The Troublemaker

by Lili Valente

  Have a blast, okay? Mercy is fine and so am I.

  * * *

  Three minutes later…

  * * *

  Emma: Sorry! Didn’t mean to worry you. I got…distracted again.

  It momentarily impaired my texting skills.

  * * *

  Carrie: Fourteen minutes, huh?

  So, is that a quickie for you guys? Or are you at that stage in your relationship where fourteen minutes is considered a solid effort? Never mind, I don’t want to know. Now that you’re married, your sex life is gross and no longer up for discussion.

  * * *

  Emma: It is not gross! Not even a little bit.

  * * *

  Carrie: But it is. Marriage makes things gross. No offense…

  * * *

  Emma: None taken. I know your opinions on marriage, but I promise it doesn’t have to be like Mom and Dad, Carrie. I’m so happy to be married to Dylan. Nothing has ever felt more right, and I know it’s only going to get better with…

  Hold on…

  Plk

  * * *

  Carrie: Ew. You’re getting “distracted” again, aren’t you? Gag. Talk to you when you get back. Enjoy your honeymoon. And don’t worry about anything here at home.

  It’s under control.

  Chapter 8

  Carrie

  Nothing is under control.

  I’m decidedly out of control and on the verge of spiraling further into the Forbidden Zone. I came *this close* to banging my brother-in-law’s brother yesterday, and if I remain in Rafe’s company much longer, I have no doubt it’s going to happen.

  As we sit in his sunny breakfast nook, sipping coffee and flipping through the paper, it’s a constant struggle to keep my focus on the words swimming in front of my eyes. Instead, I keep seeing the wicked curve of Rafe’s mouth as he kissed his way up my thighs, feeling the silky texture of his hair as I clung to him for dear life while he made me feel things I haven’t felt in years.

  Yes, other guys have made me come, but none of the men I’ve been with recently have had Rafe’s confidence, commitment, or undeniable skill.

  Seriously, someone should award the man a master’s degree in making out.

  A PhD in doing the dirty deed.

  A post-doctorate fellowship in the fine art of French kissing in the way the French surely intended, with a man’s mouth making magic between his lover’s legs until her bones melt and her mind explodes in a burst of pink champagne bubbles.

  “Are you sure a granola bar is enough for you?” Rafe asks. “I could make oatmeal. Or I’ve got a melon in the fridge.”

  I clear my throat, forcing memories of his hands on my melons from my wayward thoughts. My breasts aren’t nearly as big as melons, and this lust fog is unacceptable. I’m a grown woman, not a teenager who’s just taken her first non-solo flight to Orgasm City, and it’s time I start acting like it.

  Especially considering what an emotional mess I was by the time we left the fort yesterday. It took me a nap, two meals, and a long, out-like-the-dead night’s sleep to recover, for God’s sake.

  Calm, cool, and controlled are the words of the day, and I intend to embody them fully.

  “Nah, I’m good, thanks.” I casually flip to the business section. “I’m usually coffee only before ten a.m. It takes my stomach a few hours to wake up.”

  He grunts. “Not me. I wake up starving. Always.”

  I bite back a comment about that not being surprising, considering the calories he must have burned while he was medaling in the oral sex Olympics—triple gold, all the way—and push my half-eaten bar across the table. “Have the rest of mine. Seriously, I’m good. I run mostly on caffeine and rancor anyway. At least lately.”

  “The ill will I can understand, but you need more than caffeine.” He nods toward me. “Eat your granola bar. It’s the kind with extra protein, puts hair on your chest.”

  I arch a brow. “Hair on my chest hasn’t been high on my wish list, but if after surveying the situation you think fuzz would be an improvement…”

  He looks up, his dark eyes burning into mine over the top of his newspaper. “What happens in the blanket fort of silence stays in the blanket fort of silence.”

  My lips curve and awareness prickles across my skin. “Yes, sir. My apologies.”

  Rafe shakes his head in mock disapproval. “What am I going to do with you, Haverford?”

  Race me to your bedroom and see which of us can get naked first?

  Aloud I say, “Kick me to the curb, I suppose. I don’t want to cramp your style. I’m sure you must have plans for this glorious Sunday.”

  He folds his paper in half and drops it onto the heavy wooden table. “I do, but you can tag along if you’re looking for an excuse not to go home. I told Tristan I’d come help fix the paddock at the shelter where he works. They’ve got some horses coming in tomorrow. Shouldn’t take me long, and you could help socialize the cats or something while you wait. Or dogs. Might be a ferret or two around. They’ve got all kinds of rescue animals up there.”

  “Nice of you to offer,” I say, touched by the invitation. “But I can handle my mother solo until Emma gets back. You don’t have to babysit me.”

  Rafe’s lips curve. “Babysitting isn’t what I had in mind.”

  I arch a brow, my pulse picking up. “No?”

  “No,” he says. “I was thinking we could go for a ride after, grab a bottle of wine, come back and drink it in the blanket fort of silence… I mean, we left it up. Might as well take advantage…”

  “I did have an awfully nice time in that fort yesterday,” I say, biting my lip. “But if we make a return visit, I don’t want to be the only one taking her clothes off.”

  “I don’t want that, either,” he says, sending a sizzle racing across my skin. “I was thinking last night, while I was lying awake listening to you snore in the guest room…”

  “I do not snore,” I say calmly. “But continue.”

  His grin widens. “I was thinking that… Well, if what happens in secret, stays in secret, there’s no reason for it not to happen again. Right?”

  I press my tongue to the back of my teeth, forcing myself to think this through before leaping across the table and climbing into his lap. “We could never tell Dylan or Emma… Or do anything to make them suspect…”

  “Absolutely,” Rafe says soberly. “I think we’ve established that. We’ve also established that we’re both adults, and both on the same page about what we want from each other.”

  “Hot sex, no strings,” I supply, relishing the heat that flickers in his eyes.

  “Yes. That.” He holds my gaze with an intensity that makes my stomach flip as he adds in a huskier voice, “Yesterday was incredible. But the next time we’re together, I don’t want to stop until I’m inside you.”

  Holy hell. Yes, please, and thank you.

  I scoot my chair away from the table, ready to propose that bedroom race right now, but Rafe stops me with a hand lifted in the air. “Hold that thought. We’ll get back to it ASAP, but we have to be in Healdsburg in forty minutes.”

  My lips turn down hard and my brow furrows in despair. He’s got to be kidding me. Surely we can be ten minutes late to fix whatever he needs to fix and socialize the cats or whatever?

  Rafe laughs. “You should see your face.”’

  “I can feel my face.” I stand, arms hanging limply at my sides. “It’s the sad, confused face. The does-not-enjoy-waiting face.”

  “I don’t enjoy waiting, either.” He stands, circling the table, making my blood hotter with every step. “But I enjoy rushing even less.” He draws me close until my breasts brush against his chest and a soft sound of longing escapes my lips. “I’m going to take my time with you, Haverford. It could take all day and all night.”

  “I don’t have anywhere to be.” I skim my palms up his arms to rest on his shoulders.

  Damn, this man is well made—every inch of muscled flesh more tempting than the
last—and I can’t wait to make some memories worth keeping secret with him. But I have to be absolutely sure we’re on that same page he was talking about.

  “Just to be clear.” I tip my head back, gazing up at him. “I’m not up for anything but the physical stuff from now on. I don’t need or want to wade into the emotional shit anymore. I just want to feel good, to make you feel good, and to walk away without any regrets. I have enough of those already.” I take a breath, hurrying on before he can speak. “And I wouldn’t want to hurt you or disappoint you or do anything else to make your life unpleasant. You seem like a really decent guy, Valentine.”

  His mouth quirks up on one side. “Thank you, Caroline. I try to be a decent guy. And no worries. I haven’t had a relationship that lasted longer than six months in my entire life, and I don’t intend to start now.”

  My brows lift. “Shameless commitment-phobe?”

  “Shameless serial monogamist,” he corrects without a hint of self-consciousness, making me inclined to take him at his word. “And my only goal for our time together is for both of us to come hard and come often until it stops being entertaining to one or both parties. Then we go back to being friends who run into each other at the occasional family gathering. Easy. Simple.”

  “So you promise not to fall madly in love with me,” I tease.

  “I don’t do love,” he says seriously. “Not that kind, anyway. I’m not sure I’m capable, to be honest.”

  Brows lifting, I nod. “I’m not sure I am, either.”

  At least not anymore. After this nightmare with Jordan, I doubt I’ll be able to trust a man enough to let love into the picture ever again. Not that I was anywhere close to being in love with Jordan, but I never imagined he’d become the sociopath currently plaguing my life.

  It’s enough to give a girl major trust issues.

  “So we’re good.” Rafe’s hand slides down to cup my bottom through my shorts, making my breath catch. “Now get your fine ass downstairs. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back.”

  Chapter 9

  Rafe

  Roaring up the 101 North toward the privileged community of Healdsburg—with its quaint town square, obscenely wealthy citizenry, and abundance of passionate animal lovers who donate generously to my brother’s non-profit—with Carrie’s arms around my waist makes it hard to keep my mind off all the filthy things I want to do to her as soon as I’ve fulfilled my brotherly duties. But I do manage to clear my head enough to realize there’s a flaw in my plan that I failed to notice when I was thinking with my dick.

  Tristan knows me better than anyone else on earth.

  Tristan also isn’t blind, and he will realize immediately that there’s something going on between Carrie and me.

  And yeah, I could ask him to keep the situation on the down low—he’s a vault, and I trust him with my life, let alone my secrets—but I don’t want to burden my little brother with something he’ll be obligated to keep from Dylan and Emma. Tris doesn’t like secrets.

  He’s not a fan of lies, either, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

  “You’re looking for a cat,” I murmur to Carrie after I’ve parked my bike and we’re clipping our helmets to the handlebars. “Or a dog. An emotional support animal. That’s why you asked to tag along with me today.”

  Carrie squints up at me, her eyes lighting with immediate understanding. “All right. But I don’t actually have to leave with anything, do I? I love animals, don’t get me wrong, but I’m living in a tiny cottage right now and my condo HOA in Berkeley doesn’t allow pets.”

  “No, you don’t have to leave with anything.” I lead the way up the path, past the outer buildings that serve as the meeting rooms and food storage, toward the large main structure where the smaller animals are housed. “Just look interested and torn about making such a big decision. Maybe a little sad, too. Whatever it takes to keep Tristan from catching on to how desperate you are for me to fuck you.”

  She snorts. “Desperate, huh? I’m not the one with a semi, buddy.”

  “That’s not a semi, I’m just hung like a horse,” I say, fighting a smile.

  “Care to duck behind one of those buildings and let me call your bluff?”

  I laugh. I can’t help it, though half of me thinks ducking behind an outbuilding is an excellent idea and the other half is ashamed of myself for having this much trouble getting my dick under control. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll cop to the semi if you’ll admit your panties have been wet since you woke up this morning.”

  “So wet,” she whispers as we near the main entrance. “In fact, I’m wet right now. Hot and wet and oh-so-ready…”

  Instantly my semi swells to something much more serious, something that strains the front of my jeans and makes further progress into the shelter impossible. “You did that on purpose,” I grit out as I grind to a halt beside the entrance, grateful that Sunday mornings are slow and there aren’t any other people around to observe my inappropriate-for-the-animal-rescue situation.

  She claps me chummily on the shoulder. “I did. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry that you’re not sorry is more like it.”

  Carrie laughs, a throaty chuckle that makes me want to bite her bare shoulder while I walk my fingers up her ribs, summoning more of that sexy sound from her lips. “Take a second to pull yourself together, Slick,” she says. “I’ll introduce myself to the lady at the front desk and express to her my deep, desperate need to acquire a sweet little pussycat to pet and stroke all day long.”

  “Evil woman,” I force out through a clenched jaw.

  More wicked laughter trails behind her as she disappears into the shelter.

  But when I join her inside a few minutes later, her pretty face is pulled into a fretful expression as she flips through a binder showcasing the photos of pets available for adoption. “Thanks so much for letting me look,” she says to a familiar freckled girl behind the counter. I vaguely remember meeting her a few months ago when I was here to help Tristan fix the transmission on one of the shelter’s vans, but sadly her name didn’t stick in my memory bank.

  “Of course,” Freckles says, smiling up at me before turning her attention back to Carrie. “Thanks for being understanding about our policies. The animals get so worked up when new people come in that we try to limit in-person pet browsing as much as possible. But if one of our buddies catches your eye, I can absolutely get you guys set up for a visit in one of the playrooms.”

  “I don’t know how I’ll ever choose,” Carrie says. “They’re all so adorable. Aw, look at this little guy!”

  I glance over her shoulder, brows lifting. “Little? That dog’s bigger than you are.”

  “Bear’s about one hundred and eighty pounds of pure Saint Bernard,” Freckles confirms. “And sheds and drools like it’s his job. Super sweet guy, but probably not the best bet if you’re living in a smaller space.”

  Carrie’s nose wrinkles. “I am. Very small. Tiny, in fact.”

  She resumes flipping, and Freckles jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “Tristan’s already out back pulling up the rotten fence posts, Rafe. Just head down the hall, all the way to the end, last door on the left.”

  “Thanks.” I nod and start around the desk, leaving Freckles and Carrie discussing the barking tendencies of miniature pinchers vs. Chihuahuas, feeling awful that I can’t remember the woman’s name.

  But I’ve always struggled with names, even with women I want to sleep with, and Freckles isn’t my kind of girl. She’s cute in a wholesome sort of way—glossy brown hair, pink cheeks, sparkly blue eyes—but she’s obviously the sensitive sort, the kind who would get attached or hurt or both, and I don’t mess with breakable people. I prefer women who are like me, with a thick skin and a sense of humor, who don’t take life or love too seriously.

  Women like the vixen leaning over the counter, granting me a heart-stopping glimpse down the front of her shirt as I pause at the end of the hall.

  Damn, she’s se
xy. I can’t remember the last time I was this eager to get a woman home, in my bed, under me and over me and—

  Focus, man. Focus, finish, and head for home.

  Determined to repair faster than I’ve ever repaired before, I push through the door and head toward the edge of the property.

  Back here, the air is warmer than it is in front of the building, the morning sun already baking the exposed earth on the treeless hill. I find my brother at the far side of the paddock, surrounded by a pile of weathered old wood.

  “Termites?” I kick an uprooted post that immediately cracks under the slight pressure.

  “Or wood-boring beetles. Pain in my ass.” Tristan runs a gloved hand over his short hair, making it stick up in spikes. Tristan and I are both the spitting image of our Italian mother—dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin—but my brother is usually far more pulled together. I’m the shaggy, scruffy before picture, and he’s the polished, well-manicured after shot.

  But today, in a pair of old jeans and a sweat-stained T-shirt with wood dust in his hair, Tristan is channeling his inner farm boy. Though, he looks skinnier than the last time we hooked up in Mercyville to throw together a shed for my dad, and his jaw is spotted with uneven stubble.

  “You taking care of yourself, baby brother?” I ask, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Remembering to eat and sleep and shit like that?”

  Tristan sighs. “You sound like Zoey. I’m fine.”

  Zoey. That’s it. I pull up a mental image of Freckles and do my best to slap a label on it so I won’t forget her name next time, then return my focus to my brother’s face. “You don’t look fine. You look tired and like you could use a burger. Maybe two.”