by Kelly Moran
Avery tapped a pencil on the desk. “Cade and Flynn said they’d meet you at your house. I’ll close up.”
Nodding, Drake grabbed his keys from his office and exited the back way to avoid any more people. He’d asked his brothers earlier if they wanted to have pizza tonight, and he was beginning to regret even that much.
Cade and Flynn were waiting on his porch when Drake pulled in the driveway. All the dogs were playing in the yard. Cade held a pizza box from Le Italy and Flynn had a six pack.
Drake climbed out of his truck. “You read my mind.” He unlocked the front door and followed them inside. The dogs scampered in all directions. Since both brothers stopped dead and glanced around, Drake shrugged. “Did a little redecorating.” He cleared his throat. “Zoe helped.”
Flynn nodded and passed the beer to Drake so he could sign. “It looks nice. Zoe and Gabby helped with my house. Cade’s, too.”
“I know. I was there.” His gaze shifted between the two of them, standing around looking like lost idiots. “Should we eat on the back deck?”
“Yeah. Sounds good.”
“Works for me.”
Shaking his head, Drake trailed after them. They shot the shit about football and work stuff while they took on the whole pizza, then settled back in their seats in uncomfortable silence.
Cade and Flynn exchanged several looks that Drake interpreted as you-do-it, no-you-do-it before Cade eventually rubbed his neck. “So, uh. You and Zoe.”
Lacing his fingers, Drake stacked them on his head and laughed until his side ached. “You two are chickenshits. Yes, me and Zoe.”
Cade frowned. “Well, excuse the hell out of us. This is kinda new territory. You dating. And…Zoe. Didn’t see that coming.”
“Hit me like a freight train, too.”
Flynn stared at him so long Drake grew uncomfortable. “At the risk of sounding like a sap, you look really happy. I missed you. So much. Missed seeing you like this.”
Hell. Drake swallowed hard.
“Are things all right between you? She took off rather fast during the fireworks, yeah?”
He shook his head, dropping his hands to his lap. “She keeps spouting stupid crap about ruining my reputation by being with me and how she’s just a good time. It’s pissing me off and makes no sense.”
Cade set his beer aside. “Her and I were a lot alike, at least before her mom got sick and Avery came along. We both got labeled with monikers—her as the party girl and me the playboy. She was never promiscuous, though.”
“I know that.” He did. But she had other defensive blocks in place besides what he’d mentioned.
“No doubt, she’s concerned about the town thinking she’s a rebound, and a bad choice, too.”
Drake clenched his fists. She would never be a bad decision, and if people knew her half as well as he did, it would be a nonissue. He’d managed to get out of bed the first year after Heather died because he had Zoe. Breathed. Ate. Etcetera. And if one more person threw the word rebound at him, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.
Taking a cleansing breath of humid mountain air, he glanced at the horizon. The riverbed. The forest. The shadows of the Klamath. The darkening skyline. He wished he was looking at Zoe instead.
“It’s not surprising she’d want to protect you. She cares about you. Always has.”
He didn’t need anyone telling him. “Yet she won’t date me.”
Cade frowned. “Why? Because of Heather?”
“I thought so at first, but I don’t think that’s it. Or all of it.”
Flynn took a swig of beer and set it down. “Have you tried talking to her?”
“Having a conversation about this topic with her is like pulling teeth from an un-anesthetized rabid dog.” Nine times out of ten, Drake would take the canine. Pulling his hair out might be more productive. “The only thing I could get out of her was guilt about baggage regarding her mom. Said I’d already watched Heather get sick.”
The color drained from Cade’s face and he went deadly still. His gaze wandered off, his forehead wrinkling.
“What?”
Cade closed his eyes and rubbed his neck. After a moment, his concerned gaze trained on Drake. “Early onset dementia can be hereditary, yeah? I don’t know if you can test for it, nor do I know the odds.”
Drake’s heart relocated ribs with a pounding, erratic beat. His lungs all but collapsed.
Flynn, pale also, pulled his phone out of his pocket, his thumbs going to work rapidly over the screen.
Her behavior made total sense now. The walls. The determination to do everything herself. Her trying to keep him an arm’s length away. Leaning forward, he dropped his elbows on his thighs and pressed his palms to his eye sockets. Christ Jesus, he wanted to weep. Or scream.
Shit. Just…shit.
“She wouldn’t want you to go through that again.” Cade’s quiet voice drifted across the gentle breeze, and the careful control in his tone indicated his fear was as amped as Drake’s. “Knowing her, she’d die before putting you through the pain of losing someone like you did with Heather. And if she does get what her mom has, it would be much worse. Not months of hospice with an end in sight, but years of her mind whittling away before her body gives out.”
Unable to sit, Drake rose, clutching his stomach. He paced the length of the deck and back again. Not her. Damn it, not her. That quick wit and fiery temper and beautiful heart and insane talent and… His throat closed. Not her.
Flynn groaned. “According to this, she’s got a fifty-fifty shot at getting it if she inherited the mutation gene.”
Drake had to listen extra close due to Flynn’s odd speaking dialect. And that news didn’t sound good at all no matter who said it. The pizza he’d eaten threatened to come back up.
“Early onset tends to be familial and only makes up five percent of cases.” Flynn glanced up from the phone. “Has she been tested?”
Drake cursed a wicked streak and fisted his hair. “I don’t know.” But he was going to find out. He swiped his keys off the table. “Let my dogs out and lock up.”
The drive to her house took twenty years instead of minutes. Her car was in the garage and her living room lights were on, but she didn’t answer the doorbell or his frantic pounding. Using his key, he let himself in and locked the door behind him.
He called her name, but she didn’t respond. After checking the entire house and not finding her, he fought to breathe through the onslaught of panic and stopped in the middle of her tiny kitchen. There was a half-eaten sandwich on the table and… The basement door was ajar.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he rounded the corner and halted in his tracks.
With her back to him and wearing nothing but a white tank top that fell to her knees, she stood in front of an easel. Her purple hair was up in a messy knot. There was a paintbrush in her mouth and one in her hand, which was gliding over the canvas in smooth, deft strokes.
The air punched from his lungs and he deflated. All the tension, all the frenetic worry, disappeared. She was painting again. Under blinding fluorescent lights, in a wood-paneled basement, surrounded by decades old furniture and art supplies, Zoe was painting again.
A rocky shoreline took up the right side of the canvas with foaming waves rolling in on the left. On a small section of beach at the bottom were two crabs. Sword fighting. A grin split his face and he leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
Seemingly unaware of his presence, she moved with fluid grace, her head slightly tilted. Her feet were bare on the green shag carpet, and he followed the path up her long, toned legs to her tiny waist, regal neck, and stopped on her partial profile. Such beautiful olive skin. She had a light dusting of freckles on her shoulders and, though he couldn’t see them just now, on her nose, too.
Emotion tightened his airway and he knew he was already
half in love with her. It wasn’t a big leap by his estimation. He’d loved her for years, so the shift seemed natural. Try as he might to fight it, or her attempting ten times harder to do the same, it wouldn’t matter. He had a feeling they’d wind up right here. With him utterly, desperately sunk.
She swirled the brushes in a glass of thinner and wiped her hands with a paint-speckled towel. With a glance over her shoulder, her brows lifted. “Checking off another item on the list you dragged out of me? Watching me paint? You already held my hand in public. You should’ve stopped there.” Her voice was oddly flat, her features relaxed by comparison. It figured she’d known he’d been here all along.
“I used to watch you all the time from that couch.” He jerked his chin at the ugly plaid sofa. If memory served, it was uncomfortable as hell, but he’d sat for hours, completely enraptured.
“That was a long time ago.” She walked closer and flipped off the light, leaving only the staircase illuminated behind him. She went to move past him, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and held her in front of him.
“And there is no stopping when it comes to you. Not the list or anything else.”
Closing her eyes, she let out an inaudible exhale. “I need to clean up. I smell like paint and thinner.”
“You smell like lavender and it invades my sleep.”
Her gaze lifted to his. A little confused and a lot hopeful. Huge hazel eyes framed by thick lashes. They plagued him while he was asleep or awake. He used his free hand to cup her jaw, run his thumb across her lip. A pouty little mouth he wanted to kiss all the time.
So he did. Lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his. Gentle. Coaxing. Her breath fanned his cheek a split second before she plundered. He wanted to draw out the kiss, take his time, but she didn’t allow it. She never allowed it. With determination and gusto, she went at him. Heat caused sparks which morphed into white hot flames.
Too soon, she lifted her head, her gaze studying him, her breaths uneven. Then she kissed him again. Or killed him. Same difference.
Just as he was about to up the ante and pin her to the closest hard surface, she suddenly pulled away. His arms slapped to his sides with the abrupt momentum change. She walked around him and climbed the stairs as if nothing had happened. Not one word.
Taking a second to collect himself, he sighed and followed. Since she was scrubbing her hands and forearms at the kitchen sink, he sank into a chair and waited. And waited. She was silently putting her walls back up, and he was reminded of why he’d come over.
“Have you been tested?”
She paused, then rinsed the suds with stiff movements.
“Answer me. The genetic mutation gene. Have you been tested?”
Shutting off the faucet, she reached for a towel and slowly dried her hands. Her profile offered no insight, nor did she deign to speak to him.
He cleared his throat. “That’s why you won’t date me or talk about the future or so much as even try.” So help him, he was going to lose it if she didn’t say something. It was an asshole thing to do, but he played upon her weakness. Him. “Don’t do this to me. I’m freaking out, Zoe. I need you to talk to me. I need—”
“No.” She placed her hands on the counter and leaned into them, closing her eyes. “No, I haven’t taken the test. I was too scared or maybe I just didn’t want to know for sure.” She rubbed her forehead. “When we got Mama’s diagnosis, I put my affairs in order, too. There’s an updated will and Brent’s set up as my power of attorney for healthcare.”
Relief mixed with confusion and irritation. “Why Brent?” Not that he wasn’t one of Zoe’s closest friends and a stand-up guy. But why not Gabby or one of Drake’s brothers? They’d known her all her life. Hell, why not…? He clenched his jaw. “Why not me?”
She whirled on him, anguish and anger shining in her eyes. “I will not put you in that position. Not again. If it comes down to it and I show symptoms, Brent will make sound decisions for me based on facts first and emotion second. You…” Her breath hitched. “You wouldn’t do that. You’re incapable. You’d play the white knight, the martyr, because that’s who you are, Drake. And no one, especially you, is sacrificing anything for me.”
Leveled, he stared at her. And he knew, just knew, he’d been blind. This wasn’t merely about shielding their family and friends from one possible terrible outcome. It wasn’t simply about their history or what future lay in wait. All along, this entire past five years had been about her protecting him in particular.
He thought back to what he’d witnessed on his brother’s wedding video. Months ago. Before he’d kissed her or had known he was ready to move past the grief, she’d had...longing in her eyes.
Zoe straightened from the counter, her head down. “Please lock up on your way out.” And with that, she left the room like it was the end.
Chapter 17
Leaving Drake in the kitchen, Zoe walked down the hall and stopped in the middle of her bedroom. She should’ve known he’d figure out her reasons for not wanting to get involved. Between grieving over Heather and work, he’d not had the wherewithal the past few years to connect the dots.
God, and the look on his face when she’d told him she’d set up Brent as her POA. Like she’d daggered his chest. Did he seriously not understand she’d done that for him? So, if it came down to it, he wouldn’t have to make excruciating decisions? Watch her forget, day after day, who her friends and family were as her mind rotted? Because, of everyone in her life, the blow would hit Drake the hardest.
In typical Drake fashion, he was trying to do the right thing. Except there was no right thing here. He had to stop, realize the truth, and move forward. Without her. He’d had his wife, the love of his life, taken away from him. And with Heather’s death, his dreams of kids and family had been ripped away, too.
Zoe would not be another burden, no matter how much he cared about her. One day, he’d thank her.
Sighing, she glanced down at herself. Had she known he’d pop by, she might’ve worn more than an old tank top. Though it covered most of her and fell to her knees, it wasn’t much by way of dress. Grabbing the hem, she went to remove it.
“Wait.” Drake’s footsteps padded into the room and stopped behind her. The deep timbre of that one word echoed off the walls. He moved in front of her, and before she could let go of the shirt, he covered her hands with his over the garment. “Please leave it on.”
She glanced away instead of at his chocolate eyes, which held too much depth. Devotion. Years of fond and painful memories. “I thought you’d left.”
With a humble twist of his lips, he shook his head. “Not going to happen.” His gaze searched hers. “I like the way you look in this.” His fingers clenched. “Only this. Subtle sexiness.”
“Please stop.” She closed her eyes and hated the needy pleading in her tone. “I’ve never asked you for much, but I’m asking now. Please just walk away before we get more tangled than we already are.”
“No offense, honey, but I’d rather be tangled.” He backed them to the bed and sat down, drawing her to stand between his knees. Hands on her hips, he looked up at her. “I’m staying. Tonight, tomorrow, for however long it takes. I’m staying.”
“We’re not having sex.”
Humor lit his eyes, curved his lips. “My intention, just to be clear, is not sex. Though we will get to that point sometime soon. That’s a promise. Tonight, I’m just sleeping with you. As in, eyes closed, drool on the pillow.”
“I don’t drool.”
“Snoring, then.” He quickly shook his head. “I’ll find out soon enough if you snore, so just be quiet.”
His grin slipped as his thumbs stroked her waist. Watching her closely, he slid his hands over her hips, down her thighs. When he reached the hem of her shirt, his fingers dipped underneath, and back up he went, taking the material with him. Her nipples pebbled
behind the soft cotton and her nerves fired, pinging lightning in every direction. Her breath caught as he splayed his fingers over her legs, the tips just brushing her panties. His dark eyes dilated, and she shivered, unable to fight the pull anymore.
“Show me, Zoe.” One finger stroked her hip bone, drew seductive little circles. “Show me what ink you put here.” Though barely a whisper, his deep voice seemed to fill every crevice of the room and wind around her.
Debating, she bit her lip. Never in a hundred years had she anticipated Drake ever seeing the tattoo. Chances were, he wouldn’t understand the significance or even remember the day in question. Plus, she was too weak to tell him no. Swallowing, she nodded.
Never taking his gaze from hers, he raised her shirt and held it under her breasts. Leaning forward, he kissed her belly over the tattoo ring of forget-me-nots, and the tender gesture made her eyes burn.
Then, his lashes lowered. Holding the shirt with one hand, he teased the band of her panties with the other. She sent a silent thank you to the heavens she’d worn her cute yellow hip-hugger lace set this morning. Carefully, as if she’d break, he eased the elastic from the bottom and moved the material aside. As he stared, his brows pinched in thought. She could all but see him scrolling through memories, trying to locate this one.
She didn’t need to glance down. She’d designed it herself. A long-stemmed dandelion with white fluff on top. A few pieces were inked to make it look like they’d been blown off, drifting in the wind. The longer he stared, the more her heart puttered.
His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow and, judging by his tight expression, the task had been difficult. His chest stopped moving as his lips parted. “Is this…” He cleared his throat and offered a barely perceptible shake of his head. “Is this from your seventeenth birthday?”
Crap. Her lungs emptied. He remembered.
When she didn’t—couldn’t—respond, his gaze finally lifted to hers. Shock and unmasked optimism stared back at her.
“You remember that? It was so long ago.”
His laugh was little more than a puff of air. “I’d brought a candle to school, figuring I’d buy you a cookie or brownie from the cafeteria to put it in. But when I saw you in the quad, surrounded by all the dandelions, I tossed the candle. I remember a lot of things about that day.”