“Hey, do you remember that time you hooked up with Janice Richards?” Fred leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table as he smiled beatifically.
“Hard to forget a girl who throws all your clothing down the garbage chute post-hookup.”
“Who was it that came to your rescue? Bringing you some sweats so you didn’t have to do a naked walk of shame across campus?” Fred looked up expectantly. “Oh... I do believe that was me.”
“You want me to get you into the family dinner?” Theo furrowed his brow with confusion. “Why?”
“I...” The words stuck in his throat. “Look. I don’t know if there’s anything between Amy and me besides sex.”
“La, la, la.” Theo closed his eyes and waved his hands by his ears. “Not listening.”
“But I think there might be.” He swallowed the rest of the thought, which was a memory of that thread that had appeared between them the second they’d laid eyes on one another, linking them together. “I want to... I want to woo her.”
“You want to woo her?” Theo asked incredulously. “Are you a hundred years old? Who says woo anymore?”
“I do.” Fred drummed his fingers on the table with impatience.
“How does sneaking into a family dinner count as wooing?”
“I’m not sure she even knows it consciously, but she has this attitude like...she expects people to treat her a certain way, because of how she looks.” Almost like she was daring people to be jerks to her, just to prove her right. “I think that by giving her things that she doesn’t expect, I might catch her off guard enough to sneak past those barriers.”
“Interesting.” Theo narrowed his dark eyes, considering. “So you’re thinking you’ll give her a family dinner, maybe some flowers, some romance.”
“That’s the plan, yeah.” Fred swallowed, suddenly nervous. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s worth a shot.” Theo shrugged, then pulled out his phone. He dropped a pin, then sent Fred the location. “That’s where dinner is. And don’t get the flowers for Amy, get them for Mamesie.”
“Thanks for the tip.” The two men stood, clearing their table and tossing their garbage in the bin. As they headed for the door, Fred caught Theo sending him a pitying stare.
“What’s with the sad-sack face?”
“Think of it more as a show of solidarity.” Theo clapped him on the back as they headed outside. “Taking on one of the Marchande girls is not for the faint of heart.”
“Great pep talk, Coach.” Fred rolled his eyes. “Any other pearls of wisdom as we head into battle?”
“Yup.” Theo sent him a smirk. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”
CHAPTER TEN
“DON’T EAT THAT.” Meg smacked Amy’s hand away from the platter of bruschetta that was resting on the giant island in her industrial kitchen.
“Um, ow.” Amy rubbed the skin where her sister had slapped her, frowning. Warned away from the bruschetta, she reached instead for one of the deviled eggs.
Smack. “Don’t eat those, either.”
“I’m sorry,” she offered, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I thought that family dinner involved eating.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” Meg bustled over to the fridge and pulled out two more platters, wrapped in plastic. Balancing one on each hand, she brought them back to the island where Amy was leaning. Placing them on the stainless steel surface, she peeled away the plastic, revealing an assortment of chilled, marinated vegetables. “And don’t eat these, either.”
“Will I be fed at all this evening,” Amy wondered out loud, “or should I head down the street to Taco Bell?”
“Hello!” Beth swept into the large room, arms open and purple hair flying. Right behind her was her fiancé, Ford, who carried an expensive-looking bottle of wine that he handed to Meg. “Jo and Theo are just parking.”
Beth picked up a slice of bruschetta from the same platter that Amy had reached for. Amy waited for Meg to smack her hand, too, but nothing happened as Beth sank her teeth into the crusty, tomato and herb–topped bread.
“Yummy.” Beth gave Meg an approving nod.
“Try this one.” Meg sliced a chunk off a homemade loaf and topped it with something from a jar before handing it to Ford, who lifted it to his lips. “This one is eggplant.”
“Have I done something to piss you off lately?” Amy planted her hands on her hips. “Why do they get to eat and I don’t?”
“They’re choosing the appetizers for their wedding dinner.” Meg shared an exasperated glance with Beth. “I need to make sure they try everything so they can choose.”
“You’ve made enough food to feed an army,” Amy pointed out. “And don’t you want my input, too?”
“You? The woman who announced that just because all three of her sisters are heading to the altar didn’t mean she wanted to wallow in wedding details all the time?” Jo and Theo entered the kitchen, the door slamming behind them. They made a beeline for the food as Jo spoke. “Oh, are these the appetizers for Beth and Ford?”
John entered the kitchen then, swinging by the island to grab Meg around the waist and press a kiss into her neck. The oven timer went off, and Meg looked over her shoulder at Amy. “Can you grab those from the oven for me, Ames?”
Grumbling to herself, Amy did as she was asked. She grabbed a purple hot mitt from the counter. She pulled the steaming baking sheet of savory pastries from the hot depths of the oven, then placed them on the stainless steel counter. Turning around again, she tugged the oven mitt back off.
The three couples were clustered around the island, two by two. All were talking excitedly and laughing as they sampled the various things that Meg had prepared. Nobody asked for her opinion, or even looked to include her in the conversation at all.
For the first time in her entire life, Amy felt like an outsider among her own family.
Stung, she tossed the oven mitt back onto the counter. Prickles gathered behind her eyes, at the top of her nose, so she silently slid from the room. Grabbing her messenger bag from where she’d hung it, she slipped out the front door, settling herself on the top tier of the concrete steps.
The early evening air was cool and helped the tears that had threatened to retreat. Amy wasn’t a big crier—she actually couldn’t remember the last time she’d given in to tears—and she was embarrassed that she almost had inside. Sucking in big breaths of the crisp Boston air, she willed herself to calm down.
She and her sisters were close. They always had been. She knew them all well enough to know that none of them meant to make her feel excluded. The fact remained that she did, and she was tempted to jog down the street, catch the next bus and head on home. That way she wouldn’t have to listen to hours of wedding babble that would inevitably make her feel even more left behind. Or the inevitable jokes about each of her three sisters tossing their bouquets straight to her, because there would be no one else.
If she did that, though, she’d have to explain herself when the rest of the crew got home—the perils of still living at home. Instead, she loosened the ties of her bag and tugged out her sketchbook, then rooted around the bottom of her bag for a pencil.
Drawing was the one thing that soothed her when all else had failed. When she drew, she became so utterly absorbed in what she was doing that the here and now—the anxiety and hurt—faded away and she could just be.
She hadn’t been to Meg’s workspace for a few weeks, and in that time, the bower of cherry trees in the park across the street had bloomed. With her pencil, she outlined the tree branches as they reached up toward the evening sky as if in prayer, then shaded in the trunks. She contemplated penciling in the blossoms, so fluffy and full of promise, but decided she didn’t want the gray of the pencil lead to detract from the beauty of the blooms. Eyes still on the trees, she rummaged blindly through her bag for her pencil case,
where she knew she had a pastel the exact lavender-pink shade of the silky petals.
Balancing the pastel in her fingers, she pressed it to the paper of her sketchpad, adding the blossoms with light, feathery strokes. Her fingers flew expertly across the page, ignoring the approaching footsteps until someone moved directly in front of her, blocking her light.
“Do you mind?” she asked irritably, expecting one of Meg’s employees, or someone else who rented part of the industrial space. When a familiar hand moved into her line of sight, plucking the pastel from her fingers and nudging her hand to the side, her pulse quickened in her throat.
“Has anyone told you lately how good you are?” Amy looked up, unsurprised to find Fred standing in front of her. He was balanced on one of the lower steps, leaning on the wrought iron railing with his free hand tucked in his pocket.
“Not in the last hour or so.” Her throat went dry as she took him in. He was dressed down for the first time since he’d come back into her life, in jeans and a light sweater, with polished leather shoes. Her eye for detail told her that any one of those pieces had probably cost ten times what she’d spent on her entire outfit—a denim miniskirt and vintage concert tee she’d scored at a thrift store. Still, it suited him. In truth, it took her right back to the first time she’d ever seen him, in that dingy bar—the guy who’d tried to fit in but hadn’t quite been able to hide the layer of polish that came from his very pores.
“May I?” Rather than snatch the sketchpad from her lap, as people often felt was their right to do, he extended a hand in question. She looked at him silently for a moment, then placed it in his hand. He whistled softly as he looked from her quick sketch, then back to her face. “You did this just now? In a couple of minutes?”
“Well, yeah.” She shrugged under the weight of his admiration, not something she was used to. “It’s not something I’d hang in my gallery or anything. I was just blowing off some steam.”
“I love it.” He looked her in the eye, and she saw that his words were true. He ruffled the corners of the pad with her fingertips, as though itching to look at the rest of her work, and she snatched it back before he could.
She made a show of tearing the cherry tree piece from the perforated edge. She hoped it would distract him from the urge to see more work, because he’d only have to go back another ten or so pages to see sketches she’d done of him after she’d ridden him in her tattoo chair. She had no qualms about the fact that she’d drawn him in the nude—he had a fantastic body, after all.
What she didn’t want him to see was the emotion that might have leaked from her fingers to the page. She wasn’t ready to show that to anyone yet, not even herself.
Silently, she handed over the piece of paper on which she’d sketched the cherry tree. “You can have it if you want.”
He was silent for a moment as he studied the paper. Finally, he dragged his stare back up to her face, then placed the paper back in her lap.
“Going to sign it for me?”
The tension stretched out between them, thick and as delicious as it had been the night before. She could still feel the echoes of pleasure his fingers had pulled from between her legs.
And she was still more than a bit nervous about what he’d meant when he’d said that this time, they’d do things his way. It was in her nature to poke, though, so she went with her gut. Rather than scribble her name in the corner of the paper to sign it, she pressed it to her lips. A moment later she pulled away, a round, red-lipsticked kiss in place of a signature.
She looked at him as she handed it back and saw the same flicker of heat that had ignited low in her belly. She sucked in a deep breath, smelled expensive cologne and laundry detergent, and knew she was in trouble.
“What are you doing here?” She closed her sketchbook, tucking it back in her bag. Rubbing her hands over her skirt to rid them of the pastel dust, she finally noticed the market bag and bouquet that he’d set on the steps beside her when he’d approached. “What’s this?”
“Bribery.” He grinned sheepishly before swinging himself down to sit beside her. “I thought I’d bring out the big guns, since I might have guilt-tripped Theo into letting me crash your family dinner.”
“Bribery?” Her brow furrowed as she grabbed the bag from him and riffled through it. She huffed out a breath when she felt its heft. Fingers crinkling cellophane, she removed a gift bag, whistling when she lifted it up to eye its contents. “If this is for Meg, you’ve got her number. If you’re not careful, actually, she’ll dump John and marry you.”
“Pink salt, capers, kalamata olives, sun-dried tomatoes and a whole bunch of cheese.” Amy made a face, genuinely impressed. “Excellent choices for the food-loving chef. You’re observant.”
“I had some help,” he offered, shrugging off her compliment. “I, ah, asked my parents’ chef for some recommendations.”
“Your parents have a chef?” She wasn’t shocked by this—she’d grown up close to Theo, and when his Brazilian mother hadn’t been in the kitchen, they’d been known to hire the job out. Still, it was a little thorn on the stem of this moment, the reminder of just how different they were.
“Don’t do that,” he said, placing a hand on her knee. Warmth radiated out from the touch, and she wanted to nuzzle into his arms like a kitten, which was part of the problem. “Don’t pull away. Here, let me distract you.”
He thrust his other parcel into her face. The blossoms of the bouquet tickled her nose and she laughed.
“They’re beautiful,” she admitted, admiring the multicolored roses—she didn’t stop to count, but there had to be at least two dozen.
“Don’t get any ideas, now.” He bumped her shoulder with his own companionably. “Those are for your mom.”
He’d brought flowers for Mamesie? And had taken the time to select the perfect hostess gift for Meg? Against her better judgment, her heart did a funny little quiver in her chest as she realized the lengths he’d gone to here...just for her.
“She’ll love them.” She tried to keep her voice light. “Roses are her favorite.”
“How about you?” He took the bouquet back, sniffing at the flowers. “What’s your favorite?”
“I like roses, too.” She was a little disappointed, in the most irrational of ways, that the flowers weren’t for her after all. “Not red, though. There’s this orangey-pink color of them you see sometimes. Those are the ones I like.”
“Damn it. I was so close.” When he set Mamesie’s bouquet down, she saw that he’d had not one bundle of flowers, but two. The second was much smaller, a single rose with a spray of greenery, and this he handed over with another one of those sexy-as-sin smiles of his. “I guessed orange. Now I know.”
“I—what?” She looked from the blossom in her lap to Fred, then back to the flower. It was perfect, a true, sugary-soda orange, and smelled like nectarines. “This is for me?”
“Why do you look so surprised?” He reached out to toy with his fingers. “Haven’t you ever gotten flowers before?”
She hadn’t, but if she told him that, she’d be admitting the significance of this moment. Instead she pushed abruptly to her feet. Turning, she stood between his spread thighs, placing her hands on his shoulders for balance.
“I know you said we’re going to do things your way,” she started, arching an eyebrow, “but is it possible that your way might involve getting out of here?”
Placing his hands on her hips, he tugged her closer, then brushed his lips over the swells of her breasts, through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. She shivered as he dipped his thumbs beneath the waistband of her skirt and rubbed gently.
“Ever been on a bike?”
“Like...a community cruiser?” She was confused. “Not how I pictured you getting around.”
“Like a motorcycle, brat.” He ran those thumbs over her belly to meet in the middle, where he toy
ed with the button of her skirt. “Ever ridden one of those?”
“What kind of stereotypical tattoo shop owner would I be if I hadn’t?” She grinned at him, then gestured to her skirt. “I’m not exactly dressed for it, though. We might have to get up close and...personal.”
She yelped when he stood abruptly. Lifting her with him, he slung her over his shoulder and jogged down the steps.
“I’m counting on it.” She laughed like a loon as he carried her halfway down the block, leaving his packages behind on the front steps of Meg’s kitchen. When they reached his bike, he slid her slowly back down his body, and the journey down all those hard planes stole her breath.
Placing her back on her feet, he slid his hands up under the hem of her skirt to cup her ass. The street was quiet, though not deserted, but she didn’t care who saw as he massaged her skin, bared by a lacy thong.
His eyes on her, and hers on him, she hiked her skirt up to her hips before straddling the bike. She could feel his stare like a touch as it raked over her bare legs from ankle to hip, a sexy smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
“See something you like?” She deliberately echoed the words he’d once spoken to her, and his quick intake of breath told her he remembered. He closed the space between them, and she expected him to swing one of those long legs over the bike, to straddle it in front of her. Instead he opened a compartment and pulled out two helmets. Placing one on his head, he pulled out his phone, swiping and tapping, before dressing her in the matching one.
The one-hit wonder by ’80s music icon Tiffany flooded her ears through the helmet, and Amy laughed out loud with delight. She couldn’t see Fred’s mouth, but the crinkles around his eyes told her that he was smiling, too, as he climbed onto the bike in front of her. Reaching behind him, he took her hands and urged her to wrap her arms around his waist. She did, squeezing him tightly as he started the bike.
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