrudgingly. Horribly. And if I’m already jealous of random women he goes to lunch with, then how will I feel if I’ve slept with him?
He turns toward me when we reach the door, then reaches down and tips my chin up, his hand lingering there, spreading a violent heat through me.
But I don’t move, and neither does he. He just looks down at me for a long moment, then finally says, “I want to take care of this for you. Nicole and me. We’re going to make sure you get what you need.”
“Thank you, Seamus,” I say. “If there’s anything you need, I’d like to help you too.”
“I have lots of needs.”
“So do I,” I murmur.
He keeps moving his thumb over my lip as if he’d like to memorize it, but he doesn’t kiss me. I don’t kiss him. Need presses against my skin from the inside, threatening to combust. He leans in closer, his lips so near mine that they brush together just the slightest bit, enough to ignite a yearning inside of me so powerful I think it might split my skin. His spicy scent, chased by a hint of smoke, fills my senses. But then he pulls back, watching me through molten eyes. I can tell he feels it too, but he’s still pulling away, which prompts me to take a step back too.
I’m angry, but I don’t know at who. Him. Myself. This is the most inappropriate crush I’ve ever had… I, Emma Rosings Smith, a woman who dated her professor .
“It’s probably for the best,” I say in a lighthearted voice, my throat tight as I revert to our usual teasing. “I could never be with a man who smokes.”
He’s looking at me with a regretful smile. “Goodnight, Emma.”
And I shut the door in his stupidly beautiful face before buzzing the gate open for him.
I wait up for him the next night, hoping. Shadow seems on edge, too, peering out the window, but he doesn’t come. At one point, I see lights at the gate. My initial excitement fades as soon as the visitor buzzes up. Because I’m guessing Seamus would just climb the wall like yesterday.
It’s not him. It’s an Uber Eats delivery driver with a pint of English Toffee ice cream for me, along with a note—
Game on, Emma. We’re going to get him. xoxo, Your brother-in-law