Best Worst Mistake

by Lia Riley

  “Yeah? I’ll bet you can go a little further.”

  Even though she was teetering on the edge, toes curling and pulse racing, he plunged onward.

  Her legs locked tight against his head but he didn’t seem to care about the pressure. Instead, he rolled back and forth between her thighs as if he’d never get close enough, like every lick, suck, and stroke was precious, to be savored. In the distance, an oven alarm went off. No way. He couldn’t have been down there a half hour. No one had ever been down there a half hour. How the heck did he do this? Not allow her release, but kept leading her forward, out along a tightrope of almost painful desire.

  It hurt not to be coming. Her entire body was reduced to a single clench. Finally, he eased a finger inside, no easy feat when she was this tight, this wound up, this—­

  “Oh. Oh God.” He pressed up, mirroring the same action on the outside with the flat of his tongue. It ratcheted everything from merely “good” to “glorious and floating aloft on a cloud being serenaded by angels.”

  She didn’t know it was possible to feel this much . . . everything. Still he took her deeper and deeper into her climax until her back bowed. She writhed, pinned against him. His hands braced her hips and he took her whole center in his mouth. She skyrocketed to sitting up, her brain waves going into a perfect flatline while every other body part trembled uncontrollably. White light pulsed in her peripheral vision and as it ebbed she floated like some sort of feather, wafting back to earth.

  “Good?”

  “Dear Lord, I’d give you a standing ovation if I could trust my knees to hold my weight.” She could barely find the energy to move her lips. All she could think of doing was curling up like a kitten in the dappled evening light filtering into the bedroom.

  He kissed one thigh and then the other, planting one last sensitive kiss at her apex, before resting his head on her lower belly.

  She breathed deep, trying to rejoin her mind and body.

  The alarm kept ringing.

  “Better go grab that cake,” he said at last.

  “You do this and then feed me red velvet cake?”

  “This is a date, right?”

  “Best in history.”

  His smile took her breath. “You look happier than when I knocked on your door.”

  And she realized, impossible as it was given the morning’s strain, that she was able to smile back with her whole self. Even if for the next few weeks she lived under the weight of an invisible axe, for this one moment maybe it was okay to believe that everything would be okay.

  Whatever this was between them, was more than a fling. It was more everything. And that meant she’d have to tell him what might be waiting ahead for her. She’d never in a million years ask anyone to be part of her ticking time bomb. If she was going to go off like a grenade, best to limit the collateral damage. But she wouldn’t run off again, sneak away like she did this morning. Time to hike up her big-­girl panties and explain the grim situation.

  She grabbed her yoga pants and hiked them over her hips. Then her shirt.

  Wilder banged around in the kitchen. Not exactly a domestic sound. More like a bull in a china shop, but the idea that this big brutal man would make her something as simple and sweet as a cake melted the ice that she had around her heart. There was more to him than met the eye.

  He came back in a few minutes, carrying a slice.

  She took the plate and pressed a hand to her mouth. “You put sprinkles on it?”

  “You seem the type to like a little sparkle.”

  That was it. Holding the plate, staring at a cake with rainbow sprinkles, she bent over and began to sob.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE SIGHT OF Quinn’s tears cracked Wilder’s granite heart, sank roots into the barren waste. The growing pains caused an ache but a good one that felt like living. For so long he’d kept himself from feeling anything except for what came easy. Anger, mostly. Or dogged determination. He’d learned to stop fighting others when he started to fight fire instead, reminding himself of the real enemy. Since he’d stopped working he’d turned the fight against himself, beating himself up night after night. But now he finally had a productive direction in which to channel his urges.

  He wanted to fight for the woman in front of him. The one wiping her eyes and taking great shallow, sobbing gulps of air.

  “You going to tell me what’s going on here, Trouble?” he asked, lifting her chin.

  Her eyes were haunted. “There isn’t an easy way to say this.”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  That set her off on a fresh bout of crying. “Why are you so good to me?”

  He caressed her hair, wishing he could feel every nuance of the soft, silky-­looking texture. “You make me want to be a better man.”

  She took off her glasses, wiping the lenses with her sleeve. “Stupid things, they always fog up. But contacts make my eyes itch. My mother used to force me to wear them in high school. Always said, ‘Quinn, no man wants to look at a four-­eyes.’ ”

  “Are you shitting me?” His voice went quiet, anger scraping his stomach hollow.

  “Let’s just say we aren’t taking our mother-­daughter duo act to Vegas or anything. I used to pull straight A’s but all she cared about was how many guys asked to take me to prom. I haven’t even told her about anything that’s going on.”

  “Take it easy, Trouble.” He kissed her warm brow, wondering what could have her so rattled. “You’re hyperventilating.”

  She braced her hands on her knees and appeared to fight for a deep breath. “I’ve tried to handle everything, but it’s like I’m so jam-­packed that leaks are springing everywhere. I hate it.”

  “Go on and eat some of that cake. We can talk whatever it is out afterward.”

  QUINN OFFERED A prayer of gratitude that he was willing to give her space. “Okay.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He left, returning a few minutes later as she licked the frosting from her lips. Chocolate had a funny way of making bad or scary things seem better. Magical stuff indeed.

  “What’s all this?” she asked, looking at his laden tray.

  He passed her a mug of warm milk. “My mom used to heat me a cup of moo juice whenever I got upset.”

  She cupped the ceramic mug between her hands, hoping the heat might loosen some of her body’s tension, and took a tentative sip. “That’s so sweet of you. Thank you.”

  He held up a book. “The other night, I noticed how you read to your dad, thought maybe you’d like someone to read to you for once?”

  She stared at the woman in the Regency dress on the cover, her brain trying to register the image. “Sense and Sensibility? You want to read me Jane Austen?”

  He set down the tray on the nightstand and picked up the book with a trace of uncertainty. “It was on my list, and when I went into your shop today after going to Haute Coffee, the woman working there said that you like this author.”

  “Jane is life. I love her.”

  His chest heaved a little bit. “This is good then?” He sat down on the bed, grabbed the soft throw blanket on the end, and shook it over her lap.

  “A cup of warm milk on an almost winter’s day? Cake in bed? A hot guy offering to read me Jane Austen after mind-­blowing oral pleasure? I don’t think good can hold a candle to what’s inside me.”

  He opened the book and flipped through the soft, creamy paper, a shy smile tugging the corner of his mouth. He paused, but not for long. “Chapter One.”

  For the next hour he read in a low, methodical voice about the two sisters, Marianne and Elinor, and their life in Sussex and Devonshire.

  Finally, he closed it and placed it on her nightstand. “We can do more in a bit.”

  A chill licked up her spine as the pleasantries of the eighteenth century receded. Reality could only be held at ba
y for so long. “You want to know what’s going on with me, don’t you?”

  The silence between them grew taut, vibrating as if someone plucked an invisible string. “If you care to make it my business, maybe I can help in some way.”

  She shifted the dirty dishes to the night table and twisted her hair into a quick, messy braid. Her stomach muscles clenched as an unseen weight settled on her shoulders. “You know how my dad is sick?”

  “Alzheimer’s.”

  She nodded. “Exactly. Well, it looks like his mother might have had the same thing. I can’t say for certain before that, but one of my great-­grandparents must have too, and so on.” She was afraid to squeeze her eyes shut but the idea of looking at him scared her half to death. “Do you see what I’m saying?”

  He blinked. “Not quite.”

  “This disease is genetic,” she whispered. “Early-­onset Alzheimer’s disease runs in families. There is a fifty-­fifty chance of a child getting it from an affected parent.”

  He made an indecipherable noise. “So you’re saying you might have it?”

  “I took a blood test today that’s going to tell me which way the chips are going to fall. I had to know. I really thought for a while I wouldn’t want to, that whatever will be will be and all that, but that’s not me. I needed to have certainty, one way or another.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “When will you get the results?”

  “In a few weeks. If I’m negative that’s the end of the story. My kids won’t carry it either. I’m my dad’s only child so no other siblings would be at risk. If I am positive then . . . I’m twenty-­five now, maybe I’ll have another twenty-­five good years to go before things unravel. And that’s something, right? There are ­people who have a lot less than that.”

  She dug her fists into her eyes as tears prickled. “I’m sorry. I’m trying my best to look on the bright side and everything, but the truth is I’m scared out of my mind.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders, cradling her close. “You don’t have to do this walk alone.”

  “Don’t you see? I can’t share this journey with anyone. If it goes bad, it’s better if I’m the only one affected.”

  He looked a little sick. “Quinn, I—­”

  “Please.” She laced her fingers with his. “If this doesn’t go in my favor, please, promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.” His words held a quiet intensity. This wasn’t a man who made promises lightly.

  “That you’ll leave me alone.”

  He froze. “I can’t do that.”

  “I’m serious,” she persisted, suddenly too hot, too cold, too everything. “This isn’t a pity party. I’m being entirely selfish. I’d rather have a memory of these few sweet stolen moments. One truly happy time. How many ­people get this lucky? Please, don’t make me beg. It’s what I want.” She hoped the lie sounded convincing.

  “I promise.”

  At least more convincing than his.

  But she pretended to believe him, at least for now. “Thank you.”

  There was the sound of wheels disturbing the gravel in the driveway, and then a loud motorcycle engine cutting off. Quinn wrinkled her brow as someone knocked on the door. “I haven’t had hardly any visitors since moving in, and now twice in one day.”

  She got up from bed, aware Wilder followed behind. She sensed she hurt him by extracting that promise but he was only just starting to get his life on track and she wouldn’t ask for it to be destabilized because of her.

  She opened the door and her heart dropped a good few inches. “Garret, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “Surprise, surprise, pretty lady.” He grinned, stepping in uninvited and raising a six-­pack. His cocky smile slipped at the sight of Wilder lurking behind her.

  “Kane? Got to say I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “King.” Wilder spit the word like a curse.

  A mixture of feelings coursed over Garret’s Ken-­doll features. Everything from annoyance to anger to fear. He was a big guy, but Wilder still had an advantage.

  “You two know each other, right?” Quinn asked with forced cheer. She didn’t want to become an unofficial ref in an amateur boxing match.

  Garret tried to recover his easygoing attitude. “We went to school together, didn’t we, buddy?”

  Wilder said nothing.

  “Graduated same year, at least I did. Not sure about this lug.” Garret looked friendly enough but his words held a prodding note.

  “Oh. Okay.” It didn’t take extra-­honed Spidey senses to tell these two weren’t the best of friends. They stared at each other with a subtle snarl to their gaze.

  “I wasn’t expecting you.” Quinn wavered, unsure whether to move to the couches or remain standing. It was one thing to annoy her at work or around town. It was a whole other thing to show up unannounced on her front doorstep.

  “What can I say, I like to amaze the ladies.” He took advantage of her indecision and sprawled into her love seat. “Hey, grab a seat, man,” he said to Wilder, gesturing to a chair across the room as if he had every right to be here. “Be good to catch up.”

  “Thanks, I’ll stand.”

  “Bummer about the leg, huh? I heard about that shit in Montana.” Before Wilder or she could say more, he’d barreled on. “Oh, and I hung with your brother’s woman today. Kooky Carson’s kid, Annie. She grew up to be pretty thing, didn’t she? She’s doing a story for the paper on the fires, wanted an interview.”

  “The fires?” Wilder echoed, soft but with an edge of menace.

  Quinn glimpsed the other Wilder, the dangerously unpredictable one who made his brothers skittish, even as adults. The Wilder with a feral edge.

  “Yeah, there’ve been a few lately. I and the volunteer force are on top of it. You’ll see it in the Sunday paper. Big hero profile.” He rubbed his chest in satisfaction.

  “That’s really something,” she said, picking up his six-­pack and handing it over. “Um. Thanks for stopping by but I’ve got some jobs to do.”

  “Oh. Sure. So what time can I pick you up tomorrow?”

  Her brow knit. “For what?”

  “Dinner.” His smile was so wide he exposed a bunch of gum. “You promised me a date at The Dirty Shame.”

  From the corner of her eye she saw Wilder stiffen. “No, sorry, I did no such thing.”

  Wilder made a warning rumble in the back of his throat. “Sounds like she’s pretty damn clear, Garret.”

  “Hey, hey, no need to get your panties in a bunch. We’re just kidding around, Kane. Quinn and I are friends. Good friends.” He gave her a wink and finally she’d had enough.

  In her old job she tried to ignore it when her employer made lewd innuendos, little jokes. Figured she’d treat him like a child. If she gave him no reaction, he’d stop.

  But he didn’t and that’s how she lost her job. One night he went too far, had too much cocaine washed down with champagne and decided that the best revenge for fighting with his wife was screwing his assistant. Whether she liked it or not was of little consequence. He was big but out of his mind, and Quinn fought him off. When his wife walked in, she thought that the woman would leap to her defense. But instead she called her a “home-­wrecking whore.”

  Before Quinn could open her mouth to quit she was fired.

  All her life her mom had told her to pluck her eyebrows, wear push up bras, and “smile pretty.” She had even tried to for a while. Even when her job required her to babysit a grown man who threw a fit over the kind of bottled water served in the green room or because the media questioned him about whether or not he got Botox treatments.

  Screw nice. She didn’t want to smile.

  “You and I don’t have a date planned.” She folded her arms. “And you’re not welcome here in my home.”

  Wilder moved to th
e door and opened it. “Guess some things never change, do they, buddy? You still have a hard time knowing when to back off.”

  Garret finally lost his easy grin, rising to his feet. “You know what? Fuck this,” he snapped, taking his time to look Quinn up and down. “You think you’re a hot piece of ass but your shit stinks same as everyone else’s.”

  “Say another word to her and your tongue will be in the front yard.” Wilder’s face didn’t betray a single emotion and that made him utterly terrifying.

  “Or what?” Apparently Garret didn’t value self-­preservation. “You going to clobber me with your peg leg.” He turned to Quinn with a sneer. “Gimps do it for you? Please tell me he takes it off and you ride it like a fucked-­up dildo—­”

  Wilder’s punch came hard, fast, and unexpected, like a striking snake. All she registered was a flash, a wet smack, and then Garret’s face was bleeding. Looked like his lip had split open.

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “If you’re not out the door in three seconds,” Wilder said acidly, “you’ll lose the tongue and be writing postcards to your front teeth.”

  “What the fuck, man?” Garret backed up.

  “One . . .” Wilder held up a finger.

  Garret eyed the door as if calculating how much time he had to scram if he left a parting shot. “Everyone was right—­you are a fucking lunatic.”

  Wilder stepped forward, closing the distance. “Two . . .”

  “I’m out. Watch your back, Kane.”

  “Three . . .”

  Garret was down the front steps, jogging toward his motorcycle. Wilder slammed the door as the engine revved to life.

  Quinn took his hand and squeezed it. “You didn’t need to punch him for me.”

  “Sometimes a man needs hitting.”

  “Maybe that’s true, but I could tell that doing it bothered you.” She rubbed the inside of his palm with her thumb.

  “It’s who I am, Quinn.” He was unable to keep the disgust from his voice. “At least who I used to be, and ­people never really change, do they?”

  “I think we grow as time goes on. We get more life experience. Maybe we never lose the core of ourselves, but I think that we don’t stay the same either.”