Chapter 23
JUNE
“We’re only staying here for a few days,” Sterling says after we’re done decorating the house.
It took us three days to make it look like a home. Or as Sterling likes to call it, Santa’s Workshop. Beck had to send a couple of guys to Denver to pick up the stuff I had ordered online. There wasn’t much around town to decorate.
Sterling protested, but he helped us—against his will, he repeated that several times.
I don’t believe him. The man had an opinion on where things should go and would look appealing because the reds weren’t homogenous.
His excuse was my continuous puking. Morning sickness has caught up to me and it’s not pretty.
Earlier today, I said we needed a painting that matches the current décor, like a cabin in the middle of the snowed mountains. He pulled out an easel and paints from his studio and began to work on it.
I’m fascinated by him. It’s like watching Bob Ross’s show, except this guy is taller, hot, and he’s not telling me to paint happy trees everywhere.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“When did I start painting? Around the age of one, Mom gave me crayons so I’d shut up and stay occupied while she was busy raising her other children.”
“You sound bitter about your siblings.”
He shrugs. “I’m not. Honest to goodness, I’m glad she fostered them, and they had a place where they could live safely. In fact, I’m still in touch with a few of them.”
“I can hear a but in between the lines.”
“According to Mom I was lucky to have been born an Ahern. I had everything. Everything except my parents’ attention. For some reason, they could manage caring for five or six foster kids at a time but when Sterling needed anything, they sent me with the nanny.”
Sterling is right, I’m glad they could care for those children but how about their son? “That’s awful.”
He shrugs. “If I acted like my foster siblings to get attention, they didn’t care. At some point it was just the craft room, my crayons, and me. They were my outlet. Sports were okay, but I always had to finish the day drawing or doing something with my hands.”
“How about the fans?”
“I blame social media,” he states. “At the beginning, it was a tool to sell and show what I could do but suddenly it got out of hand. My followers believe they know me and own me. It’s been bad. So bad that when my mother died, I couldn’t attend her funeral.”
Walking to where he stands, I grab his palette and the brush and set them on the table next to the easel.
I reach up to give him a hug. I try for it to be friendly.
But when my body meets his, the spark between us lights up.
His arms go around me, and my heartbeat spikes.
In an instant, arousal fills the space between every thump.
“Sorry,” I say, and release him fast.
The wave of nausea claws at my throat. I try to force the food down while running to the bathroom. My stomach contracts violently and thankfully I make it to the toilet.
“Baby, it’s okay. I’m here with you,” he says smoothly, the baritone of his voice soothing me just like his big hand drawing circles on my back. “Beck’s searching for crackers.”
The low rumble of his voice is comforting.
“This isn’t going to be pretty,” I say, once I’m done.
Brushing my teeth, I spot him leaning against the doorframe looking at me. Smiling.
“Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “I’d rather help you with this than have that conversation while you pity me.”
“I didn’t.” I shake my head. “I wish you wouldn’t have to go through this or while you have to face it you weren’t alone. Alex wasn’t. He had us—me. Where’s your family?”
“As I explained, Wes lives in Tahoe, I try to avoid them because Abby and Lance don’t deserve to be in the middle of this shit show. I’d die if anything happens to them.”
“If you ever need a friend.”
“You don’t need my shit either.” He lifts his arms and holds his head tight, shaking it. “How are we supposed to protect the little ones? Maybe you should …”
“Hey, I get to decide if I want to deal with your shit or not. I can manage crazy well enough.” I reach out for his hand. “You have a team. I know people too and we will protect our babies. They’ll grow happy and safe.”
He pulls me to him, and it’s become like a habit for us to end up entangled. His mouth kisses the top of my head. “What if they do something to you guys, how am I supposed to live with that?”
“You don’t look like the kind of guy who’d be afraid of anything,” I mumble. His face is so close to me.
“Not usually, but you scare the fuck out of me, Juniper. I don’t understand you and yet, you’re so easy to read. I trust you. I stopped trusting people years ago.”
“How about your brother?”
“He’s different. We get each other and the same with Abby though I have to keep them away …”
“Safe,” I finish his sentence, and he nods. One of his hands slides to the back of my head, his fingers lacing through my hair. Gripping gently, he tilts my head. Our gazes connect and those fiery eyes are burning—for me.
Sterling’s mouth brushes slowly over mine before settling in. The tenderness of this kiss is unsettling, arousing. My knees give out, thankfully he’s holding me so securely with one arm. One of his hands comes up to my jaw. Our tongues swirl around. The kiss is endless. Soft, loving. New to us.
His hand slides down my hips, pushing me closer to him. He’s unbelievably hard—everywhere. We kiss and I feel a desperate ache. I’m losing myself and my thoughts. This isn’t taking things slow or starting from the beginning, it’s—
“Juniper Spearman, what the fuck are you doing here?” I hear Jackson’s voice and there’s a loud banging on the door. “June, open up. I know you’re there, open the fucking door.”
“Who is that?” Sterling asks, gasping for breaths.
“June, I can’t stop him for too long.” I hear Alex’s voice. “Open up, Junie bee.”
I grunt. “My brothers,” I say, untangling myself from him. “Are you ready?”