Love Lock (The Love Lock Duet Book 2)

by S. M. West

  “He’s a friend.” I take a gulp of my wine.

  “You already said that.” He waits expectantly.

  “Mason Riggs was my manager, mentor, and friend when I worked for the Rockets.”

  He nods, twisting to rest his back against the edge of the counter. “Why’s he texting you?”

  “Why are you drilling me?”

  I don’t mean to be defensive, but I’ve had enough of the third degree with Brock to last me a lifetime.

  “Just asking.” His tone is so casual, friendly even, and I feel like shit.

  “He’s helping me.”

  Mason Riggs is one of the few people I trust. Matt might have helped but he’s too close to Brock, too close to the team.

  “How so?”

  “He helped me find a lawyer.” I turn off the burner. “Brock was served with divorce papers, that’s what the text was about.”

  “Good. I’m glad there was someone to help you. I hate thinking you were alone.” He squeezes my shoulder.

  My heart flips and for a split second I contemplate putting myself all out there. Once again. A second chance with Drew.

  I open my mouth, but my throat instantly dries, and no sound comes out. Perhaps it’s a sign that this, the two of us here and now, has to be enough.

  “Yes, I’m grateful for Riggs.” We share a smile and he starts for the sliding door to bring in our food.

  I’m grateful to be here. I’m grateful for you.

  “Let’s eat.” He carries a plate filled with food to the dining table.

  A few snowflakes filter in with him, some sprinkled in his hair, and his lopsided grin throws me off kilter. I warn myself to not get swept up in Drew Hayes, not the way I was before.

  If Drew left or looked me over like before… my heart couldn’t take it again. I barely made it out in one piece last time. And I’m not so sure my sanity would hold either.

  21

  Drew

  Daylight fades fast and the lilac sky darkens into slate as Pippa sets up the Scrabble board on the kitchen table and I make hot chocolate. The past two weeks have been phenomenal. We’ve somehow managed to blend our past with something completely new and exciting. Neither of us have broached the discussion around exactly what it is we are doing, but I can’t help but think we’re on the same page.

  My phone rings and it’s Gretchen, again. Shit. She’s been keeping me apprised of developments as they prepare for trial even though I’ve made it clear I’m not coming back.

  “Take it,” Pippa says, trying to hide her disappointment.

  I’ve ignored my work calls, letting them go to voicemail when I’m with her, and I make a point of returning them when I’m alone.

  “I’ll ignore it.” I’m about to silence the phone when her gaze locks with mine.

  “Take it. She’ll only keep calling.” She leaves for the kitchen before I can say another word.

  The call is more than thirty minutes and while I appreciate that they want my counsel, every minute is excruciating and another brick in the wall Pippa is trying to keep erected between us despite how many nights and days we spend together.

  Finn wasn’t the only thing to get in the way of our relationship the last time around. I was an up-and-coming prosecutor, desperate to prove myself, and I hungered for the game-changing cases.

  She was supportive, but I made it hard to see where my work ended and our relationship began. The no-shows or missed dates on top of my confusion about Finn only created tension and turmoil in our relationship. And if I’m being honest with myself, I also used my work as an excuse. An excuse to stay away from her while I tried to make sense of all the crap with Finn.

  I see the past for what it was and I was to blame. I won’t make the same mistake twice. I’d sooner quit my job than lose my chance with her.

  “Pip, I’m sorry.” I slip the phone into my pocket.

  She pivots to face me and I see a slow cooker resting beside her on the counter. Her expression is unreadable. Flat. Shrugging, she offers no assurances that she’s okay or she understands, nor do I expect it.

  “There’s been a development in the case, and they wanted my opinion.”

  There’s another lift of her shoulder before she dumps her now-cold drink in the sink.

  “Scarlett’s the defendant’s lawyer,” I say, knowing she’ll understand the significance of the development.

  Scarlett’s an ex from years ago. We broke up because of Pippa. Well, not Pippa, exactly, but Scarlett knew my heart belonged to another. She realized my feelings for Pippa before I even dared to admit them to myself. Our split was amicable and since we’re both criminal attorneys, on different sides of the courtroom, our paths cross occasionally.

  “How is she? What’s she up to these days?” she asks, now somewhat interested.

  “Married, two kids. Happy, I think.” I don’t know for sure if she’s happy but last we spoke, which was years now, Scarlett was glowing. Marriage and motherhood agree with her.

  “She sent me a message when I got married.”

  “Oh, yeah? Great. Well, because of our history, they wanted to talk to me about…” I stop and notice she’s staring blankly at me, no longer caring what I have to say. “Look. I wasn’t going to pick up the call, you told me to take it.”

  “Like you needed much encouragement. You were on long enough for me to make a meal.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I rub at the back of my neck and angrily drop my hand. “I’m not working the case and I won’t change my mind. I swear.” I say everything I think she needs to hear, pulling from similar disagreements we’ve had in the past.

  “Even if you did, it doesn’t matter. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “You may think I owe you nothing, but I do. And besides, that isn’t even the point. I want to give you everything.”

  Her chest visibly shudders and her palm moves to rest where her heart is as she stares fixedly at me. She seems unsure. Untrusting. She’s speechless for a few beats.

  “I don’t want to argue with you.”

  “Neither do I.” My gaze lands on the game board neatly packed in its box. “What happened to Scrabble?”

  “I put it away.” She folds the dishtowel and places it on the rack. “I made chili for dinner. It’s going to need a few hours.”

  “Want to go for a run?”

  Night has fallen and she hasn’t run in days, but it isn’t as if she’s lacking for cardio. We’ve been making up for it by spending hours, daily, getting reacquainted.

  “Oh, so you’re done with work?” she asks with a mix of snark and playfulness; light sparks in her eyes.

  I bark out a laugh, happy that she’s crushed the crappy tension between us. I want to hug her, bury myself deep inside her and never let her go.

  “Smartass.” Pulling her to me, I lightly tap her ass and she squeals, beaming. “You want to go for a run, or we could, you know.” I arch a brow suggestively. The corners of her lips twitch up and her eyes soften.

  “Let’s go for a run, horn dog.” She pecks my lips. “We’ll save that for dessert.”

  We head for the road instead of a trail, and the air is cold and crisp. There’s a crescent moon with just enough of a glow to light our path and with our reflective running jackets, we’re set.

  At first, our pace is comfortable, and I follow Pippa’s lead. We round a bend in the road, hugging the edge at a good clip when she stumbles, trying to abruptly stop because of something ahead. No more than ten feet in front of us lies a dog on the road, whimpering. It looks like it’s been hit by a car.

  “Oh my god.” She falls to her knees, panting, beside the animal as her hands cautiously inch their way around its fur. It’s a German Shepherd. Beautiful, shaking, and obviously in pain.

  “Pip, wait, be careful.” I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket. “I’ll call for help.”

  While on the line, I scan the road, left then right, keeping an eye out for cars. We’re on a da
ngerous spot of road, where a vehicle could take the corner too fast and hit us. It’s easy to see how the dog was struck, but how could the driver just keep going? They would have known they’d hit something.

  As if echoing my thoughts, she cries, “How could someone just leave? The poor thing is hurting.” She shakes, hunched protectively over the furry creature.

  Kneeling at her side, I wrap my arm around her to keep her warm and hopefully stave off any shock at what we’ve discovered.

  “Help’s on its way,” I say soothingly and hope they come quickly.

  The dog yelps at nothing in particular, more than likely pain, and her hands fly into the air, not wanting to cause the animal more discomfort.

  “Hey, boy, you’re gonna be okay,” she whispers softly. “You’re strong. Just breathe through it, you can do this. Hang on. You can do this.” The way she says it, with a quiver of conviction in her voice, sends a chill down my spine.

  It’s as if she’s encouraging not only the dog, but herself. It’s as if she’s said those very words many times before to herself. It’s as if she’s the one beaten, hurt, and alone. Visions of her abuse run rampant in my mind and something raw and feral awakes within me.

  Instead of losing my shit or leaving right now to kill Brock Sullivan, I cling to her shaking body. She’s safe in my arms. I won’t let anyone hurt her ever again. And then it hits me—this dog needs to make it. For both its sake and hers.

  “Drew, help needs to get here quickly. His breathing doesn’t sound so good,” she says as flashing lights break through the darkness, coming to a stop near us.

  Reluctant to leave her side but knowing she won’t leave the dog, I fill in the police and then we stand back and watch, hoping the animal will live. The dog is taken to an emergency animal hospital not far from here, and thanks to its collar, the owners are notified.

  We give our statement to the authorities, introduce ourselves to the fraught owners when they arrive and then wait with them to hear from the vet. The waiting is a blur and Pippa alternates between calm and controlled, to withdrawn and muted.

  I struggle with trying to get images of her hurt and alone out of my mind. The only solace I find comes from her when I least expect it.

  The waiting room is small, and we give the parents and two kids—the owners of the German Shepherd, Duke—their pick of the seating in the waiting room. Once they are settled, only one is left. Pippa guides me to the chair, pushing me to sit, and then she curls her hand around my neck and crawls into my lap like she belongs there. The churning in my gut settles and I hold this strong and compassionate woman close to me.

  “He’s going to make it,” I murmur with my lips lightly grazing the shell of her ear. I don’t know this for sure, but we both need to hear it.

  She sticks to me and even with a stiff body and aching muscles, there’s no other way I’d have it. Finally, hours later, the vet’s assistant comes out to tell us that Duke is going to make it. He’s stable.

  One of Duke’s owners is kind enough to drive us back to my place. We’re shaken and exhausted. The chili is long since cooked and with no appetite, we seek sleep and head up to shower. Together.

  Wordlessly, we wash away the fear and morbidity of the night. Of seeing another being’s pain and feeling so helpless. I understand more than ever why she’s changed. Why the girl I once knew is hidden or buried beneath what she’s had to battle. And the hard reality of how fragile life is smacks me in the face. There’s no denying how quickly things can take a turn for the worse. I’ve already got regrets when it comes to Pippa, and I’m done wasting time.

  She sees me.

  Sees me like no one ever has.

  Even as a young girl, she saw inside me, through me. She understood our bond before I did. She makes my heart ache. Truly. That’s how much I love her. I feel like my chest has been ripped apart from loving her, having her, and losing her, and now she’s here… my chance to have her again. But for how long? We haven’t made promises or reconciled the past.

  With hot water beating down on us, our bodies entwine, seeking comfort and solace. She clings to me, her hot mouth sucking on the flesh of my neck as if she needs my taste to live. Through our bodies we convey all that we can’t or fear to say with words. We need each other. Want this. Us.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I whisper, staring hungrily into her eyes.

  “Do you remember how I begged my parents for a dog when I was younger?” A child-like smile, bright and innocent, plays at her lips.

  “Of course,” I say, remembering the name she picked out for her desperately-hoped-for dog. “Jellybean. They were your favorite candy, so much so you hoarded them and wouldn’t share, not even with me. Then I found your stash and that’s when you told me about wanting a dog and that you’d call him or her Jellybean.”

  “You remember.” Awe coats her words and watery eyes.

  “How could I forget? You were so determined to make a dog bed out of jellybeans, and it didn’t matter how much Finn told you that you were silly, you swore you’d show him.”

  “It was kind of silly. There’s no way I could make a bed and besides, even if I could, I’d have eaten them.”

  A light blush spreads across her cheeks and we both laugh. She attempts to escape my arms, but I hold tight.

  “I thought it was cute.” My lips lightly peck the tip of her nose and she sighs. “Did you ever get a dog?”

  I wonder if she had one in California, hoping maybe there was at least one thing good from her time there.

  “Nope. Still a dream. Brock—” She pauses, unsure whether to finish her sentence, but I look on encouragingly. “He doesn’t like dogs.”

  “Do you still want one?”

  With a final squeeze to her waist, I release her and turn off the now-cooling water.

  “Yes, but I need to settle down before getting one. A dog needs a home and stability, you know?”

  I hand her a towel and help her from the shower. Nodding, I secure a towel around my waist, and then pat down her body with the thick Egyptian cotton. She swallows uncomfortably at my intimate gesture, her eyes still glistening with unshed tears. She doesn’t utter a word.

  The pads of her trembling fingertips sweep across my damp bottom lip and I shiver, swearing I see a spark of reluctant deference in her impermeable gaze. But it’s gone so quickly it’s like I imagined it and my doubt or hope or whatever it is adds to the burning pressure in my chest.

  “I’ve fallen hard for you, Pip.” Her breath catches, pupils dilating, and her reaction emboldens me. “I fell for you years ago and...” I stop, letting all that I did wrong linger between us.

  I can’t give voice to it, not now with our wet, naked bodies only inches apart and our hearts so eager, well at least mine is, to join.

  “I love you so much and want you so badly.”

  “Drew, I want you. Take me to bed,” she murmurs, her lips against mine, dropping her towel and grabbing my face.

  Her soft, damp curves are flush against my body and more than anything, I want to push her, to make her say something. Something meaningful. Something honest. Even if it’ll hurt. I need her to open up to me. Even with her in my bed, in my arms, she’s still closed off. There’s still a vast divide between us that I can’t seem to cross. An invisible wall around her heart that I’m unable to breach.

  “Is this how it’s going to be?” I ask, disappointed and irritated at myself, more than anything else because I’m to blame.

  I may have her body, but her heart isn’t mine.

  22

  Pippa

  I should have left the bathroom, packed my bags, and headed to Toronto for fear of losing my heart and head all over again. Drew’s real and raw confession—my worst fear and greatest desire—sent my mind into a tailspin. I stood there stunned, silent. We never did make it to the bed. We had sex right there in the bathroom.

  “Put your leg up, baby.” He gently lifts my outstretched leg until my foot and calf re
st on the bathroom counter. “That’s it.”

  With one hand on my hip, steadying me, his other roams the backs of my knee, thigh, and ass. His touch is feather light, but with enough pressure to ignite the mad fluttering low in my belly that settles between my legs. His fingers ghost over my exposed sex, skirting where I want him to touch me.

  Rubbing and squeezing one ass cheek and then the other, his fingers dig into my flesh, and I blush, staring at myself in the mirror—naked, eyes wild and lips swollen, dying to be fucked.

  “God, Pip, your ass is perfection.” He always was an ass man.

  His hungry eyes find mine with his palm now splayed on my ass cheek, circling slowly. Building heat on the outside and in.

  Boom.

  He slaps my skin, and I jump, eyes rounding and bright like the sun. The sting is deliciously hot and sharp, both pleasure and pain, and he follows immediately with soothing rubs to my now-burning flesh.

  “Shit,” he grits out, his features darkening, tensing, and he stops the ministrations to my backside. The anguish and regret in his gaze hit me.

  “No. It’s not the same.” My tone is breathy and wanting.

  I grab his arm and snake his hand between my open legs.

  “Feel me.” I’m drenched. Slick and needy. “This is all you. Don’t you dare stop.”

  And he does exactly that. His breath hitches as he buries himself inside of me and I match his rhythm, meeting each thrust of his hips with a twirl of my own.

  “Fuck, Pippa. You destroy me. Each time is better than the last. There’s no way I’m letting you walk away from me.”

  Our gazes collide in the mirror; one of his hands grips my breast and the other holds my hip as he drives into me. His words, too, impale me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he doesn’t have a choice. I will walk away before my heart breaks. But until then, I will greedily fill the reservoir of my heart and head with new and wonderful memories of Drew. Of us. For the day we are no more.