About That Night

by Beth Andrews

  “So you like living here.”

  She tipped her head. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. I don’t dislike it. It’s just...it’s what I’m used to. This town, these people...they’re the only things I’ve ever known.”

  “You never went away to college?”

  “Never wanted to. But I am looking into taking culinary courses at The Art Institute of Pittsburgh.” She glanced down at her stomach. “At least, I was. I guess that’ll have to be put on hold for a while.”

  “Does that disappoint you?” he asked, setting his empty salad plate aside. “Having to wait?”

  “I’ve waited this long. What’s another year or two?”

  She took things in stride, he’d give her that. This pregnancy, soon becoming a mother. They were life-changing events—more so for her than for him, and she was handling it as if it was no big deal.

  It made him realize what an ass he’d been. Made him want to do better. Be better. Because his gut was now telling him that he didn’t need the proof they were waiting for—that this baby was, indeed, his.

  And there was one very important question he had to know the answer to.

  “Do you resent the baby?” he asked. “For messing up your plans?”

  * * *

  IVY WASN’T SURE, but there seemed to be more to Clinton’s question than mere curiosity. Almost as if he was asking if she resented him.

  “It’s not the baby’s fault,” she said, pushing aside a cherry tomato with her fork to get to an errant garbanzo bean. “So no, I don’t resent him. Or her.”

  She refused to treat her child the way her mother had treated her. Refused to blame an innocent baby for her mistakes. The choices she made.

  The waitress came back. “So sorry things are a bit slow tonight,” she said as she cleared their plates. “We’re short-staffed.”

  “It’s no problem,” Ivy assured her. Lord knew she’d put up with her fair share of miserable customers blaming her for problems in the kitchen or front of house—she’d heard complaints about everything from the food to dirty dishes to bad lighting. “We’re in no hurry.”

  The waitress sent her an appreciative smile. “Thanks. I’ll check on your meals.”

  “I hadn’t realized O’Riley’s did this much business,” Clinton said.

  “Me, neither. Though I’d heard the food was really good.”

  His gaze narrowed slightly. “I thought you’d been here before.”

  Oops. Busted. She fought to hide a grin. “I never said that. I said I liked it here.”

  And she did. It wasn’t as classy as King’s Crossing, but it had a welcoming feel. She imagined that it shifted into a neighborhood bar as the night went on, but for now it was packed with families and couples and groups at the tables, a few twenty-somethings and an older gentleman at the bar.

  “So you did pick this place to make me miserable,” he said, but he didn’t look angry. More like impressed that she’d tricked him so neatly.

  She stirred the ice in her glass with her straw. “Miserable is such a strong word. Let’s just say I wanted to see how you and your brother interacted. I’ve always thought you could tell a lot about someone by how they behave around their family.”

  “And will I get a chance to put this theory into practice with you?”

  “Afraid not. Only child, remember?”

  “What about your mother?”

  She took her time choosing a roll from the basket between them. Broke it in half and buttered it. “She passed away two years ago,” she said, careful to keep any and all inflection from her tone.

  He reached out. Covered her free hand with his. “I’m sorry, Ivy.”

  She always hated when people gave her their condolences over Melba’s death. It wasn’t that she was heartless. It was just that she didn’t grieve her mother the way a daughter should.

  Then again, Melba hadn’t been the type of mother she should have been, either.

  Ivy figured they were even.

  She cleared her throat. Pulled away from his touch. “You and Kane look so much alike. I take it he’s your full brother?”

  Clinton studied her, and she wondered if he was going to let her get away with this blatant attempt at changing the subject. She’d witnessed firsthand how stubborn the man could be, but he merely took a roll for himself and leaned back in his chair. “Kane and I have the same mother and father, yes. But I consider all my brothers my full brothers.”

  She hid a smile. See? He was already revealing himself to her. She was glad he didn’t differentiate between his brothers, that he accepted them without the tag of half. “Somehow I just can’t imagine your mother raising someone like Kane.”

  “Our nanny did the bulk of the dirty work. Mom and Dad would show up for the occasional school recital or athletic event.”

  “Sounds lonely.”

  He shrugged. “Kane and I had each other. And when Dad married Rosalyn—my brother Oakes’s mother—it was better. She was a real hands-on mom, always inviting us to stay at their house, baking cookies, playing games with us.” He grinned. “The complete opposite of my mother. Which is probably part of the reason Mom hates her to this day. Then again, I suppose I’d hate the person my spouse cheated on me with and then left me for.”

  “That does seem like a good reason.”

  The waitress returned with their meals. Stuffed manicotti for Ivy and linguine with clam sauce for Clinton.

  Ivy shook parmesan cheese over her pasta. “But things didn’t work out between your father and Rosalyn, either?”

  “They would have except Rosalyn wouldn’t overlook Dad’s infidelities. Especially when he got Oakes’s barely legal-age nanny pregnant.”

  Ivy blinked. “I was right. Your life really is like the TV show Dallas.”

  He snorted. Twirled pasta onto his fork. “Not mine, but Dad lived the lifestyle for as long as he could. He told me once that Rosalyn was the only woman who kicked him to the curb. Every other time, the divorce was his decision. I think out of all his wives, she’s the only one he regrets losing.”

  “Hard to feel sorry for a serial cheater.”

  “True. Maybe he got what he deserved, having the woman he wanted and maybe even loved be the one who refused to have anything to do with him.”

  “I take it the nanny gave birth to brother number four?” Ivy asked.

  Clinton took a bite, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Zach. He’s a Marine, stationed in Iraq, the last I’ve heard. We’re not...close.”

  “That must be hard on you.”

  He frowned. “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s obvious your family is very important to you.” She sipped her water. “Just as it was obvious both at the engagement party and at your apartment that it’s important for you to take care of them. I overheard your conversation with your current stepmother,” she admitted.

  “Only current until the divorce goes through. She decided it was smarter to take what she was promised in her prenup than to fight for more.”

  Guess the blonde was smarter than she looked. “Is it a burden?” Ivy asked, having no point of reference for needy family members. Unable to imagine what it would be like to have a large family, to have so many people wanting your time and attention, taking your focus so often. “People relying on you that much?”

  “It’s my job. After Dad left, my mom turned to me to vent, to be the go-between for her and my father, to be a shoulder to cry on. When Kane and I were teenagers, he rebelled in a big way. It was up to me to try to keep him under control. Then I started working for my father, and it was just a natural progression to be the one everyone turned to.”

  Ivy wondered who he turned to.

  It was a question she was still pondering almost two hours later when he walked her up the steep steps to her apartment. She hadn’t asked, of course, and she wouldn’t. It was too personal. Too close to the kind of question people who were in a relationship would ask. She knew how it worked. If she
asked, if she wondered about something that intimate, he’d feel the right to invade her privacy. He’d want her to open up to him.

  Yes, they’d had an enjoyable evening. And, okay, he’d been charming and funny, was intelligent and confident—all traits she admired. All traits she found incredibly attractive. But none of them meant anything. It was good, great even, that she found the father of her baby appealing. That he had qualities she wouldn’t mind her child having.

  But it didn’t mean she wanted to tell him every thought inside her head. Every feeling going through her. Every secret she’d ever kept.

  Secrets like how much she’d enjoyed herself. How she liked the feel of his hand on the small of her back. How she wished she could invite him in. Have him spend the night.

  And hadn’t those kinds of secrets already gotten her into enough trouble?

  She dug her key out of her bag, unlocked her door before facing him. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “It’s still early— What?” he asked with a smile when she laughed.

  “Cowboy, I can read you like a large-print book. You’re not coming in. I have things to do, and you are nowhere on that list.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Wash my hair. Feed my cat,” she said with an airy wave of her hand. “The usual.”

  “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” And she was just fine with that. “But yes, I have a cat, and Jasper gets extremely cranky when he’s not fed on time.” A lie, since her cat was nothing if not patient and good-natured. “So...good night.”

  “You could always invite me inside. For a quick drink.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s what got us into this mess in the first place. And I try really hard not to make the same mistake twice.”

  Clinton leaned one arm against the door above her head, inclined his body toward her. Classic man-on-the-make move. “Now, I wouldn’t say we’re in a mess.” He played with the ends of her hair, let his fingertips trail against her bare shoulder. She shivered and his gaze heated. “I like spending time with you, Ivy.”

  Crap. Did he have to say her name like that, all husky and entreating? It rubbed her resistance raw, like a blade sawing at a rope. “Most men like spending time with me, cowboy. All for the same reasons.”

  “You want me to think of you with those men,” he murmured, edging closer, so close his thigh brushed hers, his hip pressed against the curve of her belly. “You want me to get pissed off, maybe start a fight. Or say something idiotic and insulting, something brought on by jealousy, by the mere idea of another man touching you when all I want to do is put my hands on you myself. My mouth.”

  She brought her hands up to his chest. A mistake, she realized, as soon as she felt how warm, how solid he was. Any thought of pushing him away melted. “You are not coming in.”

  There. That had sounded firm. Commanding, even.

  He slid his hand up her arm, from her wrist to shoulder, then settled it under her jaw, his palm warm and wide, his fingers curving along the back of her neck. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” But it took her too long to work moisture back into her mouth. To force the word out.

  Damn him and the cocky grin that said he’d noticed her struggle.

  He slowly dragged her forward, tipping her head back. “Then I guess I’ll just have to do this here.”

  He didn’t swoop. Didn’t crush his mouth to hers. It was more of a gentle seduction, the way his lips moved over hers. He took his sweet time, and that’s exactly what the kiss was. Sweet. Warm. The kind of kiss that would lull her into forgetting why kissing this particular man was a bad idea.

  Her hands fluttered as if looking for purchase, and she slid them to his shoulders. Held on while he coaxed her mouth open. She was all sensation. The taste of him—coffee and the tang of dark chocolate from his dessert. The rough pad of his thumb caressing her jaw. The warmth of his body against hers. His scent, now familiar and comforting.

  Those sensations coalesced, like a wave building toward shore. It would be easy, so blessedly easy, to let them pull her under. To let go of her thoughts, to let down her guard.

  To give up, give in and drown in her attraction to him.

  Her lungs ached. Self-preservation kicked in as she struggled to focus. To breathe.

  She pushed him back a full step, breaking the kiss. The hold he had on her.

  They stared at each other. Her own shock and desire were mirrored in his eyes; their breathing was labored.

  He reached for her and, God help her, she swayed toward him, completely under his spell before snapping herself out of it.

  He curled his fingers. Slowly lowered his hand. “Ivy—”

  She gave him one quick shake of her head. And bolted inside as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels.

  Staring into the darkness of her apartment, her back pressed against the door, she felt for the door handle. Turned the lock and shut her eyes.

  Jasper meowed and butted his head against her calf. She picked him up, nuzzled him against her throat.

  And wondered what she was going to do now.

  * * *

  IT WASN’T SPYING, Gracie assured herself as she looked out her window into Andrew’s backyard. She was simply taking in the view from her bedroom. Which she was more than entitled to do anytime of the year, especially on a bright, sunny summer day.

  If she just happened to have her nose pressed against the glass and was leaving a ridiculously large smudge, well, that was her right, too.

  But honestly, it was hard to look away when Andrew and Kennedy were making out—making-out making out—right there on the deck for God and everyone to see. Including the neighbors, such as Gracie. Kennedy, in a black bikini, her red hair like a beacon against her pale, pale skin, Andrew with his shirt off.

  Gracie’s stomach turned. Jeez. Take it inside already.

  She wasn’t jealous. She sighed. Crossed her arms. Okay, so maybe there was a teeny, tiny bit of jealousy trying to work its way into her system. It stung, knowing that while Andrew had been with her, he’d really wanted to be with Kennedy.

  Mostly she was disgusted, both at their current display and that they didn’t care about Luke enough not to wait awhile before officially becoming a couple. God, it’d only been a week since Luke had discovered them together. The least they could have done was wait a month or so before rubbing their relationship in his face.

  Poor Luke. If he saw this, it would kill him. Something about that scenario niggled at her brain. She frowned. Luke...

  Oh, no!

  She turned, leaped for her phone on the bedside stand as someone knocked on her door—clear indication it wasn’t any of her brothers. “Come in,” she called, still hopeful she could catch Luke before he left his house.

  Too late. Luke was already following Molly into the room.

  “Luke’s here,” Molly, queen of the obvious, said, baby Carter on her hip.

  “Hey,” he said, giving Gracie a grin. The swelling around his eye had gone down considerably, enough that it no longer looked as if he was squinting all the time. The skin was still black, but fading, the outer edges of the bruise bleeding into blue, then gray. He lifted the basket of clothes in his hands. “Where do you want this?”

  “Luke offered to carry it up for me,” Molly said, wiggling her eyebrows at Gracie behind Luke’s back, then wiping drool from Carter’s chin. “Wasn’t that sweet?”

  Gracie blushed. Tossed her phone onto the bed. “Yes. It was very nice. Thank you,” she told him.

  And noticed her purple bra was there, right there, smack-dab on top of the pile.

  “I’ll take it,” she blurted out, rushing over to grab the basket from him. He held on for a moment, sent a sly glance at the bra, then back to her, the brow over his good eye raised as if he was teasing her. Or flirting with her, which was just too crazy a thought to contemplate. She tugged until he let go. “Thanks.”

/>   “Luke!” Caleb cried from the doorway, as if discovering gold in them thar hills. Still in his pajamas, his hair sticking up, his feet bare, he rushed into the room and tackled Luke’s legs. “Luke! Come see my LEGOs!”

  “Luke and Gracie have to go to work.” Molly laid her hand on Caleb’s head while Carter babbled and reached for his brother’s hair. The baby loved to pull hair. “He can look at your LEGOs another time.”

  “No,” Caleb grunted as he pulled on Luke’s hand. “Now. Come. On!”

  “Do you mind?” he asked Gracie. “We have a few minutes, right?”

  Did she mind getting him out of the room where he could possibly catch a glimpse of the two people who, just last week, had been his girlfriend and his best friend pawing at each other?

  “Nope. I don’t mind at all. Go right on ahead.”

  “Cute and good with kids?” Molly asked in a low murmur as Caleb dragged Luke away. “That boy is a keeper.”

  “We’re just friends,” she reminded her stepmother for what had to be the hundredth time. “Coworkers and friends.”

  Molly gave her a serene smile—the same one she bestowed upon Gracie’s dad whenever he tried to argue with her. The one that said “aren’t you cute, in your deluded little way?” “I realize things have changed since I was seventeen, but it seems to me there’s only one reason a boy spends several nights a week with a girl—two of those nights at her house surrounded by her six little brothers. And it’s not because he wants to be in the friend zone.”

  Just because she and Luke had hung out a few times—the first being the night he’d told her about Kennedy cheating on him—didn’t mean anything. Yes, she’d gone to his house twice, and okay, so he’d spent a few nights here, as well. All they did was watch movies or play with her brothers or just talk. Nothing romantic or even remotely date-like.

  Gracie glanced at the window, but all she saw from this distance was the roof of Andrew’s house and the endless blue sky. “Luke and his girlfriend just broke up last week. I doubt he’s looking for a replacement already.” And she was smart enough not to want to be his rebound. “Even if he did want another girlfriend, he wouldn’t be looking at me.”