by Lia Riley
“That’s sweet. What did he say?”
“That I wasn’t his son. So I thanked him for raising me. For providing for me until that point. Then I went out. Got this tattoo and drank myself senseless with Beau down by the river bottoms.”
The dull hurt in his voice made her physically ill. “How could he treat you that way?”
“With hindsight and a decade of maturity, I’d say Dad was wild with grief, but too stubborn to retract his words. After I opened my practice he told me, via Lou Ellen, that he’d never darken the door to my clinic. I sent back word that I wasn’t going to lose sleep over the fact. We’ve never spoken since unless absolutely necessary.”
“Why’s he so angry?
“He’s mad that Mama’s gone, and he can’t be angry at her, so I’m the emotional punching bag. It’s fine. I can take it.” He sighed. “Besides, I’d rather have him pissed off at me than at her memory. Let the old man have that much at least.”
“But it isn’t fair.” Her brain cells misfired at the illogicalness of it all, the sheer waste of a precious family relationship flushed down the toilet. “Any father should be proud to claim you as his own.”
“It’s the way it is.” He shrugged. “Some things never change.”
“But that’s it.” She needed him to feel better, she had to find a way to help fix this, to make him see. “People do change. Look at me falling for Kitty. I’m proof.”
“This is more than getting over a fear of dogs, Pepper.” He didn’t sound angry, more resigned.
“People can change. It’s just easier not to.” Her quiet protest fell on deaf ears. He wasn’t ready to hear it, and that fact had to be okay.
“I can think of lots of other topics I’d rather discuss,” he said dryly. “Like how to best get you naked for starters.” He rose and braced his arms on either side of her. His woodsy smell was as delicious as ever, but had grown familiar, too. A comfort. And if he wanted distraction, she could offer him comfort in kind.
She played up her exasperated huff and was rewarded when the tension around his eyes eased. His gentle exhalation was felt rather than heard, and she purred as the delicious heat from his breath stole up her neck.
“And I like all these little sounds even better.” His mouth curved in a soft, sexy smile. “Hey, I have a confession to make.”
He sounded deadly serious. “Her heart stuttered as the emotional barometer shifted. “What?”
“A few nights after you moved in, I got home late. I’d been sailing with Beau and was wiped. I intended to crawl straight to bed. Didn’t even bother brushing my teeth or turning on a light. And there you were, over that fence, in your room in a pair of tiny pink shorts belting Gloria Gaynor lyrics into a hairbrush, how you would survive.”
“You heard that?” She clapped a hand over her mouth. That might have well been the night she YouTubed the “Twerking for Beginners” workout video. The only silver lining to this situation was absolution. Clear the air.
“This is mortifying, but I have a confession as well.”
She owned up to the towel incident, and his chest lifted with a chuckle. “We’ve been dumber than a bag of rocks. But we’ve grown smarter because now we do this.” He kissed her to the edge of crazy and slid a hand under the back of her skirt.
The trouble was that as Pepper let him deepen the kiss, stroking her tongue against his with a raw-edged hunger, she didn’t feel all that smart. It was like she’d popped the lid off Pandora’s box and all the emotions she’d kept locked away were breaking free. Self-sufficiency and autonomy had sailed her through many a life storm, but the more Rhett dropped his guard and exposed his sensitive underbelly, the more her own vulnerability grew.
She was uncertain where they were headed, but eventually they’d hit a dead end. Because as much as she adored Rhett’s companionship, his gruff humor, that ragged sound tearing from his throat as she worked her hand under his belt and teased her fingers against his hot velvet skin, thick with throbbing veins, this wasn’t real life. It was a summer fling. And soon, she’d have to leave Love Street.
He nipped the edge of her earlobe with a sweet sting that made her cry out. Yes, she’d be leaving, but until that day—she gasped as he drove her back against the headboard—she’d focus on coming. Every other option came with some kind of string. And if they tangled up, it would be hard to break free.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rhett stirred, sleep-hazed, frowning at the pins-and-needles sensation shooting through his fingertips. He flexed his hand, getting used to it. During the night, Pepper had rolled close, the weight of her head cutting off his arm circulation. His ass was freezing. She’d hogged the covers, turning herself into a cute burrito, and even then, her feet remained the temperature of icicles.
What was it with women and cold feet?
He wrapped an arm around Pepper’s waist and drew her closer, breathing in her hair, savoring the fruity smell of her shampoo. They’d passed out after a round of marathon sex ending in lazily watching the last half of an eighties flick Pepper claimed as her favorite. “I have this weird love for Billy Crystal,” she’d said, cuddling against him. “He is cranky but adorable in When Harry Met Sally.”
Weird but even weirder was the fact the movie wasn’t terrible. He might have laughed a few times.
How had he gotten here? Gone from trying to convince himself he was better to actually being better. To being great. This situation smacked of crazy, like someone snuck into his pantry and moved around all the cans. Trouble had rearranged his simple, straightforward world into something strange and different. Happy even.
The sun rose high enough to fill the bedroom with light. Slowly Pepper stirred. A nose twitch. An eyebrow flutter. Next an eyelid twitch, followed by a wide yawn. She woke halfway through, her startled gaze locking on his. A piece of her bangs stuck straight up while sleep stuck to the corner of her eyes. She wasn’t trying to be anything other than who she was right then. His heart gave a painful lurch. Because the truth was that she was beautiful, inside and out, and for some magic reason wanted to be with him.
“Hey.” He took a steadying breath, fighting for levity. “Nice tonsils.”
“Hi there.” She hiked the sheet around her breasts, staring around, trying to gain orientation. “So…guess we’ve had another sleepover.”
“Yeah,” he said gruffly, smoothing her hair. “Guess so.”
“Is that okay? We never discussed going beyond a booty call.” She scrutinized him, gauging his reaction. “This wasn’t fling-y of me.”
It wasn’t. And he didn’t care. This was good. Better than good. Waking up with Pepper was fucking incredible, even if she made his arm fall asleep and his ass freeze. “Know something? You talk in your sleep.”
“Say what?” Her brown eyes widened.
“You recited a bunch of old man names.”
“The presidents.” She half-sat, full alert now. “The presidents of the United States.”
“Millard Fillmore was a president?”
“Yes. The thirteenth. Preceded by Zachary Taylor and succeeded by Franklin Pierce.”
He stared. Not only was she a knockout, she’d be able to KO the competition at Mad Dawg’s trivia night. “What else is stored in that brain?”
“Don’t even ask.” She grimaced. “I memorized the presidents when I was a kid and would recite them when falling asleep. Somehow they implanted into my subconscious. My sister used to complain about me reciting the names at two in the morning.”
He swallowed, dropping his gaze to her sweet mouth. “That’s sort of cute.”
“Oh? Grover Cleveland does it for you?”
He brushed his lips over hers, kissing her with a measured, intense rhythm, drawing the moment out until they both shivered. “Who?”
“Grover Cleveland. The twenty-second and twenty-fourth president, the only one to be unelected after four years and then regain the White House.”
“I thought you were talking about the
Muppet.”
“Ha, no. And anyway that Muppet had nothing to see under his matted blue fur.” She ran her tongue along the seam of his lips before whispering in a husky voice, “Looks like Grover’s a grower and not a show-er.”
“I don’t know whether to be disturbed or turned on,” he said, rolling on top of her. They laughed into each other’s mouths.
What the hell had his life been before her?
There’d always been a usual ebb and flow to his Sunday. He woke. Chugged a protein shake. Ran with the dogs. Came home, cooked a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and zoned in front of sports cable until Beau quit working enough to take the boat out. He’d never had a morning like this, in bed with a woman he wasn’t meant to get serious about, who made bad jokes about dead presidents and somehow looked sexy doing it.
He was so fucked.
A faint whine wafted up the hall.
“Crap. Kitty!” Pepper broke from their kiss and jumped from the bed, stumbling because her underwear had been pulled around her knees. “I have to let her out. Go do all the jobs. I am the worst pet mom ever, forgot I even had a dog. Maybe I should have gone for a fish instead. A nice geriatric fish looking to live out his or her final weeks from the comfort of a bowl on my kitchen counter. What was I thinking? I can barely be responsible for myself, and am still sorting out how to fix a bungled future, not to mention the seriously confusing feelings for—”
“Pepper. Breathe.” Rhett stood and threw on a gray shirt, walking after her. She was going to pass out if she didn’t stop talking. “Kitty is fine.”
Sure enough, her puppy sat alert, watchful but not frightened. Steinbeck and Faulkner flanked either side while Fitzgerald guarded the front like a sentinel.
“They were guarding her. Look! They love her.” Pepper clapped her hands, clearly touched.
He zoned out at her, before giving his head a half-shake. No point letting a single thought drift in the L-word direction. “Grab Kitty and we’ll take her in the backyard for a pee. It’s Sunday. Everyone on Love Street will be at church except for us heathens.”
“Good thinking,” Pepper said, opening the latch. Once in the yard, Kitty bounded to the fence and sniffed along the perimeter, the three retrievers attending her every step.
Pepper paused to admire his kayak before glancing through the tool shed’s window.
“Your dog house is pink?”
“Got left on the curb not long before you arrived. I figured I’d use the wood for a beach bonfire at Labor Day.”
“Or you could give it to me for Kitty. Or, I don’t know. Maybe not.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not looking to stay here and put down roots. In fact becoming a fur mama gives me courage, because wherever I go, now I won’t be alone.”
There it was. An unexpected downside to her falling head-over-heels for a dog. “But you could stay,” he blurted, the words flying out like they had a life of their own. “You know. If you wanted. Check out local opportunities.”
Her mouth went as round as her eyes. “In Everland?”
He shrugged. “Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. This is a semi-not-awful place.”
“Yeah.” She appeared to mull it over. “Inhabited by semi-okay people.” She shook her head. “But let’s be realistic. There’s nothing here for me to do. The only firm is well established, and the remaining lawyers are independent contractors scooping up the scraps.”
He wanted her to stay, pure and simple. All he had to do was figure out some genius plan.
“Let’s dig out your dog house,” he said. Not exactly genius. But a start. Putting down a rudimentary foundation.
He had a lot of shit in the shed. The doghouse was half buried behind some punching bags and wedged between old plywood odds and ends. When he maneuvered it toward the door, it wedged on an old windsurfer propped against the wall.
“Push harder.” Her soft grunt fell straight to the dirty side of his imagination. “Put your back into it.”
“I’m doing my best. It’s too big.” He cocked a brow. “Won’t get out. It’s stuck.” He hammed up the last two lines until she collapsed into a pool of helpless giggles.
“It can’t stay like this forever.” She cackled even as she grimaced from the weight. “Go back or come out.”
“Hello?” A woman’s voice drifted from inside Pepper’s house next door.
Pepper froze, going whiter than drying plaster.
“Hellooooo?” A rusty squeak carried over the fence. The back door to her house was opening. “Pepper? You home?”
“Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Pepper ducked, covering her head as if to avoid a punch. “It’s Tuesday,” she hissed.
Confusion swirled through him. “No, it’s not, Trouble. It’s only Sunday. Easy, before you give yourself a—”
“No.” She took his face between her hands. The whites of her eyes rang around her amber irises. “Listen. You aren’t hearing me. It. Is. Tuesday.”
Had she knocked something on her head in his shed? “Last night was Saturday. You came here for dinner.”
She slapped a damp palm over his mouth. “There’s no time to play Who’s on First. My sister’s name is Tuesday. She is here. I heard her calling my name from the house.”
“Tuesday?” He frowned. “You’re sister’s name is Tuesday? What sort of a name is Tuesday?”
“I know, right? Especially if you were born on Friday,” a husky feminine voice drawled.
He glanced over one shoulder. A striking, platinum-haired young woman peered over the fence. She plucked the Dum Dum sucker from the corner of her mouth and hiked up her gold aviator sunglasses to reveal a pair of eyes that had a familiar tilt at the edge. “Heya, sis,” she said, arching a brow. “And nice shirt there, handsome.”
He glanced at his bare chest and low-slung sweat pants.
“What on Earth are you doing here?” Pepper squeaked.
Tuesday popped the lollipop back between her lips, her curious gaze boring into them. “I think the real question is who are you doing here?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tuesday grabbed a handful of grapes from the fruit bowl, tossing one after the other into her mouth while maintaining a brush-and-strike tap dance rhythm. Her sister was a category four human hurricane and a born performer. “Here I kept thinking pooooooor Pepper,” she was saying. “Poooooor Pepper stranded in Georgia. Pooooooor Pepper all alone. Meanwhile, poor Pepper is off doing the nasty with the cutest neighbor in recorded history. You did see his abs, right? Glorious. Wait. Of course you have. You’ve probably licked each muscle. Oh my God. Have you? Was it amazing? Tell me it was amazing.”
“Stop.” Pepper ducked her head. “It’s not like that. We’re friends.”
“Uh-huh. I have friends. But not ones I canoodle around with in their backyard.”
“Anyway, change of subject.” Pepper withdrew a coffee mug from the cabinet, slamming the door. “Are you going to tell me what happened in New York or what?”
Tuesday geared up for a big finale. Ginger Rogers, eat your heart out. Watching her sister made Pepper tired. She never stopped moving. “I’m done with the place,” Tuesday replied flatly, with one last heel click for evidence. “Over. Finished. Done. Finito. Caput.”
Kitty scampered across the kitchen floor, skidding on the linoleum and crashing into the garbage can. J.K. Growling sat in the center of the room, staring, unsure whether to join in the fun or run for cover.
“What do you mean, done?” Pepper demanded “You love it in the city. Broadway has always been your big dream—”
“I can’t believe you adopted a dog.” Tuesday snatched the conversation and dragged it into another direction. “J.K. Growling finally has a cousin. Who are you and what have you done with my sister? It’s the romance here isn’t it? All the Love Streets and Kissing Bridges. A quintessential coastal Southern town up front, with the sexy, scurvy-dog pirates in the back. Put like that, I can see the appeal.”
“Stop. I’m not staying past s
ummer. Now stop deflecting. Are you going to tell me what happened in New York, or what?”
Tuesday’s arms fell to her sides and something in her face broke. “Do you trust me?”
“With my life,” Pepper said. Her sister was wild, free-spirited, but most important, loyal.
“Trust me when I say that I don’t want to talk about it. And”—she held up a finger—“don’t start worrying about worst-case scenarios where I was mixed up in a mob murder or anything. I’m not fleeing anything illegal, so don’t feel like you’re complicit in a crime.”
“Let me braid your hair.” Tuesday had amazing hair. Fixing it before school was one job Pepper never begrudged after Mom bailed. Her sister plopped to the floor with a younger sibling’s innate instinct for being pampered and cared for.
Pepper couldn’t even envy the concept. It seemed so foreign. Her hands worked in quick, efficient twists, as she spun her sister’s locks in a complicated fishtail. “If you’re trying to make me worry less,” she said at last, “I have to say, the strategy isn’t working.”
Tuesday pushed off the floor, plopped into a chair, and drew her knees up to her chest. “I know you. I love you. Leave it. Please.”
Her sister craved the spotlight, but from the edgy way she glanced around the room, it appeared she wanted to hide under a bed or in the closest closet. It was out of character, and for a character as big as Tuesday, it worried her.
“You wanted to perform on Broadway since forever. It’s part of the reason I attended NYU and planned to live in Manhattan long term. You said there was no point living anywhere else.”
“Chalk it up to a long list of things I shouldn’t have said.” Tuesday blew a piece of hair off the side of her face. “Do you have a spare shoe handy? One I could stick in my mouth?”
“I’m Team Tuesday, all the way. During winning seasons and losing streaks.”