Chapter 3
Monty
My grandfather, the original Jake Montgomery, was a loud Irishman who loved turning on the radio and spinning my grandmother around the living room at all hours. Sometimes, when I came home from school, I’d catch them slow-dancing, her hand in his, pressed against his heart, his eyes only on her.
After dinner, my parents would often join them.
It was truly a happy time and I used to love sitting on the couch with a smile on my face, watching the four of them until inevitably my mother grabbed me, my father grabbed my vovo, and my grandfather sat in his chair by the fireplace, looking over all of us with a contented smile on his face.
The man could not have a conversation at a normal decibel, his excuse being that his big ears did nothing for hearing. I used to tease him that if he turned the radio down once in a while, this wouldn’t be a problem. He’d grin and ask me what the fun was in that.
I shake my head to clear it of the memory as we pull up to the familiar navy Victorian, preparing myself for the quiet that will greet me when I walk in. That was the hardest thing to get used to after his death. The absence of sound. And the joy that left when he did.
There were no more spontaneous dance parties. There was no more music period. I think we buried all of that with him.
I glance at my father now, wondering if he still thinks about those nights. Does he miss the noise, too? Does he miss what our family used to be?
“Ready?” Dad asks.
The car is already off. “Ugh, yeah.” I scramble out of the car and stretch my legs.
My father hops out at the same time, rounding the car and popping the trunk. As I look back toward the house, I spot Vovo already standing on the porch, her signature smile on her face.
Bags in hand, I rush up the steps, dropping them to the ground before pulling her into a hug. At six feet one—I get my height from my grandfather—I tower over her. She feels even smaller than she looks as I wrap my arms around her.
“Oh, meu amor, it’s so good to see you,” she says, squeezing me back. I bury my head in her neck, and the scent of garlic and parsley that always reminds me of home hits me.
I pull back to take in the happy lines that crease her face and the green eyes that match my own. “It’s good to see you, Vovo. I heard you’re making my favorite.”
“You hear right, and it’s almost on the table. Go and put your bags upstairs!”
My father holds open the door and I follow them both inside.
“I can take them up after. Let me help you set the table.”
“Your father can help me.” Vovo shoos me with her hand toward the stairs. “You know how I hate clutter.”
I frown. She doesn’t normally hate clutter. But I guess we’ve all changed during the decade since I’ve lived here. And I know better than to argue with Vovo. “Okay, I’ll be right down.”
“Take your time,” she calls after me.
There’s something about her tone that has me glancing backward. Why is she smiling so much?
With a suitcase in each hand and a bag slung over my shoulder, I focus so as not to trip. When I reach the second floor, the dark wood and closed doors provide little light in the dim hallway.
The color of chestnut wood? No, that’s not the color, either. Fuck, I wish I could go five fucking minutes without trying to figure out the shade of her eyes. I really should just go see her after dinner. This is getting ridiculous.
I drop the bags by my door and push it open.
I blink a few times, figuring my imagination must be playing tricks on me.
Because standing in my childhood bedroom, without a stitch of clothing covering her back, is the exact woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for the past three months.
Thick auburn hair cascades in waves across her bare skin, tracing down toward full hips that jut out in two beautiful curves around a plump ass. I have never seen Penny like this; she’s always in long sweaters or baggy clothes. I had no idea these beautiful curves sat under all that.
I suck in a sharp breath as I catch her expression in the mirror. Eyes fucking closed, a shirt fisted in her hand. I watch as she inhales its scent and sighs.
Is she…Is that my shirt? Is she smelling my shirt?
My gaze trails down lower to the swell of her breasts.
Look away, Monty.
But I don’t. I can’t.
My chest heaves. “Oh, Xuxuzinho.” I breathe out her old nickname.
At the sound, Penny’s eyes flash open. I know I should walk straight out of this room, but when she turns to face me, I stay rooted to the spot.
The brightest copper penny, shimmering beneath the fall sun.
I breathe a sigh of relief—the first real breath I’ve taken since I stepped off that plane—as I stare into those gorgeous eyes, open wide in shock.
It feels too easy to use the word copper but that’s exactly what they are; Penelope Darling’s eyes are pure perfection and the color of a shimmering copper penny.
Unfortunately, I’ll now be spending the next few months trying to figure out how best to describe the colors of the freckles that dot her smooth skin.
Well, fuck.