by Megyn Ward
“Ryan.”
“What?” The insanity continues because, even though I don’t remember moving, I suddenly find myself standing over her. Close enough to touch her if I want to. And I want to.
I want to touch her.
Lick her.
Every fucking inch of her.
She’s looking up at me, Blue eyes wide. Jaw slackened by the pull of her mouth. Lips parted slightly like she might start screaming. “Ryan.” Instead of screaming, she says my name again, but this time it sounds different. Softer. Breathless. Like she used all the air in her lungs to form that single word and she might die on the breath of it. She looks down, taking my glare with her.
I’m hard.
So fucking hard that the outline of my dick is clearly visible, trapped and straining against my thigh.
Holy shit.
And as soon as I see it, I feel it—the dull, throbbing ache in my cock. The same ache I’ve felt every morning when I wake up, since I met her. The same ache that prompts me to touch myself before I even open my eyes, even though I know what I’m going to find. How shitty and hopeless it’ll make me feel.
“Ryan.” She says my name a third time and I watch with detached fascination while my cock jerks like a divining rod behind the cage of my borrowed jeans, practically smacking her in the face.
That’s how close I am to her.
Jesus Christ.
I made her breakfast, determined to apologize for the way I shut her down last night. To maybe ask if we can start over, and what do I do? Pick a fight with her over semantics and shove my suddenly not broken dick in her face.
And the cherry on top of this particularly fucked-up sundae? I’m not even all that embarrassed about it.
“For the record.” I reach behind me to pull her fork from my back pocket and drop it in her lap. “I happen to like the way you say my name.”
How’s that for Captain-fucking-Obvious?
Three
Grace
I’m supposed to be offended, right?
Or maybe scared.
Offended and maybe scared that a guy I barely know is in my bedroom. Standing over me with his hard-on shoved in my face while we hiss and spit at each other like a couple of alley cats.
Yeah, I should probably be offended.
I should most definitely be scared, despite the fact that roughly twelve hours ago, this guy had me pinned against a door and his very rough, very capable hand shoved down the front of my pants. His fingers working in and out of me. Stroking me. Fucking me.
Are you going to come for me, Grace?
Yeah—I should definitely be scared.
But not because he suddenly isn’t as physically broken as either of us thought or because I suddenly have the urge to claw his pants open like a wild animal. Both are unsettling and very, very dangerous—but that’s not why I should be scared.
No, I should be scared because I suddenly don’t care. About the fact that he’s moody at best and mentally unstable as a general rule. That he’s probably still hung up on Tess and that’s the real reason he shut me down last night. That even though the excuse he threw at me when I invited him into my bed was bullshit, he’s still a better parent than me without even trying. That what he finally let happen between us yesterday had been nothing more than a fleeting moment of weakness for him. A dip and crest on the Ryan O’Connell emotional roller coaster. I’ve been riding it for days now and instead of clawing for the escape hatch like any half-sane, rational human being, I just tighten my seatbelt and brace for the next stomach-busting drop.
I should be scared that Ryan O’Connell has the ability to rob me of my sense of self-preservation and overall common sense.
And I should be downright fucking terrified that he does it without even trying.
“Are you guys still mad at each other?”
Molly’s question, delivered in a tone that’s an odd mixture of anxious and impatient, is like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. Ryan’s too because in an instant the very visible outline of his erection, only inches from my mouth, is gone. So fast, I’m sure I imagined it, but I look up to watch as his blood rushes north, setting his face on fire. He wasn’t embarrassed a second ago, but he is now.
And no, I didn’t imagine anything.
“No.” It comes from Ryan, the sound of it, so thick and heavy that it’s barely recognizable as a word. He clears his throat and tries again. “No—everything’s fine.” His gaze nails itself to mine for a moment, practically daring me to say otherwise. When all I do is stare at him, he clears his throat again before aiming a look down to make sure it’s safe to turn around. Satisfied that everything is back to normal, he takes an awkward step back before turning to face Molly. “Come on,” he says, making a shooing motion with his hands as he limps toward her. “Let’s go clean up and leave your mom alone so she can eat in peace.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he tells her, his tone firm. “The deal was that we’d make breakfast as long as you helped me clean up afterward.”
I expect her to dissolve into tears like she did when my dad got after her last Sunday at the Gilroys, or maybe throw a fit, which is more her style. She doesn’t have many men in her life and those she does have, she has completely wrapped around her finger. Surprisingly, she does neither. It’s like she’s completely tone-deaf when it comes to Ryan. “No, you said if we started a fire, you’d tell Mom that I was the one who did it.”
“Jesus,” he sighs around a chuckle. “What is it with the Faraday women and their semantics?”
“What’s semadics?” she asks, moving away from the door so he can pass through it.
“I’ll explain it to you while we clean,” he says as he moves down the hall, Molly following behind him like an eager puppy, the higher-pitched yammer of her voice punctuated by the shuffle thump of his retreat.
What the hell is Ryan O’Connell doing to my kid?
For that matter, what the hell is Ryan O’Connell doing to me?
Because I didn’t really want an answer to either of those questions, I clear the confusing jumble of it away with a vicious mental shove and dig the fork from the blankets pooled around my lap. Stabbing the perfectly browned slabs of French toast on my plate like they’re out to do me harm, I saw off their corners before stuffing them into my mouth.
Jesus Christ.
Giving the food in my mouth a few disgruntled chews, I sigh and swallow in defeat.
Even cold, it’s hands down the best French toast I’ve ever eaten.
Four
Ryan
I can’t think about it.
I can’t think about the fact that out of nowhere, after months of playing dead, my dick decided to pop up and say hello.
Literally.
Jesus Christ.
I can’t think about it. I can’t because I have a four-year-old kid in my face and there’s egg custard on the ceiling.
That’s what the recipe we found on Google called it.
Egg Custard.
I called it the shit you dip your bread into when you make French toast but when I did, Molly wrinkled her nose at me and shook her head. “My Gran started a swear jar for my Grandpa when I was a baby,” she informs me. “Gran says there was enough to retire in it by the time I started walking.”
Not surprising. Grandpa is a Marine, after all. Instead of pointing out the obvious, I dig a hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out a crumpled bill left over from last night’s pizza purchase. “Knock yourself out, kid,” I tell her, my face tipped up to look at the bright yellow goop splattered on the ceiling.
“For real?”
She chirps it at me and I look down to find her staring up at me, hands on her hips, a mixture of excitement and skepticism on her face.
“For real,” I say giving her a flat smile. God, she looks like her mother.
“You swear a lot.” She says it like she’s giving me insider information. Like maybe I’m not fully aware of all the sh
its and fucks and goddamns that come out of my mouth.
“I know that.” I try to sound irritable but it comes out sounding slightly wounded instead. “I’m retarded, not deaf.”
She cocks her head at me, the picture of four-year-old curiosity. “What’s retarded?”
Shit.
“Don’t say that,” I say without thinking. “It’s not a nice word—you could hurt someone’s feelings if you say it.”
“Oh.” Her forehead crumples a little. “Does it hurt your feelings when you say it?”
“No.”
It’s a lie. It hurts like a bitch. That’s why I say it. Because I’m the kind of asshole who gets a perverse kind of satisfaction out of reminding myself just how fucked up I really am.
She doesn’t look like she believes me but instead of pressing the issue, she shrugs. “So, if it’s a bad word you owe me more money, right?”
Laughing, I reach into my pocket and clean it out. “Here, this should buy me a couple hours,” I tell her, shoving what is the better part of a twenty-dollar bill into her tiny hands. “Now, go find something not dangerous to do while I figure out how to scrape this shit off the ceiling.”
An hour later I have the ceiling scraped clean and Molly installed at the countertop with a basket of washable markers, a rinsed out peanut butter jar, and a few sheets of blank paper stolen from Cap’n drafting table, when the back door opens up without warning and Patrick and Cari bustle in, cheeks flushed from the climb and the cold.
“They’re home,” Molly screeches, hopping down from her perch at the counter. Seconds later, she’s climbing Patrick like a tree. Finally settled on his hip, his big capable arm anchored under her rear to keep her from falling, she plants a hand on his shoulder and gives him a solemn look. “Ryan and I made French toast without you,” she tells him like she’s telling him he has six months to live.
“Is that right?” Patrick shoots me a quick, puzzled look before giving Molly his Boy Scout grin and I have the undeniable urge to knock those perfect, white teeth of his down his fucking nice guy throat.
Because I’m jealous.
Molly likes him and he obviously likes her and I’m jealous because I want her to like me best.
Jesus Christ, I need to get out of here.
As soon as Cari has her coat peeled off, she reaches for Molly and the kid jumps to her without hesitation, like a monkey, from one branch to the next. “Did you get married without me?”
“What? Are you serious?” Cari scrunches her face up in an expression that must be a Faraday women standard. “Like I would do something like that without you?” She pokes Molly in the bellybutton and she lets out a squeal. “Where’s your mom?” She’s looking at Molly when she says it, her tone is light and playful but I can hear it. Worry. Accusation. Like I have her sister hogtied in the bathtub and my hackles are instantly raised.
Not her fault, Ranger. You’re squatting on her couch because you finally committed an assault bad enough to put someone in the hospital and get yourself kicked out of the swanky rehab center her fiancé is footing the bill for. You’re lucky big sister hasn’t cut the cords on your golden parachute by now.
Even though all of that is true, I still have to swallow hard against the hot lump of resentment wadded up in my throat so I can speak. Make some sort of excuse for my sorry self because I’m not as innocent as I want to make myself out to be. I’d done things. Said things that hurt Grace and the fact that she’s refused to give me a chance to apologize is eating a hole right through the middle of me. “She’s—“
“I’m right here.”
All four of us look up to watch Grace step out of the hallway and comes toward us, breakfast tray in hand.
“Where’ve you been?” Cari asks, shooting another quick glance in my direction. “I’ve been calling you all morning and—” I got worried. Cari stops herself before she says it but I know that’s what she was about to say because now she won’t look at me. “I thought maybe we could go grab some lunch, you, me and Moll. Catch up.”
“I just ate.” Grace says while we all watch her deposit her tray on the counter. “Ryan and Molly made me breakfast in bed.”
She showered. Dressed in worn jeans and an old Ohio State sweatshirt. Bare feet. Hair pulled up in a sloppy bun, loose damp tendrils curling against her neck.
Completely. Fucking. Fuckable.
As soon as I think it, I feel panic slice through me, bright and hot.
Because I suddenly remember that my dick has a mind of its own. That after six months of nothing it finally decided to rear its ugly head—literally—and having Grace this close is dangerous.
Very fucking dangerous.
“Breakfast?” Cari’s face does that Faraday thing again. “It’s almost two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Ryan let me sleep in,” she says with a shrug while she offloads her breakfast dishes from the tray and into the sink. “And shower.” She laughs a little like it’s a joke only she would understand.
“Breakfast was Ryan’s idea, but I lied to mom and said it was my idea because she was mad at him and I—” Molly slaps a marker-stained hand over her mouth, blue eyes wide, panic-stricken and aimed right at me. “Sorry,” she mumbles around the press of her hand against her mouth.
“S’okay,” I mumble back, tempering my tone with a quick wink aimed in her direction before looking at Patrick. “Thanks for letting me crash here but I think it’s time I—”
“Nooo.” Molly lets out a wail of protest, jack-knifing herself off Cari’s hip. As soon as her feet hit the floor she darts around the counter and into the kitchen. Before anyone can stop her, Molly is scrambling and clawing her way up my good leg like a deranged squirrel. “I said I was sorry,” she says as soon as she’s settled on my hip. “Please don’t be mad at me. I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop,” I tell her, and to everyone’s surprise, her little mouth snaps closed. Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly because everyone is watching and I hate it because now they all know my fucking business. I can practically hear the gears in Cap’n hear turning, trying to figure out what happened while he was gone. How big of a fuck-up it was to leave Cari’s little sister alone with the big, scary headcase. I’d bet the one nut I have left that he calls Con as soon as I leave like the gossipy cow he is.
Then he’ll know.
He might not know everything, but he’ll know enough.
That I kissed her.
Want to do more than kiss her.
Enough to know that two days alone with me was horrible fucking idea.
Instead of putting Molly down and telling them all to get fucked, I focus on telling her the truth. “I’m not mad and you didn’t do anything wrong.”
She narrows her gaze like she doesn’t believe me. “Then why are you leaving?”
“Because I have stuff to do.” That’s a lie, I don’t have fuck-all to do and everyone here knows it.
“Okay.” She nods her head like she understands while pulling on the neckline of my T-shirt. “So do your stuff and come home.”
“Moll…” I can feel them, all of them, still staring at me—distrustful glares and puzzled gazes burning into the side of my face. “I don’t live here.”
That little chin of hers juts out in its telltale stubborn angle. “You don’t live anywhere. You got kicked out of your hospital, remember?”
“Shi…” I mutter under breath and she arches an eyebrow at me. “Shingles. I said shingles.” I crack a smile when she giggles but the sound is short-lived. In the space of a second, she’s back to scowling at me like I’m a yellow-bellied traitor. “Moll, I can’t stay here…” A helpless look cast around the kitchen tells me we still have an audience but it shows no signs of help. “My place is ready. I told you that. I told you that my staying here was—”
“You can sleep in my bed,” she tells me, negotiating like a seasoned union rep. “I’ll sleep with my mom and I don’t even care if you throw up on my pony sheets.” Her mou
th turns down at its corners, letting me know just how much that concession cost her. “Just don’t leave.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I tell her, struck by a very rare bolt of inspiration and not with a little relief because she almost had me. Almost had me agreeing to bedding down in Cap’n coat closet, just to make her happy.
“So.” She keeps scowling, her little forehead creased and folded, but the crater of it lifts just enough to tell me that even though she’s not happy, she’s listening.
“So… Sunday is Gilroy family dinner day,” I inform her. “You’ll be there.”
The crags and creases in her forehead smooth away. “And you’ll be there too.”
I look past her for a minute, at Grace who is still standing at the sink. She’s been rinsing the same dish for the past five minutes now. When she feels the weight of my gaze on her, she looks up, skewing me with her sky blue eyes before giving me the slightest of nods.
“Yeah,” I tear my gaze away from Grace and focus on the little girl perched on my hip. “I’ll be there too.”
Five
Grace
She wants to ask, I know she does, but she won’t. Instead, she’ll just sit here and stare at me and waits for me to crack.
“You’re good,” I tell her, giving her a nod while I load the dishwasher. “But you’re no Ellen Faraday.”
Cari bristles at the mention of our mother and master interrogator. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she sniffs over the half-eaten burger basket Patrick brought her from downstairs. When Ryan left, Patrick followed him down. My guess it he was following Ryan to do the same thing my sister was doing now—launching the Spanish Inquisition. He probably had as much success as she did because he came back up less than thirty minutes to deliver Cari’s food. Dropping a quick kiss on her mouth he murmured, I’ve got some work downstairs to catch up on, and disappeared again.