by Kati Wilde
“Water’s good.”
It takes an absurd amount of concentration to fill his glass with ice and water from the filtered pitcher in the refrigerator, and when I turn back to him, he’s looking over his shoulder at Jason. My brother’s sprawled facedown on the sofa beneath a blanket.
Cole glances at me again as I sit on the stool beside his. “What’d you mean when you said you were the second-to-last person to know you had a brother?”
“Just that.” Reaching for the plastic container, I pop open the lid. “I found out during a school dance, my senior year of high school. No surprise, my father sent me to St. Mary’s, so we had to invite boys from other schools. One of the girls invited Jason.”
“Why ‘no surprise’? You aren’t Catholic. And wait a second.” He stops me as I begin to lift the pie from the container. “Why don’t we just share it straight from the tub? Then you won’t have dishes to clean.”
“I like washing dishes,” I tell him and set the pale green slice onto his plate. Some of the decorative whipped cream has softened and lost its shape, but otherwise it all held together well. “And my father is a pompous, controlling dick-weasel. So he thought if I was at a private girls’ school, he could more easily direct my education and my social life.”
“But he couldn’t?”
“Not the education part. My social life…he was pretty good at controlling that. I didn’t have many friends.” Knife in hand, I frown over the slice, trying to figure out what’s wrong with the shape of it, but my brain’s not cooperating. “If I cut this in half, one side is all crust and the other half is just a point. That doesn’t seem even.”
With gentle fingers, Cole takes the knife and neatly cuts lengthwise down the center of the slice. “I don’t believe the other girls didn’t like you, angel.”
“Some did,” I admit. “But it was hard to trust any of them. Do you know that my freshman year, my father asked some of my friends to watch me? And tell him what I was doing and who I was talking to? And they did?”
His face darkens. “It sure as fuck doesn’t surprise me.”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens as the memory of that betrayal hits me again, but I shake it off. That’s all done with. “So I had friends, but after that, I always felt…a little distant from them. And of course that made some of the girls believe I was just a snob. They didn’t like me much. And one of those girls was the one who brought Jason. Because even they had heard the rumors about the son my father had with his secretary. And this girl thought I’d be embarrassed when he showed up, or I’d be put in my place, or something.”
“And what were you?”
“I didn’t even know who he was. Just some guy that this girl brought over to talk to me. It was weird, because I didn’t know her well. I thought maybe she was showing off her hot new boyfriend. I saw that he was embarrassed, but I was clueless. Then someone finally explained it, and my reaction…wasn’t pretty.” With my fork, I toy with the whipped cream, too mortified to look Cole in the eyes. “I suppose this is the part that I should be careful about telling you. If you want to get into my head.”
“Then don’t tell me.”
“I won’t. Because I was horrible. I instantly hated him. So much. I thought his existence was the reason my father was never satisfied with anything I did, and why my mother was always disappointed in me, too. Because we weren’t enough—I wasn’t enough—to make my father happy. Not when he apparently had a perfect golden boy with another woman. So I said he wasn’t my brother, that if my father really cared about him, he’d have given Jason the Bennet name. Then I was glad that hurt him.” Sick shame churns in my stomach at the memory. “Then I ran out of there, bawling my head off—which of course got around to my mother, and then she was mad at me for embarrassing the Bennet name by being such a crybaby in public. And for acknowledging Jason at all. Sometimes I think she doesn’t care that my father cheats on her. She just doesn’t like being humiliated by everyone knowing about it.”
Cole’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Seems to me Jason eventually forgave you.”
Dull heat climbs up my face. “When I pulled my head out of my ass. And it turns out, Jason resented me, too, except he’d known about my existence for a lot longer. But he thought I was the princess who got all of our father’s time and attention. Only after we met again—okay, what really happened was I tracked him down and accused him of stealing my father—and we realized that our dear dad was just a selfish dickhead all around. And that I missed out on eighteen years of having a brother.”
“But you’re making up for it.”
“Trying to,” I agree. “I’m trying to make up for a lot of things I never did. Like making pies for Thanksgiving. Of course, I think that will go a lot better if I don’t include my parents in the future.” Listening to myself whine, I sigh. “But maybe I shouldn’t complain about crappy holidays. It’s not like I was hungry or didn’t receive any gifts. My parents were just…who they are.”
Cole’s shaking his head. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “You’ll do better without them. This is something I can tell you for sure, Mia. When I was a kid, we didn’t have shit. We were poor as fuck. And—”
“See?” My face is burning. “I’ll shut up.”
“Don’t you dare. Because if you let me finish, I’ll tell you that I had friends who were in the same boat. Didn’t have shit to their name. But they loved every damn holiday and Christmas, even if all they got was a pair of socks, because their families made something special of it. Just being together in that time was special to them. Me and my old man, though… Some years he had a girlfriend, some years he had a job, and some years that made it worse and some years that made it better. But I’ll tell you the best Christmas I ever had was the first one away from home, sitting alone at a Denny’s, eating their turkey dinner. Because I was away from all that shit. You get away from that shit, too. And it’ll get better. This Christmas, it’ll be better. Because you’ll make it better. And I’ll help you.”
His fierce expression wavers in front of me as tears fill my eyes. My heart’s aching as I slide off my stool, and a hot lump of emotion is balled up in my throat. With me standing and him sitting, my height is about even with his, but I’m not close enough to see him properly, not with my vision all blurry. His hands curve around my waist when I push closer, all but straddling his right thigh, my arms linking around his neck.
With my face right up to his, I whisper, “Is this hurting your leg?”
“No, angel.” He groans his answer, so he might be lying. Or maybe because I’m also making him hard in all the places he’s not already hard. His chest can’t get any harder. I’m pressed up tight against him, my breasts flattened against those steely pecs, and he’s warm and solid and so wonderful.
“I like your face,” I tell him.
I also like what telling him does to that face. He laughs a little, lines forming at the sides of his dark eyes, that smile making his mouth so wide and kissable. “I like your face, too.”
Unable to resist, I unlace my fingers from behind his neck and trace those smiling lips with the fingertips of my right hand. “And I like your mouth. Even when you look at me all frowningly for a long time.”
Softly he says, “When did I do that?”
“Last Friday. When Dr. Childers and I were working on Eldon Jameson. You were staring at me and looked so unhappy with me. Were you?”
A heavy sigh slips past my fingers. “Not with you. But I don’t like the idea of you down there, knowing the kind of shit you must see. It’s not all old men and natural causes. Sometimes it’s Hell.” Gently he skims the backs of his knuckles down my cheek. “And an angel doesn’t belong in Hell.”
That’s sweet. But he’s got it all wrong. “I’m not an angel.”
“Considering you were hovering over me when I thought I was dying, you better let me decide that.”
“Then I’m an angel,” I concede, since I can’t argue with that impeccabl
e logic. “But maybe think of it like this, instead: Heaven’s already full of all the angels it needs. So Hell could use some more. Especially since I’ll be one of the last people who ever takes care of the dead. I’ll treat them with dignity and respect. And what we do is hard sometimes, but I’ll do right by them and their loved ones. Like you try to do. Are you going to stop investigating just because it’s hard sometimes?”
He doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t need to.
Suddenly exhausted, I lay my cheek against his shoulder. “Anyway, I can do that thing where you…separate yourself. Detach. Maybe I learned it from my mother. The difference is that I come back. Re-attach. And go out into the world like that. With all my feelings intact.”
“And that’s when you’re afraid of getting hurt?”
“Or of hurting someone else. But I’m not afraid in the autopsy suite. Maybe the best thing about dead people is that they can’t hurt you…and you can’t hurt them. You can hurt for them, and for the people they left behind. But on a one-to-one basis? No. You should take me to bed.”
“Mia…” My name trails off on a hoarse groan. His hands tighten on my hips. “Don’t think I’m rejecting you, because I do want you, but—”
“I’m so drunk, I don’t think I can make it there without someone beside me, keeping me steady.”
“Ah.” His deep chuckle sounds against my ear. “You didn’t eat any of your pie yet, though.”
“Because I don’t like pie.”
“You don’t like pie.” He echoes it flatly, like the words are gibberish he’s trying hard to understand.
“I don’t really like any sweets. I only like baking them. And giving them away.” I snuggle my face against his warm neck. He smells so good, with some kind of spicy cologne lingering against his skin. “But if I’d said that you could have the whole piece, I couldn’t have lured you into my apartment. You would have just taken the pie over to your place. So I said we’d share. But I’ll give my half to Jason.”
Amusement deepens his voice. “You’re a wily drunk.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” The whole world shifts and reels dizzily around me. I cling tighter to his shoulders. My voice rises in alarm as I realize what just happened and why I’m suddenly floating. “You don’t have to carry me. Your leg—”
“Can do this.” His tone allows no argument. “And the day I can’t is the day I don’t deserve to touch you at all.”
“You’re wrong,” I tell him. “So wrong, you stubborn jerk.”
But he’s not listening. And Cole might be a stubborn jerk, but he manages to carry me down the hall without dropping me or limping too badly. My room’s dark, only lit by a lamp on the nightstand. By the time he reaches my bed and sets me gently down, his taut features show the strain of his effort. So the last thing he needs to do is walk down the hall again.
I catch his hand. “Lie with me until I fall asleep.”
His gaze narrows, as if he’s wondering whether I’m being wily again.
“I’ll be out within five minutes. And the rest will be good for your leg,” I tell him before he can argue.
“Only five minutes, then.” A storm moves across his expression, leaving behind a dark cloud. “Because last time I was here, Mia, you slammed your door in my face. I don’t know why you invited me in here now and what changed, but I’m sure as hell not going to risk you hating my guts when you wake up, wondering if I took advantage of you being drunk…more than I already have.”
Self-recrimination edges the last with harsh bitterness. I roll over into the center of the bed, feel his long, hard body as he slides up behind me. “You didn’t get anything out of my head that I wouldn’t want you to know.”
“A few days ago, you didn’t want me to know anything.”
I yawn and punch my pillow into place against my shoulder. “A few days ago, I didn’t really trust you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Now you do?”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Why?”
“Because you offered to stay with me to make sure I’m okay.” And I didn’t know men were so talkative in bed. “Now, shhhhhh.”
Frustration joins the laugh shaking his big body against me. “All right, angel.” His silence lasts only a few seconds, but in that time I fall almost completely under. Until I hear him say, “What kind of mattress is this? This is the most comfortable shit I’ve ever been on.”
“Like a cuddle from a cloud,” I murmur. “Do you want one for Christmas?”
His laugh shakes against me again. His strong arms pull me in tighter against his chest, and I feel the brush of his lips against my temple. “No, angel. That’s not what I want for Christmas.”
“Tell me what you do want, then.”
“Don’t buy me anything.”
“I don’t know if I’ll buy it. But I’m giving something to all my neighbors. Your gift is harder to figure out, though. You saved my life, so it should be something special.”
“You’ve got that backwards, angel.” His voice roughens. “You saved me, remember?”
“Not backwards. And shhhhhh.”
He finally shhhs.
8
Cole
Letting go of Mia’s warm, slumbering form and rising up out of the mattress that’s like a gentle floating pull into sleep is about the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I want to stay, want to wake up beside her, with Mia still in my arms.
But this shit isn’t right. Maybe she really has changed her mind about giving me a chance. Until she says it sober, though, I sure as hell shouldn’t be touching her.
She was right about the short rest doing me good. My leg’s not screaming at me so badly as I make my way back toward the kitchen. I’m not a bit surprised to see Mia’s brother sitting on the barstool she vacated, finishing the pie she’d left out. He’s been awake this whole damn time—and he made sure I knew it, too. Looked me straight in the eyes while Mia was getting my water. I’m not sure if he heard every word she said, but more than likely. And I’m pretty fucking sure if I’d lingered in her bedroom much longer, he’d have come to haul me out.
I can’t even be pissed about that. She’s got someone looking out for her. And it’s real clear that isn’t something she’s had all her life.
“She’s asleep,” I tell him. “And is going to wake up with a hell of a hangover. You gonna be here?”
With his fork, he points to the couch. “All night.”
It’s still relatively early. Not even eleven o’clock. Plenty of time for her to sleep. “Is she working in the morning or does she have the day off?”
“Working.” Jason lifts his chin, gesturing to the other stool. “You want to have a seat?”
For a chat? “No.”
My refusal doesn’t faze him. As easygoing as ever, he replies, “Stand, then. Do you want to know what she didn’t tell you?”
“Depends on why you’re telling me.”
“Because you said you’d help her make this upcoming holiday better. You meant that?”
“Of course I fucking meant it. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”
Nodding, he scrapes up the last bite of pie. “This really is good. And Mia’s mother told her that she didn’t know what was more tasteless: a pie that looked as if it came from a roadside diner, or her own daughter. It was the first thing Patricia said when Mia got to the Bennet mansion today.”
For a second, I can’t see past the rage blinding me. Then I take the fucking seat.
And her brother’s face isn’t showing much, but a seething moment of silence passes before he continues. “Mia will just say her mother is cold, but it’s a particular kind of cold that’s done a number on her. Because Patricia doesn’t just slip the knife in; she twists it. Their dinners aren’t like most people’s, you know? Not even on regular days. But on Thanksgiving they’ve got a fancy chef, invite the city’s best. So Patricia makes Mia go and apologize to the chef for insulting him, because by bringing a pie she’s insinuating that what he’s made for
their guests isn’t good enough. Patricia’s saying all this right in front of him, by the way. Because Mia’s pretty sturdy on her own, standing up for herself—but drag someone else in, suggest they’ve been hurt by what she’s done, and it just fucks her over. But of course Patricia knows that, so she’ll use Mia to hurt someone else, because it hurts Mia even more. And the way Mia tells it, the chef is just completely fucking embarrassed and doesn’t know what the hell to do, except to say no harm is done and the pie looks good, then Patricia turns that around and tells Mia that he just feels sorry for how pathetic she is. You want a beer?”
I think I need one. “Yeah,” I say hoarsely.
Jason heads to the fridge. “Not that our dear old dad is any better. Because he’s hoping to make a deal with a developer to build up that strip along the waterfront, so he makes sure that Mia sits right next to this fucker and tells her to be really nice to him. And Mia, she’ll be nice to everyone—until they get flirty and handsy. Because who the fuck knows what our dad’s suggesting to this guy before the dinner to make him think she’ll welcome it. It’s not the first time, either. And two guesses who gets blamed when she ends up telling the guy off, or slapping his hands away, or the deal falls through.”
Using her as fucking bait. I knew there was some creepy shit behind Bennet’s favor. Watching her, making sure she doesn’t get a boyfriend or publicly date the wrong man, maybe souring the lure.
“You got any names?” My tone lets him know exactly what I’d do with them.
“Aside from our dad?” Jason shakes his head. Instead of coming back around to the barstool, he stands on the opposite side of the counter, slides my beer over before twisting open his own. “Mia says she’s always handled it. And maybe she has. Apparently this guy apologized to her. And she says that she’ll never go to their dinners again, so it doesn’t matter.”