Laughing, they shouted, “Jinx!” in unison pointing to the other and touching their noses with a finger at the same time.
“Is that some secret handshake thing you Americans do?” Jace asked dryly.
“Yuck, yuck, yuck,” Tori joked. “Don’t pull that high-fallutin’ European crap with me, buster! I lived in London for years and did my fair share of rubbing elbows with royalty. Much prefer dressing in jeans and washing down the desert sand with a shot of warm whiskey to a feathered fascinator perched on my head and a glass of watered down gin.”
“Yeah. I read about you. Some earl, right? Punched the smarmy shit right in the financial throat when you whistle blew his ass.”
Remy thought her life might be passing in front of her eyes. Didn’t Jace have any goddamn filters? What the hell was wrong with him? Bringing up an uncomfortable past with the wife of a Justice brother was such a bonehead move.
Tori was silent for so long Remy started mentally packing, figuring she was seconds away from being hustled off the property for having stepped over the line with Family Justice.
And just that quickly, those thoughts vanished when Tori barked out a laugh bigger than her whole body, threw her hand up in the air for a high five, and hooted, “Dude! That took balls.”
Climbing down from the ledge of doom became easier when Jace vigorously returned the hearty hand slap.
Desperate to move past the awkward moment before her cousin’s stupid motor mouth did more damage, Remy backtracked to the issue at hand.
“This thing can stay here until Ben comes to get it, but we have to at least move it out of the way.”
“You two aren’t moving shit,” Jace informed them. “I’ll go grab Finn. Saw him wandering around the barn earlier. We’ll shove it to the back of the room.”
Finn. Remy rolled her eyes, sniffed her displeasure at hearing his name, and reacted like a cow pie was hidden nearby before she realized what she was doing. Unfortunately, Tori St. John witnessed the whole thing. A twinkle gleamed in her eyes, making Remy swallow hard and wish she’d been a bit less obvious about her dislike of the obnoxious guy.
Alone with Tori now that Jace ran off like an Olympic sprinter, she tried to appear nonplussed knowing all the while it was just a matter of time before someone called out her attitude where Beantown was concerned.
That someone was apparently going to be Tori St. John.
Making little attempt to wipe the smirk from her face, the other woman eyed her with obvious glee. That sort of impish humor always made Remy twitchy.
“Why, Remington Bisset,” she drawled with a touch of twang, “I do believe young Finn has managed to tear a hole in your panties.”
Remy’s mouth dropped open, and she blinked repeatedly. A hole in her panties? Was that like a twist in her knickers? Shaking her head to shoo away the confusing inner dialogue, she tried to act stern and businesslike. Basically, all that got her was a belly laugh from the woman so effectively rattling her cage.
“Oh, give it up, Remy. I know what hot and bothered looks like from up close and personal.” Tori smirk-shrugged. “You could do worse, y’know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she bit out a touch too forcefully.
“Seriously? Well, let me spell it out for you then,” Tori quipped. Clearing her throat for dramatic emphasis, she started singing, “Remy and Finn sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G …”
“What? Uh, no!” she barked with outrage. “Did he tell you that? Why, that miserable little shit.”
“A little shit, is he?” Tori teased. She seemed to consider the idea for a second and then said, “Yep. I can see it. Maybe not so little but most def a shit.”
Then she slapped her hands together and threw them up in a hallelujah salute. “Oh, my god. Irish is gonna fucking love this! Woot! Woot!”
“No,” she choked out. “Um, no. Hold up, Mrs. St. John,” she burbled like a tongue-tied twit.
“Mrs. St. John?” Tori laughed. “Oh, my god. You have it worse than I thought! The only time I’m Mrs. Anything is when someone’s fucked up or trying to be shady. Which is it, Remy? Did you fuck up or am I touching a nerve? An Irish nerve?”
She was sputtering like a hose left out in the sun filling with hot water and was in mid-explanatory sentence when Jace and Finn came marching in.
“Found some muscle,” her cousin sneered in his fake accent.
Tori never stopped laughing. “Priceless,” she muttered.
How much shit would start if she marched up to Jace and smacked him for stirring the pot?
Under any other circumstance, she’d find this whole thing funny. Especially when Tori began speaking to Jace as though he had a limited grasp of the English language. Remy felt like everything was spinning out of control as the ridiculous pantomime wore on.
Finally, Finn groused at Jace. “Move your hairless balls out of the way.” Crouching like a linebacker preparing to crush bones, he put his shoulder near the corner of the box and started shoving it aside. Each time it moved, he grunted, and with each grunt, Remy swore her insides tingled. Or tightened. Or pulsed. One of those three things was accurate.
When he’d pushed the crate nearly against the wall, Finn turned a questioning gaze at Tori. Without missing a beat, the Justice troublemaker conferred with Jace, in French, and then proceeded to indicate it should go a bit to the left.
Was it too late to surrender?
Sending a dirty glare at her cousin, Remy watched as Jace shrugged her off with a sneering lip curl.
“Need anything else, Tori?” Finn asked politely.
Tori wrapped her arm through Finn’s and started singing his praises. ‘So helpful. So strong. Those muscles! What did they feed him back in Boston that made him so big? What would she ever have done without him?’
Huh? What would Tori have done if Finn hadn’t played He-Man and moved the crate disrupting Remy’s office? Good grief. The woman was pure, pot stirring evil.
Shuffling piles of nothing on her desk, she tried to ignore the theatrics playing out ten feet away until she heard Jace’s abrupt snicker-cough and the very end of what Tori was saying.
“That’s okay with you. Right, Remy? It’ll be fun. We haven’t done a Justice night at Whiskey Pete’s in ages.”
Oh, shit. What did she miss? The look of snarky triumph on Beantown’s face hit her like a bucket of ice water.
And just like that, Tori St. John organized an outing that made Remy want to chew nails rather than participate. Knowing Tori had trapped her only made it worse.
“Oh. I’ll call Heather and Brody. See if they want to come. We’ll make it an early night so all the kids can go. Dinner with Family Justice. Time you met the whole crew!”
Remy did not share Tori’s enthusiasm. The look on Finn’s face suggested he too was suddenly less than thrilled with Tori’s plans. Needling her about socializing was one thing. But apparently hanging with the family was something else entirely. Maybe a group dinner wouldn’t be all that bad if it made the loathsome toady uncomfortable.
“TELL ME AGAIN why we have to do this,” Parker grumbled. He had a fucking headache, his stomach was rumbling from hunger, and his plans for spending the evening wearing Angelina on his dick were quickly fading. In short, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what you see before you is an unhappy camper.
Angie was doing her usual. Tearing around the room, climbing over boxes, and shoving bins out of the way, she took a dozen outfits out of the closet when only one was needed.
“Can’t we just stay in and throw some cow on the grill?”
“Family dinner, Counselor,” she chirped happily. “Command performance. According to Tori, you and Calder can both go shit in your Stetsons if you think for one minute of tapping out.”
He was going to bill Alex for all the goddamn time he spent sitting in the dude’s empty chair.
“Fuck,” he muttered. Scraping a hand across his face, he felt the five o’clock shadow of a beard that was more like three days
without a shave and groaned.
His Desert Angel dropped what she was doing and came to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and rubbing on his overly tense body.
“What’s really the matter?”
Was there something the matter besides just being in a shitty mood? Parker relaxed into her embrace and gave it some thought. The answer was a quick and resounding no. The only thing the matter with him was the insatiable desire he felt for this girl. They’d wasted so many years running from their feelings. Now that he had her, absolutely nothing else mattered. Nothing except making love to her morning, noon, and night.
He pulled her close and rested his chin on the top of her head. She smelled sweet and feminine with a hint of wicked sexuality that turned his cock to stone. Parker sighed deeply. If she wanted to have dinner with the family, then that was what he’d do. Anything to make her happy. Anything.
“Don’t mind me, baby girl. That fucking city lawsuit my firm is working gives me a headache. I’ll shower and change, okay?”
Her fingers were doing some sort of magic on his neck and the back of his head. “Shh,” she murmured.
Fine with him. Feeling like a puppy having his belly rubbed, Parker got lost in the sensation her massaging fingers brought. Knowing where and how to touch him, Angie sent the tension in his shoulders and much of the dull throb in his head packing.
When he relaxed a bit, she stepped back, took his hand, and smiled. “I have something to show you.”
“If it needs a litter pan or a leash, you’re going over my knee.”
She struggled to contain a laugh. “Hold that thought.”
Leading him through and around more shit than any two people should have, she started down the hallway toward their bedroom but surprised him by detouring into what used to be a guest room. Now, it was a holding area for their new house and was crammed with whatever crazy fuckery his Angel baby got into.
They couldn’t move out of here and finally get settled fast enough for him.
“Look.” She giggled.
Following the finger she pointed, Parker found a piece of furniture. Wait. It was furniture, right?
“What the hell is that?”
Delighted by his confusion, she clapped her hands and bounced on her toes with delight. “Oh, good! So it’s not obvious? Thank god. I think this should find a home in our bedroom. The playroom has enough other stuff.”
Oh, god. The playroom? She had to stop ramping him up like this. They’d picked out more equipment and kinky fuckery trappings for Angie’s naughty den of delights than most couples do for an entire house.
But what the fuck did a padded prie-dieu have to do with their bedroom or playroom? A prayer bench was about the last thing he’d expected her to want.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she asked. Running her hands over the wood, she pointed out the leather padding and sturdy rubbed bronze upholstery nails.
Um, okay. Whatever.
“You planning on saying the rosary every morning?” he asked.
Angie’s chirp of amused confusion got his attention. “What?”
“It’s a prayer bench, right? A prie-dieu. Don’t ask me how I know that word, I just do.”
“Are you serious?” she asked.
What was he missing?
Like a spokesmodel on The Price is Right, she quickly ran him through a detailed explanation, complete with demonstrations, of what she insisted was a spanking bench.
A very expensive looking handmade one-of-a-kind bench. Not for prayer. For spanking.
Wait a minute.
Parker zeroed in on every detail.
Angie was still prattling on when he cut her off with a growl. “Did you say it was custom made?”
She beamed as though winning a major prize. “Yep. Had it made to my specifications. Needed measurements and everything! Your height. My height. It’s cool, isn’t it?”
Cool? She’d better be kidding. Desert Angel had some explaining to do.
“I swear to god, Angelina Marquez, if Draegyn St. John had anything to do with this, then you’re in for more than just a spanking.”
Angie rushed at him and grabbed his arm. “Drae? What does he have to do with anything?”
“Well, I don’t know!” he railed, suddenly unglued at the mere thought of that fuck stick St. John poking his nose into Parker’s sex life. “Jesus, Angie. You present me with a custom-made, what-the fucking-ever you call it and jibber on about measurements and specifications. Isn’t that sort of in Drae’s wheelhouse?”
“Oh,” she murmured as a deep blush spread across her face.
Goddamit. He was gonna kill that motherfucker.
Suddenly, a warm, clinging vine overtook him as Angie wrapped around him and seductively shimmied all over.
“Oh, baby. I like it when you go all caveman on me.” Pressing hot, wet kisses along his chin, she flicked open a couple of buttons on his shirt and slid her fingers against his skin.
Grabbing her arms, Parker gave her a little shake and pushed her off him. “Young lady, you either swear on everything that’s holy that Draegyn St. John had nothing to do with this or I’m gonna tie your ass to that fancy bench and take away your ability to sit for the next week.”
Pouty Angel started giving him that damn look. The one she knew made his brain turn to mush.
Using a little girl voice, she tempted him right to the edge of his endurance. “But if I swear Drae had no part in making it, does that mean you won’t tie me to the bench and …”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. She really was going to be the death of him.
Stopping her wicked mouth by hauling her in and kissing her so ferociously she crumpled in his arms, Parker put an end to the discussion.
By the time he finally made it to the shower, sated Angel replaced pouty Angel, and he was feeling mighty good. Good enough to put up with a family dinner, even if it meant having to play nice with that douchenozzle St. John.
Calder couldn’t possibly fuss over Stephanie any more if he tried. He was on her with every move she made. Keeping her glass filled. Making sure she had the dressing she wanted for her salad. Hell. He was all but counting how many times a fork or spoon traveled to her mouth.
“If I promise to make a happy dish, will you please stop worrying?”
“No,” he growled quietly. “I have to take care of you.”
He furtively glanced around to be sure no one was listening. Luckily, the group was so big and boisterous that he and his fiancée didn’t attract much attention as long as they didn’t yell or make out like teenagers.
Counting mouthfuls quickly came to a screeching halt when she calmly laid the fork down, picked up a napkin, and dabbed at her mouth. Placing the napkin in her lap, Stephanie folded her hands on the table in front of her and turned her head to face him.
“Sweetheart,” she murmured. “I’m fine. Truly.”
So she kept saying, but he wasn’t convinced. “Have you ever fainted before?”
“No,” she said with a decisive headshake. “I, uh …”
Calder felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle when she didn’t finish. Stephanie rarely left words unspoken. It wasn’t her style.
“What?” he demanded. “You what?”
She leaned closer. “Well, I did get lightheaded and almost go down a couple of times when I was pregnant with Victoria.”
He barely had a chance to process what she said before her pained gasp cut off his thoughts.
“Oh, no,” she groaned. “Do you think? Could it be?”
Could it be what? his head screamed.
“The start of menopause?” she whispered.
The way she said the word, you’d think a canister of the Ebola virus was just delivered to the table.
Well, fuck my life, he thought. Menopause. How the hell was he supposed to know what the right thing was for him to say? How was he supposed to react? This shit was way above his pay grade, and since he had more cash than a vault at Gringott’s,
that was saying a lot.
Her hands fell to her lap where she started wringing the ends of the napkin.
Reaching out, he took hold of one trembling hand and lifted it to his lips for a gentle kiss.
“Hey,” he murmured—but she didn’t look at him. “Duchess,” he said more firmly. Her eyes rose slowly to his. She looked bewildered. Anxious. Upset. Should he assume menopause was kryptonite to Stephanie’s normal poise?
Because nothing stayed a secret long once Family Justice picked up the scent, Victoria swooped in from across the table and demanded, “What’s wrong? And don’t say nothing. I’ve had about all of that crap I can stand.” A second of side shade thrown Drae’s way followed and then she fixed her mother with a serious look. “Mom, what the hell is going on? You two are acting weird, and the whispering is setting off all sorts of alarms.”
He made a snap decision. Fuck it if he was wrong, but he knew less about women’s shit than he knew about floral arranging, and since menopause wasn’t a joke, he had to bring more to the table than an armful of mismatched flowers. Maybe Tori could help him out.
“Your mother had a fainting episode.”
“Excuse me?”
“Calder, stop it!” Stephanie implored. “You’ll just scare her for no reason. It was nothing, shugah,” she tried to assure Tori. “I forgot to eat, and it caught up with me in this heat.”
Tori stared a hole through her mother’s head and then turned a deathly glare on him. “Uh-huh. She forgot to eat. Right.” The bold disbelief in her voice was kind of jarring. Tori wasn’t about to allow any bullshit where her mom was concerned. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Stephanie huffed and puffed, pursed her lips, glared at Tori and then at him. “Do the math, Victoria. I’m fifty!”
“And? What the hell does that mean, Mom? You have an expiration date or something?”
Mouthing a word without sound didn’t work, and Tori got more and more agitated. Finally, her mom snapped and blurted out, “Menopause, okay?”
Tori sat back heavily in her seat and just stared at them slack-jawed. After a minute, she responded carefully. “Mom, that’s not how it works. Just because you hit a date on the calendar with a red circle around it doesn’t mean your ticket to menopause got stamped. Calder, tell her. Tell her she’s being ridiculous.”
Unchained Page 18