Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
EVERS
Rycroft Castle was quiet. Finally. Cynthia had too much wine at dinner, overcompensating for the stress of the afternoon, and insisted we all gather in the theater to watch a movie.
Summer was the only one who escaped, pointing out that if she didn't finish the invitations no one would show up to Cynthia's party. The rest of us piled into the theater room, popped some popcorn, and watched an absurd, repetitive chick flick Cynthia just had to see.
I understood that she didn't want to be alone. I knew she was under a lot of pressure. And if she forced me to watch another movie like that, she was going to have to find a new head of security.
Griffen stayed in the control room watching the monitors. I was supposed to be in bed, catching some sleep before my shift in the control room.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't lay down in that bed across the hall from Summer and find sleep. I tried. I stared at the ceiling. Counted sheep. Closed my eyes and remembered Summer. Her soft skin, the smell of her hair. The way she'd fall asleep against me, her arm draped across my chest.
The way she'd trusted me and the way I'd ruined it all.
I'd never spent the whole night with her. I'd wanted to. Thought about it so many times. But when I got close, when I convinced myself just once wouldn't make a difference, I'd hear my father in my ear.
Never let them get their claws in you, kid. Just fuck and go. They all say they love you. Say they want a ring. A family. What they really want is your freedom.
My dad was an asshole when it came to women.
He cheated on my mom constantly. I never understood why she put up with him.
She'd once told me, after a few too many gin and tonics, there'd never been a divorce on either side of the family, and she had no intention of being the first. Lacey Sinclair was not a quitter.
Upholding tradition didn't seem worth a lifetime of misery. When we got word my father was dead, I'd swear the look in her eyes was relief.
My father liked the idea of molding the next generation of Sinclairs. He'd pat me on the back and say, You're just like me, kid. A ladies’ man, too smart to get tied down.
I knew he was wrong. The cheating. The way he treated my mom. I didn't want to be him, no matter how much he saw himself in me.
In the hidden chambers of my heart, I was terrified he was right.
That dead look in my mother's eyes when he came home smelling of perfume. The way she went straight to the bottle to drown it out.
I couldn't do that to a woman. I wouldn't.
I focused on my job, on building Sinclair Security into more than just the premier security agency in the country. We had ambitions, my brothers and I, and a woman, a family, didn't fit.
That's what I told myself. Despite seeing Axel fall in love, I'd been so sure it wasn't for me. I'd had no idea what I was missing, moving from one empty fuck to another. No clue how miserable I'd be once I had a taste of something real and lost it.
Was she sleeping across the hall now? Tucked under the covers, the crease of the pillow on her cheek, gold lashes fanned across her skin?
Was she wearing one of her cute tank top and boxer-short pajamas that made her look like a college student? Or one of her silky bits of lace she said she wore because she liked the feel of the fabric on her skin?
Without even thinking of it, I reached beneath the covers and palmed my half-hard cock. I'd been on the edge of an erection since I'd seen Summer earlier that afternoon. My cock and my hand hadn't spent this much time together since I hit puberty.
I won't lie. After Summer threw me out, I thought about going to another woman. Hell, I’d tried. Once. Every other female left me cold.
I squeezed my fingers hard on the length of my cock and stroked, remembering the smell of her, lemon and flowers and woman. The tight, clasping heat of her pussy. The bounce of her breasts when I fucked her. The way she kissed me when I was inside her, hungry and demanding and so fucking sweet.
With a grunt of sheer frustration, I rolled from the bed and threw myself into a cold shower, gritting my teeth as my soap-slick hand pumped my cock. Summer, her teeth biting her lip, pupils dilated with orgasm. My mouth sucking her breasts.
When I came, the pleasure was hollow, a momentary relief that did nothing to assuage the craving deep inside me. My hand was a poor substitute for Summer, barely better than nothing at all.
I stepped out of the shower and dried my hair, deciding to walk the house.
Clearly, I wasn't going to sleep. I'd make sure everything was quiet—though I already knew it was, considering that my phone was jacked into the monitoring system.
I could make myself a cup of herbal tea or some shit in the kitchen.
Maybe see if I could hunt up a shot of whiskey.
Lit by moonlight and silent as a tomb, Rycroft Castle left me feeling as if I'd stepped back in time.
The place was unbelievable. Over the top.
And this is coming from a guy who's been in and out of some of the best homes in Atlanta.
In the country. I practically grew up rattling around Winters House.
Rycroft Castle was something else. As I'd expected, the place was sealed up tight. Quiet outside. Quiet inside. I didn't stop in the control room, knowing Griffen would give me crap for being awake.
Done with my rounds, I made my way to the kitchen, hoping I'd find a box of herbal tea.
I thought wistfully of a few fingers of whiskey.
The bar was stocked with the best, but I had a shift in the control room in less than six hours, and I didn't want alcohol in my system. Bad enough that I was short on sleep.
I pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen and stopped at the unexpected gasp of surprise. Summer, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, her blonde curls in a messy knot on the top of her head, a tea kettle in one hand and a box of tea in the other.
"Exactly what I was thinking," I said. At her look of confusion, I tilted my head at the teapot. "I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd make a cup of tea."
"You drink tea?" Summer asked, looking from the box of herbal blend to me and back again.
"Not usually," I admitted. "I figured it couldn't hurt."
"Do you want me to make you a mug?" Summer asked, her voice quiet. Hesitant.
"If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it." So polite. I fucking hated the distance, but it was better than me being a jackass and her hating me even more.
"How are the invitations going?" I asked, floundering for something to say.
Summer set the kettle on the gas burner, dropped a teabag in each of the mugs she'd pulled from the cabinet, and turned around to face me. Leaning against the counter, she looked down at her fingers, the tips stained dark with splotches of ink.
She stretched her hands, using the heel of her palm to press her fingers back on one hand then switching and doing the same to the other.
"They're done. It took forever, but they're done."
"All of them? Seventy-five invitations?"
"Yep. At least we kept it short. Just Cynthia Stevens cordially invites you, etc., with the date and time, RSVP to my phone number."
"Your hands are sore?"
I watched her rubbing her fingers. She'd been in her office for hours working on those invitations.
She shrugged a shoulder. "Calligraphy always makes my fingers sore. That much of it…"
I crossed the room, holding up a hand when she started to back away.
"Don't. I know you're angry. I know you hate me. But let me help."
Summer didn't move. Her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, she reminded me of a doe startled in the woods. The slightest wrong move and she'd bound away.
I reached out and took her fingers in mine, keeping my distance but pulling her hand closer. I pressed my thumbs into the meat of her palm, massaging the tight muscles. Her knuckles were red and swollen.
"Your fingers must be killing you," I said.
"Yeah," she breathed.
Sidling closer, I changed my grip on her hand, working my thumbs into her palm, massaging her strained muscles, chasing away the pain one sore finger at a time.
I glanced up once to see her slumped against the counter, head dropped, eyes closed, teeth sunk into her lower lip. It took everything I had not to pull her into my arms.
My kneading fingers moved from her hand to her wrist, then her forearm where her muscles had tightened into hard knots. Seventy-five invitations, all in calligraphy. Normally I liked Cynthia, but this party was bullshit. She worked Summer too hard. Expected too much.
"Feel better?" I asked.
"Mmm-hmm," Summer answered, her voice fuzzy with exhaustion. I recognized that tone. She was only minutes away from passing out.
"Turn around," I said softly.
She didn't answer but pulled her hand from mine and turned, giving me her back. Brushing stray tendrils of hair off her shoulders, I closed a hand around the base of her neck and squeezed. She let out a low groan.
"Your muscles are like rocks. Your shoulders are so tight."
"Bending over my desk for hours," she murmured. I worked my thumbs into her traps, loosening the tension, relaxing her, doing everything I could to drag out the moment. To keep touching her.
She sighed, sagging with fatigue as her strained muscles eased. I wanted to tell her to go to bed, to get some sleep, but I didn't want to leave. I worked my thumbs around her shoulder blades, and she let out a moan of pleasure that had my cock rock hard in an instant.
Leaning into her, I dropped my head, my lips grazing her hair, breathing in the lemon and flowers scent of her.
"Summer," I whispered, "Summer. I—"