Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  “Sounds pretty spontaneous for your mom.” The second I say it I regret it, as his face goes cold, distant.

  “She wasn’t always the way she is now. That just sort of happened, she had cancer, you know. That’s when Dad left her. He couldn’t take the stress of worrying that she would die, so he decided that he would say goodbye first, on his own terms. Unfortunately for him, she lived and never forgave him.” His voice is soft, and he concentrates on the blanket that he pulls from the basket and spreads across the tarpaper roofing.

  “How old were you?”

  “I don’t know, twelve? Thirteen? I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless. Like mom could be dying and dad was leaving and there was nothing I could do to stop either one from happening.”

  I sit next to him on the blanket, tucking my knees up into my chest and wrapping my arms around them, resting my head on my jeans.

  After a minute spent staring out over the fairgrounds, I reach my hand out and grab his, pulling it over to rest on my knee. I tangle my fingers in his, pressing hard on his palm. He presses back and we sit like that for a long while.

  Holding hands.

  It’s a simple thing, really, but right now it’s like a warm breath of sunshine on a cold winter’s day, filling up the chill empty spaces inside.

  “It would’ve been nice to have someplace like this growing up. Some place to run away to and hide.” I say, my mind drifting to the shared bedrooms of my childhood and the inability to use the bathroom without having at least one sister pounding on the door telling me to hurry.

  “Your family seems pretty great, what would you hide from?”

  “I don’t know. My mom, I guess. I was so mad when my father left, when the divorce was finalized. It was like I was living in a nightmare. But mom, she just, well, she seemed so much happier after Dad was gone. It was like my whole life was ending and she was so happy. If I had someplace like this to just sit and to be alone, it might have helped.”

  “How many sisters do you have?”

  “Three. All older.”

  “As an only child, I can honestly say that I can’t imagine. But let me be the very first to offer you exclusive use of my rooftop. Anytime you need it, just let me know and you can come on up anytime.”

  “Hmm, that’s rather generous. But will there be cookies? Not sure the view alone would carry it now that I have my own room and all.”

  “Maybe. Can you microwave cookies?”

  I hit his shoulder with mine and his grin is wide and boyish and real.

  He says, “Well, since you still haven’t told me which wine you’d prefer to start with, I’m going to pick the Shiraz.”

  I release his hand and push my legs out straight in front of me, enjoying the stretch and letting my feet wobble off to the side. “Do you always bring bottles of wine to your roof to watch the fireworks alone, or were you expecting someone else?” Thinking of that cute salesgirl downstairs, a sour taste rises to my mouth.

  “Actually, it’s usually my mom and me up here drinking. Only this year she’s otherwise occupied and you happened to walk into my shop, so…”

  “So I’m a plan b?”

  “No.” He looks down at the wine he pours into paper cups. “Didn’t you get my texts?”

  “What? No.” Pulling out my phone, I look and see that I have not one but three missed texts from Hunter, inviting me to see the new jewelry show. My heart flutters around in my ribcage to the point of pain and I run my hands through my stupid curls, pressing my fingers into my scalp. “Oh my gosh, Hunter, no, I had my ringer off and I didn’t even see them-“

  “But you came anyway.”

  “Well, yeah, it’s the only thing anyone was talking about on the green.”

  “Huh. Well” –he hands me a tiny paper cup brimming with Shiraz- “I guess it’s just fate, then.”

  “To fate.”

  We clink our paper cups together and drink, the velvety wine tasting vaguely of blackberries and oak and black pepper.

  I close my eyes and take another sip. “Oh wow, that’s good.”

  “It’s one of my favorites.” He stretches his legs out and leans back onto his elbows, placing his cup of wine off to the side.

  Gosh wow he looks great in that sweater. I take a sip of wine and spill it like a champion all over my fingers and hand. “Ugh.”

  Hunter, not missing a beat, takes the cup from my hands and before I can figure out what is-

  He has the tips of my fingers in his mouth. His eyes meet mine and my breath catches, heat flooding my core, my legs, my lips.

  He says, “Can’t have you wasting the wine.” And he lifts my palm up and licks the flesh at the base of my hand, sparks igniting with the trail of his tongue, oh my gosh, I don’t think I can breathe, much less answer.

  His tongue licks the center of my palm next, tingling each and every nerve in my body and I ask, “Did you really name that line after me? The jewelry?”

  He stops, taking my hand in his and pulling it up to his cheek, “Yes. You’re always smiling, listening to people, making them feel special. You alone could suffer through Hildy’s complaints about her husband’s snoring and Gennifer’s complaints about the world, then after the football game, I saw you, I saw it. The whole line, the grand plan, everything.”

  “The grand plan?” I ask, his eyes dark and mesmerizing, I could lose my soul swimming in those eyes. “What is that, exactly?”

  “Kiss me and I’ll tell you.” His words fall heavy and weighted and hot and sizzle through me, stealing my ability to think, to move, to do anything but lean over and-

  I kiss him. I kiss him and as his lips part it’s like spice and wine and wham pow ooh it’s like heaven. He runs his hand through my hair and pulls me down to him, every cell in my body responding to him, moving closer, oh yes, closer.

  “Piper,” he growls and then flips me over so that I’m on my back on the blanket, him on top of me. He feels like the earth and my chest expands so that it feels like the universe is inside, trying to break free out into the stars over our heads.

  I claw at his back and the first of the fireworks explodes. I break the kiss, “Fitting, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, those are real?” He says as he brushes a curl back behind my ear, tracing the lines of my face with his fingertips.

  I stare up at him, his black hair falling over his forehead, the width of his shoulders glowing in the light of the fireworks as they bathe the dark sky in their brilliant glow. He leans down, kissing my forehead, “You are so beautiful, you know that?”

  Grabbing his bottom lip in my teeth, I gasp as his hands move down around my shoulders to cup my breasts. “Just don’t hurt me, Hunter, please.”

  “No, never.” He says and he covers my mouth with his own. He tastes like oak and cinnamon and my existence spins, wanting, needing more. His hands slide down to my hips and I wrap my arms around his back, pulling him closer, needing him closer as his lips trail down my neck, sending waves of pleasure coursing through to my toes. Oh man can he get closer? He’s pressing against me and the pressure sends me into a whirlwind of want and need and oh I need him, all of him, everywhere, now.

  I reach for the bottom of the sweater and he gives me a crooked grin as he peels it off, shifting the tee underneath so I catch a glimpse of his abs. Oh sweet mercy, I rub my hand over his abs and tug at the tee until that goes up over his head. I peel off my shirt.

  The chill air is a shock against my bare flesh and I suck in a hasty breath but then he’s on me, a delicious blur of lips and skin and man and I think I could just die right here a happy, happy girl.

  His chest is hard against mine, he’s hard where I’m soft and when I try to cover the spot on my stomach that sort of well, poofs, he tugs my hand away and sends his lips and teeth down to trace the lines of my bra and what was I trying to hide again?

  I can’t remember, there was something, and then I feel his hand snake around beneath my back and oh my gosh, this is happening, this is
really happening. I want to slow everything down so I can remember it, savor it, or at least give my lust-addled brain a minute to catch up with what’s going on.

  The sky fills with thousands of colors, and we make love. Above us, dark and smoky, fills with the light of us, stars bursting behind my eyes and out through the tips of my toes.

  The morning after the fireworks I wake up in a warm bed with a masculine arm draped around my middle. When I move, he pulls me closer, and I close my eyes, letting myself soak in the warmth of the down bedding and the sweet, slightly tangy smell of smoke and wine and sex that clings to us.

  Would Hunter want to wake up and find me here? I mean, he brought me back to his place after a while, since the roof isn’t really so easy on the knees, or the back, might I add. Leaning against him, I curl into a ball. Please let this not be a mistake. Please let him not have a fiancée hiding in the closet somewhere or a weird thing about girls touching his stuff.

  Wiggling out from beneath his hold I stand, grabbing a throw blanket off of the nearby armchair and wrap it around me. There is a wall of windows looking out over the lake on the far side of the oversized, pine-beamed bed, and my feet step silently across the wide plank flooring until I’m standing in front of the glass.

  Sun dancing across the surface of the lake, my eyes focus on a bright orange kayak gliding seamlessly over the water. I place my hand on the window, the cool of the glass feeling good against my heated flesh. I need to come back to reality. This can’t last, but-

  Arms wrap around my waist and Hunter’s stubble rubs against my cheek, “Tell me you can stay for breakfast.”

  His voice makes my throat tighten. Hope is such a dangerous thing. “Tell me that you want me to.”

  “I want you to stay for breakfast, and for lunch, and for dinner, and then I want to take you down to the fire pit on the lakefront and make you some s’mores for dessert.”

  My eyes meet his, and the open sincerity in his eyes robs me of breath. I stammer, “That’s a long day. Sure you won’t get sick of me?”

  “Not possible.” He kisses my neck and then moves the blanket down from my bare shoulder and the feel of his kisses on my collarbone send tendrils of heat trickling through my body. His hand runs along the outside of my bare arm, my nerves waking to his touch and I throw my head back into his chest, when his hand traces the lines of the back of my hand, then my fingers, the flesh of my bare hip, I gasp and turn towards him for a kiss.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  Except maybe back to bed.

  Chapter 20

  Bliss. A temporary state of being

  Dear Miss Behave,

  Do you believe in love at first sight? I do. The first time I saw my best friend, I knew we’d be bff’s for life! I just had this feeling, you know?

  Now, when I met my boyfriend, James, I had almost the same feeling, but more sexy-like. Is this even possible? Can the fairy tales be true?

  Sincerely,

  -Caught in a Dream

  Dear Delusional,

  No. It’s a lie, cupcake. I know, the world is cruel. But one day you will watch those same films that pimp the true-love agenda and they will make you want to smash the television.

  Love and Kittens,

  -Miss Behave

  From: PiperAnderson@gmail.com

  To: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  Subject: Advice

  Hey, when you started dating Ted how did you know that things would work out? I mean, how did you know that he was worth throwing over all future men for?

  Sorry, Mom, this is stupid. Nevermind.

  What time should I meet you for that Daughters of the Seventh Seal thing?

  -Piper

  From: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  To: EliseAndTheThunderDome@gmail.com

  Subject: Oh My Gosh!

  Hey Sis,

  I think Piper just wrote to me asking me for relationship advice! This is great! If only you were returning my emails so I could share the news with you. Please don’t cut me out of your life. I need you.

  From: EliseAndTheThunderdome@gmail.com

  To: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  Subject: Re: Oh My Gosh!

  I’m sorry. I am out of the house today and will be back answering emails tomorrow. If you need immediate assistance, please contact my niece, Margaret, on her cell phone. Or, if you need to physically see me, you can tune into Chanel 8 and watch WWE Global Smackdown this evening and can look for me in the audience.

  From: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  To: PiperAnderson@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: Advice

  Dear Piper,

  Does your Auntie really have an out-of-the-house boilerplate email or is she mocking me?

  Anyway, good relationships can begin anytime when you are content with who you are. You have to be able to recognize who can best compliment the woman you are now, and can love the woman you will become. That can happen anywhere, here or Chicago or Kazakhstan, but it’s something that only you can know.

  Ted and I were friends for so many years before things turned romantic. Before we even kissed, Ted had been there through my darkest times, helping me see the strong woman inside even when I thought I had lost her, he held me up when I needed a hand, and he never pushed me to become something I’m not.

  Whether it comes to any relationship, you need to look inside and see if it’s really what you need, what you want. Try and strip away any real or perceived expectations and ask yourself what the real Miss Behave would do.

  From: PiperAnderson@gmail.com

  To: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  Subject: Boilerplate

  Yes! Aunt Elise does have a boilerplate email! I got it, too, and thought she was just blowing me off, but sure enough, when I called Mags she confirmed that they both went to see some wrestling match tonight.

  And thanks, Miss Behave will make herself a gin and tonic and ponder.

  From: MommyDearest@hotmail.com

  To: PiperAnderson@gmail.com

  Subject: Gin and Tonic?

  Why not a nice seltzer with lime, instead, sweetie?

  The second interview is with a woman named Deena. Her Skype call is on time, so already I like her. She begins by asking me a series of questions about my work from the portfolio and then proceeds to ask me a thousand questions about future contacts in Chicago as well as grill about the who’s who of Chicago’s political, religious and criminal world. Then she moves into asking about how I would handle a death-knock. I shiver, never wanting to have to ask tough questions to a grieving family, but I’ve been expecting the question and answer the best that I can.

  She makes not a single little implication as to what she thinks of my answers. I read once that a good interview ends up more like a conversation between friends, but I’m too tired to over-think it and just relax and try to do my best.

  It’s odd, I’ve been given another chance to prove myself worthy and I, I just don’t know. My ambition seems to be on vacation today as I sit here in front of my laptop, head and shoulders stiff against the headboard of my bed.

  She asks me a few more questions and I stare at the simple gold studs in her ears, her slumped shoulders and wrinkled suit, her concrete demeanor, the bags beneath her eyes. Is she happy? Does she have a family? A cat, at least? I blink, wondering what some kid will think when they talk to me in a few years.

  I stare at the corner of my screen as a text message from Dad floats through.

  Go get ‘em, BabyGirl.

  “Have you gotten to do a lot of interviews in your work with the Sentinel?” I ask.

  She sits back, staring at me, and her smile widens. “Too many to count.”

  “Which was your favorite?”

  She starts in on this wild tale about some circus pooper-scooper and as we chat, I can sort of see myself working with her, working there, and suddenly she doesn’t seem so far away.

  After the interview, I go into the kitchen and grab a bag of snack mix. Poppi
ng a handful of salty-sweet goodness into my mouth, I flop out on a cushy chair and check my email. Might as well check that Miss Behave inbox:

  Dear Miss Behave,

  I thought you’d like to know that there is a scandal brewing in Pendleton Falls. Brookes Jewelers keeps yellow diamonds hidden in the vaults. Though the location of the diamonds within the vault is unknown, it may interest you to know that they were acquired from a Congolese warlord and entered the country illegally.

  -Anonymous

  My chest tightens and I think I may very well lose that cup of coffee. This is not what I expected when I opened my inbox this morning.

  I hit reply and type:

  I received your message. Who are you? I assure you that whatever you tell me, including your name, will be kept in the strictest confidence, but I need to know who I am speaking with and how you came about this information. Thank you.

  Signing the email and being sure to include my number at the paper and a variety of other ways to reach me, I sit back in my chair, fingertips pressing into the wood of the desk, and wonder who would send a tip like that to the advice columnist.

  Someone who is out to slander the Brookes, somehow, I’m sure. God knows Mrs. Brookes probably has a large and diverse collection of enemies.

  The first thing I do is to text Hunter, after all, the simplest answer to a problem is usually the best one.

  Hey boss, you have any stolen diamonds procured by a Congolese warlord in your vault?

  It takes all of three seconds before I get:

  WTH? No. Looking for a story to cover?

  I reply:

  Just clearing up a rumor.

  He answers:

  Unless by Congolese warlord you mean my mother and by “stolen” you mean got a great deal on, the answer is a definite no.