Forbidden Fling (Wildwood Book 1)

by Skye Jordan

  Another photo slipped from the papers, and Ethan leaned forward to scoop it up before she could.

  “Stop,” she said, snatching it from his fingers. “That’s my naked baby picture. Those are sacred.”

  Grinning, he rested his chin on her shoulder and turned his head to press his face to her cheek and neck, breathing her in—musk and floral and some exotic spice. “That’s all right,” he murmured against her skin, then kissed her neck. “I like the adult naked version much better.”

  Delaney leaned her head against his. “We talked about this. Professional distance, remember?”

  “No.” He lifted his head and tightened both arms around her waist, dragging her even closer. “You talked. It wasn’t a discussion. What else have you got in there?”

  She thumbed through more photos, and Ethan turned his head enough to press his mouth and nose to her hair, breathing in the soft scent of her shampoo.

  “These are some serious throwbacks.” Delaney paused on an image of the three sisters around Halloween.

  “This must be Avery.” He pointed toward the brunette of the family. “What is she supposed to be? A teacher or something?”

  Delaney grinned, and the sight zinged his heart. “A librarian. And not just any librarian, she was Mrs. Baxter, our—”

  “School librarian,” he finished, chuckling. “Man I haven’t thought of her in forever. That’s funny. And Chloe . . .” He tapped the image, indicating the little blonde. “Some kind of archeologist?”

  “Indiana Jones. She was always the explorer.”

  He scrutinized Delaney’s sweatshirt and jeans. “What about you? Did you put yours on later?”

  “I didn’t have time to work out a costume for myself. By the time I had Chloe and Avery set, their homework done, lunches made for the next day.” She shrugged. “There wasn’t time. I just walked them around town and hung on the sidewalk with the parents.”

  She didn’t sound sad or angry or even melancholy, as if a ten-year-old giving up her Halloween so her younger sisters could enjoy it was normal.

  He ran his hands over her waist and belly. “I guess this was after your mom left.”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t all bad—Avery and Chloe shared their candy with me.”

  “Was your dad at the bar?”

  She shook her head. “Passed out drunk on the couch.”

  “And Phoebe?”

  “She hadn’t come yet.”

  His gaze turned back to the picture of the three young girls, innocence personified, left unsupervised and uncared for. “Then who took the picture?”

  “Me. I used the timer.” She darted a shy, sidelong smile at him. “Before my mom left, she was always taking pictures. I remember thinking she’d eventually come back, and she’d be sad at all the great times she missed. I wanted to have pictures of us so she didn’t feel left out while she was gone.” Delaney shook her head. “So ridiculous.”

  “Not ridiculous at all. Your mom is the one who lost out big-time on this deal.”

  She turned her head and met his gaze steadily. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Just . . . coming by. Being here.”

  Ethan’s chest burned with pleasure. He lifted a hand and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Thanks for sharing those pictures with me.”

  A flicker of a smile passed over her lips. “You’re a pretty special guy.”

  His stomach flipped, then folded. “How do you figure?”

  “I know how hard it is to come out of a fucked-up family with any sense of compassion or kindness or sense of self. And I may have only really known you for a short time, but I’ve been working with guys my whole life. So I know a good guy—a really decent guy—when I meet one. And I certainly know all about your family, so I’m impressed that you came out of it so great.”

  “Thank you again.” Ethan lowered his gaze and watched as he let his fingers slide down her cheek again. “I can’t explain how much I needed to hear that tonight.”

  “You don’t have to. I know I’m dredging up all sorts of hurt and hard feelings. And I know you’ll be catching shit from your family for being involved, even if it’s because you have to be.” She covered his hand with hers, pressed it against her cheek, and closed her eyes. “I know it may not seem like it, but I am sorry about that. I wish . . .” She sighed, opened her eyes, and smiled at him, releasing his hand. “Well, we all wish a lot of things, right?”

  He dropped his hand to her thigh. “You wish what?”

  She shrugged and continued looking through the photos. “I wish I could go back in time and make different decisions. Wish people didn’t hold grudges. Wish I could walk away from this—”

  When she stopped suddenly, Ethan glanced down at the picture in her hand. It was a Hart family selfie of sorts with all five of them huddled around a patch of cement decorated with handprints, the kids all holding up their cement-stained hands, big grins splitting their faces.

  “Oh, man,” Ethan said. “That’s great.”

  “Would have been great, if we could have stayed like that.”

  The hurt in her voice touched a lonely place deep inside Ethan, the place that had formed after his family had turned on him. “Did everything fall apart because of your dad’s drinking?”

  Delaney shook her head. “My dad’s drinking started after my mom left. I don’t know what started the split, though Phoebe thinks it was the crazy workweeks my dad put in at the bar. Once it opened, Phoebe said we never had any family life.” Delaney shrugged. “I guess my mom just got tired of it all.”

  “I was thinking about that tonight,” Ethan confessed. “Wondering why my mom hasn’t left my dad for the same reason. And because he’s an asshole.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes clear, her expression sincere. “She probably stayed for you. For you and Austin.” Turning her gaze back to the photos, she pushed them all together and straightened them like a deck of cards. “I don’t believe holding on to a bad marriage is healthy for anyone, but at least she cared about you enough to stay.”

  “That makes you twice as amazing as any other woman, because you turned out this strong all on your own.”

  She relaxed against him, her gaze distant. Ethan let the silence linger and absorbed the details of the moment that somehow seemed all encompassing—the beat of Delaney’s pulse in her slim neck, the length of her lashes, the slope of her adorable little nose, the fall of her hair, the delicious weight of her body against his, her scent, her warmth.

  But more than anything, he soaked in the overwhelming, almost tangible comfort between them. They’d had this that night at his house. In between rounds of sex, they’d been instantly comfortable together, talking about nothing, teasing each other, falling asleep together, only for one to wake the other for more.

  And, yes, that night had been unforgettable, but this, this was just as amazing in a whole different way. An even deeper way. And, God, he loved it. Loved just being with her. Her simple presence, her acceptance of his touch, healed whatever had been wounded at his parents’ house. Which was when he realized that was exactly why he’d come here tonight. Because something inside him had known she was the cure for his pain.

  A bubble of anxiety welled up in the pit of his stomach. He’d never met anyone who could do that for him. He’d had a couple of girlfriends in college but nothing serious. And after his life went to hell when Ian died . . .

  He’d never been able to connect with anyone after that. Never trusted anyone enough to give them that much real estate in his heart. Out-of-town hookups had been the answer for him. It was always easy to take a short drive to San Francisco and find a fun girl at a bar. Set out the rules up front—give, receive, and then leave without any worries, any ties. And without any of the complications or rumors that developed in a small town where his family was woven into the fabric of the community.

  But Delaney was so different. Delaney seemed to shove everything else inside Ethan out of the
way, making room just for her. And looking back, he was beginning to think she’d done it in high school, too, just by being herself.

  “You feel good.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but the desire thrumming from the words moved Ethan.

  He turned his face into her neck, kissing her there, breathing her in and letting his air out on a soft moan, his entire body aching with the need to hold her, feel her, love her. “Come home with me.”

  She groaned a sound of anguish. “God, no. I shouldn’t even be doing this.” She lifted her head and straightened away from him. “You need to go.”

  “Hold on.” He held tight, keeping her on his lap. “We just had something, right there. Something really . . . great. Didn’t you feel it?”

  Pulling her knees up, she pivoted on her butt until she sat sideways between his thighs. She gave him that you-should-know-better look. “It doesn’t matter what I feel.”

  “It does matter.” He took her jaw in one hand, firmly keeping her eyes on his. “It matters to me. You feel it, don’t you? You want me, don’t you?”

  She covered his hand with hers, curved her fingers around his, and smiled, but it was a sad smile. A you-silly-boy smile. “Ethan.” She shook her head. “We had a night. One night we both knew would end in the morning. This”—she gestured to the bar—“has just complicated everything.”

  “Maybe it’s given us the opportunity to get to know each other instead of just walking out of each other’s lives,” he argued.

  Her brow fell, and a funny smile quirked her mouth. “Have you been sampling too much of your own brew? ’Cause you’re really not thinking straight.” She rolled out of his lap and dropped the rest of the photos back into the box as she got to her feet. “I’m beat. I’m going to head back to Phoebe’s. And you need to get some sleep, Mr. Hayes. Maybe that will give you a little better perspective.”

  Frustrated beyond reason, Ethan used the bar to haul himself to his feet. He gripped her waist with one hand and pulled her against him, then cupped her head with the other. With her back braced against the bar, he let his body weight sink into her until they were molded perfectly together. Until her lids were heavy. Until her breaths were shallow.

  “Ethan . . .”

  “That’s better,” he murmured, pleased with the ache filling her voice. He threaded his fingers a few inches into the hair at the base of her skull and massaged until her eyes fell closed and a groan ebbed from between her lips. “Much better.”

  He kissed her, just whisper passes of his lips over hers, even though he wanted to devour her. Even when she arched toward him. Even when his entire body throbbed with a kind of need only Delaney created inside him.

  He licked her lower lip. When she opened to him, he pulled back, breaking body contact.

  “Baby, you’re the one who’s not thinking straight.” When her eyes opened, searching his, he added, “Maybe that will give you a little better perspective.”

  And he stroked his fingers gently down her face one last time before turning and walking out of the bar.

  SIX

  Delaney adjusted her sweaty grip on the sledgehammer’s handle and swung another wide arc. The metal head plowed through old drywall, and white powder puffed into the air. She swung again. And again. And the remaining gypsum board broke away from the studs.

  “Finally,” she muttered, dropping the hammer to the floor with a clunk. She dragged off her filtration mask and used her hands to pry the smaller pieces away from the opening. Over the last two years, she’d spent more time bossing other people around than actually working, and she wasn’t nearly as efficient as she used to be.

  Before she’d taken a more managerial role at Pacific Coast’s Finest, she would have been able to tear through this wall in seconds and move on to the next. Her crew had dubbed her Demolition Delaney. They’d developed an amazing system where she tore shit down, and they got out of her way and cleaned up her mess.

  Still panting, Delaney swiped the flashlight from the floor and poked her head through the new opening. She shone the light upward first, checking the condition of the timber at the corner of the room where the roof met the wall.

  “Dammit.” The wood was shredded. If she tapped it with a stick, sawdust would rain down. Prepared for the worst, she turned her light down toward the floor and found the thick layer of rodent feces she’d expected, but she still groaned.

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  The male voice behind her wasn’t the one she craved, but it still brought relief. She straightened and turned with a smile for Trace Hutton, the man she’d chosen to consult with on this possible job for a couple of reasons, one of the main ones being price. If she couldn’t afford to hire Trace as her right hand in this project, she couldn’t afford anyone. She was pretty sure Trace was the contractor Ethan had considered recommending for demolition. But Delaney knew Trace was capable of so much more.

  She worked up a smile for him. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  He didn’t look near as pleased, his expression pained as his gaze roamed up the wall, over the ceiling, and back down. “Why? Because misery loves company?”

  “Oh my God, stop. You’re supposed to be in savior mode. Did I forget to mention that?” She set the flashlight on a table nearby, lifted her safety glasses to the top of her head, and walked into his arms, giving him a bear hug. “Good to see you.”

  Trace was a throwback to Delaney’s wild-child years. Almost a decade older, he’d wandered in and out of the biker drug scene where Delaney had lived on the fringe. But he hadn’t been there by choice, and Delaney had felt a twisted kind of kinship with him, both of them seeking something they couldn’t find within normal societal boundaries.

  He released her, still looking around the place with an expression of pain. “Delaney, Delaney, Delaney. Why do you always have to take the roughest roads in life?”

  “You’re one to talk.” She planted her hands at her hips. “Keep it up, and you’re going to have a hysterical female on your hands.”

  “You? Hysterical? That will be the day I can retire to a Tahitian beach with my harem.”

  She smiled and took a good look at him—a six-foot wall of muscled, dark Irishman. That jet-black hair and those striking blue eyes had gotten him in a hell of a lot of trouble growing up—a dicey childhood spent jumping between a sick mom and a druggie dad, dumped with his grandmother in Wildwood when both his parents hit bottom at the same time. She’d only discovered during a recent conversation with Phoebe that Trace had gone to prison on drug charges several years ago.

  “Good God, look at you,” she said. “From what I’d heard, I expected a little more wear and tear. Hell, Trace, you look like you’ve been living at a damn spa.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” He laughed the words, but his voice was filled with you-have-no-idea seriousness. “Folsom State Prison ain’t no spa. And I’ve been out awhile.”

  Delaney laughed. It was nice to have someone to chat with. Someone who wasn’t perfect. Someone who’d made a few wrong turns along the way and lived to tell about it. Someone who didn’t judge others quite as quickly or as harshly.

  His expression shifted from wry to sheepish, and he glanced away, shifted on his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets. “About my conviction . . . I—”

  “Trace, we can talk about why and how you ended up there sometime if you want to, but, honestly, there are only a few things that matter to me here and now.”

  His whole body relaxed, and the shame cleared from his eyes. “Okay, shoot.”

  “One, you still have a contractor’s license in good standing.”

  “Check.”

  That told Delaney he hadn’t been convicted of a felony. “Two, you’ve left your past in the past, and you’re willing to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, no messing around, no bullshit, no excuses.”

  He chuckled. “I like your take-no-prisoners attitude. Check.”

  “Three, you’re going to give
me a great deal in trade for a great reference.”

  “Check.”

  She lifted her hands and shrugged. “That’s it.”

  “Then we’re good.” He crossed his arms, set his feet wide, and looked around again with a heavy sigh. “I’m ready. Throw it at me.”

  Delaney had given Trace only the very barest of facts about the job over the phone, which had been easy since she didn’t know what it entailed yet. All that was left to do now was line out the details and see how Trace handled it.

  She dusted off her hands and set the safety glasses on another table. “I’ve done a preliminary on everything—foundation, framing, electrical, plumbing. Of course everything in here needs something, right? Go figure—the place is a century old. But, believe it or not, I’ve seen worse, and I’ve renovated worse. Granted, I used someone else’s money, but still.

  “I thought I’d walk you through, room by room, tell you what needs repair or replacement and what I had in mind for the space, and have you work up a bid for me. I’d also really appreciate any creative cost-cutting options that come to mind.”

  Just getting that part of this mess square in her head made her feel better. Now she was on level ground. This mess she understood. The mess inside her, the way she couldn’t stop thinking about Ethan—that she didn’t understand. At all.

  Delaney took a deep breath, planted her hands at her hips, and smiled at Trace. “Does that work for you?”

  He was frowning, mouth propped open as if he was going to say something, but his mind didn’t seem to be cooperating. “Uuuuuuuh . . .” He got that pained look again. “We’re not talking about demolition?”

  A split second of confusion ended with a cold streak straight through the center of her body. Then, like a divining rod, that streak turned red-hot.

  She clenched her teeth, but that wasn’t enough to hold in her anger. “That fucker.” Delaney wrapped her hand around the top of the nearest chair and stared at the floor, shaking her head. “When could he have possibly—”