by Julia London
“Oh yeah? What should you have been looking for?”
“I’m still not sure,” he said thoughtfully. He picked up a strand of her hair and rubbed it between two fingers.
Who was sure? It had always seemed to her that you could never know if someone was right for you until you’d spent a lot of time figuring them out. She didn’t know what she should be looking for, either. She wondered about him and the upbringing he’d had. “Is it just you and your mom? No siblings?”
“No siblings.”
She traced a line over his brow. “What happened to your dad?”
Brennan’s smile instantly disappeared.
“Sorry.” Mia took his hand before he could drift away. “I didn’t know it was a sore subject.”
“I didn’t say it was a sore subject.”
“You didn’t have to. Your look says it all. You don’t have to talk about it.”
He sighed again and sagged back against the couch. “It doesn’t really matter anyway.”
“How can you say that? It matters to me,” she said. Brennan gave her a dubious look. “What? I’m curious, too,” she said. “I’m starting to come around to you, Brennan Yates. I want to know what makes you tick. Or doesn’t make you tick. In my case, I literally wear what makes me tick on my sleeve.” She smiled. “You’re a little harder to figure out.”
“Really?” he asked curiously.
“Really. And I would like to know more about you. I mean, I’m here, right?”
“Okay,” he said, sounding a bit reluctant. “Here it is—my dad left before I could walk. Dan Yates was my stepfather.”
“Okay.” That wasn’t a unique story; half the people she knew had divorced parents. “Is that all?”
“No, it’s not all. Danny Yates was a good man. He adopted me and raised me like I was his son. He was a good father to me. Unfortunately, he died of cancer a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. “Thank you. As for my real dad? All that time, I thought he was dead. My mother always told me he just left one day and never came back. No explanation, no contact. When I was a little kid, I couldn’t figure out where he would have gone. I made up these great stories about him. Just ask Chance—” He winced. Then he stood up and walked to the bar.
“Who is Chance?” Mia asked.
“An old friend,” he said. “I told my friends that my dad died in the war, or he died in a skydiving accident. I invented all kinds of tales about him because I just knew he had to be dead or he would have come to see me, right? Who doesn’t want to see his own kid?” He turned around to face her. “But when I was fourteen, I found out he’d been living a couple of miles from me all along.”
Mia’s heart twinged; she gasped. “No way! Why? I mean, how? That must have been devastating.”
“It was,” he agreed, and looked down again, his jaw clenched.
“Did you ask him why?”
“No. I couldn’t. The only reason I found out about him at all was because he’d died.”
Mia stared at him. “Oh my God,” she whispered. The story felt earth-shattering to her; she couldn’t imagine being without her father, her biggest champion. She couldn’t imagine losing him at an early age, either, and wondered how Brennan had survived it. The questions he must have had, the shock he must have felt. “But your mother—”
“Yeah, my mother,” Brennan said flatly. “I don’t know, she was a good mom. She’s had her own colorful life, and she’s quirky, and God knows she can spend a dollar—but she loved me and she did the best she could for me. Except that,” he said wearily, and moved back to the couch to sit beside her once more. “For some reason, she allowed me to think my dad was dead, even when she knew otherwise.”
“But why?” Mia asked. “What could she possibly—”
“I don’t know,” he said, interrupting her before she could bury him in questions. He took her hand into his, stroked her palm. “It’s not worth the aggravation now. I can’t change it—it is what it is.”
Mia gaped at him. “You must have been so angry with her. With him.”
Brennan shook his head. “I got over being mad at Mom. For the most part, anyway.” He picked up his wine glass and drank, then stared out the window for a very long moment. “I guess I never really got over the fact that my father knew where I was and stayed away. And I never got to ask him why.”
It was amazing to Mia how much suffering there was in the world. She was blessed, truly blessed. If the only thing she had to worry about was one horrible summer, she should be ecstatic.
“So there you have it,” Brennan said and glanced away. “It’s complicated. I’d rather not dwell on it.”
The mood had definitely changed, and Mia was suddenly desperate to right the listing ship. She didn’t know what to say to him about his tragedy, and it was a tragedy. “Well . . . I guess this just goes to show that money can’t buy happiness, huh?”
That brought Brennan’s attention back to her. He arched a brow with amusement. “I tell you that sad tale, and that’s all you’ve got? A cliché?”
She smiled. “You don’t like it? How about time heals all wounds?”
Brennan laughed. He took the wine glass from her hand and put it aside.
“Wait . . . is there anything else about you I should know?” she asked as he slipped his hand behind her nape.
“Like what?” he asked, his gaze on her mouth.
“I don’t know. Maybe you have a secret desire to be a gardener,” she said, and pulled the cap off his head, tossing it aside. “Or wait, maybe that soundtrack you’re writing is the story of your life.” She pushed her fingers through his shaggy hair.
He shifted, pressing her onto her back on the couch. “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll write the music for the story of my life, and you do the set design. I know it would be very colorful and off kilter.”
Mia laughed as he kissed her neck. “I can see it already. Very futuristic with lots of neon lights and spandex.”
“That sounds perfect,” he muttered, and kissed her languidly. He lifted his head.
His eyes were deep pools of blue. Two tiny oceans staring back at her. How had she ever thought him repulsive? Right now, he was the sexiest man she’d ever known.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“That I like you, Brennan Yates.”
“I like you, too, Mia Lassiter. More than I want to.”
“So, would you agree that opposites attract?”
He groaned and kissed her again to silence her clichés. He kissed her much more passionately, tightening his embrace and crushing her to him as if he were afraid she would flutter away.
Desire quickly enveloped Mia and pushed any other thoughts about him and his screwed-up parents from her mind. His touch was pleasurably tormenting, leaving her panting for more. There was something about his reverence of her that jolted her into hyperawareness; her skin sizzled when he touched her, her body shivered where he kissed her. She clung to him, pressing against his body, her desire for him now as deep and fervent as her dislike of him had been only days ago. He groaned with want as he kissed her, his pleasure apparently as stark as her own, and Mia frantically needed to have every inch of him on every inch of her.
He nipped at her lips and swirled his tongue around hers, and Mia eagerly met his kisses as she explored the hard planes and stiff curves of him. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She stroked his bristled cheek and slid her hand down to his hips.
Brennan suddenly lifted off of her and stood up. Before Mia could move, he swept her up and twirled her around, depositing her on the bed, and bracing his arms on either side of her, he dipped down to kiss the hollow of her throat.
She pressed her hand against his chest, could feel the strength of his body and the heat in his skin, the rhythm of his heart. But that tingling she felt was her melting, giving into the craving for sex with this man. Her heart was hammering in
her chest, her thoughts racing around the sensations of being touched and desired, and Mia took his head between her hands and opened her eyes.
He was gazing directly at her, his eyes dark and blue. He brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. “This is how it should always be,” he said.
She knew exactly what he meant—every encounter should be this intense, this full of need.
He nipped at her earlobe. “What do you want me to do to you?” he whispered into her ear.
“Everything.”
Brennan groaned again. He moved his hand down her body and between her legs. Mia sighed with contentment and lifted up to kiss him; her hands slid over the corded muscles of his back and shoulders, and all she could think was that she wanted him to make love to her now. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this desirable. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this intense lust. She wanted to feel him inside her, that white-hot, searing feeling of unity.
Brennan was a master at exploring her body with his hands and his mouth. She was still kissing him, yet somehow, her clothes came off, as did his. She slid her hands over his body, but his kisses were blistering, making it impossible to think. She was still desperately wanting him, but he took his time to enter her, moving so languidly, so unhurriedly, that she thought she would cry out with the torment of anticipation.
Her desire was urgent and imperative, and Mia wrapped her arms around him, pressed against him, urging him to move faster. Brennan understood it; he continued his gentle assault on all her senses, his hands and his mouth arousing her every place they touched, as he rocked inside her, pushing her along a building wave of pleasure. His fingers danced about the hardened core of her, his body deep in hers, until she couldn’t bear it another moment and cried out with release.
Brennan thrust into her with his own soft roar of completion, then collapsed alongside of her on the bed, his breath fast and furious.
Mia was speechless. She couldn’t even open her eyes; her heart was still lingering where they’d just been.
Brennan brought her back to the land of the living with a soft kiss, then touched his fingers to her lips.
She opened her eyes. “That was incredible,” she said.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and kissed her again.
“I think you ought to write a song about this,” she said, and brushed his hair from his face.
“I’ll start right now.” He hummed, the sound of his voice low and deep. Mia could feel the reverberation in her skin, and it sent another little shiver of delicious sparkle up her spine.
“Promise me you’ll never hum that to anyone else,” she said solemnly when he stopped. “That’s my song.”
Brennan grinned. “Come here, come closer,” he said, and gathered her into his embrace and rested his chin against her head.
They lay that way, contented to be together like this . . . until the phone rang.
Brennan rolled over and picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said, and rubbed his face with his hands. “Great. Thanks.” He hung up the receiver and rolled back into her. “Hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
He chuckled and stood up, his body magnificent in the low light of sunset that filtered in through the windows of their room. He walked into the bathroom, and a moment later, Mia heard water running.
She sat up, pushed both hands through her hair. Brennan was right. This is how it should always be.
Eighteen
Brennan awoke to the sound of birds chirping. He saw the French doors were opened onto the balcony, and ominous-looking clouds had rolled in. He rolled over onto his back and looked around. Mia was sitting in a chair, her feet tucked up under her, her sketchbook in her lap. She was wearing his shirt but nothing else, her hair a glorious mess of tangles. She smiled.
“What are you doing?” he said, and threw the covers back. “Come back to bed.”
She turned the sketchbook around to show him a pencil drawing of him in bed, one arm over his face, the sheets bunched up around him. She’d even sketched in the French doors and balcony, and the hills beyond. She’d sketched the painting that hung above the bed. But instead of a painting of an Italian villa, Mia had sketched in the mural she’d done at his mother’s house.
He came up on one elbow. “A souvenir?”
“Sort of.” She stood up, walked over to the bed, and flopped down onto her belly with her sketchbook in hand. He caressed her back and her bare hip. Three times they’d made love last night. He felt like a fucking stallion.
He looked at her sketch, laughing at the small details he found in it—a guitar on the couch. An easel on the balcony. She had sketched in a perfect life for the two of them after a perfect night.
They had just ordered breakfast when his phone rang. He looked at the display; it was Phil. “I’m going to take this, if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Sure. I’m going to grab a shower.” She disappeared into the bathroom, stretching her arms high above her.
“Hey, glad I caught you,” Phil said when Brennan answered. “So Kate Resnick took a look at your notes,” he said, jumping right into it. “She wants to meet. She loves the ideas, loves the direction you’re going, but she wants to talk about some storyboarding around it. When can you get to LA?”
Brennan looked at the closed door of the bathroom, then stood up and put his back to it. “I told you—not now.”
“Listen, Everett. This thing is on a fast track. We don’t have weeks to wait for you to get your shit together. Just fly out this week, let’s have a sit down, then you can fly back to wherever you are and contemplate your navel some more, okay?”
“If I fly out to LA, everyone is going to know it, and then it’s game on,” Brennan said. “I need until the end of the month.”
“What if it’s someplace else? What if I can convince her to meet up in someplace like Topeka? Will you come?”
Brennan considered it. This was something he really wanted to do and didn’t want to lose the opportunity because he was enjoying being anonymous for a time. “Yeah,” he said. “If you can get her to meet somewhere no one is going to see me, I’ll make it happen.”
“Great. Fantastic. I’ll be in touch,” Phil said, and clicked off.
So did Brennan. He turned back to the room, but almost jumped with alarm when he saw Mia standing there, wrapped in a towel, drying her hair with another towel. She smiled. “You look guilty.”
“I’m always up to something.”
Mia laughed and turned back to the bathroom.
He was guilty, all right. He hadn’t told her who he was. He’d thought about it—last night, during the night, they’d talked about everything. She’d told him about her longing to be an artist and how painful it was to know that she might never realize her dream. “I always thought it would be easy,” she said. “Just get up and paint, right? But it’s not easy at all.” She’d told him about high school, and how, after years of being teased, she went to the extreme and tried to be as different as she could. “It worked, too. No one liked me by the time I was done.”
He’d laughed with her, sympathized with her. He’d liked listening to her talk, and the stories she told. He hadn’t said much in return, and she didn’t ask probing questions. He guessed that the truth about his father had been enough for her for now.
But not for him. Brennan was increasingly aware that while he hadn’t actually lied to her, he’d left out some significant details. He puzzled over why he was holding back. He’d found a comfort level with Mia that he hadn’t felt with another person in years. He was at ease with her. He loved her sense of humor, and he loved the way she felt in his arms. But he was deathly afraid of how the truth would affect her, how it had the potential to change her somehow.
Even more frightening was how it would change him, make him revert to the way he’d lived the last fifteen years.
He didn’t tell her.
They returned to East Beach like a pair of lovers. Brennan saw Mia every day as the
work week started. They’d walk down to the bluff and have lunch, or she’d join him in the kitchen at the end of the workday for a drink.
But in between those moments, he would hear her laughing or talking with Adonis.
In the middle of the week, she invited him to her apartment.
Brennan looked up from the salad he was making. “Tonight?”
“Tonight,” she said.
“You’re going to let me in, right?”
“Maybe, if you play your cards right,” she said, her honey eyes twinkling with mirth. She was wearing the paint-spattered overalls, the bib of which looked as if she’d embroidered it, and high-top sneakers. She’d wrapped her hair in some sort of turban thing, and she was covered with a layer of dust. “But first, I have to know. Are you okay with tiny apartments? And a handle flush on the toilet?”
“Heated seat?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Lucky for you that I love tiny apartments with cold toilet seats. In fact, that’s the only kind of apartment I will visit.”
She laughed. “I’m going to cook for you, too,” she said.
“Now I’m excited.”
“Don’t be. I’m not a very good cook. But I can bake chicken and toss a salad as well as the next guy.”
“I can’t wait,” he said. He meant it.
“Can’t wait for what?”
Brennan was startled by the appearance of his mother walking into the kitchen, bags of purchases in her hand. “You’re home early,” he said, and tried to convey a warning to his mother in his gaze. “I thought you’d be gone another week.”
“I didn’t find the shopping to my liking,” she said, and smiled at Mia. “Can’t wait for what?” she repeated.
“Mia is going to feed me tonight since my own mother won’t.”
His mother snorted and put down her purchases. “You’re a grown man, Brennan Everett,” she said. “I would hope you could feed yourself by now.” She smiled broadly at Mia. “Is it just my son who is so disabled and unable to feed himself, or did you invite Jesse, too?” she asked as she headed for the wine cooler.