On The House (Caldwell Brothers Book 7)

by Colleen Charles

  He moves his hand between our bodies to strum my clit in time with his cock. I’m full, gloriously so, and my body tenses and curls in anticipation of the next release. I came so hard the last time, I can’t believe it’s possible that I’m going to come again all over this incredible man.

  But it’s happening.

  All I have to do is reach out and grab it. The climax is mine, just like he is. My pussy contracts and convulses all around him, pulling his own release from the depths of his body, my name on his lips.

  In the afterglow, my body feels wreathed in sacred flames, dancing and jumping across my skin until a single exhale leaves me sated and complete. A fountain of pure ecstasy just poured into the deepest parts of me.

  We stay on the floor, gasping and holding each other while considering all the words that remain unspoken.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lincoln

  As I walk through the doors of the Best of Both Worlds restaurant, Dixie the sous chef gives me a big smile. “Come on in, hon! Your brother’s waiting for you at his usual table.”

  I nod politely and head toward the back, taking notice of the opulent décor. Pristine white linen tablecloths, crystal chandeliers, servers dressed in black tie uniforms. When I was in a wheelchair and used to meet my brothers here, I always thought Dixie was being patronizing because of my condition, with her too-wide smile and her penchant for calling me “hon,” “darlin’,” “sweetheart,” and a host of other overly-familiar pet names. But since my situation changed, I’ve come to realize she’s just the kind of southern belle who talks to everyone that way. If anything, she’s been even more effusive since she was reunited with Hawk, her long-lost son.

  Life can be damn weird when you’re a Caldwell.

  Nixon sits at his favorite booth, looking like a character Frank Sinatra would play in an old movie. A swordfish steak sits in front of him, and another one waits for me. He always says he likes this specific seat because it faces the door, so no one can sneak up behind him. Personally, I think it’s just because he wants to make sure everyone who comes in sees him. Nixon’s not exactly the kind of guy to shy away from attention.

  Once Dixie disappears into the kitchen and her domain, I slide across from him and allow the comfort of the booth’s leather to envelope me. As I slide across from him, he looks me over quickly, flashes a million-dollar smile, and says, “So, you got laid recently. It’s the only thing that gives a man that cheap, useless look. Like his suit is wearing him, instead of him wearing his suit.”

  My water glass suspends in mid-air. Had I been drinking, I’d have spit it out in surprise. “I, uh…what?”

  “Oh, come on. Just looking at you, it’s obvious. The way you’re walking, the look in your eyes…so who is she? Should I meet her? Is she important? A condemned man deserves a conjugal visit and a last meal,” he gestures to the swordfish, “along with a cigarette and a blindfold.”

  I slap my water glass down on the white tablecloth, his cryptic words starting a thread of annoyance to slither up my spine. “Condemned? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Nix stabs a bit of fish with his fork. “Condemned. As in death row. As in not just being named Lincoln but ending up like him.”

  I lean back in the booth until my back can’t retreat any further. “Listen, can you knock off the Rat Pack routine and just say what you mean for a change?”

  We share a look only brothers can, a look that doesn’t need words to describe it. “I mean picking a fight with Dante Giovanetti. You know, there’s about a hundred less painful ways to commit suicide.”

  Ah, so that’s his beef. Anger flips my stomach over. I’m so damn sick and tired of being underestimated. It’s like Nix still sees me as his invalid little brother, who he had to raise like a son. “So what? You, Reagan, Carter, Ford…you’ve all gotten into it with him and lived to tell the tale. Why not me?”

  Nixon sighs. “Lincoln, you know why.”

  My fingers worry the tablecloth to keep from reaching across the table and grabbing my loving brother by the neck. “Sure. But I want to hear you say it.”

  He clears his throat of the emotion that starts to escalate. “We’ve always done everything we could to take care of you, to protect you.”

  Red dots float in front of my eyes. “Of course. Because I’m your poor, gimpy, defenseless baby brother, right? I’m not strong enough or smart enough to play in your league, even after you paid for the doctors to give me the full Frankenstein treatment.”

  Nixon closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing his temples. When he opens them again, he says, “You’re your own man. We all know that. Everything you’ve accomplished since the operations…that’s all been a testament to your strength and your smarts. You’re rich, you’re successful, and apparently, you’re even getting laid these days. Good for you. Now you want to blow it all by getting in Dante’s face? Fucker’s been dormant for years. Some days, I even forget about him. Why now? You think you’ve got something to prove?”

  I don’t answer. My blood surges through my veins, boiling so hot I feel like steam’s about to shoot out of my ears.

  “Hawk came to me,” Nixon continues gently. “He told me what he found out for you. I saw what happened at the ribbon-cutting, and the next thing I hear, you’ve actually agreed to work with Dante. It’s not hard to figure out your angle. You get close enough to him, you find evidence you can use against him, you make sure he goes to prison. I know it seems like a good plan, but trust me, you’re in over your head. Leave Dante to me.”

  Before I can stop it, I snap. Like a white-hot, rage-induced, emotional fit. “It seems like we’ve all ‘left Dante to you’ for a long time, but he just keeps coming back like a cockroach after the apocalypse, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s time someone else gave it a try. Someone younger.”

  Nixon gives me a stern glare. “You do not need to do this. Just walk away from him. He’s more dangerous than you know.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe I’m more dangerous than you know.” I get up from the table, tempering my itch to topple it onto Nixon’s lap along with the remainder of his meal. “Enjoy your swordfish. Mine too, for that matter. I’ve got a gangster to bring down, and I don’t have time for cuisine or condescension.”

  I can feel Nixon’s eyes on me with every step I take from the booth to the door, but I don’t look back once.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chloe

  “So, what do you think?” I beam my best smile at Lincoln.

  The tight, disapproving look on his face as he stares up at the ceiling tumbles my good mood straight into the ditch.

  After we made love, I came to the model home to sit and think for a while, taking my virtual reality goggles. I often make a habit of the practice while working on projects. When I feel pensive, I like to sit in the middle of the house I’m working on and let it whisper to me, refining and clarifying my thought processes. Obviously, since my vagina burst out of retirement like a geriatric with a second wind, I have a lot to ponder.

  As darkness falls across the Vegas skyline, I notice for the first time that the lighting in the house seems weak and cheap. The pale and yellowish bulbs cast everything in a sickly and depressing hue I haven’t noticed when daylight streams in through the windows. The thought of seeing that on TV – of being held responsible for it in front of millions of viewers – makes me nauseous with unexpected anxiety.

  The first time I noticed some of the shoddy workmanship, I ordered an ornate five-tier chandelier and had it installed in the living area. I figured it would make the lighting near the front door more impressive, which would at least be a good start. After all, I could always bring in additional lamps and fixtures later in the process, if necessary.

  I didn’t tell Lincoln because I thought it would be a nice surprise – a sweet, playful gesture, something he’d appreciate after the special night we’d shared. How could he or Dante disapprove such a brilliant piece for the custom home? Seems like ever since we met,
I’ve wanted to please the man. Probably because it’s hard to do.

  I worry my bottom lip with my teeth because gauging his expression, I think I may have been mistaken again.

  “You didn’t tell me you were doing this,” he says quietly, craning his neck to look at the five-figure chandelier.

  “Well, no.” The flat tone in his voice makes me jittery, especially as the crew from Million-Dollar Listings – Las Vegas sets up their cameras and audio equipment all around us. It almost feels like I’m surrounded by a firing squad with the video footage serving as ammunition.

  “You should have told me,” he insists. “It’s a big change.”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise.” The words sound hopelessly lame as they come out. Like I’m a puppy begging for a scrap of affection. It’s a struggle to watch him get upset, not wait for his eyes to soften just for me. I fight to get this desperate need for validation to stand down.

  We’re equals.

  Partners.

  I clear my throat. “I thought you’d like it. I mean, you’re an extremely talented realtor, so you must have noticed the drab lighting in this house. If I didn’t know better by the custom Armani, I’d swear that Dante’s designers shop at Menards. I figured you’d be happy if I took the initiative to create a masterpiece inside this foyer since it serves as the buyer’s first impression of the entire property.”

  “Before the first potential buyer shows up for the tour,” he warns, his pathetic attempt at a grin slipping.

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “Right before the buyer shows up. Minutes before, so I don’t have time to look over it in advance and make sure it’s right for the house.” The edge in his voice sharpens with every word. “You actually thought I’d be happy about you making a unilateral decision like that and cutting me out of the process completely. Not to mention how a purchase like a five-tier chandelier would blow the staging budget sky high.”

  “It’s just a chandelier,” I mutter, embarrassed. “It’s not like I built a new wing on the house or anything.”

  I begin to see his point – what if he’d installed a Bose speaker system in the great room – but his shitty attitude reminds me of the first time we met. Nothing about this interaction warms me from the inside out. Instead, it drags me back in time to a place I’d left in the past.

  Worse, it feels like the night of intimacy between us never happened. Does he regret what we did?

  He regrets me. Us. This.

  Jesus, how the hell can I deal with something like that? I’ve never gotten this far in terms of a potential relationship with a man, and he’s already rejecting me? What’s wrong with him?

  What’s wrong with me?

  “It’s still a big, eye-catching piece, and it fundamentally changes the lighting in the first part of the house the buyer will see. We’re supposed to be working together on this project every step of the way, to make sure we’re in sync and everything is absolutely perfect. If we start making important decisions without consulting each other first, we’ll have conflicting design elements, and it’ll look like we don’t know what we’re doing.”

  As he says this, Lincoln keeps glancing up at the chandelier. He either wants to swing from it, or he’s afraid it’ll suddenly plummet down on our heads. What’s he really upset about?

  “Lincoln, is there something you’re not telling me?” I try to sound as gentle as possible. It’s not easy. The way he acts like a censuring father has me feeling nervous and defensive.

  He seems genuinely taken aback by the question. “About what?”

  I shove my hands on my hips and step away from him. I might as well put physical distance between us because the emotional distance feels insurmountable. “About anything. The chandelier, the house. Us. Is there something else that’s upsetting you? Something I should know about, maybe?”

  He seems flustered, the color rising in his cheeks. “No, it’s not…I don’t know what ‘us’ means yet. Do you?”

  “No,” I answer truthfully. “But after what happened the other night, I’d like for us to figure that out together. Unless, you don’t want to.”

  “I want to.” His exasperated tone sounds a little too vehement for my liking. “But meanwhile, we have this extremely important thing to work on, and we need to make sure we’re on the same page so we don’t screw it up. So no more decisions without me, okay? Not when we won’t have enough time to undo them if they don't work.”

  “Okay. I understand. I’m sorry.” I almost ask again whether there’s more to it, just to make sure. But even if there’s something else, I get the distinct impression that he’s not willing to share that with me right now. I guess I’ll just have to wait and hope he chooses to open up a bit more when he’s not feeling so hostile.

  A woman in her mid-thirties with a bleached buzz cut and firm, tattooed biceps steps out from behind one of the larger cameras. There are rows of silver rings lining the outer cartilage of her ears, and one in her left nostril as well.

  “Okay, Lincoln? Chloe? My name is Nell Foss, and I’ll be directing today.” She pumps our hands briskly, her palms dry and calloused. “The prospective buyer is right outside the front door, waiting for us to call action. You guys ready to get started?”

  “Sure.” I plaster on a bright smile. “Should we wait for Andy Cohen to get here?”

  “Oh, Andy won’t be involved today. In fact, he’ll barely be here at all. Mostly, he’ll be introducing the episodes when they air, maybe making a cameo every now and then to goose the ratings. He’s a very busy guy, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “That makes sense,” Lincoln agrees, nodding. I can tell he’s a bit disappointed, though. For that matter, so am I. I’m feeling less important than I thought I would.

  “Don’t worry.” Nell throws two fingers into the air. “I’m way cooler than he is anyway. You guys will love me. Promise.” She’s probably used to this kind of reaction, and she handles it gracefully. It’s almost impossible not to immediately like her. “Should we take our positions, then?”

  Lincoln nods.

  “Righteous. So, Lincoln, I’ll want you by the door, but just out of frame.” She takes him by the arm and gently leads him to the right spot. Lincoln clearly doesn’t like to be manhandled, and for a moment, it looks like he might object or flinch away from her. Instead, he takes a deep breath and goes along with it.

  “When we call action, the buyer will knock on the door. Then you’ll walk into frame and open it, just like you would if you were showing a house and there weren’t any cameras. Oh, speaking of which, try not to look directly into the lenses, okay? I know that sounds stupid and obvious, but believe me, once the cameras are rolling and getting right up in your face, it’s hard for most people not to glance into them. It’s human nature. Just…don’t do it. You’ll have plenty of time to talk about your thoughts and opinions in the individual confessionals.”

  I almost forgot about the damn confessionals. Wondering if that’s the moment I’ll find out how Lincoln really feels about me, I tamp down the anxiety threatening to gurgle up.

  “Don’t be human. Right. Got it.” Lincoln grimaces, and again, I feel that urge to soothe him, like I would my boyfriend. But he’s not. Neither one of us want to define it yet.

  Nell laughs heartily. “Exactly!”

  “Where do you want me?” I ask, feeling timid all of the sudden.

  “Here, let me check.” Nell licks her thumb and flips through a sheaf of notes, frowning down at them. “Oh, here you are. You’re the one who staged the place, right?”

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “Wonderful job you did here. Wonderful. It definitely feels lived-in and relatable. Clearly, you know your stuff. Um, the realtor is the one who generally shows the house, though, so for now, we’re going to keep you off camera. We might do some mini-interview bits with you later on about specific aspects of the décor, depending on what the buyer brings up. Sound good?”

  “Certainly.” As
she butters me up with the compliments about my staging so I won’t be unhappy about not being on camera, she charms me enough to make this tactic work.

  Lincoln takes up a position near the front door.

  Nell glances at the monitor screen near the cameras to make sure the shot is lined up, then looks up at him. “Have you ever been on TV before?”

  He hesitates, then shakes his head.

  “You’ll do fine. Just remember to breathe and act natural. You’ve got the buyer’s information, right?”

  “Of course,” he replies archly. “I’m a realtor.”

  “Damn right you are,” she trumpets encouragingly. “Okay, places everyone. And…action!”

  The tell-tale knock sounds at the door, and Lincoln opens it, revealing a stocky, well-dressed man in his forties with receding blond hair and watery blue eyes.

  “Walter Tipton?” Lincoln asks.

  “That’s right.” Walter shakes Lincoln’s hand like a firing piston, grinning and blatantly peering at the cameras as they come in closer.

  I look over at Nell to see if she’s going to call cut, but she just nods to herself, unsurprised, and keeps filming. Again, she’s probably used to this kind of thing, and why not? It’s reality television, so it’s not like everything has to be smooth. The viewers want all of this to look rough and unrehearsed, right? That’s why they tune in.

  “I’m Lincoln Caldwell. We spoke on the phone.” To his credit, Lincoln seems able to completely ignore the cameras, focusing entirely on Walter. “Ready to see the house?”

  Walter glances around. “Absolutely! Based on the pictures and stats you sent, I’m very excited.”

  Lincoln leads Walter to the center of the living room. As he does, he keeps shooting apprehensive looks at the chandelier. Damn, how upset is he about that, that he can’t stop gawking up at it? Did I really screw up that badly?