by Beth Andrews
Why did he have to know her so well? “True. My big brother taught me to stand up for myself,” she told him with a grin.
“Only because I knew I wouldn’t always be around to save you from yourself and your schemes when they backfired. Which they always do.”
“Okay, first of all, stop saying schemes, it makes you sound like some sort of cheesy, low-rent superhero. Secondly, my plans don’t always backfire.”
“Just usually.”
She set down a spoon with a sharp crack. “Well, usually isn’t always, is it?”
And the important plans, the ones she’d worked hard on, like being accepted into graduate school and getting that internship at an inner-city high school, had worked out just fine, thank you very much.
And so would this one.
“Look,” Zach said, “we all know you had a crush on Oakes—”
“Had. As in past tense. As in over six years ago.” The voices in the kitchen grew louder, meaning more and more people were arriving. “A crush I got over the moment I laid eyes on Curt Nelson during freshman-year seminar.”
“Exactly,” Zach said, as stubborn as always. “You’re too old and too smart to confuse a teenage crush with something more.”
“You’re right. I am too smart to confuse the two.”
She knew he didn’t mean to be insulting but, damn it, he was. She was an adult and she made her own decisions, something he’d always encouraged. It wasn’t as if she’d mooned over Oakes from the time she was seventeen. She’d had boyfriends. Several. Curt had lasted through spring break her first year of college and she and Louie Delcagno had been together a year before they broke up and she met Ricky.
For God’s sake, she’d even been engaged. So no. No mooning. No pining. She’d known that while she was in school a relationship with Oakes was out of her reach. Though it hadn’t been easy, letting go of the dream of being with him. Especially since she’d always believed that if she worked hard enough, she could have whatever she wanted.
“All right,” Zach said in a tone she knew was supposed to inject calm into the situation. Or, more accurately, into her. “You don’t have a crush on Oakes. Great. But it’s not fair for you to use him to get out of town. Just don’t go to Ricky’s wedding. You don’t owe him or anyone else anything. Not even an explanation.”
“I know.” She sat in one of the chairs. “Do you really think I’m using Oakes?”
“You asked him to take you to a wedding in Pennsylvania.”
It sounded bad when Zach said it. “I’m paying my own way. And maybe, maybe this will give us—me and Oakes—a chance to...get to know each other better.”
Zach went still, eerily so, and for a long period of time. She held the edge of a butter knife under his nose and he jerked his head back. “What are you doing?” he said.
“Checking to see if you’re still breathing.”
He swiped the knife from her. “You just said you don’t have a crush on him.”
“I don’t. Crushes are for children. Although I suppose you could, technically, define my feelings for Robert Downey, Jr. as a crush...”
“Can we stay focused?” Zach asked, though how he managed to do so while barely moving his lips was a mystery.
Focus, yes. Right. “I have feelings for Oakes.” Real, true feelings. “I think... I think I’m in love with him.”
Zach paled. “Not. Funny.”
“I would never joke about love. There’s something between us. Something real. What’s wrong with exploring that, seeing where it leads, if it leads anywhere?”
“And tricking him into taking you to Pennsylvania will accomplish that?”
“It’ll give us a chance to be together without being reminded, every day and in every way, of our very complicated relationship. It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other as Daphne and Oakes, two unattached people. Not as Daphne, your younger sister. Or Oakes, your older brother.”
“Half brother.”
Zach always reminded everyone that Oakes, Kane and C.J. were his half siblings. It was his way of separating himself from them. Making them seem less important.
Oakes never did that.
Just one of the many differences between the two men she cared for most in the world.
“You’re making a mistake,” Zach told her flatly.
“If I am, then it’s my mistake to make. My heart I’m risking,” she told him quietly.
He shook his head. “Don’t fool yourself. The Bartasaviches are hard. Cold. You want to believe Oakes is different, but he’s not. He’ll use you up and toss you aside when he gets bored or something better comes along.”
“Oakes would never hurt me.”
“He’s a Bartasavich.”
And that, in Zach’s mind, said it all.
“Yes, he’s a Bartasavich,” she said as a cheer went up in the living room. The Texans must have scored. “So are you.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
She couldn’t help it. She grinned. Leaned down to hug him, a hug he returned with his good arm. “I’ll be fine.” Straightening, she winked. “Oakes won’t know what hit him.”
She walked out to greet the rest of her family as Zach muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
* * *
OAKES SAT ON the edge of his mother’s sofa, his bottle of beer held loosely in his hand, dangling between his knees, his eyes glued to the large, flat-screen TV on the wall. The center snapped the ball and Tom Brady fell back. J. J. Watt shook off one Patriots linesman, then a second.
“Go, go, go,” he muttered as Watt bore down on Brady, then made a flying tackle, sacking the Patriots quarterback. “Yeah!”
He surged to his feet almost simultaneously with his stepfather, Michael, and seventeen-year-old brother, Gregory. They exchanged high fives. There were still eight minutes to go in the game, plenty of time for Brady to pull one of his amazing comebacks, but right now, the Texans were up by six.
The Patriots called a time-out.
“Your turn for snack run,” Gregory told Oakes. Greg was a perfect blend of his parents, with Michael’s dark auburn hair and their mother’s blue eyes. He was tall and lanky, like his father, but he might still fill out the way Dusty, their twenty-year-old brother, had once he’d graduated from high school. He handed Oakes the empty chip bowl. “More guacamole. And see if Mom made those bacon-wrapped shrimp.”
Since it really was his turn for a snack run, Oakes would take the bowl. But first he had something to do. He reached up—hating that his youngest brother had three inches on him—and slapped Greg upside his fat head.
“Ow.” Scowling, Greg rubbed the spot. “What the hell was that for?”
Oakes grinned. “You forgot to say please.”
It was his job to make sure his younger brothers didn’t get too cocky for their own good.
Not that he’d ever been able to get through to Zach.
Greg turned to Michael, who’d retaken his seat in his recliner. “Dad! Did you see that? He assaulted me.”
Michael considered his son’s argument. At sixty, he looked ten years younger, despite his receding hairline. He nodded once, looking very much like the hard-ass judge he was, a decision having been made. “Overruled.”
And he flipped up the leg rest, leaned back and laughed at a beer commercial.
Greg shoved the empty bowl at Oakes again, forcing Oakes to take it. “Please get me some more goddamn guacamole.”
“Gregory Michael,” their mother said sharply as she walked into the den carrying a tray of assorted appetizers, including the shrimp Greg wanted. “That had better not have been you cursing!”
Greg blanched. Michael might have the authority to send criminals to prison but every male in the house knew Rosalyn was the one you didn’t mes
s with. She was tough as nails, a true Southern belle who didn’t take any sass, always wore lipstick and doted on her husband and sons.
When she wasn’t boxing their ears to keep them in line.
Rosalyn set the tray on the glossy coffee table then straightened and raised one eyebrow at her youngest. “Well?”
Greg glanced around, but Michael ignored his son’s pleading look and helped himself to more food. From behind Rosalyn, Oakes pointed at Greg then used that same finger to make a slitting motion across his throat.
Greg’s mouth flattened but then he grinned. Oakes was surprised a cartoon lightbulb didn’t appear over the kid’s head with whatever brilliant idea he’d come up with. “No, ma’am, it wasn’t me. It was Oakes.”
Michael snorted. “Son,” he murmured, “you’d best learn to either keep your voice down if you’re going to cuss, or get better at coming up with a believable lie.”
“Oakes,” Rosalynn declared, her hands on her slim hips. She was a woman not to be messed with in her demure, Sunday-best dark green knee-length skirt, cream-colored sweater set and the pearl necklace Michael had given her on their first anniversary. She skewered her youngest with a look guaranteed to make a man’s—or, in this case, an almost man—balls shrink. Oakes almost felt bad for Greg.
Almost.
“Do you expect me to believe,” she continued, “that it was Oakes I heard, clear as day, taking the Lord’s name in vain? On a Sunday—a holy day, mind you. In my house?”
Greg, eyes wide, cocky grin nowhere in sight, swallowed audibly. “I’d sure appreciate it if you did. Believe it, I mean.”
Rosalyn’s sigh was a work of art—part aggrieved female surrounded by idiotic males, part disappointed mother, wondering where she went wrong. “Michael,” she said, turning to her husband, “I expect you to do something about this.”
Michael nodded solemnly. “You can count on me. Soon as the game’s over, I’ll take him out back to the woodshed.”
Though her stance remained unyielding, her lips twitched. “We don’t have a woodshed.”
“I’ll get right on building one,” Michael promised. “After the game.”
“Why?” she asked the heavens, adding to the drama in her tone with a good old-fashioned hand toss. “Why must I be surrounded by men?”
“You’re extremely lucky in that regard,” Michael said. “But not—” he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap “—as lucky as we are.”
“Michael!” she squealed, tugging her skirt down, her cheeks pink. “Mind yourself!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, sounding much like Greg had a moment ago. He nuzzled her neck. “Now, darlin’, you know we’d be lost without you.”
She swatted at him halfheartedly. “Oh, now, go on with you. Finish your game. And let me up, I have dinner to prepare.”
But she softened her rebuke with a smile and a kiss to his forehead. Greg rolled his eyes and attacked the snacks, but Oakes leaned back and grinned. That, that was what he wanted when he got married. A partnership like they had. He knew love played a big part, so did mutual respect, but the commonalities between his mother and stepfather couldn’t be discounted.
They were the same age, had similar backgrounds, tastes and personalities. They supported each other’s goals, parented as a team and never took the other for granted. Even their few differences—Michael’s let-it-be personality often annoyed Rosalyn, who could worry about anything and everything and usually did—complemented each other.
They weren’t perfect, Oakes thought as Michael helped Rosalyn to her feet then gave her a light swat on her rear, and their marriage wasn’t perfect, but it was the closest Oakes had seen to it. He may have been only ten when his parents divorced, but even then he’d known their relationship was dysfunctional at best. Senior was too selfish to be a true partner. He took advantage of Rosalyn’s love and trust, focusing solely on his own needs, thinking he could make up for his mistakes with expensive gifts, an abundance of charm and false promises.
It had worked, too. For far too long. Until his mother had found the strength and resolve to leave him. She’d been rewarded with a second chance and had shown Oakes what a healthy, loving, long-lasting relationship looked like.
Now he was starting to think it was time he found one of his own.
An image of Daphne flashed through his mind. Not of her barefoot on his porch, or smiling drunkenly at him from the couch, but of how she’d looked this morning sitting next to him at the bar, her face clean, her hair wild. He was attracted to her. He refused to feel guilty about it. Mainly because he’d never act on it.
Even if he hadn’t been able to get her off of his mind for more than fifteen minutes at a time today.
“I was hoping you’d bring Sylvie to dinner today,” his mom said, dragging him back to the present moment. Bringing his thoughts to the woman he should have been thinking about. “She’s such a lovely young lady.”
Sylvie was lovely. Lovely and intelligent and interesting. They’d met at one of his mother’s fund-raising events, had hit it off immediately. When the evening had wound down, he’d asked her out, knowing instinctively she was a woman he could have a future with. They not only had common interests, but also shared a social circle and had similar backgrounds. Sylvie was the perfect match for him. Even his mother approved.
As she should have, considering she’d been the one to introduce him and Sylvie to each other.
And while he’d never worried about whether or not his mother would like the women he dated, he was at a point in his life where marriage, children and the future were on his mind. And that future would be a hell of a lot smoother if his mother and wife got along.
“It’s a little too soon to be inviting her to family dinners,” Oakes said as the game resumed. “Maybe after the holidays.”
After they’d gone out a few more times. Right now things between them were casual, which seemed to suit them both. There was no hurry. They had plenty of time to figure out where they were going. They could take things as slow as they needed in order for them both to be sure, to be certain of what they wanted.
Love wasn’t something you stumbled into. It took time to grow. It needed nurturing and effort. Marriage was too big, too important, to rush into. There was no room for error. There could be no mistakes, no confusing lust with love. Anything worth having was worth waiting for.
And why that brought Daphne to mind—again, damn it—he refused to ponder.
“Oh, but that’s weeks from now,” Rosalyn said. She sounded disappointed, but at least she drew the line at out-and-out pouting. “I suppose I don’t have a say in the matter.”
Although it was a statement, she made it sound like a question. “No,” Oakes told her with a laugh. “You don’t.”
“Fine. But at least tell me how things are going with you two. As the person who introduced you, I feel a certain ownership in your relationship.”
“Please don’t ever introduce me to a girl, Mom,” Greg said, not taking his eyes from the game. “I get enough questions about my love life without you claiming ownership—” still not looking at her, he made air quotes with his fingers “—in any of my relationships.”
“Good call,” Oakes told his brother. “Wish I would have thought of setting up that stipulation a few years ago.”
“Yes, I’m a horrible, nagging, meddling mother,” Rosalyn said, her tone as dry as dust. “Introducing my son to a beautiful, intelligent woman. What a monster I must be.”
He slid his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “I appreciate you introducing Sylvie to me. But there’s nothing to tell. We’re taking things slow.”
Rosalyn laid her hand on his cheek. “Honey, I love you, but someone needs to light a fire under your ass.”
He choked out a laugh.
“Mom!” Greg said,
half horrified, half impressed his usually gentile mother knew how to swear. “And on a Sunday.”
“Hush now,” she told her youngest. “I’m talking to your brother.” She set her sights on Oakes. “Now listen to your mama. Slow is all well and good for some things. Not when it comes to matters of the heart. A woman wants to be wooed. She wants to be swept off her feet. She wants the man she’s interested in to pursue her, actively and intently. You need to make a gesture. It doesn’t have to be grand or over-the-top, just something to let Sylvie know she’s a priority for you. You should ask her to Kane’s wedding.”
He shifted, like a guilty kid trying to get away with something. “I’m not taking Sylvie to Kane’s wedding. We’ve only been seeing each other a few weeks.”
“Oakes, it’s been over a month. Long enough for a trip away together.”
“It’s in two weeks. On Christmas Eve. She probably already has plans.”
“Even if she does, I’m sure she’d much rather spend the weekend with a handsome, successful, interesting man.” She patted his cheek, smiling at him warmly.
“Guess that leaves you out then,” Greg told Oakes with a cocky grin.
Looked like someone needed another lesson in manners. “Good one,” Oakes replied, deadpan. He leaned down, pretending to help himself to a pesto-and-tomato-topped cracker, but paused to speak directly into his brother’s ear. “But let’s just remember which one of us has sex,” he said in an undertone. “Regularly. With real live, actual women.”
Greg flushed. “Showoff,” he muttered.
“Just speaking the truth, son,” he said, giving Greg a harder-than-necessary slap on the shoulder. Then another. “Just speaking the truth.”
Okay, maybe he wasn’t having sex as regularly as he’d like, but the point was he could. In truth, he’d gotten over the whole meaningless hookups and one-night stands long ago. They’d never really been his speed anyway. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he wanted more than a few hours of sweaty satisfaction. He was ready to settle down. He already had the house, now all he needed was the perfect woman.