Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
brIAR
So…cats.
Or kittens, really.
I can’t quite understand the sharp turn my life has taken over the last twenty-four hours, but if there’s anything I’ve learned in my life, it’s to adapt, press forward, and worry about the consequences later.
And take advantage of kittens when the opportunity presents.
“They’re adorable,” I murmur, passing Chrissy’s phone back. “I’ll figure out a way to get some supplies—”
Chrissy waves a hand. “Oh, not a chance.”
“I—”
“We—the charity—provide everything. It’s a big ask already to foster a rambunctious litter of fluffballs.”
“But—”
“Litter box and litter, food and bowls, toys, brushes, carriers—they all go home with people who adopt. And for our foster moms and dads we add scratching posts and towers, water dispensers, plus everything else in multiples.”
She smiles and it’s nice and sweet and I try to tamp down the guilt I’m feeling.
Something that doesn’t work.
Because she and her friends came by with food and have been really kind, even after I panicked and ended up doing things in the bedroom with Brooks that really shouldn’t happen with company present.
And still, when I came out, my hair no doubt mussed and the evidence of what we did (something I’m not thinking about) written into the blush on my cheeks, they didn’t comment.
Instead, I found out Chrissy had called her friend, Rory, and asked her to bring me clothes and shoes.
And makeup and shampoo.
And a hairbrush and a robe and pajamas and a cozy blanket—though Rory said she went rogue with the last one because she couldn’t resist how soft it was.
See how nice they’re all being?
And I was supposed to plant evidence on Chrissy’s laptop.
To frame her for something she didn’t do.
To hurt her.
When she did absolutely nothing to me.
Shit. I have to tell her—and do it now, while Pascal is here, while all the rest of them are too.
They deserve to know what kind of person they’re sharing their space with.
Deserve to understand the shitstorm I’ll likely bring into their lives.
I bend, reaching for the hem at my ankle where I sewed the flash drive before I left for the winery. A quick tug and it’ll come free. I’d done that on purpose.
In and out.
Get into Chrissy’s office, plug it into her laptop, transfer the files, get the hell out.
Let the powers that be do their thing.
But that thing had been a lot easier to swallow when I didn’t really know her.
When she was just the spoiled daughter of a billionaire.
Not a woman who’s passionate about helping animals and whose kind heart clearly expands to care about strangers she doesn’t even know.
Dammit.
I have to tell them.
I open my mouth—
“You know your lips are still swollen.”
“Rory!” Chrissy gasps, swatting her on the shoulder. “Don’t say that.”
Tiff sighs and shakes her head.
Marie’s lips twitch but she just pulls out her phone and starts tapping at the screen.
“What? I mean, it’s impressive, really. She’s clearly a woman who’s been thoroughly kissed and”—she leans closer, eyes flicking to the men where they’re standing in the kitchen, deep in conversation—“I, for one, have always wondered what Brooks would be like when he kissed a woman.”
Chrissy rolls her eyes. “Do I need to remind you that you have a husband?”
“No.” She sighs dreamily. “King is a great kisser. But I’m curious by nature.” A shrug. “So why can’t I know if he’s a kiss-you-senseless-because-he’s-so-intense-he-can’t-help-it or a slow-sip-you-up-until-your-bones-turn-to-goo kind of kisser?”
“Because it’s none of our business?” Marie says dryly.
Tiff nods.
“Since when has that ever stopped us?”
Chrissy sighs heavily. “Rory—”
“He’s both.”
They freeze.
Then four gazes shoot to mine, four mouths falling open.
And somehow that encourages the words to flow.
“And,” I yammer, “he’s also a savor-until-your-heart-threatens-to-explode, and a gentle-so-gentle-your-eyes-well-up-with-tears, but my favorite is his”—oh God, why am I still talking?—“pin-you-in-place-and-fuck-your-mouth-with-his—”
“What are we talking about?”
My eyes go wide, cheeks burning—absolutely burning—when I realize the men have come near.
Far too near.
Near enough to—my stare drifts toward Brooks and I want nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Because the heat in his eyes…
I know exactly what he’s thinking.
He’s so going to pin me in place and fuck my mouth with his tongue.
I shiver.
“Welp,” Rory says, her mouth curving as her husband, King, draws her up to her feet and tucks her into his side, “I think it’s time for us to head out.”
“No,” I say quickly, “that’s okay—”
“Yes,” Brooks says at the same time. “You should go.”
“We should talk about the kittens,” I blurt.
Chrissy’s eyes come to mine…then flick over my shoulder and the edges of her mouth curve up. “I’ll need to make some arrangements, so I’ll be in contact later.”
“Much later,” Brooks mutters and I jump, not realizing how close he’s come.
Smiles are smothered and looks are exchanged and then there’s a flurry of activity as they all head for the door.
The click of the lock reengaging is the last thing I hear before silence descends.
Fingers trail over my nape and I don’t flinch, don’t jerk away. Instead, I shiver, fighting every instinct in me that says I should lean back into the touch.
Then I realize what’s just happened.
What I didn’t share.
“Wait,” I say, rushing to the door. “We should call them back. I need—”
“Briar?” Brooks asks quietly.
My gaze jerks to his and the heat there…
Well, I’m certainly not thinking about a flash drive. Or framing an innocent woman for crimes she didn’t commit.
I’m thinking it’s been five years.
That the orgasm he gave me earlier did absolutely nothing to tamp down the need I have for him.
I’m thinking that I’ve missed him and that I understand why he did what he did.
I’m thinking I would have done whatever I had to in order to protect him back then.
And maybe I’m thinking that might still be true even after all this time.
“Baby,” he murmurs and I jump again.
My eyes go to the door. “I need to tell them what I know.”
“You told us enough for now,” he says. “Pascal needs time to work, and you need some space to recover.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
There’s something about his tone that lifts the hairs on my nape and I back up slowly, putting the couch between us. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” He moves to the door, fiddles with the handle.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he walks by me.
“Checking the locks.” Then he does the same with the balcony doors.
But it’s when he turns back toward me that my lungs seize.
Because the look in his eyes—
“So…do you still hate me?”