This Changes Everything: McLaughlin Brothers, Book 1

by Ashley Jennifer

  Will I have more? That’s a speculation I can’t answer. Whatever Abby’s thinking, she keeps to herself as she dances like a goddess in yellow, a firefly in the dark.

  * * *

  The crowd is well relaxed when Ryan and Calandra, who’d disappeared for a while, reappear dressed for their drive up to the mountains. They’ve decided not to spend the night in the hotel—wise. Ryan doesn’t trust us, his three brothers, to leave them alone. Even Ben would join in the practical jokes.

  Calandra’s mom is hugging her, tears in her eyes. Her dad, the same. Shaking Ryan’s hand, as if to say, Take good care of her, son.

  Ryan would. Mr. Stevenson didn’t have to worry. The rest of us would take care of Calandra too. She was family now.

  Damned if my eyes aren’t wet. Abby and I must have drunk a lot.

  Calandra’s ready to throw her bouquet. In the movies, women mob each other to catch it, but the ladies here look almost afraid of it. I don’t know if they’re being nonchalant or in no rush to tie themselves to some guy who can’t wash his own clothes.

  Calandra turns her back, Ryan sidestepping out of the way. She tosses.

  The bouquet goes up and up—a long, spinning pass. She’s got a good arm, even backwards. Abby watches, bemused, as the bunch of flowers, ribbons fluttering, hits its arc and comes down, down, down …

  Straight into the arms of my little brother Ben.

  We shout with laughter. Bright red, Ben quickly shoves the bouquet at Great Aunt Mary. She takes it in delight.

  “Why thank you, sweetie.” Great Aunt Mary wears a redder lipstick than Abby’s, her silver hair perfectly coiffed. “Wouldn’t mind a little of that action.”

  We laugh again, Great Aunt Mary taking the pressure off Ben. It’s why she’s everyone’s favorite.

  Ryan and Calandra depart amid hugs, well wishes, and waves.

  The DJ continues with the music as Calandra and Ryan vanish into the darkness, but the heart has gone out of the party. People begin drifting away, heading for the hotel rooms booked for the wedding party and guests.

  “I guess it’s over.” Abby sorrowfully glances around the emptying dance floor.

  “We could go on to a club, if you want.”

  She shakes her head, shoulders slumping. “It was more fun with friends and family. Clubs can be … impersonal.”

  True. If you aren’t with a group of friends, clubs can be boring as hell. I grope around in my mind, trying to come up with a way we can hang out together longer. The number of places in Phoenix open after nine p.m., even on a Saturday night, are few and far between.

  I open my mouth to suggest the bar here at the hotel, when Abby says, “Walk me to my room?”

  As I stare, my mouth frozen in its open position, Abby flushes. “I’m a little drunk,” she says hurriedly. “I don’t want to be found face-down in the hall in the morning.”

  “Sure.” I’m a gallant gentleman. Of course I’ll escort a lady home.

  I offer my arm, and she takes it. We’re both unsteady, and she leans into me, soft woman against my side.

  No one comments on us leaving. Most of the guests are gone anyway, except Ben. I feel his eyes on my back, but Ben I trust. He’s not one to gossip and ruin a lady’s rep.

  The hotel is a swank one, with many wings surrounding the grounds—giant pool, open air patio, perfect for our winter weather, beautiful on a mild April night.

  Abby’s on the second floor, in a suite. Apparently they dressed the bride there.

  We take the elevator, too shaky to walk up a flight of stairs, and find her door. Abby fishes her key from a tiny pocket in her dress, a pocket that would never fit more than a key card. She starts to hover the card over the reader, and hesitates.

  “Want to come in?” she asks in a shy voice.

  Do I? Shit, yeah. Heat rocks my body, though she’s only asked me to go inside. Maybe to help her clean up from the bridal outfitting. I picture female accoutrements everywhere—gloves, hats, ribbons, whatever women wear to weddings these days. Maybe even embarrassing pieces of underwear.

  Then again, Abby’s smile doesn’t tell me she’s interested in a little housecleaning.

  I swallow. “Sure,” I try to say casually. The word is a hoarse grunt. “Why not?”

  I take the key from her and wave it over the pad. Fortunately, the light turns green on the first try, so I don’t have to make several clumsy attempts.

  The lock clicks. I shove the door all the way open, gesturing Abby inside. “After you, my lady.”

  Chapter Four

  Abby

  There’s a bottle of blood-red wine in the front room, courtesy of Calandra and Ryan. I guess Calandra figured I’d need it after wrestling her to her own wedding. I wonder if there’s one in Zach’s room.

  The bridesmaids and I had packed up Calandra’s stuff before going down to see her married, and she’d taken the suitcases when she left with Ryan. This room is tidy, my things hidden away in the bedroom.

  I kick off my shoes, happy to be out of the heels. I offer the wine—we’ve danced so much my buzz has worn off a little. Zach, a gentleman, opens it and pours.

  “To success,” he says to me, and we touch glasses before we drink.

  I know he means the wedding and us making it through to the end. Ryan and Calandra are off to the mountains, and we can relax.

  “I’ll miss her,” I say with sudden sadness as I sit down.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Zach stretches out in a chair and crosses his feet. “Ryan’s a pain in the ass, but he’s a good brother. I’ll be glad when he comes home.”

  “They need some time alone, those two kids.” I try to keep my voice light.

  “Serious time alone. What about you?” Zach skewers me with his baby blues. “Who do you spend alone time with?”

  “My dog.”

  “Yeah? What kind of dog?”

  “German Shepherd. Mixed with … something. He’s a rescue. He’s my mom’s dog actually, but I love the guy.” Muttly is a sweetheart and better company than a lot of men I’ve known.

  “I have a big yard but no pets at the moment.” Zach sounds regretful, which makes me believe he likes dogs. A plus.

  “I know you want to ask if I have a boyfriend,” I say. “The answer is nope. I was going out with a guy, but it fizzled.”

  It fizzled because I couldn’t talk to him. I mean, not even normal day-to-day conversation, let alone anything deep. I’d start on a topic, and he’d brush it off. Or I’d say, “I ran into—name of mutual acquaintance—today …” and he’d say scornfully, “So?”

  It became obvious he didn’t give a shit about me or who I talked to, or anything I did or wanted to do, so I stopped calling him, and he stopped calling me.

  I find myself telling Zach all this. He listens. Not pretends to listen while drinking his wine, checking his texts, scrolling through his social media, wondering what’s on the sports channels … He listens. Looks at me. Not through me.

  I don’t sob about the guy I drifted apart from. I simply tell the story, and Zach nods as though he understands.

  The conversation continues. Zach and I talk about so many things—people we used to know from our old school, what our parents are up to, what we’re doing now.

  “So why do you still live in Chandler?” he asks as the wine bottle slowly empties.

  I take a sip and shrug. “It’s close to work, close to my mom, has easy access to the lakes and mountain hiking. What’s not to love? Why do you live in mid-town Phoenix?” I counter.

  His lips twitch. “Close to work, has cool historic houses, access to hiking, close to sports venues. Plenty to love. Except the traffic.”

  I roll my eyes. We talk about traffic, because everyone in Phoenix does, and about how long it takes to get anywhere, and why the hell is there always so much construction?

  We turn to the things we want to do in our lives—both of us have an itch to travel. He wants to hike the Arizona Trail, which stretches
from one end of the state to the other. I think that would be cool. I’d like to go up north—by which I mean the Arizona Strip, north of the Colorado River, and to the Vermillion Cliffs. Zach stops short of asking if we should go together, and so do I.

  I like this bubble of casualness—no pressure, no anticipation, no practicalities. Just friends catching up on old times, talking about what we might do, what we dream of doing, no expectations that we have to do anything at all.

  Soon I have my feet curled up, wondering if I dare duck into the other room and take off my bra. He unties his bow tie and opens his coat but doesn’t take the coat off, like he’s comfortable. I don’t want to leave the room, because he might not be here when I come back.

  We get started on the differences between a man’s take on weddings and a woman’s. I’m surprised Zach doesn’t think all women get weepy about white ribbons and tulle, and he laughs at me when I say bachelor parties are about strippers and sports.

  “We drank beer, cooked out, and shot the breeze.” Zach lounges farther down into his chair, legs outstretched. “Talked about old times and made fun of Ryan. Made fun of him a lot. Austin wanted a stripper, but Ryan said no. His party, his rules.” Zach sends me a sly glance. “I hear you ladies had one, though.”

  I flush. “Maybe.” Yes, we did. We truly did. That was one hot man falling out of a Velcro-ed suit.

  Not as hot as Zach, some demon inside me whispers.

  “What did he dress up as?” Zach asks. “Fireman? Cop? Botanist?”

  I chuckle. “Stripper. He wore a tux, actually. Pretended to be the best man …” I trail, off my face flaming, as the best man in front of me collapses into laughter.

  “Seriously?” he splutters.

  “His choice. We didn’t rehearse him.”

  Zach jumps to his feet. Sways to his feet more like. The wine bottle is all but finished.

  “Something like this?” He sidles his shoulders, peeling his coat from them and catching the coat with his arms.

  “Stop.” I hold out my hand, unable to contain my laughter. Also, his mimicry is making me horny. Zach is a fine-looking man.

  Zach lets the coat slide from his arms to the floor. He starts scatting “The Stripper” in a raunchy voice. “Dah dah dant dant, dah dah dant dant …”

  Off comes his cummerbund, which flies across the room. He’s wearing suspenders, which he stretches out comically before he drops them down his shoulders. Zach streams the dangling bow tie from around his neck like a feather boa and emphatically throws it to the floor.

  Now he’s unbuttoning his shirt. Pop, pop, pop go the buttons, his throat and chest bared by the V in his undershirt coming into view.

  I’m on my feet, dancing to his singing. I must be drunk, because I start unzipping the back of my dress. Whew, it’s a relief to loosen it. I unhook my bra, exhaling for the first time all night.

  Zach keeps on with the shirt, grinning at me, encouraging. He thrusts the shirt down his arms. There’s a funny moment when the cuffs get caught on his wrists, but he determinedly wrenches them open, buttons flying, as he keeps up the song.

  I sing along. I’m not really going to strip, says the back of my mind, even as I slip my arms out of the cap sleeves. I hold the dress to my bosom and shimmy out of my stockings. It’s way too hot for those.

  The two of us dancing around pretend stripping brings us close. I fling my stockings aside and ram right into him.

  Everything stops.

  The room grows silent, the music in my head puttering out.

  Zach’s face is near mine. His beard shadow has deepened in the last hours, lamplight burnishing it. He looks straight into my eyes, as though he can see everything inside me, everything lonely, everything sad, every missed opportunity.

  In him I read the same loneliness, the feeling of standing on the sidelines of life. Tonight we’re standing there together.

  To hell with it. I slam myself against him and kiss him full on the mouth.

  Electrifying. I’m not kidding. A jolt runs down my body and out my feet as I wrap my arms around him.

  A long time ago, on a planet far, far away, Zach kissed me. We were thirteen, me wondering what it would be like to kiss a boy.

  I’d been both floored and disappointed. The touch of warmth, the intimacy, knocked me back, but the wet inexperience had made me decide it had been a bad idea.

  Twenty years later, kissing Zach McLaughlin is a completely different story.

  Warmth and intimacy flood me again, but our inexperience has vanished. Zach’s lips are firm, his kiss full of heat. He cups the back of my neck and pulls me closer, tongue opening my mouth.

  I welcome him in, tasting the wine, the whisky, the spice that is Zach. That spice excites me, makes me want more. The kiss turns fierce, and I have a burning in my bones that tells me where this is going.

  After a long time, Zach slides his hands to my shoulders, encouraging my loosened dress down my arms. Next he catches the straps of my bra, which fall after my dress.

  His hands find my breasts, his palms hard with outdoor work, but gentle, caressing. Zach’s kisses also caress, and our lips meet in silence, our bodies close as we explore each other.

  Zach releases me from the kiss, drawing a ragged breath as he gazes at me. “The beauty of you,” he whispers. “It’s blowing me away.”

  I flush, loving the compliment and not knowing what to do with it. For answer I push open his shirt, running my hands across his T-shirted chest. I feel his heart beating beneath my fingertips, pound-pounding as his ribcage rises with his breath.

  I tug at the T-shirt, wanting him as bare as I am.

  Zach grins and pulls the shirt off over his head. I feast my eyes on the dense muscles of his torso, his six-pack abs that attest to a lot of crunches at the gym.

  The smooth skin of his chest is dusted with black hair, wiry curls catching my fingertips. His flat nipples tighten under my touch.

  Zach makes a noise in his throat. His thumb caresses the tips of my nipples, the fire he starts making me incoherent. I tilt my head for more kisses, needing them, desire hot between my legs.

  He holds me with one hand planted solidly on my back, the other lightly on my breast while he kisses me. And kisses me. I wriggle my fingers under his waistband, reaching for the honed ass I’d spied inside his tux trousers.

  I find the satin skin, the tight flesh. Another noise leaves his throat as I let my fingers play.

  Zach breaks off, breathless, eyes heavy as he looks down at me. “Abby …”

  The name caresses me as much as his fingers on my bare skin.

  “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” I whisper.

  Here’s his chance to run, to find his brothers and laugh about how easy his childhood flame, Abby Warren, has become.

  Zach gazes down at me with need. “Okay.”

  I take his hand, and lead him there.

  * * *

  Zach

  Abby apologizes for the mess in the bedroom of her suite, but I barely notice the boxes, the makeup on top of the dresser, the silk flowers piled next to the television. I glimpse Calandra’s bridal gown hanging in the closet before Abby swiftly closes its door.

  She comes to me, holding the yellow fabric of her bridesmaid’s dress over her fabulous breasts. She has curves, does Abby. I can’t wait to touch them again.

  The bed is smooth and inviting, the pillows plumped, sheets turned down for the night. There’s a chocolate on each nightstand. This hotel is big on service.

  I can’t believe Abby’s inviting me to stay, but I’m not arguing either. She gives me her lopsided smile, her eyes sparkling as we approach the bed.

  I want to kiss her again, so I pull her into my arms. Her mouth tastes of sweetness and smooth wine, her lips plump. I gently bite her lower one.

  Her dress falls as she lifts her arms to encircle my neck, and I help it shimmy all the way to the floor. She’d already tossed off her stockings in the other room, so I have a nearly naked Abby
against me, except for the tiny slash of her yellow underwear, which matches the dress.

  I’m so busy enjoying kissing and touching her that I don’t realize she’s undone my pants until they’re around my ankles. That must be so sexy—a guy with his pants pooling around his socks and shoes.

  The trousers are loose, so I kick them away.

  Abby pulls back to look me over. The smile she beams tells me she’s laughing her ass off at me, but I don’t care. The sight of her, bare for me, tan lines around her shoulders and waist, more than make up for me looking stupid.

  I take advantage of the lull to toe off my shoes. I try pulling off my socks, but they get stuck, and I’m hopping, tugging at the black torture devices. Meanwhile Abby’s laughing some more.

  She disappears into the bathroom, and for a second, I fear she’s going to shut and lock the door, leaving me to gather up my clothes and slither off, but she’s out almost right away, dropping something on the nightstand. I don’t see what it is as I’m now on the edge of the bed, yanking off the socks.

  Abby stands before me, five foot five of beautiful. Hands on my shoulders, she slowly pushes me back onto the bed.

  I let her. I surrender. Why the hell wouldn’t I?

  Right in front of me my eyes, she peels off her underwear and then leans to me, fingers tugging at my waistband.

  I wriggle out of the boxer briefs and send them after my socks. My cock is standing up straight, impressed with Abby. Wanting her. Excitement pumps through me like a shot of single malt.

  She gazes at my cock and then reaches out and runs her fingertips up it.

  I almost explode. I seize her by the arms and pull her down to the bed, kissing her, wanting to be inside her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

  The bed shakes as I turn her on her back, coming down on top of her. She’s a warm armful, squirming against me without coyness. Her eyes hold me, the soft brown shining as much as the glitter in her hair.