“Reed.” Darcy planted a hand on his arm, her blue eyes sincere. “Are you okay? You’ve been staring at that sink with a trash bag dangling from your hand like you’re a statue or something.”
“I’m fine.” He turned and headed out of the house to dispose of the trash.
The sun had dipped farther, settling a hazy, purple light over the neighborhood. Two women walked along the path, crossing in front of his father’s house in their matching black leggings. A small white dog trotted in front of them and they both waved when they caught sight of him.
He remembered this place from his childhood days, how rough it had been back then. Red Hook had been considered one of the worst neighborhoods in the entire country, the “crack capital” of the United States. Many of the families had struggled to make ends meet, and crime and violence were rife. But now it was becoming upscale. The houses were being bulldozed or renovated, sold for millions. Hell, they even had a Tesla showroom. If fancy electric sports cars weren’t a sign of complete gentrification, then he didn’t know what was.
All of which illustrated what an eyesore his father’s house could become if he didn’t do something about it soon.
With a sigh, he replaced the lid on the trash can and headed back up the stairs to the front door. Darcy’s sweet voice floated out, her laughter cutting through all the dark muck in his head. He found her sitting next to his father, their hands wrapped around twin floral mugs as she chatted animatedly about her love of the classics.
His father smiled, enraptured. And, for the first time in a long time, Adam McMahon looked genuinely happy.
* * *
By the time she’d finished her coffee and poured another, Darcy’s cheeks hurt from all the laughing. Reed’s father was a delight—charmingly self-deprecating, inquisitive, and a smooth talker. Like his son.
It saddened her that she’d felt more at home and at ease with Reed’s father than she ever had in her own family home. At least here, she wasn’t made to feel like an abject failure. Nobody was commenting on her appearance or her marital status. Adam seemed to genuinely enjoy her jokes and all the funny stories about her quirky library patrons. Reed had been quiet, but she felt his gaze on her constantly, burning holes into her ability to concentrate. Whenever she made eye contact, a frisson of anticipation shot through her.
“I guess I should take you home,” Reed said, setting his mug on the coffee table.
His deep voice smoothed over her like a caress…like his caress. I should take you home… Such an innocent statement, and yet her mind was doing cartwheels and shimmying like she was about to get some. Not likely. From all accounts, Reed could only count to one where sex was concerned—one night, one encounter.
“Sure.” She stood and reached for his cup, batting his hand away when he told her she didn’t have to help clean up. But she was hardly going to leave it to Adam, who had trouble getting in and out of his chair without huffing and puffing.
In the kitchen, she caught snippets of two male voices—one rich and smooth, the other raspy and full of emotion. The words were a little hazy, but it sounded as though Reed was trying to convince Adam to do something. Darcy’s eyes skated over the messy kitchen. She wasn’t one to judge—hell, she let the dishes pile up on occasion—but Reed’s expression told her that this wasn’t normal. He’d looked so worried that her heart had squeezed for him.
She placed the mugs gingerly on the side of the sink, since they wouldn’t fit in it. The voices rose in the lounge room and Reed’s empathic “Jesus, Dad” cut right through her. Ugh, that sentiment was all too familiar. Nice as tonight had been, there was a big difference between how someone acted with a guest versus their own family. Hadn’t Reed called her his buffer?
She bit down on her lip. It sounded like they needed a few more minutes together. Darcy hovered for a second, trying to figure out if there was anything she could do to help. But the small space was overwhelmed by dishes and she couldn’t even see a dish towel. Reed poked his head in a few seconds later.
“We’re leaving,” he said gruffly. The easy smile that had been on his lips a few moments ago was gone, replaced by a stiff line. A crease had formed between his brows. She’d seen Reed wear many faces—teasing, confident, even angry. But this weariness was new. “If I don’t get out of here soon, I might kill him.”
“I feel like we should clean up for him.” Her eyes flicked to the sink.
“Leave it. I’ve already put a reminder in my phone to call someone tomorrow.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I need to speak with Donna anyway. One more night won’t make a difference.”
“Okay.”
They said their goodbyes to Adam, who squeezed Darcy’s shoulder and made her promise she would accompany Reed again. Talk about awkward. How was she supposed to tell the guy that her relationship with his son could be categorized as work with a side of smut?
One time only smut no less.
“Your dad’s a real sweetheart,” she said as they walked down the steps outside Adam McMahon’s house.
“He can turn it on, that’s for damn sure.”
The sky had turned to an inky indigo and the temperature had dropped. It wasn’t exactly cold, but Darcy’s old T-shirt did nothing to stop the cool breeze brushing over her skin. She shivered. Without a word, Reed unlocked the car and reached into the back. He tossed his hoodie to her as she slid into the passenger seat.
“Thanks.” A warm, fuzzy feeling settled deep in her belly as she inspected it. The fabric was an old and faded blue, but the orange New York Mets logo remained bright.
“You’re supposed to wear it,” he said as he got into the car and started the engine. “I know it’s not your style, but you looked cold.”
“Thought you had a ‘lump of coal where your heart should be,’” she said, pulling the hoodie over her head. Goddamn it smelled good—cologne and soap, something fresh yet rich. A contradiction that was uniquely him.
“True, but I do have a nervous system. I understand the concept of feeling cold,” he said dryly. “Now, give me your address.”
Darcy grinned in the darkness, burrowing her chin into the soft, well-loved fabric as she spelled out her street name. “Why did you really bring me here tonight?”
“Told you, I needed a buffer.” Streetlights danced over his face as they drove, enhancing the sharp angles of his cheekbone and jaw.
“And you didn’t have a friend who could have helped you out with that?” Maybe she was poking the bear, but curiosity had sunk its claw in.
“I do. But my father was always better when there was a woman around—something about pride and being the center of attention.” He paused. “And, if it’s not abundantly clear, I’m in short supply of female friends.”
He looked like he was going to say something else, but the silence stretched on and he didn’t elaborate.
“Is that because all women want to sleep with you?” she teased.
“I believe I said most.”
Darcy laughed. “I wish I had an ounce of your confidence. Or is it a lack of modesty? I can’t tell the difference.”
Reed shrugged. “It’s all just labels, isn’t it? Such a human thing to do: we love putting people into tidy, little boxes.”
Bitterness laced his tone, but Darcy couldn’t blame him; she’d been the victim of labeling on more than one occasion—rebel, antisocial, ingrate, bad influence. Jilted bride. Reject.
She swallowed. “You think your dad does that to you?”
“Don’t all parents?” A sharp laugh rang out in the car. “Or maybe that’s just my fucked-up, dysfunctional family.”
“Uh, I’ve talked about my mother before, right? She ain’t exactly Carol Brady.” She laughed. “Although now you’ve met the golden child you can probably see why I disappoint her. No boyfriend, no ambitions to be a housewife. I’m a blight on her record of motherh
ood—it feels like that anyway.”
“At least yours stuck around.” The second the words were out of his mouth, his jaw clenched. She could practically hear him admonishing himself internally. He cleared his throat. “Seems I need a muzzle around you.”
It struck Darcy that she and Reed were far more alike than she could ever have anticipated. Sure, the images they both presented to the world were vastly different. But they were still images—personas even. She hid behind her scowl and snarky retorts, whereas he used an expensive suit and tie. But on the inside, they were both a little damaged, a little isolated. They were far better at pushing people away than they were at keeping them close.
“How old were you when she left?” she asked, fully expecting him to clam up. He was well within his right to tell her to mind her own freaking business.
“Fifteen.” His eyes were straight ahead, locked on the road as though it required every ounce of his concentration. But they were moving slowly, navigating back streets at an easy pace. “Same year I put my hand through a wall and ended any chances of chasing the majors.”
No guesses required as to whether those two events were connected. So he’d lost his mother and his dream all in twelve months. That was a lot for anyone to handle, let alone a teenage boy.
“Do you still see her?”
He grunted. “No, she’s long gone. Visits stopped after two years and birthday cards after five. Good riddance.”
Darcy sensed there was more to it than that, but he already looked brittle. Pushing him further might backfire and then she’d lose whatever ground she’d managed to gain.
Since when are you trying to gain anything with him? You don’t care about him. You’re not friends.
But something about that didn’t quite ring true. They weren’t friends, not technically, and she probably viewed him more as a puzzle than someone whom she cared about. Yet there was something niggling in her chest. Like a tiny seed of emotion that’d been planted but not watered—it could die, or it could flourish with the right attention.
“I never knew my father,” she said. “My mother wouldn’t even tell me his name.”
“Wouldn’t or won’t?”
She glanced out the window, resting her forehead against the glass. “Won’t.”
There’d been blazing arguments about it when Darcy was a teenager. Eventually, her mother had said that part of her moving on was fully letting go of the past (a.k.a. acting like it never happened). Apparently, her closure was more important than Darcy’s.
“I wondered if I might get to meet him one day.” She sighed. “All I know is that my mom got pregnant but she wasn’t married, and my father didn’t stick around. Her family told her the only way they’d support her—and me—was if she became involved in the church. That’s where she met my stepfather.”
“Cynthia is your half sister, then?” He made a little noise in the back of his throat. “I thought you looked quite different.”
“Look different, act different, think different.” All the resentment she worked so hard to repress came rearing up, stoked by Reed’s words. “They love her more because my mom thinks she’s the legitimate child and I’m just the nasty mistake that reminds her of the past.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Hey, you wanted to play fucked-up family bingo. Don’t be a sore loser.”
The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. For some reason, that made her feel good…and confused. And annoyed. So far her history of picking men to entangle herself with wasn’t looking so good—Ben and Reed. Both wrong for her, both unattainable either physically or emotionally.
“Fucked-up family bingo.” He bobbed his head. “I like that.”
“You shouldn’t. You’re losing.” She twisted in her seat so she could look at him more closely. “And I got plenty more where that came from.”
“You don’t want to try me, Darcy. I’ve only scratched the surface.”
So had she. There was far more lurking beneath Reed’s polished veneer than anyone would suspect. All they saw was the womanizing playboy who slept his way around the city, caring for nothing and nobody. But she saw something else: a man who was frightened of connecting. Who rolled in on himself so the spikes faced outward, scaring off anyone who might dare to get close.
“I think I do want to try you,” she said. “I’ve got a bottle of gin and a pen so we can keep score.”
“Are you asking me to come up to your apartment?”
Darcy hadn’t even realized they were stopped in front of her walk-up. Reed’s face was close in the dark, his breath whispering over her skin and seeping into her body. Remi was always out Sunday nights. They would have the place to themselves.
Think very carefully about what you’re doing. This is premeditated, and the penalty for that is higher. You can’t pass it off as lust.
She wanted him; oh God how she wanted him. But this wasn’t about scratching an itch or trying to get anything out of her system. It was something else…something new.
“What if I am?” she whispered.
“I don’t do the personal stuff.” His hand slid along her jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of her lip. “So why do I feel like going up to your place is a good idea?”
“Maybe I’m tastier than the girls you usually date.” Her breath hitched. “Or perhaps you went too long between meals.”
His throaty chuckle sent a ripple of anticipation through her. “Let’s go with the first one.”
His lips brushed hers with a featherlight touch and she curled her hands into his T-shirt. Blood rushed in her ears, the roar drowning out the little voice telling her to stop. Slow down. Reconsider.
Why? So what if Reed was wrong for her? So what if her friends and her mother would be horrified? They had chemistry and, against the laws of logic, they had a burgeoning personal connection. Her hand skated up Reed’s thigh and he moaned into her. Turns out something else was burgeoning too.
“Do you need to warn anyone up there?” he asked, his teeth scraping along her neck.
“That we’re going to play bingo?”
“You know that’s not all we’ll be doing,” he growled.
“Greedy.” She let out a satisfied murmur as he sucked on her earlobe. “My roommate is out. She won’t be back until later tomorrow.”
“We could always head into the city. I can get us a room—”
“No.” The word shot out of her before she could stop it.
Fun as the hotel room was, she wanted this time to be more personal. Maybe it was an extension of the satisfaction she got from knowing he was going against his policy to be with her. Or perhaps it was that she’d finally found someone who wasn’t wishing she were someone else.
“We’re already here and I really…want that drink.”
Nice cover, idiot. He won’t see through that at all.
“Me too.” Reed bobbed his head, his fingers still tangling with her hair. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 18
“Reed has a lot of rules. No visits to his place or yours, no deep and meaningful talks, no promises. I don’t think the word yes is in his vocabulary.”
—AnneofGrenville
Reed sat at the two-seater, round table in the corner of the living room. The apartment’s tiny kitchen was tucked away and didn’t have enough room for seating. So Darcy had left him there to fix them both a drink. The clink of ice cubes hitting glass echoed into the main room.
The place was cramped but well utilized. A bright-blue sofa faced an exposed-brick wall where a TV sat atop a white unit. The couch was decorated with a brightly colored throw in purples, oranges, and yellows, which matched a collection of small yellow elephants that ran along the edge of one windowsill. A shelving unit without doors held an array of mismatched cups, plates, and glasses.
On first glance, it looked
as though Darcy couldn’t possibly live here—after all, the girl seemed allergic to color. But he could see hints of her personality in the sharply modern painting created only with shades of gray, and the funky, industrial-looking coffee table that had a smooth white top and legs made out of old pipes.
He got up to have a closer inspection of the table and noticed a white book sitting in the center. It had blended with the pristine surface of the painted wood. The white canvas cover looked professional, and a logo was embossed on one corner. Curious, he picked it up and a note fell out. The looping cursive was written in hot-pink ink.
Darcy—Sorry, I couldn’t help but take a peek. The photos are perfect. You really do make a beautiful bride. Glad I could help you celebrate. Love, Remi
Bride? What the hell?
Shooting a glance toward the kitchen, he was glad Darcy was still making their drinks. He flipped the cover open and almost choked at a picture of her in a white wedding gown. Lace covered her arms and chest, a big, puffy skirt bloomed out from her small waist. She looked like a goddamn cupcake. But there was something off about the photo—a resolute sadness in her eyes that was like a knife to his chest.
The next page showed three photos of her in the same position, her eyes staring off into the distance. Behind her, the sun glowed. Light flares dotted the pictures, giving her an ethereal look. Her eyes were as bright as the sky.
Jesus. She’s married? Was married?
“Does it get the McMahon seal of approval?” Darcy walked into the room holding two glasses of gin and tonic garnished with cucumber. Her eyes widened when her gaze snagged on the album. “What the hell are you doing?”
“It was sitting here. I didn’t know…” He dropped the album onto the couch as though it was made of hot coals.
“Didn’t know what?” Her jaw tightened as if she was grinding her back teeth.
“That you were married.” He frowned. “Or are you married?”
Bad Bachelor Page 20