Ouch. God, that would hurt being told something along those lines.
However, what Eva’s confessed to me is that long ago she wondered if she’d fallen out of love with him. Sherman annoyed her more than anything else. But she liked the life they’d built. Oh, how she had loved that part.
Again, I totally understand that.
I nod. “Of course, Eva. What can I do?”
She blinks and holds my shoulder. “Just make sure I don’t get sloppy drunk in front of him.” She’s still not calling Sherman by his name, which I understand, but acting this way in front of her child, even if he is an adult, makes me…I’m suddenly irritated at her. And I want to protect Joe from Eva’s unthinking remarks.
Joe visibly winces. I can’t imagine my parents divorcing. Well, my father passed away when I was seventeen and my mother never remarried. So I didn’t have hear my mum making requests to not get sloppy drunk in front of my father. What must that be like for Joe?
I want to hug him. But I know that’s a really bad idea.
“Sure.” I give Eva a smile and a wink, trying to make it look like she’s just kidding around. I do this for Joe more than anyone else.
Inside we go.
But through the threshold, Joe places his hand at the small of my back. Shivers of delight and desire radiate from his light touch. I’m so aware of my body, my breasts, my thighs as I walk, the apex of my legs, feeling warm and tingly. Why is Joe’s touch so…magical? Joe, my best friend’s youngest son.
Shit.
I swallow and smile at him over my shoulder, praying to god I give the appearance that I’m nonchalant and could care less that he keeps his fingertips right where they are. He’s guiding me through the living room, where neighbors call out to me in drunken welcome, to the kitchen, where somewhere along the way I lose track of Eva.
I’m shaking by the time we’re alone and near the granite counter. Eva’s a real estate agent, and she knows all the contractors, like my ex, and how to make a killing of a deal. Her house was, at one time, a lot like mine—a bungalow that wants to be a grown up split-level. But now, she has a mini-mansion. It’s the biggest house on our cul-de-sac but not only that, it has this gorgeous kitchen she hardly ever uses, complete with a Viking range, Subzero fridge, and this creamy granite counter that I’ve dreamed about having sex on. I don’t know why I have that fantasy. Maybe because it’s so clean and I know my own sheets have crayons and crumbs of Wheat Thins in them. Maybe a few wine stains too. God, I need to do laundry.
“You made all this food for my mom’s party?” Joe asks, pointing to the chafing pans.
I nod as he looks down at me.
Now, I see him in the light, the bright kitchen light. No one can look as damned good as he does. He has a two-day beard, showing bright golden whiskers. His eyes have a lot of gray in them. Like the sky after a prairie thunderstorm. God, his eyes pierce right into my heart. And he’s even bigger than I thought. Eva’s tall, about five inches taller than me—I’m maybe a teeny bit taller than average. And Shane and Sherman are both a little on the tall side too. But Joe’s six-and-a-half feet of muscle and man. I have no idea how Joe came to be the size he is.
Damned good genes.
And it’s a damned good idea to look away from him.
But it’s damned hard to when he’s smiling at me the way he is.
“Hey, little bro, you met Moira?” Shane breezes into the empty kitchen, somehow bringing with him enough energy to make the huge room seem crowded.
Joe stiffens and nods. “Yep.”
Shane wraps an arm around my waist and kisses me on the cheek. He’s never done this before. He’s only shaken my hand and acted as if he’d like nothing more than to correct my grammar.
I turn to look at Joe’s older brother with his arm still around me, pulling me close to his warm body, and I’m not sure why but I’m angry at his posture, at his closeness. I smell whiskey on him.
I’m not one for whiskey. But I want to lick his tongue and have a taste. I think the man regards me as white trash, but I’m that desperate to find my numb.
No, the monster internally shrieks. Don’t give in.
Right. I plan to never drink again. I never want to wake on the couch with my son, Jamie, crying, wondering if I’d died.
I never drank around my kids. Never drank when they were awake. Okay, sometimes for dinner I’d have a glass. And usually by the time they’re in bed at eight, I’d find my state of numb that kept me going when I wanted to curl in a ball and cry for days.
But, I’ll never do that to my son ever again. I probably shouldn’t feel ashamed I’m going to AA, but I am. However, I’ll suck it up for my children. I’ll slap a label on myself—sure, call me an alcoholic. Whatever. I will never drink again.
Oh, but the smell coming from Shane is tempting. And it makes me dislike him all the more.
Shane’s still got an arm around me, smiling at his taller brother. “She’s mom’s new pretty friend. It’s about time mom got a pretty friend, don’t you think?” Shane’s pulling me closer. My hands are under my bundt, as if that could take me away from the drunkard who I’d like to lick because I’d love to have a taste of whiskey.
Joe grunts. It’s an odd sound, and judging by the way he looks—his dark blond brows are furrowed, white parentheses lines around his mouth—he’s not happy his brother is here. I’m not either.
“It’s about time mom has a friend for those cougar fantasies everyone else has.”
Joe pushes Shane’s shoulder. “Shut up. You’re drunk.”
Joe’s shove was hard enough to make Shane take a few steps away, and I’m finally free from his hold, able to put the cake on the counter.
Shane’s just laughing. It’s a dry chuckle and makes me want to wince at the tone of it. “And why aren’t you, little bro? Why isn’t Moira? At this party, we need to get seriously drunk.” Shane smiles at me. “You missed it, Moira. My mom made the biggest scene. Your name is so pretty. Is it Irish? Are you Irish? I swear to god I can hear an Irish lilt to your tongue sometimes. My mom, in front of everyone, screamed at my dad when he answered his cell, asking if it was his whore who was calling. It just happened to be a dean from the University of Montana on the phone, something about a work conference. But my mom, gotta hand it to her, she was screaming, spittle everywhere. So let’s get drunk. All of us.”
“I should be with your mom,” I whisper as I look down at the silly bundt cake I made. It’s not enough for the thirty or forty people in Eva’s house. Why do I try so hard?
Shane wraps his arm around my waist again. “No, stay here in the kitchen. With us.”
“Jesus, Shane, get your hands off her.” Joe frowns.
Shane, with one hand, finds three shot glasses and from the huge stash of wines and liquors grips the whiskey. “Let’s play a drinking game. Moira, do you know any drinking games? Being Irish, I’m sure you do.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” I purr, turning and getting even closer to Shane. Smiling up at him, I’m terrified of what’s going to come out of my mouth, but I know I can’t stop it. The monster is already out and she’s growling for retaliation. God, I fucking hate drunk Irish jokes, even if I do fit the stereotype. “It’s a fun Irish game, all right. It’s called let’s get the privileged white boy drunk and cut off his balls. Ever heard of it before?”
Joe barks a loud laugh, while Shane rolls his eyes.
“I thought you’d be fun.” Shane pretends to pout, but his fingers are digging a tad deeper, trying to force me even closer to him.
“I am.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m a lot of fun.” I’m using my best sex-kitten voice.
Shane shakes his head. “Cutting off my balls…that can’t be much fun.”
I shrug. “Who knows. You might like it. Maybe you could sing soprano afterwards.”
Joe cracks a chuckle again.
Shane sighs. “Okay, I’ll quit being so handsy. Sorry.” He lifts his palms in mocking surr
ender. “I’ll quit hitting on you if you get drunk with me.”
“I’m not drinking tonight.”
“What’s with getting drunk, anyway?” Joe asks, getting closer to my other side, now that Shane’s backed up a tad, giving me distance. Joe leans against the counter, crossing his ankles, looking relaxed but there’s something about his eyes that tells me he’s on guard.
Shane shrugs and glances at me. “What else is there to do? Mom wants to kill Dad. Dad’s trying to stay clear of her, but comically keeps running into her. It’s like a less Southern, less literary August: Osage County moment. And everyone here is acting nice to Mom tonight, but tomorrow you know they’ll all be gossiping about how Mom lost her shit.”
“I’ll try to stop them from talking.”
Shane looks at me, something warm passing through his brown eyes. “You are really kind. My mom said as much about you, how out of the divorce and the humiliation she found a true friend in you.”
I look down at my sandal wedges, feeling heat in my cheeks. “She’s a good friend to me too.”
Shane pours a finger of whiskey into a shot glass. “For you, I hope she is.”
I swallow and glance up. One brother to my left, the other to my right. After what Shane’s just said I might like him a tad more than before. But he’s not getting any awards from me. Joe, however…crap, I need to stop thinking about him. Stop looking at him.
“I’ll go find your mother,” I say and with that try to leave.
“Moira,” Shane calls as I almost make it through the white swinging doors.
I turn and look at him, arching a brow.
“You sure you don’t want to get drunk tonight with my brother and me?”
“Who said I was drinking with you?” Joe frowns yet again. He’s adorable when he does that.
Shane looks at him. “You’re my bro. You’re supposed to join me when I’m miserable.”
I shake my head. “I’m not drinking.”
Shane pours two fingers in one glass and three in another. “That’s too bad. My mom told me you’re a wee bit of a party girl. At least with her. She told me about the graffiti the two of you crafted on the side of my dad’s Audi.”
I cringe and with that really leave the kitchen. God, Eva and I had gotten so drunk that night. It had been shortly after Sherman had left Eva, and we’d been drinking margaritas at her house, my kids were staying the night with their dad. I had merely mentioned something about grabbing some spray paint and designing a penis on Sherman’s car door. Mainly because Eva had been calling him a dick and that was the word of the night.
The thing is, Laramie, at least in this neighborhood, isn’t that big. And we knew where Sherman’s car was parked. She had a can of spray paint, something about needing it for real estate emergencies, and we set off on foot, snickering through the eight blocks to Sherman’s car. The cold should have sobered us. Something should have. But before I knew it, Eva had painted a giant, about four-feet long, two-feet wide, penis, complete with veins, on Sherman’s car, and we were running back to her house, laughing like hyenas.
Now, I’m humiliated I did something like that. I know I didn’t do the actual painting, but I didn’t stop Eva. I was her minion, complete with evil laughter.
I’m saying hi and other niceties to people who hardly smile at me on the street as I wander through the luau, looking for Eva. The people at the party include some neighbors, but are mostly Eva’s colleagues, as well as a few of Sherman’s. I know a couple of the construction guys and wave. They look at me in that way all men do now—like they’re thinking, I know you from your ex-husband and I’m going to tell him everything you do tonight.
Laramie isn’t my hometown. It’s Tony’s, my ex. Which always makes me feel like it’s the town against me. I moved here from a much smaller community, thinking, because of the university, it was cosmopolitan and beautiful. It is. Kind of. Well, the scenery here is gorgeous. But it’s a much more complex town than anything I’ve ever known before. I didn’t know about the subterfuge between friends, the cliques, the silliness that adults possess. I had this idea that it would be a Mecca of intellectuals. What’s odd is sometimes it is. But living in the neighborhood I do, I feel more like I’m the outsider in a really bad Real Housewives’ episode.
“Have you seen little Joseph?” Irene grabs me by my elbow, pulling me close to an open window, which I’m thankful for. Even with Eva’s air-conditioner running, it’s hot in her house. Well, maybe someone shouldn’t have opened the windows and rather let the air-conditioning do its thing. But that’s parties for you. Someone’s bound to run your energy bill high.
I nod and notice she’s eating my Vienna wieners. “Yep, I’ve never met him before.”
Irene is the only woman on the block who openly talks to me. She’s retired from working at the post office for more than forty years. Her husband has just retired too—he was a detective. They’re childless, but the way Irene stares at Jamie and Olivia, Liv, makes me wonder if she had wanted children. She also tells me she’ll babysit whenever I need it. She and I are a lot alike in that I don’t think she understands the cliques either. She just wants a friend, and I would be happy to be it. But since I’ve moved to the neighborhood, at the same time she’s retired, she takes these months-long trips to the UK, so I hardly ever see her.
“This the first time you’re meeting him, huh?” Irene’s brown eyes sparkle with her smile. “He’s turned into quite the handsome man, don’t you think?”
I know color flames my cheeks as I nod. “He’s a lady killer, all right.”
She laughs, and I like her sparkly blouse that jiggles as she chuckles. “Oh, Moira, you’re always so funny.”
I’m not, but she’s gracious, so I’ll take the compliment. “How was Scotland? That is where you traveled last, right?”
“It was. You have such a great memory.” She eats a wiener in one bite. “I loved it,” she says around her mouthful.
“See many men in kilts?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, utterly disappointing.”
“I’d bet. What do those Scots think when they don’t have their men in kilts? It’s what good tourists pay them for, right?”
She laughs again. “You’re hilarious.” Her eyes widen. “Joseph, come here, boy.” She waves enthusiastically.
I want to close my eyes. Actually, I want to hide. I can’t be close to Joe again. He’s just so…swoon-worthy. And too young. And too much my best friend’s youngest son.
I’m warm from the many people in the large front room. It’s a two-story masterpiece that I’m not sure how Eva had constructed. It has visible beams along the vaulted-ceiling and is washed in a rustic cream with navy blue details. There’s a nautical vibe to the place, making me feel relaxed and wishing for the sea. I’ve been to the ocean a few times, small-town, land-locked girl that I am. And I loved it. Eva is an amazing decorator and has captured its essence beautifully in this spacious room.
But it’s crowded with people I don’t know well. Usually, I’d drink to feel comfortable. I know that three glasses of wine in this kind of atmosphere can render me into a fun woman who many people love chatting with. I’m easy with the jokes and a couple years ago would have easily overlooked my husband running off with a woman to have sex on everyone’s coats stashed on a guest bed.
However, I’m sober now. And awake. And I hate how attracted I am to Joe, whose warmth I feel before his body’s presence. He places his fingertips at the small of my back again, like we’re a couple, like we do that kind of a thing. I should make space between us, but I can’t. I just can’t.
“Hi, Mrs. Carleton,” Joe greets Irene. “How are you tonight? Where’s your recently retired husband?”
Irene laughs like she does at my jokes. “Oh, that cranky old man didn’t want to come. But don’t tell your mother that. I said he was sick, but you know him. Never one for the crowds. And you can call me, Irene, now, Joseph. I think you’re old enough for that.”
&n
bsp; “Well, you can call me Joe then.”
Irene bats her hand against one of Joe’s seriously defined arms. God, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man like Joe before. Sure, my ex is in great shape. And he’s still very handsome—just don’t tell him that. But Joe—he’s so big, all rippling muscles, golden skin, buzz-cut short blond hair glinting in the dimmed party light. And so warm. Even though I’m hot in this room, I like his warmth penetrating into me.
“How fun,” Irene says.
Joe nods and leans his head down slightly. “Irene—that is fun to say.”
“Yes, Joe. Oh, that’s fun too.”
Joe smiles wider. I really like him for not patronizing a woman like Irene. I like that he’s playing nice, being sweet. Maybe he really is.
“Irene, do you mind if I steal Moira? My mom wants to see her.”
Irene laughs and playfully swats at Joe again. “Of course not. I’ll be here, talking to your mother’s ficus trees, since the rest of the people think I’m a tad odd.”
“They do not,” both Joe and I say in unison.
Then we look at each other, smiling. It was such a mistake to look up at him. His gray-blue eyes convey everything I’m thinking, how we both know the people in the room probably do think Irene is odd, how they probably do keep their distance, but she’s just a charming and wonderfully kind woman we’d both like to protect from that reality. However, she already knows. We know she knows. But we’d still like to shield her from the cattiness of others.
God, if I let myself, I could really like Joe.
I swallow and glance at Irene, where her smile is slightly altered, looking at me then to Joe, blinking.
“The two of you…oh, never mind.” She shakes her head and widens her grin. “I’m going to say goodnight, actually. Do tell your mom how much I appreciate being invited, and it was so nice to see you again, Joe.” She holds my hand. “So nice to see you too, Moira. To see the both of you. Together.”
Awake: Book 3 of the Wild Love Series Page 2