Worth the Risk

by K. Bromberg

  “But I didn’t—”

  “A fight is a fight, Luke. And staying up is a privilege, and privileges aren’t given when you use your fists to solve a problem.”

  Luke huffs loudly and looks to me. “Are you going to the Harvest Festival?” he asks me, his eyebrows raised and hope in his voice that makes me say yes just so I don’t let him down again.

  “Yes. Doesn’t everyone go?”

  “See you there,” he says and then squeals as Grayson moves swiftly to pick him up and throw him over his shoulder.

  “Let’s go, monster. Tell Miss Sidney good night,” Grayson says and already has a foot on the first step of the stairs.

  “Good.” Luke giggles as Grayson tickles his ribs. “Night.” Another bout of laughter floats down the stairs.

  I sit there and stare at where they just were, my mind frozen on how damn sexy the sight of Grayson carrying Luke off to bed is.

  They must have spiked my bottle of water.

  That can be the only reason those foreign thoughts are filling my head. Kids are not cute. Dads are not sexy. Up is not down. So why am I still sitting here, slowly swiping dozens of Minecraft figures into a big tub while the sounds of Grayson putting Luke to bed upstairs fill the space around me?

  Why am I still here? Is it because my place is so quiet and here I was able to listen to Luke talk nonstop? Or is it because now that I’ve seen Grayson, I feel the need to prove to him I’m not who he thinks I am . . . even when I’m still struggling with proving that to myself.

  The problem is now that we’re going to be alone, I have no clue what it is I need to say.

  Goddammit.

  I stand on the bottom step and watch her. Watch the woman who showed up looking nothing like the Sidney I know and exactly like the one I would want to know. She’s wearing blue jeans and a yellow tank top. Her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail. She looks like she belongs in our neighborhood—in this house—drinking beer from a bottle instead of wine from crystal in the palace she comes from.

  Even worse, I want her.

  I’ve sat here all night long, begging myself to hate her, when all I can think about is how much I fucking want her.

  Doesn’t that make me the asshole?

  This is on her. Every single fucking part of it.

  She staged the kiss. She planted the picture. She’s here to sweet talk me into doing the damn photo shoot for her. She’s here to ease her own goddamn guilt because her manipulations hurt my son.

  She. She. She. She. Can’t say it surprises me.

  Well, screw that.

  Isn’t that the problem, though? That’s what I want.

  Christ. I’m doing nothing but running myself in circles. I rake a hand through my hair and remind myself I’ve walked down this road before. I paid the price. Luke is still paying the price for it.

  Still, what I can’t quite wrap my mind around is why she didn’t bail? She really sounded like she cared about Creepers and Villagers and Steve Blocks when I thought she’d be out the goddamn door the minute I told her Luke didn’t know the picture in the paper was of her.

  I study her as she cleans up the figures and hate that she looks like she belongs here. In my house. At my table. The normalcy of the moment. It’s a blatant slap in the face of what exactly I’m missing in my life . . . what I’m making Luke miss out on, and it erodes the desire eating away at me.

  When I clear my throat, she drops the last handful into the bucket and turns my way—lips parted, cheeks pink, eyes surprised.

  “You can stop pretending you like him now. Your guilt can be absolved. You can go.”

  “But I do like him.” She rises from her seat and takes a few steps toward me.

  “Cut the act, Princess.”

  “What’s your problem, Malone? I came here because I heard about Luke and I felt bad that something I did hurt him.”

  “You mean the photo you staged and the article you planted to save your ass.”

  “I did no such thing. You kissed me. You said things that made my head spin, and then you ran out.”

  “And then you followed me out and kissed me again.”

  “You’re blaming this on me?” she shrieks.

  “Shoe fits?” I take a step closer to her.

  Her laugh grates on my nerves. “My bad. Only the man is allowed to initiate a kiss? How foolish of me to think otherwise.”

  I disregard her logic, too blinded by my own anger to hear her. “You knew there were photographers there.”

  “So did you,” she grits between her clenched teeth as we stare at each other, our tempers thickening the air around us.

  “The difference is that I did what I did behind a closed door. You did it to set me up.”

  She rolls her eyes and has me clenching my teeth. “That’s bullshit. But you keep thinking what you want to think, Grayson. I didn’t make you kiss me, and I didn’t set up photographers. I didn’t plant a story.”

  “No, but you manipulated this whole goddamn town into making me be in this contest when I don’t want to.”

  “It sounds to me like your own brothers did that to you by entering you, so maybe you should take it up with them.”

  Her smart-ass comment tees me off. “What the fuck more do you want from me? You’ve already gotten what you wanted. I told you I’d participate, and you’ve made certain with the little party that I can’t back out . . . so I’ll ask you again, why did you come here tonight? What more do you want from me?” My body vibrates with anger as I stare at her and wait for an answer.

  “I didn’t know the photo was taken. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You’re goddamn right you weren’t.”

  She grits her teeth again and takes a second before she speaks. “I kissed you because I wanted to. I kissed you because you left me in that office and the only thing I wanted was more. I was so angry about what you said, that I just acted.” She clears her throat, and I want to believe her. I want to see sincerity in those brown eyes of hers. And I want to ignore every part of my libido that’s listening to her tell me she wants more. “I should have remembered there were cameras. I should have realized this place is nothing but one giant gossip mill. I should have thought about Luke and how he would feel if he found out about it. Hurting him was not my intention, and I’m sorry for not thinking.”

  “Yeah, well, women like you never think about anyone but themselves. I know that firsthand.” It’s out of my mouth before I can take it back—a swipe at Claire when it’s Sidney standing before me. And before I can force the apology from my lips she speaks.

  “Screw you, Grayson.”

  There’s hurt in her eyes I can’t ignore this time. The desire to kiss her is so overwhelming that I hate myself for it.

  Is she telling the truth? I don’t know.

  All I know is she’s standing before me not afraid to go toe-to-toe with me, which makes me think she’s telling me the truth. If this were only about her and her wants, then why is she still here fighting with me? Wouldn’t she have bolted at the first sign of conflict?

  Back away, Gray.

  I take a step toward her.

  “We can’t do this,” I murmur as I reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear. Wanting to touch her. Needing to. Hating myself for giving in to her.

  “Whoever hurt you, she really did a number on you, didn’t she?” I shake my head to reject her words. “I’m not her, Grayson. I’m not Claire.” Her voice is soft—tentative and yet somehow resolute. But my face must reflect my surprise. “I ran into Cathy Clementine today. She’s the one who told me about the fight and Luke, and she gave me the gist of what Claire did to you and Luke, and there’s nothing more I can say about it other than I’m sorry . . . but I’m not her.”

  I hear her. I know she’s right. Yet, I don’t trust myself to believe it just yet. “I know.”

  Our eyes hold in that suspended state just before a kiss when you know you’re going to do it but know you shouldn’t.

  Wh
en I brush my lips against hers, it’s so different from the kisses we shared the other day. There’s no anger. There’s no retribution. There’s just my need to connect with someone—with her. There’s my need to feel like a man she wants rather than a man to fix her problems.

  Her lips are soft. Her tongue is warm. And after her initial hesitation, when she moves into me, I know I’m so fucking screwed it isn’t even funny.

  She tastes like heaven and hell. Like want and need. Like deception and desire.

  My hands cup her cheeks, hold her head steady as I sip and take and taste in a slow and silent seduction of senses. Every part of me wants more in this dangerous hand of poker I know I can’t win.

  But hell if I don’t want to go all in.

  “Dad?” Luke’s voice calls from the top of the stairs. We freeze. My hands on her cheeks. My forehead resting against hers. Our breaths held. Cold water on a fire just lit.

  I clear my throat. “Be right there.”

  But we don’t move. It’s almost as if it’s the first time we haven’t been at odds and we don’t want to ruin it.

  Either that or it’s regret dropping like a lead weight between us.

  “We can’t do this.” It’s her that whispers it this time. It’s her telling me we need to take a step back. But neither of us moves. “This has to stop before it starts.”

  This time she says the words and takes a step back. Her eyes well with tears I don’t understand, and her fingertips reach up to touch her lips.

  Seconds tick.

  Pass.

  Stretch.

  And then she skirts around me and walks out the door.

  “This has to stop before it starts.”

  I watch her back as she jogs down the steps and know that she misspoke.

  It has already started.

  “I forgot how crazy this town gets over the Harvest Festival,” I murmur to Rissa as I stare out our office window. Main Street has been transformed. There are two rows of booths lining the middle of the street, and strings of lights zigzag between the buildings with a small carnival for the kids set up at the far end of the street. It has a big slide. A maze made out of hay bales. Some rides that were brought in from San Francisco.

  There was a palpable electricity in the atmosphere as I walked from the parking lot into the office. The hum of a community coming together to celebrate. The knowledge that everything would be closed tonight so everyone could participate in the only thing in this town that I remember loving doing.

  “Crazy is an understatement.” She chuckles. “And to think the Chamber of Commerce has put up a booth down there promoting the contest . . . and one Grayson Malone.”

  Is it sad that my heart beats a bit faster at the statement, and I can’t fight the grin on my face? “I’m sure he’s going to love that.”

  “It doesn’t hurt that rumors are still flying about the two of you.” She chuckles. “I may be good at coaxing but, girl, you landed that kiss right on his lips with the whole town watching, and it’s the kiss that keeps on giving to us here.” I keep my eyes focused on the preparations outside and try not to be irritated by her supposition that I manipulated the situation. Just like Grayson’s. “You may not have delivered the photos like I asked for this round, but you roped him in with the town behind him, and now he can’t say no. Job well done.”

  “Thanks.”

  A truck pulls up and when the back gate rolls up, I smile at the bundles of balloons inside.

  “There goes six bucks of my money,” Rissa says. “My kids love those damn balloons. Are you going?”

  “Of course!” My mind veers to Grayson. To the kiss I can’t seem to forget. To telling him we can’t do this when every single part of me wants to.

  To the possibility of getting to see him tonight.

  “That surprises me,” she says pulling me to look her way.

  “Why? Who doesn’t love a festival? It used to be one of the only things I loved about this place when I was a kid.”

  “And now?”

  I turn back to the view of the street laid out in front of us. To the dance floor area off to the left and the food vendors setting up tables and chairs over to the right. I take in the hills around us and their rich greens and light browns. “It isn’t as bad as I remember.”

  “I knew we’d wear you down.” Her laugh rumbles across the space as I turn back to my laptop. “Well, get ready to fall more in love with us in a few hours. We always cut loose early on Harvest Day.”

  “Really?”

  “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “No.”

  “I told the crew as soon as we get the layout finished, we can bail. It may be Harvest Festival time here in Sunnyville, but it’s deadline day for us to submit to Thorton Publishing.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We turn back to our work. My calls are endless, my press releases about the contest’s third round of voting emailed, and between everything I do, my eyes find their way to the preparations outside to watch a festival come to life. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. The staff outside our open office door buzzes with anticipation over one of the biggest nights of the year.

  “Rissa, we have a problem.”

  Those words pull my attention from my spreadsheet. Before Rissa even has a chance to respond to Lilah, I notice all the staff standing in various places of the large conference room, looking our way with defeat etching the lines of their faces.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Something happened with the software program. The file got infected.”

  “Did we lose it?”

  “We aren’t sure. A portion perhaps. We need to go back through each contributing file and try to piece it back together and . . .”

  “And that’s going to take hours,” Rissa finishes for her.

  You could hear a pin drop in here. All eyes are on Rissa as her shoulders sag and the festivities spark to life out on the street.

  “I’ll stay and piece the files back together.” I think I shock everyone with my comment. Heads whip my way. Eyebrows raise.

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Rissa says while everyone remains listening with bated breath.

  “No. It’s fine,” I lie, swallowing over the lump forming in my own throat. “I don’t have kids or friends out there waiting for me to show up. I have it.”

  Rissa locks eyes with mine, and there’s so much gratitude in them it makes me feel uncomfortable. “Sidney . . .”

  “Just go.” I plaster a smile on my lips. “I sat with Lilah earlier this week and passed her little quiz. For the most part, I’ve done this before at my other job . . . I can do it.”

  “I’ll keep my cell on me,” Lilah says.

  “Just go. I have it handled.”

  “Knock. Knock.”

  “Ohmygod.” I startle and slam my knee on the underside of the desk as I jump up, but I don’t think the racing of my heart has anything to do with being surprised. It has everything to do with the man standing with his shoulder resting against the doorjamb, hands shoved into his jean pockets and eyes finding their way up and down the length of my body.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just—I didn’t hear the door.”

  “You were kind of lost in your own world.” Silence settles between us as our eyes hold and ask and answer things I don’t think we’re ready to say aloud.

  “I was. I didn’t expect anyone—yes.” Why am I suddenly so nervous? Maybe it’s because of how I left things with him last time and now I wish I could take those words back?

  “I saw Rissa outside with her kids. She said you were up here. Are you not going to join in the festivities?”

  “There was an issue with the layout, and we’re on deadline, so I offered to stay and fix it.”

  “Why?”

  Nervous energy has me stepping back and then yelping when I bump into a leaf of the fern behind me. The intrigued expression on his face softens as h
e smiles at my clumsiness.

  “Because I don’t have a family or kids who were waiting for me to take them, like most of the staff did. I don’t have anyone looking forward to me being there.” I shrug as something flashes through the blue of his eyes that I can’t quite read. “So, I told them I’d stay and fix things to meet the deadline.”

  “I was looking forward to you being there.” The deep tenor of his voice is a seduction all in its own right.

  “Oh.” My breath hitches at his comment, and I hate that for a girl who never gets tongue-tied over a man, I’m doing a damn fine job of pretending I am. Next thing I know, I’m going to forget that I know how to walk in heels and accidentally trip and fall into his arms. That’s how ridiculously dorky I feel right now.

  He takes a step toward me.

  “What else did Rissa say?” I ask for the sole reason of needing something to say.

  “She thanked me for agreeing to do the contest.” He angles his head and stares at me for a beat, and I’m suddenly so very aware how dark the main office space is . . . and how very alone we are. “Why did you say the magazine needs to be saved?”

  His question takes me off guard and also gives me a small reprieve from the sexual tension that eats up the oxygen in the room.

  “It has failing viewership. I was brought on staff to elevate the numbers and help save it.”

  “The contest.”

  “The contest.”

  “And where do I fit in all of this?”

  He takes another step closer, and everything about him seems to consume the small space. The width of his shoulders. The outdoorsy scent of his cologne. The soft sound he makes when his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. The dark shadow of stubble starting to show on his jaw.

  “You’re going to be the winner.” The minute I say the words, I feel like such an ass.

  His smile widens in a slow, steady slide as he nods. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” He chuckles.

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant that—”

  “It doesn’t matter. Rissa explained it all to me outside.”

  “Oh.” Panic strikes. Did she really tell him our plan to play up his background to sell more magazines?