Bringing Home the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

  Plus, Pat hadn’t exactly seemed happy upon finding them canoodling in Rae’s old bedroom, currently her sewing room or not, and no doubt wouldn’t appreciate them turning that canoodling into more canoodling. Especially considering Lyon was a few rooms away.

  In the bedroom, Pat had shut the door behind her. Charlie fidgeted, hanging the robe on a hanger and putting it back into the closet.

  “Charlotte.”

  She’d turned to find the older woman wearing a striped blouse and black pants, short-heeled sandals on her feet, her makeup just so. Conversely, Charlie’s hair was air-drying into a frizzy mess and she was in a wrinkled T-shirt, skinny jeans, and a pair of Toms.

  “Thank you for letting us stay,” she said, her smile wilting.

  Pat had given her a very slow eye-blink and came to the bed, where she patted the duvet. “Sit, sweetheart.”

  Heart in her throat, Charlie sat. Last night she’d finally fallen asleep around four. The reason it’d taken so long to fall asleep after being awake was because of Pat. Charlie had lain awake trying to decide if the woman would confront her come morning, then decided she most definitely would, then fretted about it until she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

  She sat up straight, ready to take the talking-to she knew was coming. It’d be done out of love—this was Patricia Mosley, after all—but Pat would be firm, and likely remind Charlie to be loyal where Rae was concerned, and extra cautious around Lyon at his tender age.

  Because this was what she’d expected, guilt pooled in her stomach the second Pat took a breath. But when she spoke, she said not one thing Charlie had anticipated.

  “So. You and Evan.”

  Surprised by Pat’s laissez-faire tone, Charlie’s next word blew out on a soft, stunned breath. “Sorry?”

  Pat tilted her head, another slow eye-blink. “Baby. You and Evan. I see it. Poppa can see it. Lyon can see it.”

  Her stomach flipped, pancakes riding a wave of terror crashing through her torso. “It’s not what you think.”

  “No?” Pat’s penciled eyebrows rose. “You haven’t snagged my grandson’s heart? You haven’t snagged Clifford’s heart? You haven’t snagged my baby girl’s husband’s heart?”

  Her baby girl’s husband.

  Oh gosh.

  Sorry, Rae.

  “Rae was my best friend,” Charlie had said. “More of a sister than my own was to me. I’d never”—she closed her eyes against the lie and started over—“I didn’t mean to infringe.”

  Charlie had looked to Pat, feeling her own face crumpling, then grasped the older woman’s hands. She needed Pat to believe what she had to say. She needed penance, forgiveness… acceptance.

  “Pat. This is nothing, I promise. It was something. It was. But now, I’m going to make sure it’s not. I don’t want to jeopardize my relationship with any of you. I’d never dream of hurting you or Cliff or…”

  She trailed off when Pat smiled and shook her head.

  “Well, I certainly hope that is not true.”

  She had blinked up at Rae’s mother, shocked. “Wuh-what part?”

  Pat laughed her musical laugh and Charlie had felt her eyebrows slide to center in confusion. “I hope it’s not ‘nothing,’ Charlotte. Those boys love you. All of them.” She tossed a hand toward the hallway. “Including Clifford. And you know how much I love you.”

  She did know that. But it was great to hear. “I love you, too,” she said, an emotional edge in her voice.

  “Rae’s not here for Evan, baby.” Pat blinked a few times, her eyes not watery, but looking like they might be headed there.

  Lord help her, if Pat lost it, so would she.

  “I know.”

  Pat grasped her hand. “You are here. You are here. Living and breathing and loving them both. I can see that, too.”

  She did love them both. More each day.

  “I care very much,” she said.

  “You love Lyon.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You love Evan.”

  Charlie had bitten her lip and swallowed thickly before speaking. “He’s a very good friend.”

  Rae’s mother tilted her chin and raised her eyebrows. “You love him, Charlotte.”

  Yes. She did. She closed her eyes in a combination of shame and embarrassment.

  “I’m glad you have one another.”

  “You are?” Charlie sought Pat’s eyes for a sign she wasn’t telling the truth. But Pat always told the truth. That was her way.

  “I love you like my own daughter. I have missed you like crazy since you have stayed away. Having you in my home, eating at my table, making my grandson laugh, and putting a smile on the hard face of my son-in-law has made me happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.”

  “Pat.” She’d felt her own tears welling. Because it was all too much.

  “I know, baby.” She pulled her close and dropped an arm around her shoulder. “It’s hard to imagine us accepting this. Evan was our baby girl’s husband, and we miss Rae. We hurt for him and Lyon as much as we hurt for ourselves. We lost her, and it’s so unfair.”

  All this Charlie knew.

  “But you lost her, too.” Her hand rubbed circles on Charlie’s back. “You lost her and you deserve to grieve, deserve to heal, and deserve happiness as much as any other member of this family.”

  Almost verbatim what Evan had said.

  This family. That was nice.

  “You make Evan happy,” Pat pointed out.

  Charlie’s chest inflated. She liked the idea of making Evan happy. Seeing him happy made her happy.

  “Keep making him happy. And come see us more often.” She stood and brushed a hand down her wrinkle-free slacks. “They’re waiting for you in the den. Cliff’s showing off his racecar collection and boring our boys to death.”

  Our boys. She liked that, too.

  Pat opened the bedroom door and turned before she walked out. “Sandwich for the road?”

  “Sure, Pat. Thanks.”

  She winked. “You got it, sweetheart.”

  Charlie, Evan, and Lyon had eaten their sandwiches on the trip home—ham and cheese on wheat bread, which Lyon hated but Evan made him eat anyway.

  Now, the SUV edged down the long, winding road leading back to their houses on Lakeside Avenue.

  “Lyon, bud. When we get in, I’m doing laundry, so bring your bag to the laundry room, yeah?”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  She wanted to offer to do it for him, but then, they were not on vacation, she reminded herself. And though he had stitches, Lyon was perfectly capable of carrying his backpack into the laundry room.

  Evan pulled into her driveway first. “Wait here, bud,” he told Lyon, then got out. She followed.

  He lifted the back of the SUV, refusing to let her carry her bag, which wasn’t big or unmanageable. Then he waited while she unlocked her door and followed her in.

  He dropped the bag on the chair in the front room and pulled her into his arms, lighting her on fire with a long, slow, wet kiss.

  When she pulled back, she realized her fingers were twined in his hair.

  “Missed you, Ace,” he growled. “Tonight. Dinner at my place.”

  “Evan…”

  “I want you to stay the night, too. So when you unpack your bag, pack another.”

  She shook her head. “Lyon shouldn’t—”

  “He shouldn’t control what we do,” Evan finished for her. “I’ll talk to him when I get home.” His hand skated down her pants and cupped her bottom. With a soft squeeze, he said, “Dinner.”

  She nodded her agreement—figuring he wouldn’t take no for an answer—and earned another series of kisses on her lips. After he’d curled her toes, he swaggered out to the SUV and left.

  Then she stood by the chair staring at her bag for she didn’t know how long, trying to figure how he had talked her into staying the night when the very thing Charlie thought she needed was a night away from him so he and Lyon could have f
amily time together.

  Well.

  There was no going back, so she’d do the next best thing. Go over for dinner but not with a bag. She wasn’t going to shack up with Evan while Lyon was home no matter what Evan said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lyon had had about enough of no electronics and it showed in every whine and wallow on the couch over the last hour. Evan left the kitchen, and the prep for dinner: salmon, asparagus, and baked potatoes, to tend to his son who was flailing in the living room.

  He plopped down on the couch and leaned over his kid, tickling him, but careful not to make him move his head too much. Didn’t matter. Soon, he was roiling, giggling, and begging through those high-pitched squeals of his, “Stop it, Dad! Stooooop iiiiit!”

  He stopped it. “I have to talk to you, buddy.”

  Lyon recovered, pushing himself up. “Okay.”

  “About Aunt Charlie.”

  He picked at a thread hanging from his T-shirt. “ ’kay.”

  “Did you like her being at Nonna and Poppa’s house with us?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Me too. I like having her around.” Evan took a breath. “I’d like her in our house more often.”

  Lyon looked up.

  “Would that be okay with you? If Charlie was here more?”

  “Like for dinner?”

  “Dinner… and breakfast.”

  Lyon’s eyebrows pinched. “For pancakes?”

  Kids. So simple.

  “Yep. Pancakes. She’s going to sleep here sometimes. I wanted you to know.” He wasn’t seeking his son’s permission—but he knew Lyon would appreciate a say, and a heads-up.

  Evan wanted Charlie in his life more, and in his bed more. And while he knew they had to be careful—she was a moaner during sex, and not a quiet one—he knew the right place for her was curled up next to him.

  The right place for her was in his and Lyon’s lives.

  “Can I play my game now?” Lyon asked, done with this adult conversation.

  Evan ruffled his hair—what was left of it—on the side of his head without stitches. They’d get used to it. He and Lyon had been through worse than a short, slightly choppy haircut.

  “Did you feed Terror?”

  “Yeeeeessss,” Lyon said with an eye roll.

  Good to see he was back to his old self.

  “Yeah, bud.” Evan stood and paced to the kitchen. “Have at it.”

  * * *

  Charlie was impressed. Evan cooked the fish to flaky perfection and halved the potatoes to lay them face down on the grill as well. Asparagus was wrapped in foil with lemon—pretty fancy for Evan.

  After she teased him about it more than once during the meal, he admitted his sister, Angel, had provided him with the how-to on the semi-elegant dinner. Charlie was touched he’d gone to the trouble.

  Lyon was not impressed, so Evan fixed him hot dogs, muttering, Kids, but she’d watched him grill himself one as well, eating it while their fancy dinner finished cooking.

  Charlie and Evan cleaned up, though Lyon did contribute by loading the silverware in the dishwasher. They settled in to watch Man of Steel, since she hadn’t seen it yet and Lyon had bragged it was “the best movie in the world.” She didn’t know about that, but she did enjoy the guy who played Superman. Yowza. He was a hottie.

  But the handsome blue-eyed man on screen had nothing on the handsome blue-eyed man who was lying flat on his back on the couch, head turned to watch the film. Lyon had settled on the floor with a pillow and blanket.

  Having finished wiping down the countertops, she walked into the room and toward an adjacent recliner. Evan gestured to the sliver of sofa next to his prone body. “Ace. Over here.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I’m not,” he said.

  She tipped her head in a meaningful nod to Lyon, and Evan promptly shook his head and pointed at the very limited space on the couch where she was supposed to wedge her body.

  “The chair is fine, really,” she tried again.

  “It’s not fine for me.”

  “Aunt Charlie, it’s starting!”

  At Lyon’s frustrated pronouncement, she gave in and went to Evan, who smiled when she gave him his way and tugged her down onto the couch. He turned on his side, pulled her butt to his hips, wrapped an arm around her waist, and linked their fingers.

  Then she fell asleep.

  She stirred slightly when Evan moved, aware of him climbing over her and mumbling for her to stay put. As if she could have moved on her own after two sleepless nights in a row. She stayed put, her eyes closed, hearing rustling and distant conversation: Evan asking Lyon to brush his teeth.

  Wiped out, she’d fallen back to sleep by the time Evan returned—and having no idea how long he was gone, was surprised to open her eyes and find the living room completely dark and silent.

  “This wasn’t what I meant when I asked you to stay the night,” he said from somewhere in the dark.

  She stretched, warm and cozy in the sofa. He put a knee between hers and came down on top of her, his weight a warm blanket.

  “Ace.”

  “Mmph,” she grunted.

  “Get in my bed,” he whispered, kissing her lips.

  “Going home,” she said, groggy, not sure how she’d get her limbs to do what her mouth had suggested.

  “My bed.”

  “Home,” she whined.

  “Ace.”

  “Shut up.”

  His weight and warmth left her and a second later she was lifted into his arms and being carried up the stairs to his bed. Too tired to argue, she looped her arms around his neck.

  Soft blankets enfolded her and she curled to her side. “Have to brush my teeth.”

  “Do it in the morning.”

  “Yuck,” she mumbled, feeling him crawl in beside her, but it was too late. She’d already faded off to sleep, his body curled around her back, his arm at her breasts, and his hips snuggled into her butt.

  * * *

  This time when Evan jerked awake from pictures flashing in his head, it wasn’t only Rae’s lifeless eyes and still body. It was also the image of Lyon, blood pouring from a head wound while he splashed in the Mosleys’ swimming pool.

  Heart racing, sheets damp, his eyes flew open at the same time his arm lashed out to the other side of the bed. Instead of encountering cool, empty sheets, his hand landed on the soft, feminine curve of a hip. In response to his not-so-gentle touch, Charlie answered with a soft, feminine hum.

  He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone.

  It’d been a while since his last nightmare. Waking up to thoughts of Rae typically drove him straight to the studio where he’d paint off his jitters. How could he do that with Charlie here? He hadn’t considered this might happen. Hadn’t—

  “Ev,” her sleepy voice murmured in the dark room. She rolled over to face him, scooted closer, and threw an arm over his chest. Palm flat on his sweat-slicked skin, she must have felt his escalated heart rate because she mumbled, still sounding sleepy, “Okay?”

  More than four years had passed since he woke up next to a woman. That woman used to be Rae. That woman continued to be Rae, only he woke up to her memory instead. Now, Charlie nestled against him, taking a deep breath and slipping right back into the sleep he’d barely nudged her from, he considered her question.

  Was he okay?

  The nightmare that jarred him awake had already turned foggy, the memory less terrifying with his eyes open. Flat on his back, he pulled in a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, dropping his hand over Charlie’s hand resting on his chest.

  His thoughts were organized and rational. His limbs were not tingling with impending doom. Lyon was home safe. Charlie was in his bed, in his arms. The clock in the living room ticked the seconds away.

  And remarkably, Evan’s eyes slid shut.

  Wrapping an arm around Charlie’s shoulder, he pulled her closer. She came, throwing a leg over his leg and inching her hand up to his
neck.

  He gave her another squeeze, finding solace in her presence and the feel of her breath warm against his neck.

  He was asleep within minutes.

  * * *

  Sleep came, or maybe it never left, and it didn’t fade off until she heard clattering in the kitchen the next morning. Charlie sat up, stretched, and pulled on her dress from yesterday. What she really needed was a shower, but she settled for brushing her teeth with the toothbrush Evan had given her.

  I have a toothbrush at his house, she thought absently as she stared at her foamy-mouthed reflection in his bathroom mirror.

  Downstairs, he sat on a stool, flipping through a magazine and sipping a mug of coffee. Oh, he looked good there. Bare feet resting on the bottom rung, tattooed arms leaning on the counter. One bicep flinched impressively as he lifted his mug to his lips… which seemed rather intentional now that she considered how little effort it took to lift a mug.

  “Show off,” she muttered.

  His lips left the edge of the mug and he turned his head to give her a grin, flexing for her again. “Brush your teeth?”

  “Yes,” she said, sounding slightly impatient. He’d goaded her into staying. And she’d stayed. Not her fault. He was too hot, and she was too rested, for her to get any dander up over the situation. Didn’t mean he got off easy. Petulantly, she added, “I’m in yesterday’s clothes.”

  His eyes heated as they grazed from her head to her toes. “Got no complaints, Ace.”

  “Where’s the kiddo?”

  “Legos.”

  “So he is seven.”

  “Seems so.”

  She tapped the edge of the countertop with nervous fingers. “I have a shoot this afternoon.”

  Unfazed, he turned back to his magazine. “Dinner.”

  “Going to be a late one.”

  He put down his mug, abandoned the periodical, and slipped off the stool. She braced herself for an argument or a kiss. In front of her, he breathed out a sigh, very close to her lips, but she didn’t get a kiss.