“No.” He held out Big Orange. “What do you want me to do with this?”
I snorted, he chuckled, and Big Orange shook. That was such a loaded question. “Poor Dexter.”
“This is bigger than Dexter.” He sounded like a movie trailer voiceover.
“Haha. Just give it back to him. After getting flung around by Jupiter, he deserves it.”
“So this really is yours?” he observed.
I took a page from Mrs. Echols. “Possession being nine-tenths of the law, Big Orange now belongs to you, Boomer.”
He tossed it on the bed behind him and walked to the door. “I guess now it belongs to your bed, Mattie.”
“Ha ha, Boomer. You’re hilarious.” Asshole. Once I finished detangling and braiding my hair, I hit the living room, where Boomer was sprawled out in my favorite chair, the oversized one with the smooshy cushions. He still had ESPN on, but his eyes were on his phone.
“Do you want to sleep out here or in the spare bedroom?”
“You have a head injury.”
“It’s nothing.” Even a blind person could see where this was going. “I’m fine.”
“Go to bed, Mattie. I’ll be in in a little while.”
“The guest bedroom is as close as you’ll ever get to sleeping with me.”
He chuckled as he finally looked up from his phone. “Not if you play your cards right.”
Cheeks burning, I retreated to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me.
I’d forgotten how stubborn Boomer could be when he wanted something. Why the hell he wanted to stay with me after what I’d said to him was anybody’s guess, but I was too tired to fuss anymore. I was half asleep when he came in and threw a blanket on the bed.
“Be right back.”
“No, Boomer!” I didn’t hear his response because he’d slammed the bathroom door. All I could do was repeat myself when he reentered the bedroom a few minutes later, wearing a pair of my brother’s sweatpants and nothing else. This could not be happening. “I said—”
“I heard you.” He circled the bed and stretched out on top of the covers. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman, but you have a head injury, and I really shouldn’t leave you alone.”
“You are so full of shit.” He was also full of muscle. Lots of well-defined muscle covered with dark brown hair that grew thinner the lower it went, until it disappeared altogether, hidden below the waist band of a pair of ugly blue sweatpants.
He silently stretched out next to me, leaving maybe eighteen inches between us, and covered himself with the extra blanket. I got up, stomped to the door, and shut off the hall light. Back in bed, I assumed my usual sleep position, but it was no good. With a heavy sigh, I closed my eyes and spent a few minutes willing myself to go to sleep. But it was also no good.
Every square centimeter of my body remembered what I’d spent the last ten years trying to forget.
Before I hated Boomer Kendall, he’d been the love of my life.
Not that he’d known. How cliché could a girl get? Falling for her brother’s best friend. It was like some low-budget chick movie. I sighed up at the ceiling. This wasn’t going to end well.
“Can’t sleep?”
I went for the snark. It was the most trustworthy weapon I had in my arsenal. It was all I had. “Well, nobody could ever call you dumb, could they, Boomer?”
The bed shook as he chuckled. Then his head turned and I could feel his eyes boring into me. “Hey, whatever happened to Ty Boudreaux?”
“He’s your cousin. Not mine.”
“I know, but—”
“He divorced—”
“I know that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Why didn’t you make a play for him?”
“Because I was busy working and putting myself through school. Because he’s out of my league,” I said on a yawn, then burrowed deeper in the bed. Because I wasn’t twelve anymore. I’d grown past junior high crushes. “And besides, he married Betti Blanchard.”
He sat up and peered at me through the gloom. He held one of his hands out in front of his chest and asked, “Betti with the boobs?”
“Yes,” I drawled, “Betti with the boobs. Now go to sleep, Boomer.”
He lay back down and was blessedly silent. Silent enough for me to have just begun to doze off. “He’s not out of your league. No man is out of your league.”
“Go to sleep, Boomer, for the love of God.”
He rolled on his side and scooted closer so we were practically spooning, blankets or no blankets, and said, “Good night, Fatty Mattie.”
Sue me, I didn’t have the heart or the energy to protest or move away. “Good night, asshole.”
I woke up thirty minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off, fully aware of two things: today was my last day as a lunch lady…and Boomer had a hard-on.
During the night, Boomer had managed to get his arms around me, and the extra blanket he’d shoved between us was long gone. So Boomer had me cradled against him and his hard-on was plastered against my backside. I was in a very dangerous place. A place full of things I shouldn’t want and most certainly couldn’t have. If I had any sense, I’d get up, or elbow him, or both. Then he pulled me closer, one hand gripping my hip as he ground against me. His breathing grew heavier and the hand on my hip slid across my hip, across my belly and into my panties. I bit my lower lip to keep from moaning, afraid if I so much as moved a muscle or breathed, he’d stop, while behind me, his breathing grew heavier as he moaned my name. His grip on me tightened, and then the motherfucking alarm went off.
I gritted my teeth in frustration and smacked the snooze button, unsure of what to say. Behind me Boomer groaned as his fingers dipped into my wetness and then circled my swelling clit.
“Boomer,” I rasped.
“Hmmm?” His breath was warm on my shoulder as he squeezed one breast.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to speak. To lie. “Stop.”
For the love of God. Before I did something I couldn’t come back from.
He stopped, easing away from me and moving his hand to my waist. Otherwise, we stayed like we were—spooning silently, and me slapping the snooze button until I absolutely positively had to leave the comfort of his arms. He chuckled softly as I finally pushed past the fog of need clouding my head and forced myself to get up.
“Do you always hit the snooze button that many times?”
I turned to look at him, fully aware of my bed head, my lack of makeup, and my morning breath. “Boomer,” I said in my most shocked voice, “did you forget? I fucking hate mornings.”
“Then why the hell did you become a lunch lady?” he stretched out on his back, completely at ease in my bed.
“Because the hours worked well for my afternoon and evening classes.” I stood and adjusted my panties, adding one parting shot before I ducked across the hall to the bathroom, “also, I wanted Miss Molly’s pineapple cake recipe.”
Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom with my teeth brushed, a little makeup on, and my hair tightly braided. I would have been out in ten but I’d spent five minutes convincing myself to leave the bathroom because Boomer Kendall sticking his hands in my panties and feeling me up was…no big.
He stood in the hallway holding two cups of coffee and all my attention. I wondered if he even realized how much larger than life he was. “When do you have to leave?”
“Let’s just say, I’ll need a travel mug.” I took the cup, silently raising it in thanks as I tried to maneuver around him.
He finally shuffled backward. “I should probably drive you to work.”
“Like you staying the night wasn’t ridiculous enough?” I slammed the bedroom door behind me, needing to put a little distance between us. Even if it didn’t last long. I was still wearing my T-shirt and panties, and he was still wearing those damn sweatpants and nothing else. The list of traits to describe Boomer was probably somewhere in the neighborhood of a mile-long, and stubborn was definitel
y in the top five. So was sexy. And now, well endowed. The bedroom door opened almost as quickly as I closed it.
“You could’ve had a brain bleed. You could’ve died. I stayed for you, Mattie.”
I blew a raspberry. “Like I said, ridiculous.” He’d stayed to annoy me. I set down my cup and yanked a pair of jeans off the hanger. If he drove me to work, the Bluebonnet gossip mill would go wild. My only saving grace at this point was that his truck was parked across the street at my brother’s house. I finished dressing in record time, very aware of a shirtless Boomer standing just a few feet away, watching me while he drank his coffee. Like he belonged here. Except of course, he didn’t, and that’s what I focused on. I grabbed my shoes and cup and shoved my way past him again.
Out of sight, out of mind.
That only worked when Boomer wasn’t around, and right now, he was about as around as a man could get. He’d even followed me into the living room. He reclaimed my favorite chair and turned on the morning news while I sat on the edge of the sofa putting on my socks and shoes as quickly as possible.
Fingers thick with nervous tension made tying them difficult but I managed to get the first one finished just as Boomer stood up and said, “Here, let me.”
“I’m not six. I’m a grown-ass woman—”
“I know,” he replied, smirking at me over the top of his coffee cup while I tied my other shoe.
“You’re not funny.” I was as ready as I’d ever be. All I needed was my purse and car keys. I paused, taking a moment to gather my frazzled nerves. “Where the hell’s my purse, Boomer?”
He sank deeper into the chair, his 5 o’clock shadow somehow enhancing the smug expression on his face. “Wherever you left it?”
“I left it on the front porch when I fainted.” I stood and started searching the living room. I wouldn’t have put it past him to hide it from me.
“You mean when you fake fainted, don’t you?”
“I did not!” That little shit! He’d known all along. He probably just stayed the night to annoy me. I glared at him then stepped into the kitchen, relieved to see somebody had left my purse on the table.
“The hell you didn’t, Matilda Lucile.”
I was too busy fishing my keys out of my purse to glare at him. That, and the fact he still wore no shirt. I’d always been kind of ambivalent about men with chest hair, but not anymore. Staring into the bottom of my purse, I fisted my keys and wagged a finger in his direction. “I. Did not. Fake. Faint. Boomer Ray Kendall. That’s low, even for you.” I was saved from any more lying by the ringing of his goddamn cell phone, which he never seemed to answer. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to get to work, and you need to answer your stupid ass phone.”
6
Boomer
Matilda slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows across the front porch. Then she turned around and came stomping back inside. She silently grabbed a clean apron out of the front closet, stalked right past me toward the kitchen and banged a few cupboard doors. I bit my lip at the sound of coffee being poured into travel mug and finally gave in to the urge and joined her in the kitchen.
“Are you going to answer that fucking phone, or what?” she snapped as she twisted the lid on.
The clock on the microwave read six seventeen, which meant it was either my dad calling to check up on Mattie, or Kotowski calling to check up on me. The Texans’ head quarterback liked to get his morning run in before his kids started rolling around. His words, not mine.
“Well?” Mattie now stood next to me, one hand propped on her hip.
I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You’re going to be late.”
“Don’t ever do that again, Boomer.” And she was off and moving again, sliding into her coat and stomping toward the door, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. “And that thing in bed,” she stammered, “don’t do that again either.”
“Have a great day, sweetheart,” I shouted just as she slammed the door.
It opened just long enough for her to say, “You too, asshole.”
I smiled at the closed door, but it didn’t last. I leaned against the archway dividing the kitchen from the living room. Yesterday evening, just before Mattie had climbed in my truck and ripped me a new one, Joe, my agent, had been ripping me a new one. I needed to make a decision before Christmas and put everyone out of their misery. If I didn’t want to stay in Houston, I had options, including Dallas—which would never happen—New Orleans, and Miami, but moving took time. Problem was, leaving Houston was not an option. I’d never move so far away from my folks—not if I could help it. Which Joe knew all too well. The burning question was, if Houston wanted me and I wanted Houston, why didn’t I just sign the fucking contract? He’d practically been foaming at the mouth when Mattie had climbed in the truck and started saying how much she hated me.
Like I hadn’t already known.
Like her blaming me for the accident that had killed her dad, and eventually her mom, and ended Marsh’s football career was news. As much as I’d blamed myself, while she’d never come out and said the words until last night, it hadn’t been that hard to figure out her change in attitude toward me. And while I knew Marsh didn’t hate me, that didn’t stop me from feeling guilty. It was my guilt that still hung between us all these years later. I hadn’t arm-twisted Marsh into going to OU with me, but I’d definitely given it the hard sell. I’d wanted UT. I’d wanted to stay close to home, but Dad had expected me to go to Oklahoma, and I’d been eighteen and scared and hadn’t wanted to go alone.
Up until Marsh and I had declared for OU, the three of us had been fairly close. Or as close as you could be to your best friend’s kid sister. The accident had changed everything—for all three of us as well as between all three of us. Not that I could complain. I still had two good knees, for the time being, and two parents. But Mattie’s rant from last night had really gotten to me, especially the part about her having babies.
Or rather, her having babies with somebody who wasn’t me.
She might as well have kicked me in the balls. Sure she dated in the last ten years, and so had I, but dating wasn’t marriage or babies. Dating wasn’t forever. Marriage was. And I’d be damned if Mattie was going to spend forever with anybody but me. That’s what I’d decided while she’d been spewing all the reasons she hated me. She might be angry with me, and she might hate the curve balls she’d been thrown, but I knew she didn’t really hate me. That’s why I’d been such an ass about staying the night. Especially after she called me Boom Boom. She was the only one who did. She was the only one allowed to, but she hadn’t used that particular nickname in a very long time.
Normally, she just called me asshole.
Chuckling I poured myself another cup of coffee and then spent a few minutes tidying up. Mattie’s house had originally been her parent’s. It didn’t look anything like what I remembered from when we were kids. She’d knocked out a few walls, stripped the hardwoods and refinished them with Marsh’s help and skills she picked up during a couple of summer stints with Habitat for Humanity. The kitchen linoleum had been pulled up and replaced with two shades of tile laid in a green-and-white checkerboard and the old wood cabinets had been sanded down and painted a very noisy raspberry. The countertops and sink were new, but not granite. Something cheaper. Even the bathroom had been redone, enlarged by stealing a few square feet from her old bedroom. After I made Mattie’s bed, I sat and listened to the voice mail from Kotowski who assured me that if I wanted to talk, he'd be around.
Across the street a light came on, and I crossed to the window, watching as Marsh kissed his wife, pulled up his hoodie against the cold and went for his morning run. Louie stood at the screen door watching him until he was out of sight. He never looked toward his sister’s house. I should go with him, but I didn’t have my running shoes. I probably could’ve borrowed an extra pair from him, but I wasn’t sure if he’d want me along. He hadn’t told me about Miss Molly and he hadn’t told me about coach
retiring. I had a feeling there was more he hadn’t told me, and for a moment I wondered if he’d been holding out on his sister as well. As much as Mattie like to scream and shout, if there was something really wrong with Marsh, she’d tell me. Or she’d tell my mom, and my mom would tell me.
And speaking of Mattie…I smiled into the bottom of my coffee cup and then drained it. Staying over had definitely been the right move. If nothing else, I now knew that Matilda Lucile Johnson hated me about as much as she hated those fancy English dark chocolate bars she had hidden in the back of her fridge.
Which was to say, not at all.
I grabbed a quick shower, dressed in last night’s clothes, rinsed out our coffee cups, set them in the drainer, and then went out back to Mattie’s little greenhouse. I knew she wouldn’t mind if I stole some tomatoes for my mom. Tomatoes that would hopefully distract her from asking too many questions about my sleepover with Mattie. The next couple of days were going to be long and rough as it was. By the time I left Mattie’s, the tomatoes secure in a paper bag under my arm, Marsh was returning from his run. Hands propped on his hips, he walked the last few feet to where I stood at my truck.
“You’re the one who should be out here running, not me,” he panted. He used his hoodie to wipe the excess sweat from his face, and then sucked in a deep cleansing breath.
“I know,” was all I said.
“Those Broncos are gonna kick your ass next week.”
“I’m ready.” I’d be going back to Houston, and back to my workouts Sunday after church. That didn’t give me much time to work on Mattie.
He didn’t look at me as he nodded and asked, “How’s my sister?”
“Ornery as ever.” To distract him I held up the bag of tomatoes. “If you see her before I do, tell her I took some tomatoes for Mom.”
“Probably should’ve taken her to the clinic.” He turned toward the front door, then turned back and asked, “You coming?”
The invitation was an afterthought, and I didn’t feel right intruding on his and Louisiana’s morning routine. “I need to get before Mom sends out the cavalry.”
Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology Page 72