The Complete Rixton Falls Series

by Winter Renshaw

  And none of it makes sense.

  Brooks Abbott has money. His family has money. He paid for our house in cash. His cars too. His essays on financial management and retirement planning have been published in Forbes and the Wall Street Journal.

  I check my phone and find four missed calls from Brenda Abbott. I’m sure Delilah tried her best, but Brenda probably saw right through her. I’ll call her later tonight, after the charity gala, and apologize for running out.

  I’ll come clean, hope she believes me, and put an end to this charade.

  But first . . . Brooks.

  My lungs fill with stale hospital air as I charge down the hallway toward the recovery unit, a stack of statements clenched in my fist. Stopping at the nurse’s station to sign in, I jot my name on a free space and scribble the date.

  And then I stop.

  Because it’s not my name filling the last spot under Brooks’s room number.

  The name Afton Mayfield is signed clear as day, and today’s date is alongside it. I swear it wasn’t there before, so I check. Sure enough, my name from earlier is above hers.

  Afton was here the morning Brooks woke up. She stopped by the following day for updates, which Brenda handled, and left again.

  But she was never allowed in his room.

  Brenda wouldn’t have it.

  She wanted Brooks to be damn near “as good as new” before he made his media debut. She didn’t want photographs of him lying in bed, and she didn’t want any quotes that might make people mistake his short-term memory loss for permanent brain damage.

  “Excuse me.” I capture the attention of the woman behind the desk.

  She glances up, shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Yes?”

  “Do you know who’s visiting Brooks Abbott right now? His mother didn’t want the media in his room without special permission.”

  The woman scrunches her face and shakes her head. “Media? She didn’t say she was here with the media.”

  She stands, but I place my hand out to stop her. “It’s okay. I’ll handle it.”

  There’s a dry lump in my throat and a weight on my chest as I stride toward his room. The door is half-open, but his curtain is pulled far enough that he can’t see to the doorway.

  Two voices. His and hers. Slightly louder than a whisper.

  I crane my neck and prepare for shameless eavesdropping.

  The sound of Afton softly sobbing catches my ear, and I have to look. Peeking in, I see her sitting on the edge of his bed, where I once sat, holding his hands in hers. She’s dressed down, leggings and a puffy parka with a fur-trimmed hood. Her shiny blonde locks are swept into a neat bun on the crown of her head.

  She’s definitely not on the job.

  “I was so worried, baby.” She lifts his hands to her cheek, pressing them against her face. “I thought we were going to lose you.”

  Um, we?

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to give you a scare.”

  “To think the baby might grow up without ever knowing you.” Her shoulders heave as she sobs, and she dabs the corners of her eyes with a tissue she steals off his bedside table. “It was so hard to stay away, knowing I couldn’t see you, hearing everything secondhand. It killed me.”

  “I know, I know,” he comforts her with the soft, cashmere voice of a loving partner. In four years together, he’s never spoken to me like that, not even when Grandma Rosewood died and I was inconsolable for weeks. “Everything’s going to work out, okay? Just be patient.”

  “She’s wearing her ring.” Afton speaks with a sick cough in her tone, like it disgusts her. “I saw it when I interviewed her. Does she think you’re still getting married?”

  My blood boils before turning into ice water. I’m two seconds from storming in, guns drawn, and calling them out.

  But I’m frozen. My feet won’t move. I’m paralyzed as the truth settles into my core. I wanted validation, but I didn’t know it would feel like this.

  “For now, the wedding’s back on,” Brooks says.

  Like hell it is.

  “I have a few matters I need to tend to. Some loose strings,” he says.

  “You’ve been dragging your feet for the last six months,” she whines. “This baby’s coming in twenty-five weeks. The clock is ticking.”

  I do the math, as if it matters. For someone fifteen weeks along, she doesn’t even look a tiny bit pregnant.

  Skinny bitch.

  And I bet Brooks loves the fact that she’s the cutest pregnant woman ever to grace the face of the earth.

  Asshole.

  “Baby, I know. I want to be there with you, rubbing your feet and taking care of you,” he coos. “Treating you like the queen you are.”

  I think I’m going to be sick. Bile threatens to rise, but mind over matter keeps it at bay for the foreseeable future.

  “There’s one more thing I need to do, and then I’m all yours,” Brooks says. “Our finances were . . . intermingled. Just need to make sure everything’s . . . separated.”

  “You didn’t take care of that before you left?” There’s a pout in her tone.

  “I was getting ready to,” he says. “Just need to make some phone calls and move some money around.”

  The credit cards. He remembers.

  I hope to God he’s planning to pay them off and not extract every last dollar he can with cash advances. He should know better than to fuck with the daughter of one of the most sought-after attorneys in the state of New York.

  “Are you two through?” My voice startles me just as much as it startles them, but I can’t stand here in tortured silence a minute longer.

  Afton sucks in a hurried breath, spinning to face me, her hand clutching the diamond necklace hanging from her neck. It’s in the shape of an anchor, nearly identical to the one he gave me for my birthday last year. A limited edition from Tiffany’s, only available that year.

  While I was turning twenty-four, Brooks was fucking Afton. Nice.

  “Demi.” Brooks clears his throat, releasing his hand from her lap.

  Afton slides off his bed and stands.

  Both of their faces are as pale as the moon shining outside his hospital window.

  Lifting the credit card statements, I shake them and smile. “A hundred and seventy thousand dollars, Brooks. Really? And I thought you were some financial planning guru. You sure as hell had better have these paid off by the time you leave this hospital, or you’ll be hearing from Robert Rosewood. You can be damn sure I’ll be pressing charges.”

  Afton turns to Brooks, her brows contorted. She’s either confused, or she’s refusing to accept this revelation as truth.

  “And as for you,” I say to Afton. Her eyes fall to the floor. She won’t look at me. “Thank you.”

  Her gaze lifts.

  “Thank you for saving me from marrying that pathetic fraud,” I say. “And I mean it, Afton. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I would’ve been miserable. And no one deserves to dedicate their life to a man who can’t keep it in his pants.”

  They say nothing, and I almost wish they’d speak up. My mind is going a million miles an hour, and my heart hammers in my ears. I’m ready to go rounds.

  “Congratulations, by the way.” I slap a sarcastic smile on my face. “A baby. That’s exciting.”

  Afton brings her hand to her lower belly with slow reluctance. Her mouth falls, like she’s seconds from thanking me, and then she realizes I don’t mean it.

  Brooks always said he didn’t want kids until he was thirty-five. That was his magic number. The age when he was convinced he’d have gotten “everything” out of his system—whatever that meant. I wonder if he realizes how prohibitive parenting is? Being a dad is really going to cramp his lifestyle, and I can almost guarantee that Afton will talk him into listing his Porsche for sale before the end of the year. It’s not exactly family friendly.

  Oh, well. Not my problem anymore.

  I’m not sure how to make a gra
ceful exit after all of this, and their shocked stares and void eyes are starting to freak me out. This entire exchange is as awkward for me as it is for them, so I do us all a favor and turn to leave.

  The hallway is silent, save for a few nurses making small talk by the nurse’s station and the sound of monitors beeping when I pass certain rooms. It’s business as usual out here.

  Just another ordinary Saturday night.

  By the time I reach the exit, the automatic doors part and a burst of cool air hits my face. It’s cleansing, and my body shivers as I walk the snow-tracked parking lot. A few loose snowflakes flurry around me. They’re giant and wet when they land on my face, but I almost feel like one of them now.

  Weightless.

  Free.

  Chapter 31

  Royal

  The flicker from the TV screen lights my apartment, and I’m sprawled across my Murphy bed, waiting for sleep to take a hold of me when a knock on the door wakes me from my trance.

  It had better not be fucking Misty again.

  Or Pandora.

  Shit, it’d be just like Pandora to show up here unannounced in nothing but a trench coat and a ninety-nine cent thong.

  I slip a pair of navy sweats over my boxers and tug a white t-shirt over my head, combing my hair into place.

  Checking the peephole, I smirk when I see who’s decided to grace my presence at ten o’clock on a Saturday night.

  I yank the door open, smacked with the never-ending scent of Downy April Fresh and the face of an angel dressed in all black.

  “Did you know she was pregnant?” Demi asks, straight-faced.

  “Who?”

  She barges in, slipping under my arm, and I shut the door behind her. Plopping down on my bed like she’s been here a million times before, she exhales loudly. Whatever she’s talking about, she doesn’t seem upset in the slightest.

  There’s something lighter about her, even compared to when I saw her a few hours ago.

  “The girl Brooks was seeing. Afton,” she says.

  “Ah, I never knew her name,” I say. “And no, didn’t know she was pregnant. Never looked pregnant when I saw her.”

  Demi blows a curl of hair from her face and lies back on my bed, kicking her heels off and letting them drop to the carpet.

  I crawl into my bed, lying next to her, and roll to my stomach. Resting my chin in my hand, I can’t take my eyes off of her.

  “What are you doing here? Thought you had a fundraiser,” I say.

  She rolls to her side, mirroring me. “Yeah. About that.”

  I smirk. “What’d you do?”

  “Brenda wanted me to give a speech. I didn’t want to lie to all those people.” She rolls to her back, staring up at my water-spotted popcorn ceiling. “So I left. I left, and I went straight to the hospital. And I confronted Brooks. And he denied everything.”

  “He denied the affair?” I frown.

  “Yep. Said he didn’t remember leaving me. Said he wanted to be with me and he was sorry for a lot of things, but he didn’t remember anything about an affair or why he would’ve been driving to Glidden the night of the accident.”

  “Makes no sense. He left you. He picked her. Why would he pretend he didn’t?”

  “At first I thought it was his memory.” She sighs. “The doctors said he was going to have short-term memory issues, so it didn’t seem unusual at first. But then I remembered the credit cards, and I thought maybe those statements might help jog his memory. I went home and got them, and when I came back, Afton was in his room. I overheard their entire conversation.”

  “Jesus, Demi.” I run my hand down her arm, stopping short at her wrist. I want to hold her hand, comfort her. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I mean, it sucks being lied to. Manipulated. Conned.” She bites her lip and rolls her eyes. “The worst thing about it is having someone think you’re dumb enough to fall for the lies. Is it weird that I’m not freaking out right now? Should I be freaking out more? Maybe there’s something wrong with me.”

  “Nah.”

  “I mean, there has to be something said for when a woman finds out her ex-fiancé knocked up his mistress, and then she goes running into the arms of the only man who ever truly broke her heart.” Demi’s fingers drum across her chest as she stares at the ceiling, releasing an audible sigh. “I’m messed up. There’s something wrong with me. I don’t even know how to fix it either.”

  “Maybe not everything needs to be fixed.”

  Demi rolls to her side again, resting her cheek against her hand. Our eyes lock, and all the oxygen is sucked from the room. There’s still a trace of red on her lips from earlier. I washed the lipstick off my mouth hours ago, as soon as I got home, but her taste remained.

  That addictive taste.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks. “Like you want to devour me.”

  “Because maybe I do.”

  She smiles, her lids seductive and half-closed, and I take it as an invitation. A sign. A green light.

  I pull her on top of me, and she sits up, straddling my hips. The hem of her dress inches up, and she pulls her dark hair free from the tight, knotted bun on the back of her head. She tucks loose tendrils behind her ears. There’s a sweet glow about her.

  “Remember that time,” I say. “Back at your parents’ house. That day we got caught in the rainstorm outside.”

  “And you threw mud at me.”

  “And you threw it right back.”

  “We were covered in mud,” she says. “It was a Saturday. The whole family was gone at one of Daphne’s art shows in Rochester.”

  My hands rest on her outer thighs, my thumbs moving closer to her core.

  “We stripped naked, muddy clothes trailing down the hall to the laundry room,” I say.

  “You threw a load in the washer and started it up,” she says. “And lifted me up.”

  “Who knew the vibration of a washing machine could make sex with you that much more incredible than it already was?” My hands skim up her thighs, finding the curve of her hips and pulling her closer.

  Demi’s palms are flat on my chest, and her dark locks spill down her shoulders.

  “God, your Dad would’ve killed me if he knew I defiled you on the family Kenmore.” I smirk. Demi laughs.

  Her smile fades a moment later. “You should come home with me next week. For Thanksgiving. See everyone again. Daphne will be home from Paris.”

  Her father’s last words to me echo in my mind, the way they have for years. Robert was the first person I called to bail me out that night, and instead of urgency or sympathy, I found myself condemned. Banned from the Rosewood family.

  He didn’t believe me when I professed my innocence, and I’ll admit that the evidence against me painted a compelling picture. For an attorney who’s heard every red-blooded American criminal profess his innocence, my insistences went unheard.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Demi,” I say carefully, watching her expression fall. “Your dad . . .”

  “Let me deal with him.”

  I can imagine her parents’ world shattering when she breaks the news about Brooks, and imagining the expressions on their faces when she shows up with me Thanksgiving day?

  “Maybe someday, okay? Not now. One thing at a time.”

  “One thing at a time?”

  “Yeah.” I cup her cheek. “You really want to spring me on them right now? After the last couple of weeks?”

  She exhales, running her fingertips along my arm and pulling my hand from her face. “You’re probably right. I mean, they did pretend you didn’t exist for seven years. There are definitely some strong feelings there.”

  A crushing sensation covers my chest when I hear that the only people I ever considered family pretended I was dead for seven years.

  “This thing that happened.” Demi glances down at me, her elbows tucked at her sides. “How bad was it?”

  “I spent some time locked up for a crime I did
n’t commit.”

  “If you didn’t commit it, why’d you stay away? Couldn’t you just explain what happened?”

  “I tried. Your dad wouldn’t believe me. And I ended up taking a plea deal, which required that I plead guilty, so on paper, yeah, it looks like I did something horrible.” I search for her hands, threading my fingers through hers. “But I swear to you, Demi. I swear on my life, I didn’t do it.”

  “Huh.” Her head tilts as she studies me. “All these years, I thought you found someone else. That my parents hated you because you ran off with another girl.”

  “I told you before, Demi. You’re the only one for me. Always have been, always will be.” I drag in a ragged lungful of air. “Even if you walk out of here and you never want to see me again, even if I find the strength to move on with someone else down the road, I’m never going to love her half as much as I love you.”

  My hands slide up her neck, my fingers tangling in her loose waves, and I bring her mouth to me. Her body covers mine, and I roll over on top of her. Propped on my elbows, I hover above Demi, tasting her mouth again and again before leaving it to press kisses into the conservatively exposed parts of her.

  Kissing her shoulder, I run a hand down her side until I find the hem of her dress. Tugging it up, I work it over her head and move my lips to the soft tops of her breasts as they pillow above a strapless bra.

  Her stomach caves when I move lower, and I drag my tongue down her soft belly, slipping my fingers under the waistband of her lace panties. Sliding them down her thighs and tossing them across the room, I spread her legs and lower myself to her soft folds.

  I run a finger along her seam, and the sweet scent of her arousal fills the air.

  “God, you’re so fucking wet,” I moan, dipping down to circle my tongue along her clit.

  Demi sighs, her legs spreading wider, and her fingers lace through my hair. She grabs a handful and tugs as I lick and swirl every perfect crevice. It’s been years since I’ve devoured this sweet, addicting pussy, and I’m quite certain I could stay here all night.

  I glide one finger inside her wet entrance, followed by another, curling, pumping, and licking, her hips gyrating as our rhythms sync.