Sanctuary (Family Justice Book 3)

by Halliday, Suzanne

  Only that wasn’t what she was seeing as she leaned closer for a better look. Instead of vacant, her expression was lighter. It seemed … spirited.

  She jerked upright. Spirited? Dismissing the thought, she went back to dressing. Ten minutes later, she was puttering around the kitchen when she heard Brody’s phone ring. Oh, no. He must have left it on the table after taking that damn selfie. Scurrying quickly into the living room, she peered at the screen and startled when a woman’s face, a beautiful redhead wearing a cowboy hat and the name ‘Meghan,’ flashed.

  Without the buffer of her emotional armor, she was unprepared for the mess of reactions slamming into her. Meghan? Who the fuck was Meghan? Oh, my god. Did he have a girlfriend somewhere else? It was New Year’s Eve, after all. Maybe this woman was calling him because they were in a relationship. I mean, shit. Her contact picture wasn’t some realtor’s headshot. Nope. What she was seeing was a photograph way more intimate than that.

  Intimate? Intimate? No, no, no, no, no. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t have these questions and feelings where Brody was concerned. Her knee-jerk reaction of gloom, doom, and betrayal was uncalled for. He wasn’t Jason. And she might be more than a little confused at the moment about the way their unusual relationship was progressing, but that didn’t mean he was out to fuck with her. Fuck her … yes. Fuck with her? No. He wasn’t like that. And besides, her gut instinct told her that loners like Brody didn’t play games. He was the type who couldn’t be bothered.

  “Don’t go there,” she muttered. “Just don’t go there.” Her ex-husband saw to it she’d forever have this fucked-up reminder of the worst day of her life. The completely overwrought behavior she’d exhibited earlier and the manic frenzy she’d been in all day illustrated her point. But be that as it may, Brody’s unexpected presence, and the way he dealt with what he knew was a tough time for her, cut through her emotional armor like a chainsaw through whipped cream. Little bits and pieces flew everywhere, making for some interesting mayhem, but somehow, this guy found a way around her defenses. She owed him the benefit of the doubt because, after all, she was the one insisting on the no-strings-attached relationship.

  She was back in the kitchen, fussing with the flowers he’d brought and trying to arrange the ridiculous bouquet into some sort of acceptable presentation when she heard George pawing at the door. Determined to act normal, the smile that she’d forced became a real one when she found Brody and her dog wrestling like kids out in the hallway.

  “What are you doing?” She chuckled. Both heads popped up and stared at her when she spoke. Both blinked at the same time. Brody with his bright bluish eyes and George with his clear brown, happy puppy eyes.

  Jumping off Brody, who’d been pinned to the floor, the mutt dashed for her legs, winding around her with enthusiastic abandon.

  Struggling to his feet, Brody drawled, “What the hell do you feed this beast? He never tires out!”

  Her mouth curved. “Well, I pour the end of the coffee pot over his kibble every morning. Maybe too much caffeine?”

  Watching Brody stumble to a halt with a look of absolute horror on his face was more than just a little bit funny. She was just kidding, but it was going to take a minute for him to realize that. And why? Because teasing, flirting, and generally messing around was undiscovered territory for them.

  She saw the lightbulb go on over his head. “Nice try, lady. You don’t drink coffee.”

  Huh. He remembered. But he was also wrong. “I do now.” She gave him a lopsided grin. “Some asshole got me hooked on Starbucks.”

  He pushed her into the apartment and shut the door as his laughter filled the air. “Honey, that sugary flavored Mocha-latte-chino shit you drink is not coffee!”

  “I beg your pardon,” she answered with feigned outrage.

  Slinging an arm around her neck, he pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. Walking them into the kitchen, he teased, “Plus, I see no evidence of a coffeemaker on your counter.”

  Nudging him in the ribs with her elbow, she smirked. “That’s where you’re wrong Mr. Know-it-all.” Going to the big cabinet next to the fridge, she pulled it open and waved her hand with a flourish. “Observe, Mr. Jensen. One brand spanking new Mr. Coffee. Complete with a programmable option for those early mornings when getting to work on time is a challenge.”

  His eyes lit up with amusement as he replied. “Uh-huh. And the fact that the cord is still factory wrapped indicates you’ve never plugged it in.” Then his teasing eased off and a proprietary edge was reflected in his voice. “You plan to entertain? Got someone in your life who drinks coffee?”

  Heather literally gawked at him. The coffee pot was new, and never used. She’d been browsing Target, saw a sale display, and picked up the fancy brew machine on impulse. Giving him her very best deadpan smirk, she half shrugged and nodded her head toward a cupboard. “The coffee blend you like so much is in the cabinet.” That was the only admission he was getting.

  He chortled at her evasive non-answer. “Dunkin’ Donuts?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, aren’t you a good girl,” he quipped with a sexy drawl.

  Rolling her eyes, she gave him a hard shove. “What is it with men these days and that whole good girl-baby girl thing?”

  The smoldering look he gave her made Heather’s breath stick in her chest.

  “We’ll work on baby girl and see where it goes.”

  Ho-ly cow. He was looking at her as if he was about to swallow her whole.

  He didn’t shrug so much as puff up. “But when it comes to being good …” He crowded close and ran a hand across the curve of her ass. “Girl … you got that one in spades.”

  HUGELY RELIEVED WHEN he got back from walking the dog and finding her still in the groove, he’d be fucking lying if he didn’t admit to being worried she’d boot him to the curb once she regrouped.

  But dinner went amazingly well. Nothing like a takeout feast to make things easy. No muss. No fuss. A trashcan full of Styrofoam containers, a little heating up, and a bit of presentation was all it took to create a decent meal.

  They’d eaten together plenty of times. Mostly in silence. Food was a requirement for them. All that high-intensity screwing required fuel. But tonight was different. Careful to keep the arousal on the down low, he was determined to make this encounter different from the others. He didn’t want it to be about getting laid. They already had that shit covered. Now, it was time to see what else they shared besides body fluids.

  The chitchat was light. Nothing heavy. Mostly current events. The only time they’d deviated from what felt like carefully approved subjects was when he asked why she didn’t put up a Christmas tree.

  Her answer was short, sweet, and left very little wiggle room for a discussion. “I don’t feel a part of all that while it’s happening.”

  What could he say to that? If he pressed further, the evening would become a therapy session, and he wasn’t about that, so he let it go. He half wondered if she’d ask him anything personal and was about to give up on the hopeful notion when she blindsided him with a series of questions.

  “All right you. What’s with the charm offensive, huh? And what the hell with the Christmas card? From Arizona?”

  He snorted at the apt description. Charm offensive.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday. All of this,” she pithily commented with a wave of her hand, “has been carefully constructed in your head. You’re not a fly by the seat of your pants kind of guy. And since I seem to be involved, how about you let me in on whatever’s going on?”

  It was cute how she punctuated her inquisition with a snarky eyebrow arch and a long, slow sip of champagne. She clearly didn’t know it yet, but just by asking, by acknowledging that yeah, there was something going on, she was signing on for whatever came next. This complicated, slightly damaged woman was so worth the effort.

  He took a healthy gulp of the bubbly and returned her expression. “I thought we already cover
ed this.”

  “How do you figure?”

  He sat back in his seat and flat-out leered at her. “You understood perfectly when I said I missed you.” Without missing a beat, he continued despite her stifled hiss. “And if memory serves, you admitted to feeling the same.”

  He watched her struggle to find a response. “Oh, yeah. Right.” Heather’s eyes darted around the room. Brody waited to see where her thoughts led. “But how does that explain Arizona?”

  Fair enough. Since she took the ‘miss you’ thing at face value and didn’t argue the point to death, he’d start explaining his other life. Slowly. In bits and pieces. She was opening up to him and being receptive, but her breakdown earlier reminded him that she was human. Like him. And could only take so much at one time.

  “If you’re going to press for the third degree, let’s take this into the living room,” he suggested rising from the table. “You take our glasses, and I’ll clear the table then bring in the champagne. Deal?”

  She frowned at him. Adorably. He’d learned a lot by observing how the Justice Brothers handled things. Ending a command statement with a taunt disguised as agreement was damn effective. It was one of Draegyn’s signature moves. That guy could get both sides of the fucking aisle to agree on the most outrageous points just by manipulating the shit out of them with a few well-placed phrases.

  Challenging her with his expression, he waited while she made up her mind. The lady didn’t like taking orders. In her mind, even a placid demand could trigger a loss of control. And that wasn’t okay with her.

  Two things connected them. It didn’t matter that they worked for the same school. It was their therapy group and the fact that they lost their clothes with ease whenever they were together that mattered. In bed, she took what she wanted with no apologies, and up till now, he’d been okay with that.

  But not anymore. That rigid self-control and inability to let anyone else in was a protective mechanism. A coping skill and a shitty one. They had crazy sex but never, ever, ever were they not face-to-face. Heather wouldn’t allow anything that she couldn’t ultimately control and that started with being able to see what was coming at her. It was time for her to break free from all the crap holding her back.

  He didn’t make any effort to disguise the grin that spread across his face when she abruptly stood, tossing her napkin onto the table, and shoved the chair across the wood floor. Her every action came off with a decidedly diva-esque quality that turned his dick to stone.

  “Have you always been this evasive? And bossy?”

  He bit down on his lower lip and waggled his eyebrows. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security.”

  Her roar of laughter surprised him. “Uh-huh.” Snatching up the glasses, she gave him a frosty look. “I’m letting you …” three words on which she placed great emphasis, “clear the table because my mother told me never to refuse a lended hand in the kitchen.”

  She stomped away, the dog trailing in her wake. “But the clock will be ticking once you’re finished. And I want answers.” Having gotten the last word, her sexy butt headed for the living room.

  What was it about a healthy, curvy woman in a pair of stretch leggings? Some men hated the look. Thinking it tacky or sloppy. Him? He’d never given it much thought until right this second, but watching the seductive wiggle of her butt and the way her hips rolled as she walked away made him an instant fan.

  Racing around the kitchen like a crazy man, he wrapped up the leftovers and got everything into the dishwasher in record time. Throwing his arms up in victory when he finished, Brody reached for the bottle of champagne, realized it was mostly kicked, and hurried to the refrigerator for another. Upending the open one, he swallowed the remaining two mouthfuls and tossed the empty into the recycling.

  “Alrighty then.” He looked around to make sure everything was in order. “So she wants to know about Arizona.” Tall order. How the hell could he adequately do justice to … Justice?

  In the living room, he found quite a scene playing out.

  “Aw, my god, George. Come on. Cut me a break.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked with a chuckle. Heather was curled against the arm of the sofa with the pup trying to nose and squirm his way under her shirt.

  Dropping her head on the sofa back, she muttered, “He likes skin. And if he can’t snuggle against my bare legs, he tries to go under my shirt. Big baby.”

  A year-old pup doesn’t quite grasp how big they really are, so seeing George wiggling under her floppy top was practically YouTube gold. And the more she struggled to push him away, the farther he got.

  “Here.” Brody snickered and held up the champagne bottle. “This’ll get his attention.”

  Ripping the foil wrap off, he made quick work of loosening the cork, met her amused gaze, and asked, “Ready?”

  “Oh, my god!” She laughed as the tip of George’s nose poked through the collar of her shirt. “Save me!”

  Aiming the bottle where it’d do the least damage if the cork went flying, he thumbed the stopper off with a loud pop. Startled, the excitable dog scrambled backward, making his way out of her shirt.

  Dropping to the sofa without landing on her curled-up legs, Brody snapped his fingers twice and pointed at the floor. George’s head swung back and forth looking from him to Heather. With a doggie sigh, he jumped down and obediently sat.

  Damn, sometimes he wished people were as easy to manage as a canine. “Good boy,” he praised while giving the dog’s head a good scratch. “Now, go lay down.”

  Chuckling at the retreating dog, he met Heather’s dumbstruck gaze. Lowering his voice, he boasted, “Mischief momentarily managed.”

  “I forgot about your magic skill with animals. How the hell do you do that?”

  Brody snorted and laughed at the same time. “Seriously? I have no idea. Kids and animals, y’know?” He shrugged. She wasn’t the first and probably not the last person to ask him that same question.

  He saw her slight flinch and could have kicked his own ass. Shit.

  “Yes, well …” Her tone landed halfway between frigid and miserable. “Not something I would know about.”

  What the fuck was he thinking by bringing up kids? Instinct told him he had just seconds to rescue her mood.

  “You know,” he prompted. “There’s an easy way to deal with George’s skin needs.”

  She wasn’t relaxed and curled up on the sofa’s arm anymore. In fact, her whole vibe was just this side of ‘fuck you.’ Fluffing the hair she normally kept scraped back off her face, her jaw clenched behind a mouth set in a grim line.

  He was losing her.

  “Do tell.”

  Okay. Well, at least, she hadn’t showed him the door. Stalling for time, he refilled their glasses and acted like nothing was wrong.

  “Crop top,” he suggested as he pushed the glass into her hands.

  “Excuse me?”

  Taking a swift sip, he waited while she did the same. When it was clear she wasn’t going to clean his clock for being an insensitive shit, he relaxed against the sofa and turned his best teasing smile on her.

  “Yeah, you know.” He deliberately looked at her midsection and pointed. “Crop top. One of those half shirts. Expose some skin. After all,” he joked, “George is a guy, right? Show us some skin and it’s all good.”

  Heather was very, very good at guarding her reactions. Part professional and part personal, she rarely got caught out making a face. But there were these fleeting micro-expressions that he found easy to read, and right now, she had a doozy happening. First, her lashes batted, followed by brows snapping together, and finally, her whole face registered thoughtful confusion.

  “Are you saying I should show more skin? To my dog?” Mischief tinged the outrage in her delivery. He had her now.

  “Sure would be simpler than having him destroy your shirts.” Fixing her with a suggestive leer, he added, “And you’d look hot, so there’s that.”

  Heather
sipped her champagne and eyed him over the rim of the glass. He could see her deciding how to play the witty exchange.

  “You want me to look hot? For my dog?”

  He laughed and almost missed what she said next. “Crop tops aren’t my thing but …” The hesitation was deliberate. She had his full attention. “I’d consider it if you wore a man thong. Skin, y’know?” Her smirk was all kinds of sexy. And cute.

  Jeez. He really liked that she was being playful. Meant he’d been right to push just a little. This attractive, smart-witted woman had so many other sides he was eager to explore.

  “Yeah,” he groaned. “That’s never gonna happen.” Shuddering for good measure, Brody rolled his eyes. “No guy in his right mind would …”

  Talking right over his words she snickered, “Phew. Thank god.” Coming off like the lead prude in a sitcom, she crossed her legs, straightened, and sniffed. “Showing off. Ugh. SO not my style.”

  Aw, this was fucking great. Flirty banter was easy. He’d gotten an eyeful and earful of the exercise by watching the Justice crew, and he knew just how to proceed.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, honey. Was this an actual negotiation? Sounds like it to me.”

  She sputtered and went poker-faced when it dawned on her what she’d stepped into.

  “’Cause if we’re negotiating terms, ya gotta let me know.”

  This time, it was Heather stalling, slowly sipping her drink as she eyed him with obvious doubt. “I’m not putting on a crop top,” she declared after moments of silence.

  “Now, hold up. We’re negotiating. I’ll start and show you how it’s done.” Brody laughed internally. Once again, she scowled when he started directing things. “Okay, m’lady. Here goes.”

  Looking her over thoughtfully, he relaxed, crossed an arm over his chest, and leaned the other elbow on his wrist, leaving one hand free to tap a finger on his closed mouth. “Hmmm. So many options.”