“I didn’t realize how much I wanted a family until Dad died,” Braydon said. “I’d missed my chance to build a relationship with him. And I watched you today, with your groomsmen. The three of you, you’re bonded. It’s obvious. You’d trust them with your life, I’d bet.”
Whoa. Back up. Braydon had been there? Brock’s men hadn’t spotted him. Nor had Brock. “I have trusted them with my life, just like they’ve trusted me with theirs.”
“Do you have any idea how rare that kind of trust is?”
“Yes,” Brock said, his tone flat. “Yes, I do.”
Braydon raised his chin, becoming the picture of stubbornness. “I want your loyalty too, and I’m going to earn it.”
“Impossible.” Reaching the end of his patience, Brock stood, the stool scooting behind him. “Get out. Before I do something we’ll both regret.”
Several beats of silence passed. Then, “You know, as much as Mom hated you, she loved me. Different emotions, both operating at the same twisted degree. Her love wasn’t unconditional. I was rewarded when I did things her way and punished when I didn’t.”
“Boo-hoo. You received a few spankings. So what?”
“I received more than spankings,” Braydon said softly.
Ignore the sudden pang in your chest. “Go. Please.” Brock pointed to the door, a little too raw to deal with this right now.
“Very well. But I will come back.” His brother untied the apron, folded it, and placed it on the counter. “By the way, when I first arrived, there was a drunk man skulking around outside. I took his wallet before I sent him on his way. His name is Rick Lambert, and I’m guessing he’s a bit unhinged. As he left, he shouted about how you’d stolen his woman and deserved to die.”
Brock popped his jaw. “I’ll take care of him.”
“Be careful.”
Want to believe…
Can’t. “Go!”
Braydon squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and marched out of the house.
* * *
Lyndie couldn’t catch her breath. Her head swam and throbbed at the same time, her vision growing dim. Blood pounded in her ears, creating a low-volume but constant ring. Her throat seemed to close up. Her chest burned as if her lungs had caught fire—breathe, need to breathe—and yet her veins felt as though they’d been filled with ice. Her limbs trembled and her feet tingled.
The wild fluttering of her heart agitated her. Heart attack? If only! There was no doubt in her mind—she was having a panic attack.
Both shivering and sweating, she tripped to the bed and plopped onto the edge of the mattress. She’d almost locked herself in the panic room before and after Brock had let her know the identity of their intruder, but she’d wanted to be available to help, just in case her new husband needed her.
A bitter laugh escaped. Her? Help?
Tears filled her eyes before spilling over, streaming down her cheeks and leaving white-hot tracks.
Dang it, why panic? Why now? She’d dealt with this stupidly stupid stupidness most of her life. Until James died. The attacks magically stopped then. She hadn’t had a new one until Officer Rayburn pulled her over to issue his threat about Lambert.
She’d told herself it was a one-off and wouldn’t happen again. And she’d foolishly believed it. Now? A sense of dread devoured every bit of her calm. At first she’d thought Lambert might have broken in. Even when she’d learned Braydon was the culprit, she’d struggled. What if Brock got hurt?
Minutes dragged by—hours?—as the tears continued to pour down her face. She hated panic attacks almost as much as she hated her father and James. Struck by helplessness while losing control of her thoughts and body, nothing but time able to help—she would rather die!
“Hey, hey.” A gentle hand settled on her nape and massaged. “Scottie. Sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
Brock! Speaking was beyond her, breathing still a laborious chore. But she thought she smelled cinnamon and sugar on his skin. Blindly she reached out. The second she made contact with the warmth of his skin, she threw her body onto his lap. Whimpering, she clung to him.
This man had just become the only life raft in the heart of her storm.
“I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.” With one hand, he combed his fingers through her hair. With the other, he held her close. Warm breath fanned over her face.
Deep breath in—yes! She could breathe. Deep breath out.
“Are you reacting to the fact that someone broke into the house?” he asked.
She managed a jerky nod.
“Understandable. My brother meant us no harm though. At least not physically. But I promise you, he will never trip the alarm again. Or come inside the house. He’s gone now.”
As she focused on Brock’s words, her tears dried and her throat opened up. “Do you not like your brother?” she asked. Her voice had nasally undertones, her nose stuffy. “You sound as if you hate him.”
“I don’t hate him, but no, I don’t like him.”
He said no more, the subject clearly closed.
In the ensuing silence, panic surged anew. For no reason! Her lungs seemed to close up shop again. Sweat beaded over her forehead while her teeth chattered. Hot flash. No, cold flash. Argh! Her stomach churned and—
“Before the wedding,” Brock said, as if they were seated in a restaurant, discussing their days, “you mentioned you wanted to know more about me. Well, I want to know more about you too. I want to know everything. No detail is too small. So tell me your favorite color.”
Color? She frowned. “All the colors.”
“Why?”
Lyndie had to flip through mental files to find the answer…there. “To me, colors represent independence. James preferred white or beige.” A pause, then, “Do you have a favorite color?”
“Like you, I’ve never met a color I didn’t like. But if I had to pick a favorite, I’d go with gold.”
“Because of money?”
“No. Gold represents a sunrise. The start of a new day. One more chance to get things right.”
I knew this playboy had depth.
More than that, he had skill. He’d worked a miracle and actually distracted her. The room had even come back into focus. Bright pink walls covered in a thousand framed photos of Ryanne and Dorothea, plus the few photos Lyndie had of her mother. One window had metallic blue curtains. The other windows had metallic green curtains. The chair in the corner had a pink-and-black back, purple arms, and a black-and-white-checkered cushion. The ottoman at the foot of the bed was upholstered with a flowery fabric. Her dresser was the color of an olive while her side tables were yellow and orange. A plum-colored rug stretched across the freshly polished wood floor.
Neither James nor her father had ever set foot in this house. Mine, all mine. Once James’s life insurance had come in, she was able to walk away. At least physically.
“What’s your favorite number?” Brock asked.
“I don’t have one,” she said, grateful for all Brock had done. The fact that he’d recognized her panic attack for what it was and stuck around to distract and soothe her, well, he had to have experience. “Who does?”
“Only everyone. Mine is two, because two is better than one. One person always needs someone else to guard the rear. So. What’s yours?”
“One, I guess.” She shrugged. One sounded good.
“Because you prefer to go solo?”
Here and now? “No,” she admitted, surprising herself. She shifted atop his lap, settling in, getting more comfortable. His heart thumped against her temple, the slightly elevated beat reassuring in ways she’d never imagined. “Because while it’s nice to have someone guard your back, it’s not always a guarantee. Better to rely on yourself.”
Advice she had best heed. She should stand and kindly but firmly ask Brock to leave her bedroom. And she would, in a minute.
“Remember when I told you needing help means you’re human? I meant it. None of us are built to go this life alone. If w
e were, we’d have eyes in the back of our head.”
There was a bite of truth to his words. People needed interaction with others in order to thrive.
“How long have you dealt with panic attacks?” Brock asked.
Thought she was ready for the big-girl questions now, huh? Sweet of him. Perhaps he considered her braver than she considered herself. “Most of my life,” she admitted. “How did you know what it was?” Not everyone would have recognized the signs.
As one second bled into another, the room cloaked in silence. She thought he might have closed another subject, which caused a surge of disappointment. What would it take to crack him open like an egg so his secrets spilled out? And he did have secrets. Why else would he shut down?
How could she trust him fully as he hoped when some unknown thing stood between them? Then again, why should he bother sharing his past with a temporary wife? An arrangement she had wholeheartedly supported and did wholeheartedly support. She had no right to complain about his right to protect himself.
Then he surprised her, saying, “In the military, I was part of a unit of ten. We were sent on the most dangerous missions. Adrenaline was always high, our minds telling us everything that could go wrong, the friends we could lose. Afterward, we had to deal with the things we’d seen and done. I imagine life was the same for you. Never a moment of peace.”
Yes. Exactly. “You are so brave,” she said, shifting again to rest her head against his shoulder.
He tensed. “Brave? Not…violent?”
“Well, I’m sure you had to get violent. You were part of a war.”
“And that doesn’t frighten you? Make you want to leave me?”
He worried she would want to leave him because of the things he’d done for the Army? “Of course not.”
Some of the tension left him, only to return in a blink, as if he wanted to believe her but couldn’t. “When you called me brave… I think I detected a note of envy in your tone. Scottie, you are braver than you think. After everything you’ve endured over the years, you still decided to take a chance on me in order to live your dream.”
Kind words but a far too generous sentiment. Not only had she had a panic attack in front of her new husband, she’d acted cowardly well before it. While Brock had rushed headfirst into danger, she’d stayed safe behind a closed door. As usual. Besides, could any woman refuse this man anything?
“I would have liked to meet your brother,” she said, directing focus away from her.
“He isn’t worth meeting.”
She waited for him to say more. This time he didn’t. “I’m sorry. People never change, I suppose.”
“No,” he said, his tone flat. “I suppose they don’t.” He cleared his throat. “You’re tired. I’m tired. We should probably go to bed.”
“Um, yes. Of course.” Why so abrupt now?
“Good night, Red.” He kissed her forehead.
“Good night, Hugsy.”
He hesitated only a moment before setting her aside, standing and stalking from the room. Leaving her alone. The way she claimed she wanted to be. But already Lyndie mourned the loss of him. Not just his strength and his calming presence—but him. The man.
The husband she hadn’t wanted but now craved with every fiber of her being.
Chapter Thirteen
Brock sealed himself in the guest room and stretched out on the bed. His mind refused to settle as he stared up at the ceiling.
He had no idea how he’d managed to suppress his own panic at finding Lyndie in such poor condition, struggling to breathe, her skin chalk white, her pupils fully dilated. No woman should have to fight such all-consuming fear.
Seeing his wife so…so broken had nearly proved to be Brock’s undoing. He’d wanted to beat Braydon for triggering such a reaction in her. He’d also wanted to exhume Lyndie’s father and ex and somehow make them deader.
Brock was glad he’d found the strength to leave her bedroom.
Desire her too strongly, too desperately—too quickly.
Deep down, he’d never wanted to let go. If he didn’t find a way to pump the brakes, he would become attached. Then he would crash and burn during the divorce. There was only one way to pump the brakes though. He’d have to put a little emotional distance between them.
Better to be proactive than full of regret, right? But every cell in his body shouted: This is wrong! Drawing back would be a coward’s move.
He punched the pillows behind him. Lyndie thought he was brave. So, he would be brave. No way he would willingly turn her into a liar. What’s more, he had an opportunity to experience heaven on earth for the first time in his life. Why end it before it had even begun?
An idea struck, sparking anticipation. Why not do the exact opposite of what fear demanded? Why not draw closer?
When the time came, he would take Lyndie in every sexual position known to man. Maybe a few they’d have to invent. He would spend more time curled up with her, talking and laughing, even sharing. He would taste the very family life his friends were now enjoying, even temporarily.
And he could. As long as he put the work in.
Tomorrow Brock would begin to romance his wife. He would wake up early, cook her a big breakfast. He would take her anywhere she wanted to go, do anything she wanted to do. Compliments would abound. If she wanted to know more about his past, he would share…some, only some.
Eagerness joined the anticipation, and he smiled. As he’d told her earlier, a new day meant a new chance to get things right.
He would not fail.
* * *
Lyndie tossed and turned, alone in her bedroom. She took off her ring, but an hour later put it back on. Argh! At some point she got up to collect the cats. They’d slept with her since their adoption, and they would continue to do so despite her change in relationship status.
Except, both Cameow and Mega jumped down, preferring to curl up on the floor rather than deal with the bouncing mattress as Lyndie continued to toss and turn. Ugh! Why did she continue to miss Brock, as if she’d already gotten used to having him around? As if she needed to have him around?
When the first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, she sprang out of bed to shower and dress in a pair of jeans and her brand-new Halloween T-shirt with a picture of Cameow and Mega dressed as a princess and a pea. Though Lyndie hadn’t had the felines long—only a few months—and though this would be their first Halloween together, she’d posed them in early September in order to have the T-shirt made.
Yes. She was one of those. A proud cat mom.
Last night, before Braydon Hudson’s untimely interruption, Brock had looked at her with intense desire, admiration, and maybe even a tinge of adoration. How would he look at her now? He’d left her bedroom so abruptly.
Had she done something wrong? Should she apologize?
Dang it, why did she care about his opinion? Hadn’t she refused to travel this road with him? Humans might have been made to have partners, but it wasn’t a requirement for happiness. And really, Lyndie wasn’t alone. She had Ryanne and Dorothea. Soon she would have her baby.
But okay. Time to get serious about keeping her heart free of Brock’s influence. Starting today, she had a new motto: be a fembot. All sex appeal, zero emotion.
There’d be no getting used to having Brock around. No craving him for an entire night. No sinking back into old habits, making sure the man in her life was happy every second of every day.
When the time came—Ovulation O’clock—they would have sex, and they would keep having sex until she started her period, conceived, or their marriage ended. When they parted, their relationship would remain cordial. Seeing each other at functions wouldn’t agonize her.
She might become a mother, but he would definitely revert to his man-whorish ways.
Seeing the father of her child with other women would be no big thing.
Motions jerky, Lyndie swiped up her purse, dug out her keys and marched down the hall, thro
ugh the living room. The scent of bacon saturated the air, and her mouth watered. Brock was cooking breakfast?
For himself? For her?
Guilt pricked her. She would not apologize to him. And she would not eat, and she would not feel guilty about it or anything. Nope. Not even a little. She would treat this Monday like any other. Well, like any Monday she didn’t have to go to work. She would…what? Run errands. Yes. The perfect distraction.
Except she had no errands to run. With the wedding over and done, her plate was cleared. Oh! She’d go to the animal shelter in the city, walk the dogs and pet the cats, and use the time to streamline her wayward…everything.
Head high, feet feeling as if they were on fire, she turned off the alarm and exited the house. On the porch, however, she paused. A storm brewed, the sky black, blue, and gray, as if the massive expanse had been bruised. Gusting winds seemed to carry shards of ice, causing her teeth to chatter. She’d forgotten a coat. Oh, well. No way she’d go back inside.
As she was sliding into her little sedan, the front door banged opened and closed, and harried footsteps pounded on the porch.
“Scottie.”
Heart racing like a jet during turbulence, she turned to face him. Fembot, baby! Tough as nails.
He stopped a few feet away, his short dark hair sticking out in spikes. The chaotic mess looked good on him. Danged good. His eyelids were hooded, his features roughed by sleep. He looked confused, hopeful, and boyish, like a kid at Christmas, ready to unwrap his present.
Despite the frigid breeze, he was shirtless, wearing only black boxer briefs, his bronzed eight-pack on spectacular display. His feet were bare. And oh, wow, he was even more gorgeous than she’d realized—and she’d already realized he was pretty danged gorgeous.
Okay. It’s official. I’m about as tough as a wet noodle.
Last night she hadn’t gotten a good look at him, had been too caught up in the moment. Too frenzied with need. Now? She had a view of pure masculine aggression, and she loved it. Even in his underwear—especially in his underwear—Brock was wildly, wonderfully savage, unpredictable, and absolutely, utterly sovereign over the five acres of land surrounding him. Some sections were heavily treed, others flat and sandy, but all of it was untamed.
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