by Elise Faber
I didn’t protest her leaving or try and convince her to stay—
The nieces and nephews had done more than enough of that on their own. I did, however, take notice of the fatigue etching into the corners of her eyes and took pity on Artie, helping her gather her things and walking her out.
“I’m leaving in the morning,” she murmured, pausing just outside the front door. “Iceland for the reshoots and then I’ll be in New York for a few days to make sure the filming of Pop is progressing.”
I tugged a strand of hair out of her face. “How many projects do you have right now?”
“Five,” she said with a guilty look. “But Frost is almost done,” she added, naming the film she was heading to Iceland for. “Pop is under control, and Carrot is in your capable hands.”
I lifted a brow. “And the other two?”
She glared. “Why am I suddenly feeling guilty?”
“You shouldn’t.” I kissed her forehead, meaning it. I didn’t want her to not work. It was critically important, and she should do what she wanted. However, I also didn’t want her to burn out. “I just know you have a lot on your plate.”
She wrinkled her nose and it was cute enough that I kissed it.
“You’re annoying,” she said, swatting me away.
“You’re beautiful.”
A sigh. “Charming.”
I grinned. “That’s a good thing.”
“My other two projects are in development. I won’t have anything major until probably the summer.” She narrowed her eyes in my direction before walking down the steps and heading toward her car. “Someone’s schedule necessitated shooting a certain film in Scotland before the end of the year, and so I had to double-dip.”
I caught her hand, tugged her back to my chest. “I can think of something I want to double-dip.”
“Ew.” She stopped struggling for a moment and glanced up at me again, nose in the cute wrinkle for the second time in as many minutes.
I considered her reaction alongside my words. Then nodded. “I think that ew is warranted.”
She laughed, shook her head, and kept walking. “You’re a piece of work, Pierce Daniels.”
“That I am.”
Another laugh. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Still took it as one.”
Her driver’s door automatically unlocked, and she tugged it open, snagging her purse and jacket from my arms and tossing them onto the passenger’s seat. “Unbelievable.” She whipped around, finger pressing to my lips before I could say that was a compliment.
I nipped at her finger.
She shivered, eyes going hot.
“I know we agreed to go slow—”
A snort. “Is that what the kids are calling last night these days?”
My lips curved. “Definitely,” I murmured and leaned down. “So, slow or not, I’m going to kiss you now, and because I’m not going to see you for a week, I’m going to make it count.”
Her hands rested on my chest, she drifted a little closer. “Pierce—”
I let my mouth swallow the rest of her words.
My tongue slid across her bottom lip, dipped inside her mouth. Her hands lifted and slid into my hair, her lips moving against mine, her body shifting until it was pressed to mine from hips to chest. And I kissed her, long and hot and demanding. I put everything I was feeling into that kiss. How much I liked her, how much I wanted her, how much I needed her.
And she gave back.
Her tongue met mine stroke for stroke, her hands gripped tight.
Eventually, however, we had to breathe and so I released her mouth, allowing us the opportunity to inhale some much-needed oxygen.
Artie released a shuddering breath, pressed the back of her hand to her reddened cheeks. “I think I like how the kids do slow.”
Considering that we’d somehow ended up with our positions reversed, my shoulders pressed against the frame of the car with Artie in front of me, one foot on the floorboard, the other leg wrapped around my thigh as we’d kissed, I could concur.
Regrettably, she stepped down. “Why do I always end up climbing you like a tree when we kiss?”
I pushed away from the car, cupped her cheek. “Not hating it, sweetheart.”
Her reddened cheeks went redder. “I blame you. You’re younger and thus, more dangerous.”
“I’ll take the distinction if it means you’ll keep kissing me like that.”
She smiled and wrapped her arms around my middle, squeezing me for a long moment. Then she stepped back and lowered herself into the driver’s seat. “I’ll see you in Scotland.”
I nodded. “I’ll call you before then.”
Surprise registered across her features. “But I’ll see you—”
Reaching across her, I buckled her seat belt then stopped on my lean back to press another quick kiss to her lips. “Perk number 652 about being in a relationship?”
Her brows drew down. “Unnecessary phone calls?”
“Necessary calls to get to know each other and stay apprised of what’s happening in each other’s lives.” I grinned at her put-upon expression. “Along with texts.”
“I might not always pick up,” she grumbled.
Apparently, she hated talking on the phone. See? Something new I’d learned about her.
I shrugged. “So call or text when you can.”
Her face relaxed, and I stole one last kiss before straightening. “Okay.”
“Want to know perk number 653?” I asked, pausing as I’d started to swing the door closed.
Artie shook her head and sighed, but her mouth was twitching. “Sure.”
“Perk number 653 is that we can have sexy FaceTime time.”
I waggled my brows.
Her laughter trailed me as I shut the door, wrapped firmly around my heart as I walked back into the house, stayed close as I navigated the remaining days until I could see her again.
Fifteen
Pierce: How’s Iceland? Icy?
Four hours later.
Pierce: I think you’re testing my resolve. Text me when you can.
The next morning.
Artie: Iceland is icy (I’m taking your pun and running with it)
Pierce: How are the reshoots?
Artie: Disaster. The crew’s equipment got stolen.
Pierce: WTF
Artie: Also, the intern who left the trailer unlocked as easy pickings was let go.
Pierce: Seems reasonable.
Artie: Considering this is the second time it happened, then yes.
Pierce: Was it insured?
Artie: Thankfully, yes. And we hadn’t begun shooting yet, so nothing on that front was lost. Though, I hope when you’re trolling eBay for new camera equipment, you’ll recognize ours and buy it.
Pierce: Next time I buy my stuff off eBay, I’ll be sure to let you know.
Artie: *laughing emoji* Thanks.
Pierce: I’m guessing you haven’t been to bed yet.
Artie: Nope. Not yet. I basically landed and was pulled into the case of the missing equipment.
Pierce: Well, then I should let you go and get some rest. I’ll text you tomorrow.
Artie: Pierce?
Pierce: Yeah?
Artie: *photo*
Pierce:
Artie: Did you not get it?
Pierce:
Artie: Pierce?
Pierce: I’m . . . holy shit, sweetheart. I think you just made my century with that.
Artie: *blushing emoji*
Pierce: Am I going to get to see that outfit in person?
Artie: You mean me naked? Yes, I think that can be arranged.
Pierce: Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
Artie: Good night—or day, anyway.
The next day
Artie: I hope that your phone is on Do Not Disturb. But I just wanted to tell you that the equipment was found!
Pierce: That’s awesome!
Artie: Oh shit, I woke you up, didn’t I?
Artie: Isn’t this supposed to be your week off?
Pierce: Technically.
Artie: And who’s the workaholic now?
Pierce: There isn’t any rest for the weary, at least when it comes to emails. But I’m actually just finishing up.
Artie: Well, then I’m going to let you go to sleep.
Pierce: You doing okay, sweetheart?
Artie: I’m a lot better than yesterday.
Pierce: Good.
Artie: Good night, Pierce.
A minute later
Artie: Oh, you still up?
Pierce: Yes, sweetheart.
Artie: I know I kind of suck at this dating thing. Texting in the middle of the night, taking a full day to reply back to you. But . . . it’s kind of nice knowing that you’re at the other end of the line.
Pierce: And that right there.
Artie: ? And what right there?
Pierce: You may think you don’t know how to be in a relationship, but your words tell me differently.
Artie: Oh.
Pierce: Yeah. Oh.
Artie:
Pierce: Goodnight, sweetheart.
Artie: Goodnight.
Sixteen
Pierce
My phone rang approximately two seconds after I got off the plane.
I shifted my rolling bag to my other hand, fished my cell out of my pocket, saw it was Artie, and quickly swiped my finger across the screen.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said, putting it up to my ear.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.”
I grinned. “Should I hang up and let you call again so you can leave a message?”
“Uh . . .” She faltered. “I— um—”
“I’m kidding.”
“Oh.”
I’d called her the night before on my way to the airport, but unsurprisingly she hadn’t picked up, considering it was the middle of the night in Iceland.
“You heading to New York?”
“My flight’s in the morning.”
“Reshoots going a little smoother then?”
Her voice relaxed. “Yes,” she said. “I’m guessing they’ll have them wrapped up in a week or ten days at most.”
“That’s good news.”
“Yeah.”
Someone pushed past me. “Were you calling for a reason, honey? I’m loving hearing your voice, but I just got off the plane.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s not important. This is an inconvenient time. I’ll just—”
“Artie.”
“—let you go. I shouldn’t have—”
“Artie.”
She stopped.
“If we waited for a convenient time for both of us, I don’t think we’d ever talk again.”
A beat. “True.”
“So, sweetheart, what’s up?”
“I, um, was just returning your call.”
“Well, I was just calling because I wanted to hear your voice,” I said, walking forward, my lips curved into a giant smile. “That, and my family liked having you at my house.”
“Your family is pretty great,” she said, relaxing into the conversation. “A certain youngest son aside.”
“Rude.”
I went down the escalator, approaching customs and passport control and knowing that I’d need to end the call, even though I didn’t want to.
“Now I’m not going to have my mom overnight you that chocolate pie.”
She gasped. “You’re a monster.”
“And I’m still not hearing any sweet nothings,” I teased.
“You’re the best Daniels, aside from your fabulous baking mother, and the mostest talented director I’ve ever met, and—” She broke off and I almost heard the blush over the airwaves, even before I heard her next words.
“What’s that?” I coaxed.
“And you also give the best oral of any man I’ve ever allowed the pleasure of licking my pussy.”
My jaw dropped open.
I know it did.
Also, my cock twitched.
“If you get your ass to Scotland, I’ll do it again.”
“Promise?”
“You promise to allow me?” I asked, lips twitching.
She snorted. “Not exactly a trial.”
“Well, then. Yes. I promise.” A beat. “Also, I think there might be a chocolate pie in your future.”
“My hero.”
I chuckled. “Okay, well, unfortunately this hero has to go get my passport checked out. I’ll call you later, all right?”
“All right.”
“I wish you were here already.” I went for sweet.
She tossed sass back in my direction, and I loved it. “You just want to get your tongue inside me.”
Another chuckle. Another cock twitch.
“Bye, baby,” she murmured.
Another pulse in my heart.
Why did I wish those three things were my future?
All I knew was if they were, without a doubt, they would be the best part.
Seventeen
Artie
New York was easy.
And since the time change was easier to manage, Pierce and I spoke every day. Usually for just a couple of minutes, but there was one night where both of our schedules aligned, and we talked for almost two hours.
Me. On the phone.
With a man.
Not talking about work.
Or, well, not talking about work all that much.
But we’d discussed Carrot, of course, and Pop, and his prep for filming the sequel to the superhero flick he’d wrapped the previous year—the reason shooting for Carrot was happening when it was.
But then we’d talked about his family, about how his parents and sisters had been filled with equal parts outrage and gratitude when he’d presented them with a vacation for the following summer. We’d joked about the silly stuff in our daily lives—the craft service table not having the right kind of cheese according to my lead on Pop, Pierce’s childhood friend trying to convince him that he had the best script ever written in the history of all scripts (and one that had very nearly approached a porno, both for the sheer quantity of sex scenes and also the minimal amounts of dialogue).
We’d talked about our moms.
How lucky we both felt to have them, even though they each had their faults.
Dorinne was often exacting, and though that came from a place of obvious love, the pressure she’d placed on her kids to be successful had been a lot.
Not that the kids had ended up worse for wear, with Pierce being who he was and Kate and Marie both lovely and successful in their own roles as a mother and a lawyer.
But the standards had been high.
My story was different obviously.
My mom’s love wasn’t quite as . . . altruistic? Maybe that wasn’t fair because it was there, even though it was unhealthy. I’d had to be more parent than child, a partner in our survival.
That was more than any child should shoulder.
And that was putting aside the fact that she’d stayed with an abuser.
I’d learned to separate the two over the years, understood my mother wasn’t healthy, wasn’t strong or resourceful or gritty.
I could be angry she exposed me to that, angry she stayed and dismantled my life in order to stay with an abuser. And I was angry. I was furious she hadn't prioritized someone she was supposed to have loved unconditionally over sick wants and needs.
Kids were innocent.
I’d been innocent.
And my parents had torn that away.
But as an adult, I had more clarity. My mom had been troubled, and though she’d loved me in her own way, her actions had often been inexcusable. But I either had to hold on to the good and compartmentalize the bad away, or I risked being overwhelmed by my anger.
So, I chose to remembe
r the way she’d saved up to buy the ingredients to make my favorite ice cream cake for my birthday. How she’d braided my hair before bed every night so it wouldn’t get tangled. The way she’d let me cuddle with her in her bed when I’d had a nightmare and was scared.
Small things.
But important when taken into account with the rest.
And because of that, I also understood that the hole she’d left behind when she’d taken her own life would never fully be filled.
It was inevitable.
It was sad.
It was just the way things were.
“Please, ensure that your seatbacks are in the upright and locked position . . .”
I blinked, pulling myself out of my memories. I’d gone years without thinking about my parents, deliberately shoving all thoughts of them down and locking them up with chains and steel cables.
Pierce had changed that.
He’d peeled back the armor, exposed my vulnerable underbelly, but instead of feeling flayed open, now I was . . . lighter?
Pierce knew everything.
And he still kept calling and texting.
I smiled and stowed my laptop, zipping it into my bag and stowing it safely under the seat in front of mine. The plane was descending rapidly, and my pulse was thundering, the thought of seeing Pierce after nearly two weeks was both exhilarating and terrifying.
“Nervous flyer?”
I glanced at the older woman sitting next to me in first class—don’t judge, I flew a lot and that meant I was going to be comfortable, high cost or not—and smiled. “Oh, no,” I said. “I’m not nervous about flying. I travel all the time.”
“It’s a man.”
I blinked at her in surprise. “I’m sorry, what?”
She laughed. “I’ve only ever seen that expression for two things—flying and the opposite sex.”
“I—” I shook my head. “It’s not really that. I mean, I’m fine.”
She lifted one white brow until it almost touched the edge of her curly, permed hair. “Of course, you’re fine,” she said. “Doesn’t mean there isn’t a man in your life who’s got you on tenterhooks.” A smile that made creases appear at the corners of her eyes. “I’m Beverly.”