A rare smile pulled at his lips. "What a remarkable gift it is to get on your good side."
Shaking off his words as I moved toward the doors, I called, "If I see Cole, I'll send him your way."
I slipped inside, careful to keep my steps silent against the concrete floors. It was wild to think this old cider house was ready for its debut after all these months of work and planning, all while welcoming a newborn baby into our lives.
As I ducked down the hall toward the distillery's offices and private rooms, I found Nate marching toward me. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows and his collar was open, a necktie dangling from his back pocket. All he needed was a tweed vest to complete his barkeep chic look.
"Where are you sneaking off to now?" he asked.
"Sneaking? Me?" I asked, feigning all the shock in the world. "Never."
We shared a laugh and I skimmed a glance over the fully grown man we referred to as our foster child. These days, he managed the Galley while also tending to the distillery's gardens. Much like Jackson and Annette, Nate was our family. He was part of us.
"Do you need anything?" he asked.
"You'd know if I did." I reached up, brushed some dust from his short beard. "What is this? Have you been rolling around in an attic? Don't you have better things to do, Nathan?"
"Rolling around on the floor," he replied. "I was fixing one of the refrigerators at the tavern."
"That doesn't sound like any fun."
Shaking his head, he said, "It wasn’t, but I got it patched up. That's all I care about."
"The next time you're rolling around on the floor, please try to have fun while you do it." I patted his forearm. "Perhaps you'll meet someone who shares those interests this evening. You know what they say about single women and weddings."
Here I was, thirty-five years old, living in my hometown, and meddling my ass off as mothers have since the dawn of time. Even in my worst nightmares, I'd never imagined this would be my life.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
"Don't start with that again, Brooke," Nate warned. "I appreciate your concern, but I can't get involved with anyone. Not yet."
"I know, sweetie. I'm just saying this"—I circled both hands at his tightly bunched shoulders and stiff jaw—"might benefit from a night of rolling around on the floor with someone." Before he could respond, I held up a finger, silencing him. "Do you want me to explain how one-night stands work? I will. I'll give you the overview right now. Better yet, I'll grab Annette. We'll do it together."
"Please don't." Nate shook his head. "None of that is necessary. None of it at all. Not a single word.“
"Let me know if you change your mind," I said, backing down the hall.
"I promise you, I won't," he called.
"But if you do," I shouted back.
"But I won't," he replied, his laugh echoing after him.
I stepped into the room designated for wedding preparations. Wrapped bouquets sat in low vases with just enough water to keep them perky. Hairspray and makeup littered the tabletop.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, smoothing my hands down the long dress. I never would've selected this style for myself, but Annette convinced me to try it on and the rest was history. I looked different now, my hips wider and my breasts fuller, but I recognized myself. I was my kind of perfect.
From the hallway, I heard, "Where is my wife? No, I've been out there already. This place isn’t that big. I should be able to find one tiny woman without—”
The door opened and I met Jed's gaze in the mirror. My lips pulled up in a smile.
“There you are,” he said, our son squirming against his chest. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
My husband’s large hand covered the entirety of the baby’s back, and if that wasn’t enough to arouse me in the strangest ways, the burp cloth over his shoulder sealed the deal. Another bit of strange-but-true sources of arousal: my husband’s wedding ring.
The baby, the towel, and the ring. Fuck me. It wasn’t even fair.
“I heard you,” I replied, holding out my hands for Elliott. “Is he hungry again?”
Jed crossed the room and shifted the infant to my arms. Elliott was a sweet, squishy ball of baby with my eyes and his father’s hair and coloring.
“Much like everyone else around here, he just wants your attention.” He leaned in, kissed my forehead. “This production is nice for Jackson and Annette, but I’m so fucking happy I married you in the backyard last month.”
I never would’ve chose this place or these people for myself, but now I couldn’t imagine choosing anything else. “Me too.”
Thank you for reading Far Cry! I hope you enjoyed Brooke and JJ. Keep reading for a sneak peak of the next Talbott’s Cove novel—Rough Sketch!
After a thorny pause, I asked, "How is your meal?"
He bobbed his head as he savored a bite of dosa. "Excellent. Best I've had in—I don't know—years. And I think that was in Mexico City."
"Mexico City has amazing Indian food." I hummed in agreement. "Whenever I'm traveling, I try to sneak in stops at local Indian restaurants. I have an ongoing samosa study."
I watched a warm, cheerful smile brighten his face and crinkle his eyes. "What's this samosa study involve?"
I pressed the edge of my fork into the uttapam, suddenly and irrationally shy about my multi-continent cataloging of Indian cuisine. "I'm not sure whether it's an atavistic desire or callback to my childhood." I paused, studied my tray. "We didn't eat out when I was a child. We didn't have the money for restaurants and my parents didn't enjoy the local favorites. But on special occasions, my parents loaded us into the car and we'd drive to different cities in the area. Greenville, Spartanburg, Asheville. Athens, once. We'd always go out for Indian and meet the Desi people in that area. And now, well, I just—I tend to judge cities by the quality of their samosas…and other dishes."
He made a sound. A rumbly, growly, throaty sound. Somehow, I knew it was one of approval. "Yeah? Any surprises?"
"I'm not sure about surprises." I sampled the uttapam. I loved these savory pancakes topped with tomatoes and onions. That they constituted a traditional south Indian breakfast mattered little to me. If they were crisp and fresh, I'd eat them any time of day. "There are Desi people all around the world and many of them make superb food." I gave him a pointed nod. "Just as there are French and Brazilian people everywhere and some of them choose to carry on their cultures in most delicious ways."
"Point taken." He drummed my wrist again. This time, he went to the trouble of dragging his fingertips over the back of my hand and staring into my eyes while he did. So damn arrogant. "But I still want to know your favorites."
I thought for a moment. "Albuquerque. Egypt, outside of Cairo. Beijing. Then again, there are no bad meals in Beijing."
"Haven't been."
I tipped my chin down. "Now, that's surprising. I figured you'd gone everywhere worth going."
Shaking his head, he said, "South and Central America, sure. Western Europe, yes. Portions of Africa, mostly northern. As far as Asia and much of North America, I have a lot of ground to cover. I don't know much outside the southwest."
I pointed my fork at him. It was rude but I found myself wanting to be rude with him, just a bit. "You don't have much an accent."
He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. "Neither do you."
"I grew up here." I waved at the table. "Not California, but South Carolina. I'm American."
"Doesn't South Carolina saddle its progeny with a loose-tongued twang?"
I thought back to my pre-college self. Before Stanford, the Bay Area, and Silicon Valley stripped the south from me. Not that I missed it. South Carolina was the place my parents lived but it wasn't fundamental to my identity the way some of peers held California or Colorado or Texas fundamental to their identities.
"Some. Doesn't Brazil do something of the same?"
"No twang with the Portuguese, querida." He c
huckled, drew his index finger over my knuckles. "Whichever accent I had, I lost at boarding school."
I watched as he dragged a bit of naan through the remains of several dishes, blurring all sauces and spices into one savory scoop. "Tell me, Mr. Guillmand." I grinned as the name bristled over him. "How are you finding California?"
He seesawed his hand. "I got here, didn't I? I can handle a map."
"That's not what I meant, you unbearable man."
He shrugged, held up his hands, rested his leg between both of mine. His jeans were rough against my unadorned skin, almost overwhelming, but I kept that reaction off my face. He eyed the gulab jamun on my tray, pointed. "What's that? They smell like flowers."
"Rosewater." I tore one in half and offered it to him. He accepted, but not without curling his fingers around my wrist and eating from my hand. "It's similar to a doughnut hole, but for dessert."
He sucked the sweetness right off my fingers and he did it while the VCs gaped at us. More than one Slack channel was blowing up this evening. "Delicious," he murmured, seemingly immune to our audience.
"Mmhmm." I gulped back a groan. "If they weren't boiling hot from the fryer, I'd eat them before anything else."
Gus tilted his head to the side, brought my thumb to his lips. "I'd eat you before anything else, Miz Malik."
An Excerpt from Hard Pressed
"You sit here," I ordered, unbuckling my duty belt. "I have to—uh—handle a few things."
First order of business: adjusting the erection hammering away at my trousers. Next up, pulling every curtain shut. That would probably set off alarm bells of its own with the locals, but that was an issue for another day. Once the house was adequately buttoned up and my gear and firearm were stowed in the safe, I poured a glass of water for Annette and snatched a banana from the fruit bowl.
That was when things went pear-shaped.
Annette wasn't in the living room anymore. She was right behind me, standing in the middle of my kitchen, bare-ass naked. My fingers tightened around the banana. "Annette," I warned. "What—what are you doing?"
"I might be fragile," she purred, swaying a bit as she stepped closer to me, "but that doesn't mean I always want to be treated like I am."
I was working hard at keeping my eyes above her chest. I had a peripheral awareness of her nudity but I'd yet to allow myself the kind of long, quenching gaze at her lush curves. Goddamn, I wanted to look. I wanted to drop to my knees and press my face to the soft lines of her belly, drag my fingers up her calves and grab her ass like I meant it. I wanted to feel her spine arch under my hands and her body tighten around me. I wanted to get lost between her legs and never, never find my way out.
Clumps of pulverized banana filled my palm, and I turned away. "I'll get you something to wear," I said over my shoulder. I tossed the fruit in the garbage and then rinsed my hands at the sink, but I knew she was watching me. I felt the intensity of her stare on my skin, and I wanted to give it right back to her. I wanted it more than anything.
Turning, I said, "Annette—"
She wasn't hearing it. She flew into my arms and pressed her lips to mine, and for the second time tonight, I was paralyzed. Dumbstruck and frozen in place. But then my body and brain returned to me in pieces. I sighed into her kiss, forgetting my job, my duty, myself. She tasted of liquor and juice, and something succulent and special all her own. I couldn't help myself. I curled my arms around her torso, backed her against the refrigerator, and rocked myself into the valley of her parted legs.
I stayed right there, trapping her between the hard lines of the refrigerator and my body while I drank in every ounce she offered up. I couldn't even process the glory of her naked skin under my hands. It was one gift too many.
Annette broke away first, turning her head a few degrees and hiccup-giggling against my cheek. Then her hand slithered down my back and she slapped my ass.
At first, I was stunned into silence. That was becoming my default reaction to this woman. But then I remembered she was sloppy drunk, and I wasn't the type of man who capitalized on that condition.
Her palm cracked over my backside again, and another hiccup-giggle rang out. "You're so…hard," she whispered.
I surrendered to her words rather than my judgment and rutted against her core. If she wanted to know something about hard, I was happy to illustrate. "You have no idea," I replied. "Not a clue."
She tipped her head back against the refrigerator and gazed up at me, her lips parted and her eyes unfocused. "Whoa," she murmured. So beautiful and so drunk. "Whoa."
Right then, my responsibility came down on me. It was lightning fast and there was no way I was coming back from it this time. Not tonight.
I tossed Annette over my shoulder and blocked out the sensation of her smooth thigh against my cheek. No, that wasn't true. I was keenly aware of her thigh. But I wasn't letting myself enjoy the thigh.
"Please tell me we're going to a bedroom," she called. "That would be fabulous."
"We're going to a bedroom," I replied, "and I'm putting you to bed. Alone."
"That's the story of my life," she whined, dragging her fingertips up and down my flanks. Goddamn, that felt good. I could die happy after nothing more than a night of her hands moving over my skin. "Me, in bed, alone. It's never my turn."
I wanted to argue with her, insist that she'd get more than a turn from me as soon as she sobered up. But it occurred to me that she was offering this information under drunk cover, and chances were good I wouldn't hear the same tune tomorrow. Annette had been pleasant to me since my arrival but hadn't given me much more than passing, platonic glances. She wanted someone right now, and I was that person only because JJ called me in to collect her. If he'd walked her home, he could be receiving the same treatment. He could've been the one getting her hungry kisses and gently demanding touch.
That idea did terrible things to me. Terrible. I tightened my grip on her thighs and gritted my teeth as I stomped through the house, barely fighting off the urge to throw her down and make her crave me the way I'd been craving her.
I could do it too. I'd lay her down on my bed. Make her comfortable. Kiss my way from those sexy ankles to her full lips, the ones that looked even more delicious now that I'd tasted her sweet smile. I'd skip the places she wanted me most. I'd make her wait the way I'd waited for her. She'd ache and squirm and beg, and then I'd hike her legs over my shoulders and show her everything I'd held back. And then she'd know. When I was deep enough to steal her words and everything else save for screams, she'd know I'd wanted nothing but her for months.
Instead, I set her on my bed and only allowed myself an extra moment with my hands on her body before turning away. I couldn't meet her hungry, needy gaze again. Not without tearing my pants off and feeding her my cock. I moved toward the door but couldn't leave. I stood there, my hands gripping either side of the doorframe while I stared unseeing down the hall. I needed this moment to gather myself, pull the loose threads of desire tight and sew them up. Set aside the urge to forget myself and take everything she was offering.
"Where are you going?" she asked. Her voice was small, almost childlike. "I want you to stay with me. You're not leaving. Are you?"
Go ahead and flay me open, woman. Go right ahead and gut me where I stand.
"No," I choked out. There was no way in hell I could walk away now. "Just going to grab some water for you." I shot her a glance over my shoulder. That was a huge fucking mistake. She was tucked back against my pillows, her knees drawn to her chin and her ankles crossed. It was a modest pose, her most private places covered, and I didn't believe there could be anything more intimate. Or anything that could make me want to crawl to her on my hands and knees more. I wouldn't be able to look at those pillows again without wanting her right there, exactly like that. "Put your head down. I'll be right back."
I stood in the kitchen for several minutes, my hands curled around the lip of the countertop while my cock thrummed against my zipper. I had to remi
nd myself I didn't know Annette, not beyond her reputation as the town sweetheart and everyone's favorite book mistress. But that bright, joyful woman, the woman who had a smile and buckets of patience, wasn't the one begging me to join her in my bed right now. The slightly heartbroken and fully drunk woman was asking, and there was a world of difference between the two.
Hard Pressed is available now!
An Excerpt from Fresh Catch
If you enjoyed this visit to Talbott’s Cove, you’ll love Cole and Owen in Fresh Catch.
"May I join you?" I asked, leaning through the doorway to the porch.
Owen was kicked back in his chair, a book in his lap and a tumbler of whiskey by his side. If there wasn't an interesting ball game to watch after dinner, Owen often settled on the porch and I holed up in my room. I'd made good progress with a handful of new ideas I was testing out, but I was climbing the walls tonight.
I didn't mind the routine we had going here-awake before dawn, on the water all day, fish market followed by work fixing up my boat in the afternoon, dinner around sunset, bed shortly after-but I needed something more tonight. Back in California, most of my days were spent talking. Taking calls, sitting in meetings, hearing from my coders, arguing with my board. There was always someone or something that required my attention, and being here with Owen was still strangely quiet for my tastes.
Gesturing to the open seat beside him, Owen said, "Yes, but I have some conditions."
"Anything," I said, dropping into the open rocking chair. Before coming to Talbott's Harbor, I would've ascribed rocking chairs to grandmothers and nurseries, and nothing much else. But these were just right.
"No questions," Owen said. I bit back a groan at that. "You've asked all the questions necessary, and I need a break." I opened my mouth to reply, but he held up his hand. "No. No, this isn't an opportunity to ask why. Just live with it."
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