by Tawna Fenske
Austin leans back in his chair, his posture all cool-cop casual. “Is there anything else you want to share?” he asks. “Anything you think might help the case?”
I shake my head slowly, tumbling the thoughts around in my brain. “No,” I say. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s behind this.”
“Senator Grassnab?”
“Right.” I scrape my thumbnail over a speck of something that looks like vanilla fondant on the edge of Austin’s desk. “I just don’t picture him doing something like this.”
Austin’s eyes hold mine for a long time. “I’m guessing you also didn’t picture him having a wife.” His voice is kind, but the words sting anyway. “Just like I’m guessing you never imagined Charlie Crawford had a history of abuse.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” The sympathy in his eyes stings even more. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this job, it’s that people are capable of a lot of things you’d never expect.”
“No, you’re right.” I force myself not to glance toward the door, toward the hallway where Mark disappeared. “I guess I have some history of picking guys who aren’t super-forthcoming.”
Austin lifts an eyebrow. “You have concerns?”
Well, I didn’t until you started reminding me of all my past fuckups…
But no, that’s not what Austin’s doing. He’s a good guy who’s just doing his job, and I’m the one reading too much into things.
“Mark’s amazing,” I tell him, wanting to put that out there up front. “Brave and strong and kind and tender and—”
“I might need to stop you there,” he says, grimacing. “There are some things a guy doesn’t need to know about his poker buddies.”
“Right,” I say, getting on with it. “It’s just—sometimes I feel like he’s hiding stuff from me.”
Austin folds his hands on the desk and studies me. “Just to play devil’s advocate, I suppose he could have said the same until this morning when you told him about Libby’s father.”
Fair point. “I guess that’s what I mean, though. I spilled my deepest, darkest secrets, and he told me jack about himself. I don’t even know if he’s ever had a serious girlfriend.”
“Have you tried asking him?”
Again, he has a point. I hate that. “You’re right,” I say. “I guess I can’t expect someone to give me something I’ve never actually asked for.”
“Don’t feel bad; I’ve had to learn that one the hard way myself.”
Ah, Bree. I forget sometimes that things haven’t always been perfect roses and sunshine for them.
“And I guess we’ve only barely started dating,” I say. “Maybe he’ll open up.”
Austin nods. “Sure, it’s possible.”
Is it? I’m not convinced, but I nod anyway. “Thanks, Austin. You’ve given me some good things to think about.”
“Let me give you one more.” He steeples his hands together, his expression impassive. “Dating a Bracelyn is like riding on the luggage carousel at the airport. It’s exciting and fun and makes you feel like you’re getting away with something insanely cool. But there’s a helluva lot of baggage there.”
“That might be the weirdest metaphor I’ve ever heard in my life.”
He smiles. “Bracelyns don’t open up easily,” he says. “When they do, you know it’s because they see a future with you. Be patient.”
“Good advice.” I pick at the spot on his desk, pretty sure it’s paint and not fondant. I miss my bakery. “Ever thought you should have been a shrink?”
He grins. “Nope.”
“Or a couples’ therapist?”
“Definitely not.” His smile reminds me why I dated him way back when, and why I’m thrilled to bits he and Bree found each other.
“I guess your talents are best used catching bad guys, huh?” The door opens, and my heart does a delighted shimmy as Mark strides through.
Austin nods and folds his hands on the desk. “Let’s hope it happens soon.”
Before we’ve left the parking lot, Mark gets stuck on an emergency call with his brother—something about a malfunction in the golf course sprinklers—so I end up driving us back to the resort while he barks words like “discharge tube” and “ball check valve” and I try not to snicker like a twelve-year-old boy.
Libby pounces the instant we get back to the resort, giddy with the promise of more pool time and a horseback ride at the resort’s stables.
All that to say there’s little time in my day for a private, adult conversation with Mark. Austin’s right, I need to ask questions. I can’t expect Mark to open the door if I’ve never knocked.
I’m zonked by the time Libby’s tucked into the guest room of Mark’s cozy little cabin. Zonked but happy. It’s so peaceful here. Crickets and coyote song hum in the distance, but other than that, it’s quiet. Mark’s bedroom smells like the cinnamon potpourri Bree sneaks into every nook and cranny when she visits, determined to make her brother’s space homier.
I sit down on the edge of Mark’s bed and breathe it all in, grateful for the unexpected calm in the center of my chest. Grateful for everything Mark’s done for us over the last couple weeks.
The man himself ambles into the bedroom holding two glasses of wine and a bottle labeled “lemon-sage massage lotion.” His bare chest and low-slung boxers are all it takes to jettison the exhaustion from my brain, not to mention any thoughts of grownup conversation. The sight of all that muscle and flesh has me craving another sort of grownup activity.
“Massage?” He hands me one of the glasses and sets the other on his nightstand.
“Giving or receiving?” I ask. “Either way, the answer’s yes.”
He eases onto the bed beside me. “Giving,” he says. “Bree told me you were crazy about this massage lotion the other night, so I grabbed some at the spa.”
Two massages in twenty-four hours? I don’t know how I got this lucky, but I can’t stop looking at his hands. “Something tells me you’re good at this,” I tell him. “Strong hands, impressive stamina—all the tools of a great amateur masseur.”
He shrugs and flips the top open on the bottle. “I’ve never had complaints.”
And there’s my opportunity. My chance to nudge him into opening up about his personal life, his dating history.
I tug my T-shirt over my head and unhook my bra, basking in the hunger that flickers through his eyes. Shucking my shirt will make the massage easier, sure, but it’s also a good way to make sure Mark’s feeling nice and cheerful.
I’m not proud.
“So,” I begin as I pull my hair to one side and ease onto my stomach. “I imagine you’ve massaged a girlfriend or two?”
That came out more awkward than I meant it to.
But it was still subtle, right? The door is open for him to share, to tell me more about his past. I can’t see his face with my forehead pressed into the pillow, but I feel him moving behind me, considering the question, preparing to share.
Spppplurt.
The flatulent outburst has me craning my neck to see. Behind me, Mark gives a sheepish look. “Lotion bottle was clogged.”
“Oh.”
Okay, so much for subtlety. I press my forehead back into the pillow, reconsidering my tactic. Maybe a more direct approach.
My thoughts go sideways as his hands connect with my back. His palms feel even more massive than normal as they knead and stroke and work the lotion into my knotted muscles. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding, breathing in the calming scent of sage and citrus. God, that feels good.
“Tell me about your first girlfriend, Mark.” I force out the words before I forget them completely. “Or your most serious relationship.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, but that’s normal for Mark. I wait, stifling a groan as he strokes the heels of his hands into the knots between my shoulder blades. “You want me to talk about other women while you’re naked and I’m touching you?”
“I’m still wearing shorts. Not naked.” Which is totally not the point. My brain is too bliss-fogged right now to think straight.
“Better fix that,” he says, and tugs the flimsy cotton sleep shorts down my thighs.
Oh, God. His forearm just grazed my ass and I drooled on the damn pillow. This is not how I saw this going.
“There.” He tosses the shorts aside and skates both palms slowly from my bared thighs over my ass, his caress gentler than I ever imagined a big man could be. “Easier to get your low back now.”
I try again to stifle a groan but fail this time. Whatever he’s doing to my low back is uncoiling knots I never knew were there. The pleasure is otherworldly.
“I want to know more about you,” I murmur into the pillow, determined to have this conversation. “That was a pretty big secret I spilled this morning. Maybe you can share one of yours?”
More silence, which might be annoying if his fingertips weren’t deftly squeezing every last needle of stress from the center of my back. I let out a breath, which escapes as more of a moan. Yesterday’s massage was great, but being touched this way by a man who knows my body inside and out—
“Cari Ann Eliott,” he says.
I blink open my eyes. “What?”
“Girlfriend,” he says. “You asked.”
Oh. “Right, of course.”
I wait to see if there’s more, but that seems to be it. He goes back to stroking and kneading and ohmygod right there—
“Yep.” The single, grunted syllable floods me with hope. There’s more coming, a new openness in our relationship.
“Third grade,” he continues, and I try not to feel disappointed. “I gave her the applesauce from my lunch. It was true love until she fell off the monkey bars at recess and broke her arm and then her family moved to Pittsburgh.”
That was quite possibly the longest string of words I’ve ever heard from Mark. It’s progress, but not quite what I’d hoped for.
Have you tried asking him?
Austin’s words echo in my head, and I realize I need to be more specific. More direct with my questions. “Tell me about your scar,” I say. “The one on your chest. How did you get it?”
He’s quiet again, focused on the tangle of knots where my bra straps normally rest. Oh, dear Lord, that feels wonderful. He’s using his thumbs to erase the tension, rubbing and coaxing the knotted muscle until it slowly gives up and relaxes.
“Fire,” he says, pulling me out of my bliss coma. “When I was a teenager.”
“Oh.” What was the question again?
The scar, right, his scar.
I already knew about the fire, thanks to Bree, but I’m still hoping for more. “What happened?” I ask.
“Flaming two-by-four right to the chest,” he says.
Good God. “I’m so sorry.”
“Mpf,” he says, and I hold my breath waiting for the rest of the story. “How’s this pressure?”
“What?”
He strokes the heels of his hands along the edges of my spine, releasing the tension there. Another groan escapes me.
“The pressure,” he says again. “Too hard?”
“God, no.”
My response comes out a lot breathier than I mean it to, but I can’t help it. His fingertips just grazed the edges of my breasts and now I’m tingling in spots that are nowhere near where he’s rubbing.
He makes a sound that’s almost a chuckle and keeps rubbing. “Your skin is so soft,” he murmurs. “Right here especially.”
I shiver as he grazes the sides of my breasts again, stoking every nerve ending from an ember to a low-burning flame. I don’t know if it’s a muscle or a tendon or some other anatomical feature along my rib cage, but whatever he’s doing to it is pure magic.
Where were we again?
Childhood memories. Right. Or something like that.
“Favorite childhood Halloween costume.”
That was dumb. It was the first thing that popped into my head, but maybe it’ll work. Maybe I’ll gain some unexpected insight into his personality. Some sweet, cherished memory that tells me who he is.
“Pirate,” he says. “I was seven. My mom made the whole costume by hand.”
Mmm, now we’re getting somewhere. His answers, not what he’s doing with his fingertips in those sensitive little hollows between my ribs, though that’s amazing, too.
I command myself to stay focused on the conversation, to pull myself out of the sage-scented clouds and concentrate on his memories. I picture seven-year-old Mark with an eyepatch and a plastic hook hand, but my brain gets muddled by the feel of his real hands stroking closer to my breasts again. I don’t mean to, but I catch myself arching up to grant more access to my breasts.
Wait, this wasn’t the plan.
But I don’t fight it as his fingers glide closer to my nipples, and ohmygod, this man should have his hands bronzed. But then he couldn’t do what he’s doing now, which is the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt. I gasp out loud as my core turns to molten liquid.
Did I mention he’s really fucking good at this?
“Libby asked for a pirate-themed birthday party,” I blurt.
I’m totally botching this, but I can’t seem to stop blurting stupid things. I want to keep the conversation flowing, but these are not the heartfelt, probing discussion points I’d practiced. What were those again?
My brain’s still snagged on pirates, and I imagine Mark as a pirate. Rugged, rough, possessive with strong hands and—
“Her birthday is in June,” I continue like an idiot. “But she’s already picked out all the party favors. And the cupcakes. Pink melon with perky little gumdrop nipples.”
“What?”
Ugh. I just made my daughter’s birthday cupcakes sound porny. I’m a terrible mother.
“Gumdrops,” I manage, not sure why the hell I’m talking about this. “I bake gumdrops inside the cupcakes, and they’re like little jewels for the kids to find.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It will be.”
Oh, God, kill me now. I should just shut up. I won’t be able to form words much longer anyway, since he’s moved to that tense spot behind my ears. His thumbs circle in slow, deliberate swirls, teasing the tight bundle of nerves into submission.
This is hands down the best massage of my life.
“You should come,” I groan.
Mark’s hands go still. “What?”
I’ve already forgotten what I said, and it takes a few beats to scroll back through my own words. Oh.
“To the party,” I clarify, though part of me wants to just go with the other meaning. “You should come to the party.”
“Mmm.” I can’t tell if that’s a noncommittal response or a groan of pleasure. Wait, I can tell. He’s leaning forward to press deeper into my shoulder muscles and there’s a hard bulge pressing into my tailbone.
Either that’s the lotion bottle in his boxers, or he’s as turned on as I am.
My subconscious fights to resurface. I know I should be frustrated. For God’s sake, we’re talking about birthday parties, and he hasn’t once mentioned his thirtieth is tomorrow? It’s a bad sign, I know it is, but at the moment, I can’t wrap my brain around why. The hard, hot length of him is pressed against my back, his warm breath coaxing the nerves behind my earlobe into a full-fledged sizzle.
Oh, God.
I moan again, fighting my body’s response, fighting to follow through on the conversation I know we need to have.
Why was that again?
“Give it,” I groan, my subconscious still focused on secrets while the rest of me demands something else. My thighs move apart, and Mark slips into the space between them. His teeth graze the nape of my neck, and I groan again with the delicious weight of him, the splendor of being pinned beneath all that glorious heat.
“Chelsea?” he breathes against my earlobe.
“Mmm?”
“If you want, we can keep talking about house fires an
d candy and childhood crushes,” he says. “Or if you want—”
“I want,” I groan as my traitorous backside arches up to grind against him. “I want you so much.”
My own body is betraying me, I know it. But as Mark kneads my breasts with one hand while the other tears open the crinkly condom wrapper, I can’t bring myself to fight it.
As he slides into me from behind, I forget it all. My questions, my fears, my doubts, my worries that this whole thing is going to explode in a flaming ball of hurt and betrayal.
Chapter 16
MARK
I’m an asshole, okay?
I know Chelsea was fishing for personal stuff last night, and I’m a grade-A dick for not sharing.
At best she thinks I’m clueless, incapable of reading signals or carrying on normal human conversation.
At worst she thinks I’m a closed-off prick who can’t open up to her.
Either way, it’s better than the truth.
I’ll choose those things over having her know that deep down, I’m just a chickenshit, emotionally-clobbered kid who’s fucking terrified of losing his family and identity and place in the world. As much as I want her to know the whole me, to unburden myself to her the same way she’s done with me, I’m not ready to have it be real. Not even in the privacy of my bedroom with the woman I love.
Yeah, I said it.
Not to her, because as I already mentioned, I’m an asshole.
But I’m in love with Chelsea, and I can’t stop thinking about it as I stomp my way from my cabin across the resort grounds to the conference room where we’re having yet another goddamn meeting about the golf course. Or about expanding the equestrian center or getting new soap at the day spa, I forget. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, so much I forgot my own damn birthday and—
I stumble to a halt, tripping over my own feet outside the conference room. Holy shit. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why everyone’s been acting weird. Bree, Sean, James, Jonathan—no fucking wonder they’ve been tiptoeing around, whispering like elves on Christmas morning.
My goddamn birthday.
For weeks I’ve been paranoid, but as I stand here with my hand on the doorknob, I know. I know what’s about to happen, and I can’t stop the stupid, pathetic, childish grin from spreading over my face. As I shove the door open, I’ve got my heart in my throat and a big, stupid ache in my—