by Grant, Pippa
Pretty soon, at least two of them will be old enough to work here part-time, and I can’t wait. Our other help left us for college, so it’s mostly been Dad, me, and our night and weekend people.
Between the kids and the early dinner crowd, I’m busy nonstop for the next few hours.
Max stays the whole time, taking refills on his tea and playing on his phone after he’s done with his dinner, making my body painfully aware that he’s hanging out without having to do a thing beyond breathing.
No one from the team joins him.
No teammates. No training staff. No mascots.
Just Max.
All alone.
Occasionally answering questions and being friendly with the locals, always ignoring me.
But still hanging out.
Looking lonely and a little out of place.
He’s still on the same stool when the dinner crowd thins out. I don’t know if he’s been listening in as I catch up with my friends and neighbors about who took a trip where and who’s having surgery next week and who’s going to be grandparents soon, but he hasn’t moved.
“Dessert?” I ask him as I cruise past him behind the bar with a tray full of dirty dishes. “Sugar rush in a bowl? Dad made homemade cinnamon ice cream to go with the apple pie. I can slap a slice of cheddar on it and call it second dinner. Protein and calcium, right?”
“Where’d you get all the paintings in your house?”
“Hold on. I need to catch this tray before I drop it. Are you talking to me? Are we having a conversation?”
He gives me a look that he never gives anyone else. The one that says don’t be cute, you’re annoying me.
And it’s so normal that I smile. If he can be annoyed by me, then he’s probably also suppressing being turned on by me.
At least, that’s the theory I’ve been working on since he keeps catching himself kissing me—and more—all over town.
I slide the tray up on the bar and lean my forearms next to it. “I did them.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“And these?” He hooks a thumb toward the far wall.
“Half of them. Pop’s Aunt Thelma did the faded seascapes and pirate ships. I did the rest, the ones with bright colors.”
“Even the ones with people?”
“Especially the ones with people,” Dad calls from the kitchen. “She has a gift.”
I wave a hand. “Bah. I have fun and I get to make Shipwreck a little more colorful.”
“Pretty sure that’s what you have that bird for.” Max’s gaze hasn’t wavered off me, and it’s making me warmer than hefting around trays full of food all night.
And I don’t want to talk about me.
I want to talk about him. “What’s with the lone wolf routine tonight? The guys ditch you? Or should I be very, very cautious when entering my car and my house after my shift? Are you Cooper’s lookout man again? Is my ketchup getting replaced with hot sauce? Are my sheets getting swapped out for sandpaper? Will my car look like a pirate ship when I get home?”
“Cooper’s having a sleepover.”
“Ew.”
He laughs, and teenage Tillie Jean makes moon-eyes at the sexy sound.
I have it bad.
I have it so, so bad.
“What about Trevor and Robinson?”
“Shopping.”
“Grocery shopping?”
“Christmas shopping. Robinson’s sister’s into unicorns, and—”
I put a finger to his lips. “Say no more if you want to live,” I whisper.
You don’t say unicorn in Shipwreck. It’s against the rules ever since Sarcasm started having a unicorn festival the same week that we do our pirate festival.
And I’m doing my best to keep thinking about Sarcasm and Shipwreck and our town rivalries. If I don’t think about something other than Max holding my gaze while I keep my finger touching his soft lips and the scratchy scruff around his mouth, I’ll start thinking about what happened in the garden the other night, and then I’ll want to do it again.
I keep trying to convince myself that a guy who’ll tell me he’s not good for me really isn’t good for me, because I want a man who loves himself first and foremost and doesn’t need me to save him, but there’s something about Max that gets under my skin.
He makes me question why I’m on this earth if not to help my fellow human beings.
He’s a fellow human being.
He clearly has some issues he needs to work through.
And he’s here tonight. Alone. Watching me work my shift like he has nothing better to do.
Which means he’s either a stalker, or he’s a guy who doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants.
Or possibly he needed a change of scenery and felt comfortable enough to take it here.
Gah.
I need to get out of my own head.
“Max got something on his face, TJ?” Dad asks.
I straighten and jerk my hand back, then rub it over my apron like that can remove the feel of him off my skin. “He said the u-word,” I stage-whisper.
Dad lifts his brows like I’ve lost my marbles.
I jerk my head at the corner table, where Nana is still eating banana pudding with Aunt Glory, then mouth unicorn to Dad.
“Oo-ee-oh?” he asks like he can’t read lips.
Max coughs one of those I’m not going to get caught laughing coughs, which makes him even more irresistible.
Dad grins. “You looking for artwork, Max? Tillie Jean can paint about anything, and Cooper mentioned you spend time in galleries in the city sometimes. Maybe she can make you something similar to things you like.”
“Dad. I don’t forge art.”
“No, honey, you improve it. Whoops. Your mom’s calling. I think I was supposed to send her a pork chop an hour ago.”
He disappears into the kitchen again as two late stragglers push through the door. “Still got pie, Tillie Jean?” my cousin Ray asks. He’s nineteen and seriously in love with Georgia’s little brother, Jacob, who’s completely clueless about Ray’s affections.
Georgia and I can’t decide if he’s actually clueless, or if he plays clueless since he doesn’t want to ruin a good friendship, but I lean toward clueless.
This could go either way for poor Ray if he ever tells Jacob how he feels, and it makes me nervous for him too.
“Just one piece left,” I tell him.
“We can share,” Jacob says. “I mean, if that’s cool with you, Ray?”
Seriously, I have no idea how he doesn’t catch on, but he seems to entirely miss the googoo eyes Ray makes at the suggestion, which makes me cringe.
Poor Ray.
But he’s lit up brighter than the Christmas wreaths hanging up and down Blackbeard Avenue. “Yeah. Cool. I mean, if it’s good with you, it’s good with me. It’s always good with me.”
“Cinnamon ice cream?” I ask them.
“No!” Ray barks. “Jacob’s allergic. Don’t kill him. Jesus, Tillie Jean.”
Max slides a look my way that makes me wonder if he knows that there are two full pies in the kitchen and that I’m very well aware of Jacob’s cinnamon allergy. I grin at him.
He looks back at the two young men, then shakes his head at me. “Trouble Jean,” he mutters.
“It’s the pirate blood. Can’t help myself.”
It only takes me a minute to get the dirty dishes back to the kitchen and emerge with Ray’s pie, but Max is pulling on his coat when I get back.
Disappointment washes over me harder than a surprise spring rain.
“Beauty rest time?” I ask him as I step out from behind the bar with the pie.
“Something like that.”
“Is it like, minus seventy-five degrees outside? You’re wearing a coat.”
“Feeling chilly today.”
“Might want to check your temperature.”
“Okay, sis.”
He doesn’t ask how late I’m wor
king or what I’m doing later or if he can stop by and see my paintings again.
I don’t offer any of the same. “Careful getting home. The goats get frisky with the full moon.”
“They really do,” Ray agrees. “One stood in the middle of the road yelling at all the cars half the day today down by the inn.”
Dad pops out of the kitchen. “Taking off, Max? Travel safe. I hear the Caymans are amazing this time of year.”
I look between the two men, my stomach dropping harder than it has any right to. “You’re traveling for the holidays?” I ask Max.
My voice doesn’t wobble. Nope. No way.
That’s all a figment of my imagination.
He nods.
No eye contact.
It’s all zip-up-the-windbreaker-and-don’t-say-a-word.
“Well. Have fun. Get a tan for the rest of us.”
I’m being ridiculous.
He’s been here all of—what? Six weeks?
And I’m acting like he would’ve been living in that house next door forever.
Of course he won’t. He reports to spring training mid-February, just like Cooper does every year.
But I don’t know if he’ll be back next off-season.
Or who’d move into the house next door for the winter.
Or if Uncle Homer’s kids would sell the house to someone in the meantime.
Max lifts his fathomless brown eyes to mine. “Thanks for dinner.”
And then he’s gone.
“Really nice that Cooper’s helping him out this year, isn’t it?” Dad says as the door jingles shut behind Max.
“Yeah,” I murmur absently.
Ray laughs too loudly at something Jacob says, and Nana and Aunt Glory shoot him indulgent grins.
The entire town is pulling for poor Ray, even without knowing what Jacob wants.
Is that what I’m doing with Max?
Am I making it up that he’s into me?
Or is he into me and resisting it for some unknown reason like everyone hopes Jacob is?
“You wanna take off early, hon?” Dad asks behind me. “Been here all day. I can clean up the last few dishes.”
I should tell him no.
That I’ve got this, and he should head home early.
But he knows what he’s doing.
I know what he’s doing.
And I can send him home early tomorrow.
I’m untying my waist apron before I think better of it. “You know what? Yeah. I’m tired. Thank you.”
He squeezes me in a one-armed hug as I make my way past him to grab my coat out of the back.
I don’t stop to think about what the hug means.
Dad hugs me all the time. I hug him all the time. Mom, Cooper, and Grady too.
We’re huggers.
Just because I think my father knows what I’m about to do doesn’t mean this hug suddenly has meaning.
But if it does, I’m glad to know my dad’s in my corner.
21
Max
I’ve barely stripped out of my T-shirt on my way to bed when someone knocks on my door.
Ignoring it is an easy option.
But it’s my back door.
Someone who doesn’t want to be seen by the neighbors.
“Don’t answer it,” I tell my reflection in the ornate mirror over the bed.
And then I ignore myself and pad through the house to the kitchen, barefoot, in just my jeans, and answer it, letting in a blast of cold air around a woman whose dark hair and pale skin is lit by the light of the full moon, shining like a candle in the dead of winter.
Tillie Jean opens her mouth, drops her eyes, and sucks in a breath. Her tongue darts out to swipe over her lower lip, and my cock goes straight back to the garden the other night.
But then she shakes her head and scowls at my face. “You’re leaving?”
Tell her to go away, a sinister little voice in the back of my head orders.
I ignore that too and step aside so she can come in. “Holidays suck. The beach doesn’t.”
“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”
“I’m not supposed to say anything to you.” Especially not I’m leaving because I can’t handle the temptation of you next door. Or if I don’t go, I’ll accept your family’s invitation to Christmas, and then I’ll start to get ideas that I cannot afford to have.
Or Yeah, I’m leaving, but I can’t wait to get back, since you aren’t at the beach.
Her gaze drops to my pecs again as she stops in the middle of my small kitchen. “You’re a dick, you know that? It’s all I want to kiss you one night and you’re a problem the next. Decide, Max. Pick one. We can be friends. We can screw around and have fun. Or you can be a dick. But you don’t get to waffle.”
“You’re—”
“I swear to Thorny Rock’s ghost, if you say Cooper’s sister, I’m going to beat you with that banana on your counter.”
I swallow the words Cooper’s sister, take in her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes and rigid posture, and remind myself that this is why I don’t do relationships.
One-night stands on the road?
Yep.
Hook-ups at the bar that end with me getting a hotel room for the night instead of taking a woman back to my place?
That too.
Relationships that last more than twenty-four hours?
No.
But Tillie Jean’s under my skin. She’s a part of my life whether I like it or not, but unlike anyone else’s sisters or female friends, she gets to me.
I always thought it was because she has no idea how lucky she is to have such a great family, that she treated them like crap and took them for granted, except I was wrong.
She doesn’t just prank Cooper. She drives up the mountain and drops off his favorite soup the one day a week that Mr. Rock makes it, and she smiles when he pranks her back. She doesn’t just make jokes about Grady’s goat. She also slips the animal treats and texts her brother funny baker memes. She hugs her grandparents. She has Sunday lunch with her parents every week and stays after to play board games even when her brothers don’t. She tells her friends when they walk out of the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to their shoes and she slows down to run at the back of the pack, offering encouragement and company to the slowpokes during local 5k races. She pays attention to what’s going on around her. She listens. She cares.
She knows who she is. She knows where she fits.
She doesn’t irritate me because she doesn’t appreciate what she has.
She irritates me because she has everything I never did.
And right now, she’s standing in my kitchen, breasts rising and falling under her Crusty Nut T-shirt and puffy coat, her breath quick, glaring at me since to her, apparently I’m a friend.
The kind who’s supposed to mention when I’ll be gone so she doesn’t worry.
Or maybe the kind who’s supposed to mention when I’ll be gone since she’ll miss me.
I can’t offer her any of that in return. I don’t know how and the idea of someone expecting that of me ramps up my blood pressure and sends my anxiety into overdrive.
But I also can’t stop myself from what I’m about to do next.
“Well?” she says. “What are we?”
I take one step toward her.
Then another.
She doesn’t back away, but instead flares her shoulders back, lifts her face to watch me, and widens her stance like she’s getting ready for me to step between her legs.
Fuck.
How’s a guy supposed to resist this?
“We’re fucking complicated,” I tell her.
She loops one arm around my neck. “I can live with that.”
And then she’s up on tiptoe, kissing me, wrapping one leg around my hips, thrusting her tongue into my mouth and her fingers into my hair.
I don’t know why she keeps coming back, but thank fuck she does.
I push her coat off her shoulders and tug her
shirt out of her jeans so I can feel the hot, soft skin of her belly and sides.
More.
More Tillie Jean.
More skin.
More glorious breasts, and yes, more lace.
The door’s locked. The light’s low. No one knows she’s here.
So you’re damn right I’m pulling out of the kiss to unbutton her shirt and find out what color lace she’s wearing tonight.
“Pink,” I groan. “Fucking pink.”
With black ribbons, but I can’t force that many syllables out of my mouth.
She starts to talk, but stops with a gasp when I lick the line of her cleavage down to the rough material holding them in place.
I love breasts.
I love breasts in lace.
I love women gasping my name when I lick their breasts in lace.
She fumbles with yanking her shirt all the way off, then grips my head and holds me to her chest while I lick and suck and nibble my way around the edges of her bra. My thumbs are teasing her hard nipples, my dick so hard it could knock a fastball out of the park, and it’s not enough.
I want more Tillie Jean.
I want all of Tillie Jean.
My fingers slide around her back and flick her bra clasp open, and her nipples peek out from behind the edge of the lace as the fabric slips down her arms.
“Oh, god, Max,” she gasps as I suck one sweet nipple into my mouth, rolling my tongue around the tight nub.
Fuck, I love breasts.
And she has a glorious pair.
She grips my hair hard. “Need—closer. Touch me.”
I didn’t know I was the following instructions type until my hand instinctively goes between her legs to cradle her pussy. Her jeans are soaked, and the scent of her arousal tickles my nose, reminding me what else I love on a woman.
“Off,” I order as I slide my mouth to suck on her other nipple.
She yanks at her button. I push her jeans down over her hips, and yes.
Pink lace panties.
No, a pink lace thong. With little black bows on either side of the little patch of lace.
This woman is gonna kill me.
I lift her in one smooth motion and set her at the edge of the rickety old table under the lone window in the kitchen. Her eyes are midnight blue and hungry, her parted lips moist, her cheeks stained rose.