Chapter 7 Dean
SEVEN
DEAN
We hear them coming. Thundering footsteps, hushed squeals, gasping breath—because I’m not sure either of them earned the bodies they’ve been given.
Genetics did all the heavy lifting for those beauties.
Sitting on Anna’s couch, my head tilted back and my eyes closed to combat the mild ache in the base of my skull, I wait… wait… wait… and then I’m rewarded with the women crashing against the front door, the beep of the thumbprint scanner, and then both women spilling inside.
I lazily crack my eyes open and watch the pair hunch side-by-side, hands on their knees, breaths racing—God forbid they run cardio for twenty-five seconds once in their day.
“Where… you…” Panting, Anna’s eyes bulge and search mine, then she looks across the living room to a stony-faced Nicolas Ramos.
The dude is successful in business for a reason.
His poker face, even under pressure, is one of them.
“Why’d…” Anna exhales a wheezing, squeaking breath, straightening her back and licking her plump, perfect lips. “What’s going on?”
“Just hanging out with my new friend, Counselor.” I close my eyes again and settle in, because all that other shit aside, I really was hunted down by a fuckin’ car last night. “Nick invited me to his wedding next weekend.”
“You did?” Mel gasps. Then Anna’s echoed, “You did?” comes right after. “Why the hell would you do that, Nicolas? You don’t even know each other.”
“Cos that’s what friends do. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, Anna Banana. I heard you have an upcoming date, too?”
Mel, so fucking predictable, gasps again. “What?”
“Ugh! With Carter.” Anna stomps around the couch and plops her perfect ass onto the coffee table. “Carter asked me out to this charity thing, and Dean thought it would be cute to accept on my behalf. And invite himself along.”
“As her brother,” I insert arrogantly. “Detective Douchebag wants to undress your bestie BFF, Ms. Hamilton. He wants to do the naked tango, and he’s not even ashamed to be a two-pump chump. He especially hates that I’m here, even though he believes me to be her brother. It’s messing with his head.”
“I’m not going,” Anna grumbles. “We’re not going. I’m gonna call him in a little bit and—”
“You’re about my size,” Nick inserts, his hands dug deep into his pockets. “Shoulders are a little broader, but I reckon we could find you a suit in my closet that’ll get you through this week’s events.”
“Nick!” Anna booms. “No! He doesn’t have events this week. We’re not creating this weird, three-way date for the charity thing, and Dean won’t be at your wedding. He’s here to recuperate for a few days, then he’ll move along and—”
“They have this thing in town later this week, too,” he cuts in, his expression entirely, infuriatingly—for Anna—neutral. “It’s a family event at the park where everyone gathers and the massive fir is lit up with Christmas lights.”
“Nicolas!”
“Anna’s family used to be in charge of the event.” He extends one hand and accepts Mel as she saunters across the room and slips under his arm. “It was a Maxwell tradition, but life got in the way over the last few years, which means tradition slipped.”
“Stop.” Anna pushes off the table with what I swear are tears in her eyes. “Please, Nick—”
“She’ll need help to move boxes out of her garage and into town,” Mel adds, suspicious and yet, cautiously intrigued. Whatever her fiancé’s plan, she’s willing to work with it. “Anna’s big on procrastination, though, so don’t wait for her to provide instruction.”
“You’re both jerks.” Stalking across the living room, Anna disappears into the kitchen. “Joke’s on me, huh?”
“Don’t fuck it up,” Nick growls, just barely loud enough for my ears. “You only get one chance before she tosses you to the curb and cuts you off for life. We’ll need help moving things over to the wedding reception venue, too. Hope your shoulder’s up for a little physical labor.”
“Where do you want this?” I push Anna’s front door open and stomp my snow-covered shoes on the mat, dislodging muck before I track it into her house.
Anna sits on her couch, her legs folded, and a billion manila files open all over the place.
She wears a pencil in her hair, another above her ear, and keeps a third pinched between her lips.
But as she glances across to me, her bored eyes dropping to the box of Christmas tree decorations by my feet, she shrugs and goes back to her work.
“Put it in the exact spot you found it. We don’t need it. ”
“I beg to differ.” I scoop the box up and hug it against my chest, since using one arm is legions harder than using two. Kicking the door shut, I wander toward the couch. “It’s Christmas week and your house has absolutely no color. Nick said to—”
“I don’t actually give a shit what Nick said.
” She forces a dry, unkind smile and meets my eyes with, for the first time since meeting her, ice instead of fire.
“Put them back. You’re here to rest, not to work.
And guess what?” She tugs the pencil from behind her ear.
“I’m trying to work, too. When I agreed to let you stay, I assumed your injuries meant you’d want to sleep.
” She goes back to focus on her papers. “I thought it meant my house would stay quiet. I could reverse and run you over again if that would help.”
“Yikes.” Crouching, I set the box on the floor and tap it out of the way so neither of us trip on it, and since I long ago grew used to living with a single, working, beautiful woman, I head into the kitchen and search her cupboards.
I’ve been in this house for less than twenty-four hours, which means I don’t know where she keeps anything.
But there are some universal truths most folks live by: every kitchen has a junk drawer, every fridge has an out-of-date dinner tucked in the back just in case, and if a pantry has hot chocolate and marshmallows, those supplies are usually kept by the baking goods.
I search through a container brimming with old, opened, expired flour.
A dozen different packs of colored sprinkles.
I push food dye to the side and discover mini marshmallows.
They’re only a month past their use-by date, and the packaging is still sealed, so I snag them and toss the crinkling bag onto the counter, then I search a little more and grin as I find a jar of hot chocolate.
Amore. My favorite brand.
I warm milk and select mugs, and less than five minutes after leaving the living room, I return, with two handles held in one hand, the bag of marshmallows in the other, and a wide smile for the woman who is completely fed up already.
“Alright, Counselor.” I toss the marshmallows onto her pile of paperwork and carefully set the mugs down in the only clear spot available. “Let’s discuss the elephant in the room.”
“Can’t.” She whips her file out from under the marshmallows and opens it on her lap.
“To defend you in a courtroom, it’s best if I know as little about your crimes as possible.
I don’t wanna know how you robbed those jewelry stores.
I don’t wanna know why, or who you did it with.
I don’t care if you have an emotional spiel about stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, or maybe your mom has crazy expensive medical bills you need help covering. I. Don’t. Care.”
“But I gave you money.” Grinning, I lower to the edge of a single recliner, since she’s spread all over the three-seater sofa, rest my elbow on my leg, and baby the other carefully against my chest. “That five bucks says I have attorney-client privilege. My attorney’s allowed to know what I did. The law is clear on your obligations.”
“My obligation is to never lie to the court. Knowing you’re guilty makes it significantly more difficult for me to argue in your favor.”
“You already believe me guilty, which means my silence on the matter has done me no favors so far. However, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” I widen my grin, thrilled as her eyes come back to mine. “What’s up with the Grinch act? Who the hell doesn’t like Christmas, anyway?”
“I neither like Christmas, nor do I dislike Christmas.” She goes back to scribbling notes in the margins of her files.
“I’m indifferent to the holiday. It feels odd saying this, since we just met, but I’m using this couch, and you must be tired after your ordeal.
” She exhales a huffy sigh and meets my eyes.
“You’re welcome to lie on my bed if you need to rest.”
“I…” Am stunned. Silenced. I study her face, her delicate upturned nose, and the smattering of freckles high on her cheekbones.
I scour the chocolate brown of her eyes, but with the brown comes golden flecks.
Green sparkles. Burnt orange highlights.
Her lips are swollen and bow-shaped, the exact kinda bow I enjoy kissing, and this is the week a guy like me might get a come-to-Jesus visit from a beautiful angel intent on setting him back on the straight and narrow.
Who am I to argue with The Ghosts of Christmas Past?
“You want me in your bed?” I pick up my hot chocolate and bring the aromatic treat beneath my nose. Smells like home. “You’re so forward, Ms. Maxwell. Are you always this kind to your guests?”
“I guess you’re just lucky.” She snatches up her hot chocolate without saying thank you, tests the milky concoction with a sip, and simply… sits with it for a minute. Two. She stares down into the steaming mug and clamps her lips shut.
“Good?”
Sniffling, she snags the bag of marshmallows and tears it open until fluffy candy explodes in every direction.
Pink pieces go one way. White pieces go another.
She fists a handful and stuffs them in her mouth, then she takes some more and plops them into her mug.
“I’m gonna be at this—” She gestures to her work.
“—for a while. Feel free to get a little sleep. I won’t be noisy.
I’ll wake you around dinnertime if you’d like. ”
“Or… I could sit here and stare at the side of your face until you can’t take the tension anymore.”
Like I knew she would, she firms her lips, her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk stealing acorns, and burns me with a glare.
“I’m a social creature, Anna, and you literally ran me down with your car.”
Her eyes narrow to furious slits.
“The least you could do is entertain me, don’t you think?”
“No.” She speaks around the mess in her mouth. “I don’t think. I’m busy. Go sleep in the snow if you’re not comfortable using my bed. I don’t care.”
“It’s not that I’d be uncomfortable in your bed.
” I bring my mug closer to my lips, hiding the curling swells behind black ceramic.
“It’s just that I made a promise to myself a long time ago.
You see… I never climb into a woman’s bed unless she’s climbing in with me.
It’s bad manners and, worse, a wasted opportunity. ”
She holds her silence for a beat, her nostrils twitching and her throat moving as the massive lump of gelatin and air moves down her pie hole. She glares, much the same way I imagine she does inside a courtroom, but her fierceness comes undone by the smudge of powdered sugar on the tip of her nose.
And fuck it, unless I get to lick it off my damn self, I have no desire to divulge such information.
She’s adorable.
“You asked me a little while ago which types of cases my firm covers, Mr. Warner…”
“Mmm.” I sip my delicious hot chocolate. “And you avoided answering the question.”
“Right, because I figured it really wasn’t any of your business.
The corporate stuff I deal with? Not up for discussion.
The criminal cases I spend a great deal of my time working on?
These typically rely on a professional not having loose lips.
But I’ve covered other kinds of cases too.
” She juts her powdered nose forward, the proud little feral chihuahua she is.
“I recently went to trial and represented a victim of sexual harassment.” She peels her lips back in what is probably supposed to be a smile. Savage and mean. “We won.”
“Jinkies, Velma.” I settle back in my chair and pretend my whole fucking body isn’t on fire. “Message received. However, I’d like to plead my case, if it’s alright with you.”
Her brows furrow heavily over suspicious eyes. “What?”
“Permission to approach the bench?”
“No!”
I choke out a dumb, cathartic laugh. “Guess I’ll stay here, then.
However, according to some person I read on the internet one time, harassment is defined as a pattern of unwanted, offensive behavior that demeans, humiliates, or intimidates.
” I slide my tongue forward, tapping my lip and grinning as, unable to stop herself, Anna’s eyes follow the movement.
“This conversation constitutes only one unwanted conversation, none of which was intended to humiliate, intimidate, or demean you. So, Your Honor, I argue we have not yet reached harassment levels.”
“You’ve been placed on notice, Mr. Warner. Further such behavior will not tolerated.”
“Damn, Grinch.” I bound to my feet and tower over the woman who gulps and looks me up and down. I sway a little, because it’s entirely possible I’m suffering a concussion—might even be a brain bleed—but I get my wobbles under control and hit her with a bright, teasing smile.
Snatching up the bag of marshmallows, I hug the packet to my chest and thrill in the way she wants so badly for me to give them back.
“Guess I better make myself scarce. You’re an extremely beautiful woman, after all, and I’m just a mortal man.
Our shared traumatic event will certainly lead me to emotional outbursts, especially now I’ve been kidnapped and relegated to your bedroom.
” I exhale a noisy, whistling sigh. “Just call me Stockholm, Ms. Maxwell, because I’m kinda turned on by the idea of being your captive.
Come hang out with me when you’re done.” I step around the couch and use my foot to slide the box of ornaments across the floor.
“I’ll be the guy in your bed, definitely not touching myself, and absolutely not sniffing your nightie. ”