The Bachelor Contract (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 3)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “But I can’t really see.”

  “Exactly. What do you feel?”

  Nikki spent the next hour telling Nadine everything: The way his cheeks were rough at night because his beard always grew in too fast. The smell of his skin after a shower. The feel of his chest under the palm of her hand. The way he held her in his arms, gentle, firm, all the ways he held her hand.

  And slowly, it was as if she were falling in love with him all over again.

  “All right.” Nadine yawned. “I think our time is up. Thank you for the lovely story.”

  Nikki blinked and then whispered, “Thank you for helping me remember.”

  “Sometimes, we repress the things that hurt most. I know there’s more in there, more hurt, but that’s for you two to work through.”

  Nikki wasn’t sure she was going to be able to work the rest of the day; she was emotionally spent.

  “Oh!” Nadine clapped her hands together. “Brant told me to give you this.”

  “Brant? Brant sent you here?”

  “For a massage, yes, but mainly to give you this.”

  It was in Braille. Nikki’s fingers trembled as they ran over the card stock. “It’s an invitation.”

  “To an early Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Right, but it’s…summer.”

  “Brant has it in his head to re-create Thanksgiving dinner, so we’re going to re-create it.”

  And suddenly, Nikki realized she wouldn’t survive this seduction, not at all. Because the only Thanksgiving they had ever spent with his family was the day they had told them they were pregnant.

  There had been a food fight. Yelling. It had been horrible. She’d left in tears. Brant had sworn to never talk to his grandfather again. And Bentley, his own twin, had taken his grandfather’s side.

  Thanksgiving dinner was a reminder of all she’d lost—and it was hard not to struggle with the choking fear that history was about to repeat itself.

  “Be brave,” Grandma Nadine whispered.

  “Brave,” she repeated.

  “You have it in you. All women do. Especially those of us who have lost.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Brant paced in front of the large table. Where was she? Nadine swore up and down she had given Nikki the invitation.

  “Stop.” Bentley took a long draw from his drink. “You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”

  “Bullshit, its hardwood!” Brant fired back, irritated that he was irritated.

  Bentley held up his hands, a stupid grin on his face. “My, my, how the mighty have fallen. What was it you said to me a month ago? You’d burn in hell before you let Nadine get her claws into you?”

  Brant’s eyes narrowed in on his brother’s arrogant smirk.

  Brock joined them, tilting his glass to his mouth. “I could have sworn he told me the same thing.”

  “Ganging up on the weak, really?” Cole said as he approached.

  “Dickhead,” Brant muttered. “Glad you could make it.”

  “I always make time for friends.” He said it to both brothers before looking at Brant and adding, “And assholes, though since our talk it seems like you’ve turned over a new leaf. Even opened a bottle of champagne all by yourself!”

  “High five, man, that shit’s hard,” Bentley teased while Brock choked on his drink.

  The women were already seated at the table next to Grandfather. They gave him so much attention it was as if they’d adopted him.

  Brant checked his watch again. “She’s late.”

  Cole rolled his eyes. “She’s blind. It takes a while to get a dress on when your best friend isn’t there to help you fasten it.”

  “That’s it.” Brant moved toward him but was held back by a laughing Bentley. “Come on, just one punch.”

  Brock glanced between them. “I thought you guys were allies now.”

  “Allies. Enemies.” Cole shrugged. “Basically the same thing, right, Brant?”

  “Right.” Brant counted to ten. “Besides, you may be the one helping her put the dress on—but I will always be the lucky bastard helping her take it off.”

  “I think Brant just won fake Thanksgiving,” Bentley announced, as Nikki made her way into the large banquet room.

  “Mine.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But by the way Cole was looking at her—he didn’t give a shit if he announced it to the world and then forced her to wear a T-shirt that said PROPERTY OF BRANT WELLINGTON.

  Right, because that wouldn’t piss her off.

  It wasn’t as though he owned her.

  God, he wanted to, though.

  Hell, he’d do anything to be owned by her.

  She was wearing a simple black cocktail dress that fell just above her knees. It had capped sleeves and hugged every curve of her body. He nearly groaned when he saw a sliver of skin through the cutouts on the side of the dress. What he wouldn’t do to be able to put his tongue in that spot right above her hip.

  “You came.” He reached for her hands and lifted them to his lips, kissing the backs of each of them and then squeezing, his body refusing to let go.

  “Why do you keep sounding so surprised when I show up?”

  He pulled her in for a hug and whispered, “Because every time you walk away, it feels like the last.” He kissed the side of her neck. “And then I spend the night in agony until I see you again, only for the process to repeat itself.”

  “You’re getting too good at this seduction thing.” She moaned low in her throat when his mouth met hers in a too-brief kiss. “It’s a bit terrifying.”

  “My ability to romance you?”

  “Or maybe just my ability to fall for it.”

  “Touché.”

  He looped her arm through his and led her to her seat at the table. He’d planned everything.

  Thanksgiving dinner. A redo from the past.

  The only thing he didn’t repeat was the candles. He hated them—and the last thing she needed was to be near fire, not after what had happened. Maybe it was just Brant who was irrationally angry at anything fire related, but he didn’t want to take any chances that he’d ruin her night.

  Again.

  “Date number?” She asked once he gently showed her where her water glass and wineglass were.

  “Thirty-seven.” He placed a napkin in her lap. “But remember, still only date two for us.”

  “For the after.”

  “Yeah. The after.”

  “And how many of these are we going to get?”

  “Two more.” He watched her face fall. “But I promise they may just change your life.”

  “Let me guess: One of us gets naked?”

  He barked out a laugh. “For that, you get extra dessert and wine.”

  “Wow. I get rewards for good behavior?”

  “Always,” he teased, his voice rough.

  She giggled behind the wineglass she’d just picked up and nodded. “So you want me to be good….not bad?”

  He groaned. “Shit, that backfired.”

  “Totally.”

  “I’m rusty.”

  “Wow, that’s romantic. Tell me more.”

  “I’m from the future?”

  “Nice try. It only works once, Casanova.”

  “Damn it.” He pounded the table with his fist in a playful gesture, gaining the attention from all of his shocked family members. Margot watched him a minute longer than everyone else, tears in her eyes.

  That woman, with her penetrating green eyes, saw way too much. She nodded toward Brant and then continued talking to Bentley.

  Was it only a few weeks ago that in a drunken stupor he’d confessed some of his secrets to Margot? Pushed her into the arms of his brother?

  Brant was just about to speak when Grandfather clinked his glass and stood.

  Oh hell. Speeches were definitely not part of the plan.

  He shot Nadine a worried look, but she was too busy staring up at Grandfather with doe eyes, clasping her jeweled hands to
gether like he hung the freaking moon.

  “I have something to say.”

  “Whiskey,” Bentley coughed. “Quick, more whiskey.”

  Brant gripped Nikki’s hand and waited for the inevitable. Well, at least his grandfather really was repeating history. Only at the original Thanksgiving dinner, he’d stormed out of the house after telling Brant they were too young and were ruining their lives.

  Fun times.

  Maybe Bentley was right about the whiskey. If this was going to be anything close to what happened last time, he’d need to bathe in it in order to forget the hurtful words, the things said.

  Everyone was tense. Even Brock’s smile was frozen on his face as he looked between Brant and Grandfather.

  “I was wrong,” Grandfather announced. And then sat right back down and continued talking to Nadine, his ruddy cheeks going darker, like the conversation they were having shouldn’t take place anywhere near the kids’ table, or any table for that matter.

  Brock smirked while Bentley rolled his eyes and gave Brant a knowing look: See? I told you he wasn’t out to ruin all of our lives!

  “Did he just”—Nikki cleared her throat—“apologize?”

  “Yeah, or as close to an apology as we’re going to get.” Brant said, dumbfounded.

  “For what?”

  He turned to face her. “If I was guessing, I’d say everything.”

  A smile spread across her face as she carefully reached for her wineglass and lifted it in the air. “Well, I guess the only thing we can do is a toast.”

  The minute she lifted her glass everyone else quieted and followed suit.

  “To Thanksgiving.” Brant didn’t look away from her gorgeous red lips. They matched the wine in her glass, and he wanted to lick them just once that night.

  “To Thanksgiving.” As they toasted, the first course was brought in.

  “So…” Nikki took another sip of wine. “Why did you pick date thirty-seven? I remember crying a lot, but I was highly emotional at the time.”

  “You’re a woman, so it’s forgiven.”

  “Insulting, but thank you.” Her eyebrows arched. “You got in a huge fight with your entire family. Bentley yelled, you yelled, Brock glared, and I vaguely remember your grandfather threatening to disown you—again. So, why do you think this would be one of my favorite dates?”

  Brant knew this question was coming. He just hadn’t prepared for it. He wanted to lie, to crack a joke, to ignore the burn inside him.

  “The truth?”

  “Always the truth, Brant.”

  “It was the first night I felt like a real family. Because in that moment, we truly only had each other.” His hand moved to her stomach. “And a tiny life that was completely dependent on us.”

  Her eyes welled with tears as her lower lip quivered.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “Would you rather I lie?”

  “Sometimes the lie doesn’t hurt as much, does it?”

  “Nik, I’ve spent the last four years numbing the pain. Seeing you again makes me believe that maybe the best way to live isn’t to ignore it but to learn how to survive it with the ones you love by your side.”

  “Are you saying you love me?”

  “Are you imagining I ever stopped?”

  She kissed him. Hard.

  Over a course of some sort of fruit salad that Brant couldn’t give a shit about. And when she pulled back, they had the attention of the whole table.

  “Is everyone staring?”

  “Absolutely not,” he lied.

  “Lying to a blind woman, Brant?” Her smile was magnetic, captivating. “That’s not very gentlemanly of you.”

  “When have I ever been a gentleman?”

  She grinned wider. “You have your moments.”

  “Shh. I’m supposed to be the evil twin.”

  “Oh, believe me.” Her voice lowered. “I’m well aware.”

  The sound of silverware scraping plates filled the room as he leaned in and whispered, “Please tell me that was a sexual innuendo and not my imagination.”

  “Must everything be sexual?”

  “With you? Yes. Every single time.”

  Her lips parted.

  And that was when Brant noticed the silence.

  He jerked back to see everyone watching and Nadine holding up her leopard-print phone in the air.

  “Put that down,” Grandfather scolded her. But Nadine simply grinned harder.

  “Good salad?” Nikki’s voice cut through the silence.

  “Amazing,” Grandfather choked.

  “Best salad ever,” said Jane.

  “Oh, please, honey, like you’re thinking about salad.” Nadine snorted, “But yes, it’s very lovely, crisp, just the right amount of flavor as it hits your tongue. And those little balls”—Grandfather choked again, earning him a slap on the back—“they simply burst with flavor all over.” She spread her arms wide.

  “I think we stopped talking about salad.” Bentley gave Brant a shake of his head and stabbed a mozzarella ball with his fork. “But I will admit that burst of—”

  Brant cut him off. “Bent. How’s the zoo?”

  “Ah, strategic subject change from Brant’s balls.” Bentley leaned forward. “I see what you did there.”

  “She’s never seen my balls,” Brant said defensively, pointing at Nadine.

  Nadine simply shrugged and took a long gulp of wine. “Not my fault you don’t have them.”

  Cole burst out laughing. “Can you adopt me?”

  “Oh, honey.” Nadine nodded with an excessive smile while she eyed him up and down. “What a splendid idea. Do you have any women in your life?”

  “Abort.” Bentley coughed. “Abort.”

  “Other than one that’s taken, that is,” Brant just had to say. Nikki squeezed his thigh under the table, giving him a little jolt.

  Eyes turned. He shrugged them away. But beneath his calm façade, he was burning.

  Her hands inched higher.

  What the hell was she doing? She’d always been flirty when they were married, but the woman he knew now was cautious. And yet her hand kept moving up, which just made him all the more aroused.

  Because in all his calculations he’d never thought she might actually seduce him. Especially since she’d rejected every kiss. He tried to stay still and took a long drink of water.

  “I really don’t remember this version of Thanksgiving, Nik,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, as Cole and Nadine started bickering at the other end of the table.

  “Well.” She scooted her chair closer then slid her hand beneath his napkin, grabbing him fully, giving enough of a squeeze that he hissed out a curse. “You’ve been trying so hard to give a new version, I thought I’d help.”

  “God, I love helpful people.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Volunteering is really…”

  She moved her hand.

  “…so…selfless.”

  “Well, I was short some hours this week.”

  “I’d be more than happy to sign off on—” He reached for his wine to keep himself from kissing her, from flipping her over the table next to the turkey and asking her to spread her legs. Yeah, that would go over well.

  “Sign off on…?”

  “I’m sorry, what were we talking about?” He kept his voice low as he rolled his hips against her hand. “So close.”

  “Yeah, it’s nice sitting this close,” she said in a completely innocent voice. Another gentle squeeze.

  “I love your hands,” he blurted. “I think I’m obsessed with them.”

  “What was that, dear?” Nadine called across the table.

  Brant froze.

  Nikki tensed.

  “Ham!” he said quickly—and a little too loudly. “I’m obsessed with hams.”

  Nadine narrowed her eyes. “How…interesting.”

  He was saved from embarrassment by the arrival of the next course, and attention was once again diverted away fr
om them. And once dessert was served, he began counting down the minutes until he could excuse them and finish what they’d started.

  Bentley stood. “A toast.”

  Brant glared. Bentley grinned at him over his glass and took a long swig, then yawned. “To a very happy early Thanksgiving.”

  “Hear, hear!” Brant tossed his glass back, stood, offered his hand, and mentally calculated how long it would take to get Nikki back to his room. At least six minutes. Give or take one minute if they had to wait for the elevator. Then again, he could strip her naked once they were safely inside the elevator.

  Everyone stood.

  “You forgot part of the date,” Nikki whispered in his ear.

  He turned to her, frowning. “I did?”

  “Walk me home and find out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  What she wouldn’t give to be able to read minds. To be able to figure out what Brant was thinking right that moment. He’d been silent all the way to her apartment, and the silence felt somehow darker, tenser, the minute he stepped foot inside her living room and closed the door quietly behind him.

  “Home sweet home.” She spread her arms wide. “Also, you should probably make a noise, Brant. I can’t see you, so when you don’t speak I can only assume you’ve either left to dig through all of my things or you’re staring, and both are creepy.”

  Brant was still quiet.

  She reached out then jerked back. He was a muscled blur standing right in front of her; the darkness of his suit blended with the darkened room.

  “Brant?”

  “This,” he said, his voice hoarse, angry-sounding, “is where you live?”

  Shame hit her so violently that she stumbled backward a bit as tears stung her eyes. Stupid! She hadn’t even thought to clean up. She knew there were at least four dishes piled up inside the sink from earlier that week, and she knew firsthand from Cole that nothing in her apartment matched.

  It was tidy. Probably smaller than Brant’s closet, and most likely reminded him of a first-grader’s classroom more than a grown woman’s apartment. The red blur of throw pillows caught her attention right next to the bright purple throw blanket that she knew was placed between the two of them.

  What was she supposed to say? Or do?

  “Don’t give me that look,” he whispered. “Just answer the question. This—this place is where you’ve been living for four fucking years?”