When I pull up in front of the stately white home with its double wraparound porches and iron railings, I have to take a breath for a moment before pulling into the driveway. But the tall iron gates open automatically at my truck’s approach, and I drive inside, unchallenged.
Once I’ve parked the truck in the open carport, I walk inside ... and feel a wave of relief wash over me. Alone. Alone in my own home, which I bought with my own money, in a safe neighborhood far from my sister.
How wonderful not to have to share a space with her after those months of psychological warfare. Maybe next time I see her, I should say goodbye for good, and lift the weight of knowing her from my heart forever. It won’t make up for my losses, but it will sure make my life easier.
She’s petty and cruel to me. She never shed a single tear over our parents. There’s nothing there to miss.
The house is mostly barren inside: the only parts that I have fully furnished so far are the kitchen, one bathroom, and the master bedroom. I pass by a living room that is still piled with boxes I just haven’t opened yet. Moving exhausted me, like so much else does these days. Now, I just make myself unpack and set up a few things a day, and stop when I start to get weepy or sick.
The encounter with Shayla has left me even more drained than usual, to the point where I can feel myself shaking slightly. I decide on a nap. My therapist has worked hard to get me to look after myself better, especially when I start showing warning signs of a meltdown. Apparently some of it has sunk in.
My bedroom is exactly as I dreamed it would look back when I was a little girl and couldn’t have any elegant things thanks to my sister. The enormous white iron canopy bed, with its frame draped in fairy lights and multicolored gauze, the patchwork velvet coverlet in copper and green, the Susan Seldon Boulet prints of unicorns and women, hanging on the white plaster walls, all of them new and undamaged. It’s a haven for me—one I’m grateful to have after the trials of the last year.
In the afternoons when I take my naps, I fall asleep to birdsong. In the mornings, when I can sleep as long as I need without being shouted at, I wake up to the same songs. And sometimes I also hear a deep voice calling happily, and a little girl giggling–and that is the best thing around here to wake up to.
Carl. The grizzled mystery man next door, who loves his daughter and fills her days with laughter and joy. He’s huge compared to me, all muscle, with shaggy blond hair, narrow blue eyes, and a smile like the sun coming up. I can pretty much remember the exact moment that I fell in love with him.
I was directing the small group of gardeners I’d hired to tame the then-jungle in my backyard when I saw him playing with his daughter for the first time. I didn’t mean to spy on them, exactly—I never do—but on that day, I was captivated. As I watched him being so kind and gentle with the girl, I wondered: would he be just as kind and tender with the woman he loves as well?
The dreams of him started almost right away. I welcome them, because they drown out the nightmares. I would rather wake up shivering in the middle of the night with unfamiliar pleasure and need than with terror and loss. Those dreams—those feelings—are like an invitation away from despair and back to life.
This time, I don’t dream of anything at all. But I smile—really smile, for the first time today—when that now-familiar sound wakes me up. It’s that lovely deep voice again, singing a few bits of a kids’ song while his little girl giggles louder and louder.
Spirits lifting, I head to my window to watch.
Chapter 2
Carl
The cute little lady next door is watching us again. She’s harmless, so I don’t mind. I get the impression that she’s shy and awkward, more than anything. Skittish, like a stray kitten.
My guess is she’s recovering from something. Her shyness, her listlessness, her lack of visitors—they all point to someone who has withdrawn to lick her wounds. She seems like someone who needs to be taken care of. And when I look at her … I think that I really wouldn’t mind volunteering.
She’s adorable. Statuesque and sexy, but demure, with wide, dark eyes I could fall into, and a gorgeous mane of auburn hair she braids and ties up like a librarian. She always dresses modestly, but her body seems to rebel against it—ample breasts pushing out the front of her sweaters, lush hips and spectacular ass stretching the wool of her long skirts.
Now and again, I’m very tempted to go over and introduce myself, but I’m waiting on her to work up the nerve instead. I don’t want to impose on her; she might get scared away. But when I see the longing way she looks at me when she thinks I can’t see her … I start thinking about what it would be like to have her.
I haven’t had a woman in my life since Jenny’s mama died, and she wasn’t into the kind of play that I am. I was loyal, so I let that part of myself go unsatisfied. But ever since I’ve felt ready to move on after Mary, I’ve been looking for that special someone who won’t be satisfied without a good man’s firm hand to guide her.
In the bedroom, anyway. Outside of it, I need someone who loves kids and can deal with the rest of my lifestyle. You don’t make a billion dollars on legal pot without getting your seed money somewhere a little shady. And once Jenny’s off to bed, I still like to smoke every now and then.
It’s tough to find someone who’s really compatible with everything I am and want. But after the sad mess with Mary, I’m absolutely done with settling. You do that and it doesn’t work out, and then you feel like an idiot for making sacrifices for something doomed from the start.
She wasn’t a bad person; I loved her, I really did. But she was carrying something besides our baby, something she didn’t talk about. Post-partum depression just finally brought it out in her.
I don’t like thinking about how she died, or how she tried to take Jenny with her. I’m just glad Jenny was so tiny then that she doesn’t remember any of it. I don’t hate Mar—but I hate the thing inside of her that made her so horribly crafty and selfish in the end, like a woman possessed.
Now, I stay alone by staying picky. But as I look up to see young Miss Emmeline looking down at me wistfully from her upstairs window, I start to wonder if I couldn’t try seeing how we work together. If nothing else, it could make for a very interesting fling.
At this point in my life, I’m hoping for more though. After three and a half years, Jenny is independent and well-behaved enough for us to add to our little family. “Okay, kiddo. Are your eyes closed?”
“Uh-huh!” Jenny has her eyes closed and covered, biting her lip with amusement.
I go to the shed, where I tucked her present shortly before summoning her away from her cartoons, and bring out the covered dog crate within. I set it down next to her, uncover it, and after making sure the gate is locked, I open its door.
The chubby, wagging bundle of golden fur and floppy ears is a pound rescue, with enough Golden Retriever in him that he goes straight for the little girl and flops against her legs, whine-yapping. I fight a grin ... and then glance up at Emmeline’s window. She’s still standing there, smiling wistfully ... but definitely smiling.
Two with one stone, I think as I see her looking happy for once. Or rather, two with one puppy. “Okay, you can open your eyes.”
Jenny uncovers her eyes and looks down ... and her jaw drops. “Puppy!” she manages to squeak as the furball bows playfully, his whole butt wagging now. She crouches down and he bounces into her arms, wiggling and licking her face.
“Oh, wow, it’s a doggie! Where’d you get a doggie from? He’s so cute!” She bursts out laughing as he starts licking her ears in a frantic, slobbery tickle attack.
“I was waiting until you were old enough. But you have to help me look after him, okay? And he’s gonna need a name.” I manage to tame my big, stupid grin down into something like a kindly smile.
“I’m gonna think of the best name ever!” she declares, and I lose it, snickering.
“Okay, come on, you guys. Go play and get to know each other. It’
ll get cold soon.” I keep a careful eye on them as they dash across the lawn together.
I have to admit that watching the two of them wrestle and chase each other does me a hell of a lot of good on this dreary day. It puts all thoughts of Mary, what she did to herself, and what she almost did to my baby, right out of my head.
Jenny and the pup are finally starting to wind down when I notice a gold Mercedes screech to a stop outside of Emmeline’s house. An overdressed woman in a scarlet suit—who looks a little like Emmeline, if she’d had seven years of cocaine abuse to age her—gets out and stalks up to bang on the gate.
My eyes narrow suspiciously. Shit. What is this now?
After a minute or two of nonstop, insistent banging, Emmeline emerges from the front door, a dark coat wrapped around her and a wary look on her face. I keep half an eye on the little ones while I eavesdrop, ears pricked for trouble in my neighborhood.
“What are you doing here?” Emmeline sighs, barely audible.
“You left in the middle of our conversation. I have news from the lawyer. I wanted to make certain that you received it before the day is over.” The woman’s voice sounds a little like Emmeline’s as well, but with an alarming, icy snootiness to it.
“The lawyer?” Emmeline hesitates.
I can tell that whoever this relative of hers is, she’s an unwanted visitor—probably because she’s a complete bitch. But family legal matters are important. I wince in sympathy as she reluctantly opens the gate and leads the woman inside.
A cold, wary feeling tightens my stomach. I look over at the two new playmates, who are dozing off on the lawn despite the cold. “All right, you two,” I announce in a cheery voice as I scoop a kid up with one arm and a puppy with the other. “Let’s get you inside to finish watching cartoons. I’ll get the doggie crate in a minute.”
“Can we have hot chocolate later?” Jenny yawns as I cart her inside.
“You and me can have hot chocolate, sweetie, but this little guy can’t. Chocolate’s bad for dogs.”
I drop them off in front of the TV, make sure I’ve puppy-proofed everything enough that they’ll be fine for a few minutes, and then slip back outside, ears pricked for trouble next door.
I’ve barely shut the dog crate and scooped it up to take it inside when I hear raised voices over there. One is hard and harsh; the other shakes and is full of sadness and outrage. The very thought of cute little Emmeline sounding so unhappy pisses me off, and I set the crate down and head for the side yard that separates our properties.
Walking alongside the stone fence on my way to the front yard, I can hear the argument growing so loud and impassioned that I’m starting to be able to make out words.
“Only let you in because you said the lawyer—” comes Emmeline’s voice. I speed up a little. My gut is telling me that she’s not safe.
I trust my instincts. Back in my old business, they kept me alive more than once.
“Bullshit! You were going to the convent and were giving up your share! That money should be mine!” The other woman’s screech is so clear that I can only imagine how ear-splitting it must be face-to-face.
“That money was left to me by Mom and Dad, same as yours was to you, you greedy bitch! Get out of my face and get out of my home! I never planned to give it to you anyway; you’re rich enough, and you have our house!”
I break into a jog, the muscles in my shoulders tightening. As proud as I am that Emmeline’s standing up for herself, I know what the long silence that follows her angry statement means. I can feel the tension building next door, like the calm before a storm.
Whoever this other woman is, she’s selfish and greedy, and from the unbalanced screech in her voice, there’s no limit to her rage. I don’t want her alone with Emmeline right now, even though I barely know the girl.
I’m at a dead run by the time the screaming starts up again. I take the front steps two at a time, and start banging on the door.
Chapter 3
Emmeline
“Get out of my home. Get out!” I don’t know where this courage is coming from, but I’m chasing Shayla out, step by determined step, while she gives ground slowly toward the door. Her face is dark red with anger, almost the color of her suit, but I can see the fear in her eyes.
I’m going to throw up once she’s gone. My stomach churns with each step I take and I’m shaking, my hands cold. But I refuse to show any of these signs of weakness to her. She isn’t used to me fighting back, and her surprise right now is the only weapon that I have.
“I’m the oldest!” she’s yelling nonsensically. “I’m the heir, and I don’t care what their will says. I’ll contest it in court!”
“What the hell do you think this is?” I demand as I continue to herd her back into the front hallway. “Medieval Britain? The ‘firstborn’ thing only mattered then if you had a penis, anyway! And you can contest whatever you want, but all it will do is waste your time and the money you love so much on lawyer fees!”
That makes her hesitate, which disgusts and angers me even more. “I’m not going to let you bully me into giving up what Mom and Dad left to me like you bullied me into leaving our house! It’s my money, this is my home, and you’re not my superior. For God’s sake, Shayla, you need to go back to therapy and stop!”
She goes from purple to white and back again. “Don’t you fucking talk to me about therapy, Miss Depressed! I’m fine! It’s not my fault you could never handle someone with a stronger personality than yours!”
“Being a pushy bitch doesn’t make you strong, Shayla. If you were strong, you’d be enjoying what you have instead of coming after what’s mine.” My eyes are locked with hers, while inside I marvel at my own unexpected courage.
“It’s all mine!” she shrieks suddenly, and lunges for me, making me freeze with shock. But she doesn’t even touch me before a heavy, insistent knock at the door startles us both.
I turn, but Shayla, her anger redirected as quickly as a mad dog’s, darts past me and yanks the door open. “Who are you? Fuck off!”
Carl is standing there, arms folded, a thunderous scowl on his face as he stares at Shayla.
I freeze, stunned, unable to understand why in the hell he’s on my doorstep when he’s taken no interest in me for months. That I know of, anyway. But suddenly, here he is like a white knight, giving her such a forbidding look that all the bluster goes out of her at once.
“W—what are you doing here?” she challenges shakily. She folds her skinny arms and lifts her chin, as if it’s her house and he just interrupted something sane and normal. But he’s not buying it, and she can tell—and that scares her, too.
Good.
“I heard screaming over here,” he rumbles, his voice so unlike the kind tone he uses with his daughter that it sends a small chill down my spine. “I wanted to make sure that Miss Emmeline was not in danger from some … intruder.”
Shayla switches gears, going all fluttery and flustered, half of it a smokescreen, but some of it appearing genuine. “Oh no, no, no, I’m actually Emmeline’s older sister. We were just having a … private … family discussion—”
“Private? If you wanted to have a private discussion, why could I hear every word from inside my kitchen?”
That seems to get through to Shayla, finally. That’s always been her way, to thrive on the uncomfortable silence of a family that is forced to tolerate her. Shocked comments from the neighbors, from a visiting friend, from her own boyfriend … all of them break that silence, and throw a spotlight on her behaviour.
I’m still mortified that he felt the need to step in, and that this is how we’re meeting for the first time: me fighting tears and nausea, with my heartless nut of a sister standing between us. But as Shayla rubs her face convulsively in response, Carl looks past her and stares right at me … and his whole face changes.
He gives me a sympathetic look, with the tiniest apologetic smile. As if he’s been there, dealing with irrational people who teeter at all ti
mes on the edge of becoming dangerous. And I realize—with a surge of gratitude and relief—that he didn’t come here to yell at me. He came here to save me from the person who was yelling at me.
I bite my lip and nod back, forcing a tiny smile even as my eyes start to sting dangerously. I’ve become unaccustomed to kindness now that Mom and Dad are gone. It feels good and hurts at the same time. The feeling mixes with my anguish at dealing with Shayla like an antidote, destroying it and restoring some of my strength.
Shayla puts her hand over her mouth and mumbles, all fake modesty, “Oh, I-I-I didn’t realize. I …”
“Shayla,” I sigh suddenly, my voice stony and exasperated. “Just go away already. You’ve already embarrassed us both, and you’re not four. You’re not going to get your way by throwing a tantrum.”
She shoots me a look of pure hatred and frustration, and then suddenly scuttles out, shoving the screen door open and shouldering rudely past Carl. He steps aside to let her go, watching her flee down the walk with a bemused look on his face.
We watch silently until she roars off in her gold Mercedes, as if we’re both wary of what she’ll do until we can see she’s gone for good. Then Carl turns back to me, and his sympathetic look returns. “You okay?” he asks very gently.
I draw in a shivery breath and let my heartbeat slow a little before trying to speak. “Yeah,” I murmur, giving him the bravest smile I can manage. “I am now. Thank you.” I’m so embarrassed that this is how we are finally meeting that I feel like I have to explain myself. “She’s … not very rational.”
“I noticed.” He offers an enormous hand. “We only met briefly at that block party last month, but uh … I’ve noticed you around. Thought about saying hello, but you seem like a pretty private person.”
I hesitate, then clasp his hand with my own as best I can. His enormous hand closes over mine and surrounds it in brief, leathery warmth. It’s all I can do not to whimper at his comforting touch.
The Alpha's Assistant & The Dom Next Door Page 8