The House That Love Built

by Jean Brashear

  Her chest ached; every breath was a struggle. “We were too close, knew exactly where the other was weak. We should have drawn together, helped each other survive. Instead, I turned away. It was how I’d always managed, before you. By locking the doors and not letting anyone inside.

  “That was wrong. And cruel.” With her other hand, she stroked his face. “You were my heart’s blood. My soul’s mate.” Her voice caught on the tears that were blurring his beloved face in her vision. “And even if none of that had been true, you were the best friend I ever had. I should have reached out, not closed in. I’m sorry for that, more than I can ever say.”

  Malcolm’s eyes were tender and hot. He pressed a kiss to each of her eyelids. “Oh, love, we’ve lost so much time. How I’ve missed you.”

  Then his mouth covered hers, and it was as if the long years between had never happened. Within Cleo was a small click, like the single missing piece of a puzzle fitting into place. She rose to her toes and slid her arms around his neck with a broken sob, wanting to crawl inside him and never emerge.

  The sweetness of her washed over Malcolm, through him, until he knew he couldn’t bear to let her go again. He held her tightly, slanting his mouth over hers to go deeper, to seal the connection.

  The magic was still there. Heat roared back to life, incinerating the obstacles that had come between them.

  “Snow,” he muttered between kisses. “Sweet mercy.” He looked into wet green eyes that blazed with the same fierce yearning.

  “We—I don’t—Malcolm, we shouldn’t be hasty—” Biting her full lower lip, she grazed her fingers over the buckle of his belt, her voice a shade beyond breathy. “I want your hands on me so badly, but I don’t think—”

  He sank teeth into the spot on her neck he knew would make her scream. “You think too much, Snow. I like that about you sometimes. Lots of times.” He slid his tongue down her bared throat, and her back arched. “But not now.”

  Her knees buckled, and he swept her up in his arms. Carried her to the sofa.

  In a novel, there would have been violins and star-drenched, swirling passions, but in those first, all-too-real moments, they were awkward together, all knees and elbows and noses.

  And self-conscious. “Turn out the light, Malcolm.”

  “Not on your life.”

  “I’m older now. Not everything is—”

  “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I intend to pore over every last inch.”

  He made good on his promise, and with each second’s passage, they found steadier footing. Uncovered familiar landmarks from beneath the tangled vines and brushy undergrowth of five years spent apart.

  But she couldn’t quite relax. Finally, she put her finger on the problem. Grabbed his hair and yanked. “How many?”

  “How many wha—” He lifted his head and blinked. “Oh.”

  She jerked herself to sitting, drew a pillow in front of her. “Tell me now, and let’s get it over with.”

  “Now?” He stared at her. Frowned. Sighed loudly, then untangled his limbs from hers. Settled back into the cushions, splendidly naked. Undeniably male.

  A staggering array of emotions chased over his features. He scrubbed his face. Grinned. “I’d forgotten this Cleo. Only you would insist on confronting the tough stuff at a moment like this.” He threw back his head and laughed. “That’s my girl. Always eats her spinach before she allows herself dessert.”

  “Stop that.” When he didn’t even attempt to stem the chuckles, she grabbed the pillow and took aim. Hit him square in the face. “It’s not funny.”

  “You got that right.” He chucked the pillow to the floor and stalked her across the cushions. “But you sure as hell are.” There had always been about Malcolm the air of a lean, hungry predator, never more so than now. “You gonna make me climb a fire escape and howl at the moon again, Cleopatra?”

  “Stay back.” Cleo fired another pillow before she scrambled to her feet.

  She nearly made it.

  Neatly, he captured her and twisted their bodies so that he hit the floor first. Protecting her, as always.

  “Get away from me,” she fumed. “I don’t want you.”

  “Liar.” His erection made it amply clear that she hadn’t discouraged him one bit.

  When she struggled halfheartedly in his grip, he reversed their positions. The mirth faded, and he ducked his head. “Probably fewer than you imagine, Snow. And I wish there hadn’t been even one.” Chagrin washed over his features. “I probably owe apologies to some nice ladies whose only fault was that they weren’t you.”

  “Do you have any idea how I hate that women have always fallen all over themselves for you? That first day, every woman in that café envied me.”

  He did a double take. “No kidding?”

  Cleo bared her teeth.

  Malcolm leaned in and gave her a slow, sweet, bone-melting kiss. “I never paid attention, Snow. All I could see was you. Since the beginning, you’ve owned my heart.”

  She curled into him and wanted never to let go.

  But they weren’t through yet. “Okay.” She took a breath. “My turn.”

  “Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “You may be a masochist, but I don’t want to know. Then I’d just have to leave you and go pound the daylights out of every one of them.” His words were playful, but his tone was not. “The very thought of you with another man—” His jaw tightened. His embrace did, too.

  For a moment they simply clung, sobered by the intrusion of the world. The past.

  “One more thing, Snow, then I’m done talking.” In his gaze, she read acute discomfort. “I’m safe, but I’ll use a condom now, if you’re worried.” He made as if to rise.

  She stopped him. “No. And I’m…all right, too. I—”

  He cut off her words with a kiss, unbridled and stormy. Then he lifted his head, and his dark eyes blazed. “There’s only you now. Only us.” He gripped her hips with his big hands, and Cleo arched her back, surrendering herself to him as she had to no other.

  And discovering anew the sheer luxury of letting go. A slow, wicked smile curved her lips.

  “You make me crazy when you do that.” His voice cracked.

  Her own was less than steady as she cradled his face. “I love you, Malcolm. I’ve never stopped. This is the first day for us. A new chapter.”

  Braced on arms suddenly trembling as outrageous gratitude swept through him, Malcolm paused and drank in the sight of the goal that made all his others pale.

  He yearned to have this woman’s love back. To grow old with her, to die in her arms.

  There was such wild emotion tumbling in her eyes that he found a new patience. Settled back on his heels and twined their fingers, palm to palm. The beast that roared within him, wanting completion, fell silent before his awe.

  He bent to her like a celebrant, a penitent. “This is it, Cleo. I’m never going to let you go after this, so be sure.”

  Once more they were in the park on that first night, exchanging the vows that had truly made them one, long before the ceremony the rest of the world witnessed.

  “I am,” she whispered.

  “Forever, Snow.”

  “Forever,” she repeated.

  Then, like a new vow, he joined them, body and soul.

  Cleo gasped, and Malcolm groaned. More than bliss, there was love here. Peace and comfort no one else could provide.

  Malcolm gazed down at the woman who had been the oasis he’d been seeking for five lost and lonely years. Barely able to believe they’d made their way back.

  “It’s still here.” Cleo echoed his thoughts. “Oh, Malcolm.” She pressed against him as if seeking to banish the last traces of the long years alone.

  He yielded to her as she’d surrendered to him, and soon there was no other world but their two hearts, the treasured fit of flesh to flesh, and the ecstasy of at last…after so very long apart…coming home.

  Malcolm awoke when she rose from his si
de. He watched her slip on his shirt, walk to the window and stare out.

  The shirt hung off one shoulder, reached to her knees. Over the white fabric, strands of ebony spilled.

  She still had the best pair of legs he’d ever seen.

  The need to protect flared again. She was too delicately formed to house such courage, such a big, terrified heart.

  Her forehead pressed against the window, and her shoulders drooped.

  He left the sofa, moved to stand behind her without saying a word. Wrapped his arms around her and rested his cheek on her hair.

  “She’s out there somewhere, Malcolm, scared and lonely.” A world of sorrow and regret vibrated in her tone.

  “I know.” The image tormented him, too. “But not for long.”

  “She needed more than I was willing to give. How do I live with that?”

  He turned her in his arms then. “You were a good mother, Cleo, and she wasn’t an easy child. But you loved her and cared for her, even when she was at her worst.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  He touched a finger to her lips. “You weren’t perfect. Neither was I. So we find her and try again.”

  “But—”

  “You’re relentless. I forgot that part, too.” But he had plenty of practice in handling her. Distraction was sometimes the only defense. “Where’s my bed?”

  “What?” She blinked. Glanced at the hallway.

  “That’s not mine. Neither is that brass piece of fluff in our room.” He dropped the smile. “Why did you throw away the bed I made for you, Snow?”

  “I could never start a new life, looking at it every day.”

  “So you got a new one for Dr. Java to roll around in with you?” He released her then, more hurt than he cared to admit. The bed had been a gift from his heart.

  “Are we having that conversation after all, Malcolm? Is that what you’re after?”

  “No. Yes. No.” He whirled, jealousy eating him from the inside out. “What I want is the same thing as the other night—to beat the hell out of that young cub for sleeping with my woman.”

  “You said pup before. Get your animals straight.” Her eyes sparkled, and all he could do was stare. “Want to throw a pillow or two, instead?”

  “It’s not funny, Cleo.” He grabbed his jeans, no longer comfortable with her, naked.

  Her face fell. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Malcolm.” She laid a restraining hand on his wrist. “Still at the house,” she mumbled.

  “What?” Then her words registered. He tipped her face up. “Say that again.”

  “I only bought the brass bed a couple of weeks before Lola showed up. Ours is safely stored.”

  Relief was a cool breeze, but cobwebs of misery lingered. “I don’t know if I can stand it, but I have to find out. How many—” He cleared his throat. “Who have you been with?”

  She waited a long time before answering, and his heart died a little more each second.

  “I never took a lover, Malcolm.” Defiant green eyes dared him to poke fun.

  Heartfelt thanksgiving shuddered through him. “I shouldn’t be this happy.” He lifted her into his arms. “But damned if I’m not.” He caught her mouth in a kiss and started toward the bedroom.

  “Malcolm Channing, don’t you even consider it.”

  He jolted. “What?”

  She stabbed a finger toward the hall. “Not on that woman’s mattress.” Her Egyptian namesake could have been no more imperious. “You have work to do first.”

  He stifled a groan. “Snow, I’m dying here. I have to make love to you again. Now.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Listen, I said I’m sorry about the others. Do you want names, is that it? I don’t think it’s smart, but—”

  She stopped his words with a kiss. “Put me down, Malcolm.”

  “I will later, I promise, but—”

  “You can’t drive with me in your arms.”

  He stilled. Stared.

  “Come home with me. Let’s put our bed back together, and we’ll make love until dawn if you want. And then—” She paused.

  “Then what?” he asked.

  “You stay. You never, ever leave me again, no matter what stupid idea I might get into my head, and—” She bit her lip, and her eyes filled with tears.

  He finished for her. “We find our daughter.”

  She nodded. “And bring her home for good.”

  He did set her down then, but only so he could wrap her tightly in his arms, resting his cheek on her hair. “And once we have our daughter back, you and I, Mrs. Channing, will be getting married. Sound about right?”

  “Like a dream,” she whispered.

  ~THE END~

  Thank you for letting me share my stories with you!

  Next up in the Second Chances series is THE ROAD BACK HOME, the companion story to Cleo and Malcolm’s book. It’s a different perspective of the story as seen through Ria’s eyes and going beyond:

  Can her family forgive what she can’t forgive herself?

  Ria Channing ran from a tragedy of her own making six years ago, a pariah in the family and home that were once perfect…until she destroyed them.

  But a deathbed promise to her only friend forces her to return for the sake of the grandson her parents have never met. Homeless, hungry and worn out from fighting for survival, she carries with her no expectation of forgiveness—only heartfelt hope that the house that love built will welcome and care for her child, if not his bad seed mother.

  Sculptor Sandor Wolfe owes his career and his future to Ria’s mother. There is nothing he wouldn’t do to protect her from the thankless daughter who has hurt Cleo so deeply and now threatens the life she has rebuilt from the ashes of the old.

  What he doesn’t expect, however, is to find a vulnerability and a courage that touch him as Ria tries to make up for all she has cost the family she destroyed.

  The battle is one she seems destined to lose, and Sandor finds himself torn between love and loyalty, with the stakes being his friend’s broken heart and a valiant, fragile woman’s survival.

  Get your copy of THE ROAD BACK HOME today!

  If you enjoyed THE HOUSE THAT LOVE BUILT, I would be very grateful if you would help others find this book by recommending it to your friends on Goodreads or by writing a review. If you would like to be informed of new releases and be eligible for subscriber-only special discounts, please sign up for my newsletter here. You can also follow me on BookBub here.

  I love hearing from you, so please contact me through any of the options at the end of this book.

  Thanks!

  Jean

  Please enjoy this excerpt from THE ROAD BACK HOME:

  The first thousand miles out of L.A., Ria Channing spun tales of thrilling adventures in store for her bright-eyed four-year-old son, Benjy.

  The next five hundred, she tried to convince herself.

  The last leg of the endless trip, head achy and light from denying herself food so her child could eat, Ria alternated between terror and fury.

  It won’t work, Dog Boy. You shouldn’t have made me promise. My parents have never forgiven me, and that won’t change. The wrong child had died six years ago, the golden one, David. The Son.

  But her only friend was beyond hearing now.

  Unfortunately, she could still hear him.

  Go home. Make…your peace, He’d gasped. Carrot curls, dark with sweat. Pale eyes fever shiny.

  The mere thought of returning had her blood roaring in her ears. I can’t. They hate me.

  Your son has no father. Benjy needs…family. Safe…place. Go home, Ria, back to Austin. Promise.

  You don’t understand what you’re asking. After a lifetime of mistakes, I committed the final, unpardonable one: I killed their favorite.

  Try, Ria. Give them a chance. Grant yourself one.

  She’d wanted so badly to ignore him. To run away. Again.

  But she owed him everything. He’d saved her life. Preserv
ed her son’s.

  On the long-ago night, she’d fled from home with no idea of her destination. At the Austin bus station, she’d met Dog Boy, who was headed to L.A. Though barely seventeen to her twenty-one, he was streetwise beyond his age; he’d been her mentor, teaching her how to maneuver through a world her protected existence had never even imagined. He’d been brother and friend and father when no one else cared.

  At his bedside six weeks ago, she’d pleaded again, but his eyes had been merciless in those final moments; he knew the strength of her love for him. They’d never been physically intimate; their bond was far closer than that. The only person she cherished more was the boy now asleep in the back seat, surrounded by their pitiful few belongings.

  Damn you. She’d smiled as tears rolled down her cheeks. You couldn’t ask for ice cream or a mariachi band?

  The fear was back now, full force, as she navigated the tree-shaded streets in the early-morning hours. Temptation grinned and lured…taunted and seduced, willing her to fail Dog Boy, as she’d let down everyone else.

  Her breath was coming in pants, her heart beating too fast as she rolled up to the curb across from the house where she’d grown up.

  Two-story, Victorian, exquisite. Wraparound porch, gingerbread trim, a gracious lady nestled in the embrace of live oaks, magnolias and azaleas. “There it is, Dog Boy,” she murmured. “Home.” The very picture that should be in the dictionary beside the word.

  But not for her, never again.

  “Where are we, Mom?” A small, sleepy voice spoke.

  Ria glanced in the mirror at Benjy’s precious face, his black hair—her hair, David’s hair…her mother’s hair—standing up in spikes.

  Eyes the melted-chocolate brown of her father’s blinked. “Mom?”

  Please. Hate me, but help me save him, she begged the people inside. But because she had no idea if they would, she hedged on their identities. “We’re going to visit the people who own this place.”