“Glad you’re finally admitting it. Forrest and I were taking bets on how much longer you were going to follow her around with your tail between your legs.” He chuckles.
“You guys are fucking assholes.”
Bowen rocks Molly, who is now snoozing in his arms. “Hey, language. There is a little girl present.”
“Sorry. But can you just be serious for a minute?” I feel like a pouting school kid.
“You really like her.” It’s not a question.
But I answer it anyway. “Yes. I do.”
“I didn’t think you two had spent much time together,” he points out.
“We’ve … gone on two dates so far. But, I’ve known her for years through Presley. We’ve talked. And of anyone, I think you’d understand that there is a connection you have with some people that is just unexplainable.”
My brother nods. “What’s the problem, then?”
“I’m not sure I know how to be with someone. Or how to introduce someone into my life when there are so many rules I have to follow to stay on the straight and narrow. How did you … how did you get over your shit?”
“I finally pulled my head out of my ass and realized that I could either keep living life as a sullen, dark asshole … or I could go get my girl. I could stop being afraid of what would happen and be with the woman I loved since the first time I laid eyes on her. You just have to get over the mental hurdle in your head that says the world is going to end if something bad happens between the two of you. Are you going to fight? Are there going to be tough days? Will money be tight, will you both be tired? Hell fucking yes. But that’s life, with or without her. And if she makes your world better, you best stop being an idiot and get over yourself.”
Well, there was a Bowen pep talk if I ever heard one.
“Shit, I wish I could have a drink right now. Beer helps you mull things over, you know?”
Bowen looks at me like I might go postal and raid his kitchen for a drink. “Are you okay?”
I sigh. “Yes, Bowie. I’m fine. It’s good to talk about cravings, or urges. It’s better than bottling them up.” At least that’s what Cookie says.
“I guess that makes sense.”
“I just mean … thanks for the advice. I wish I didn’t have to weigh every decision in my life so seriously. Like everything I do is going to tip the scales and send me sliding back down the bottle again.”
My brother claps me on the shoulder. “Man, you have five years under your belt. You’re doing a great job. We’re all really proud of you. But if you don’t get your head out of your ass and go after that girl, I’ll give you a wedgie myself.”
Brothers, am I right?
22
Ryan
“You went out with Fletcher, didn’t you?”
Penelope is about four beers in, and she’s flying high on the alcohol buzz and a night off from mom duty.
I collapse into a fit of giggles, my head hitting the bar in front of me as I dissolve into my hiccupping laughs.
“Well, once. Technically. The other time was just a hangout, that ended in a blow job.”
My hand slaps against my mouth because I can’t believe what just slipped out actually slipped out. Those damn tequila sunrises were making my tongue even looser than it usually is.
“Oh. My. God!” Presley screeches, causing almost every patron in the bar to turn their heads and stare at us.
“Fuck you, alcohol,” I curse at my glass, eyeing it with a glare.
“I … I’m speechless …” Lily’s mouth is hanging so wide open, I could throw ping-pong balls in there.
“Is it incest that we all love Nash men and are therefore all attracted to the same look of a man?” Penelope snickers into her beer bottle.
“Ew, what? No. Bowen looks nothing like the other brothers. Neither does Keaton. The only two who look alike are Forrest and Fletcher.” Lily scoffs.
“Well, duh, Lil, they’re twins. Guess that means we’re Eskimo sisters.” Penelope elbows me.
“That’s not what that means!” I cackle.
She frowns, her drunken brain confusing her. “No, you’re right, I’m definitely getting that wrong.”
“That’s definitely wrong.” I laugh. “Being an Eskimo sister is when you and a girlfriend sleep with the same guy, not at the same time though and not in a mean way. Like, if I had a hookup with a guy, and then you went on to have a one-night stand with him. But we both didn’t care and were just weirdly psyched that we now had a bond about sleeping with the same guy.”
“If you sleep with my husband, I’ll kill you.” Penelope points a finger at me.
I almost spit out my tequila drink. “Girl, I’m not going after Forrest. Believe me, the guy annoys the shit out of me. Love him, but he codes websites all wrong.”
“No, you’re just going after Fletcher. Can we please not lose sight of what’s important here?” Presley bursts out, I think finally getting her voice back after I stunned her to silence.
My cheeks flame with a blush. “What’s to talk about?”
“Um, you blew him!” Presley throws her hands up like I’ve lost my damn mind.
“The guy hasn’t had sex in five years. He was in dire need.” I shrug.
Penelope slaps her hand down on the bar. “I knew it! I knew he was dry as the Sahara. Damn, if I had to go that long without sex … jeez, I went about a year and it almost killed me.”
“You don’t want to know how long I went, then,” Lily mumbled. “Though that situation has more than rectified itself.”
“We know, you have a baby.” Presley eyes her sister-in-law, but I don’t miss the edge of envy in her eyes.
It’s not the time to touch on that, though I store it in the back of my brain for later. Maybe when we’re not halfway down the bottle.
“So, you said you technically went on an actual date?” she presses me.
I sigh, knowing I shouldn’t have let my big mouth blab, but also glad I can talk to them about this. They all know Fletcher more than anyone and are also three amazing women. I’m terrified that I feel such a strong connection with Fletcher … and that I’ve technically broken my vow to myself.
“Yes, he took me to see his barn. So we … hung out there and things escalated. And then two days ago, he took me to his favorite Amish country market.”
“Ah, he got you with those apple turnovers, didn’t he? What a great move. I’d sleep with someone if they bought me one of those heavenly pastries.” Penelope tips her beer, seeming to compliment Fletcher.
That makes me chuckle. “It’s like a food orgasm. Anyways, the date was … good. Really good. But, I swore I wouldn’t date anyone. At least not in the near future. And by near future, I meant forever.”
Lily shrugs. “So? You like each other, you have chemistry. You should follow your heart.”
“Says the girl who waited for a man for ten years. You’re such a romantic, Lil,” Penelope teases her best friend.
Lily rolls her eyes. “All I’m saying is … life is short. And if you feel something for a person, you should go for it.”
“That’s my problem, though. Always has been. I jump into relationships and then spend years of my life with the wrong person because I think I have a feeling. Feelings are bullshit.”
“Nahhh. Feelings are everything.” Presley smiles at me. “You knew me before I met Keaton. I couldn’t make a decision about anything. If a guy even mentioned commitment, I was bolting in the other direction so fast, he couldn’t even finish his sentence before I was gone. But, then I met the sexy vet … and it was all over. I just … knew.”
“That’s what everyone says. All married people throw out that bullshit line like us single gals are supposed to understand what that means.”
“It’s true, though.” Lily nods sagely.
“And I can attest that, sometimes, it takes a lot longer than you thought it would. But in the end, you just know.” Penelope makes three.
Presley continues. “I
know you. You feel differently about Fletcher. I could tell it the moment you guys met at my wedding.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Have you been talking to him? Because he said the exact same thing.”
“Oh, just go for it, Ryan. Nash men are great in bed. We should know.” Penelope hails down the bartender to order another round.
With the size of Fletcher’s dick, I’m not surprised. I almost say that out loud, but the alcohol hasn’t completely swamped my brain.
“We’ll see.”
“Seriously, don’t wait ten years. You might live with regrets, but at least you acted on your feelings. That’s better than not acting at all.” Lily tips back the last of her glass of wine.
Maybe she was right. At the end of the day, what was another failed relationship to add to the pile?
23
Ryan
Off-key singing meets me in the hall of Fletcher’s apartment, and I pause to listen to it.
From behind the door of apartment number 3, the guy I’m quickly developing feelings for is singing “My Girl” at the top of his lungs. His rendition is not great, but he’s giving it his all, and I find it adorable.
My heart also begins to flutter at the thought that he is singing that about me.
It’s our third date in two weeks, and I’m not shying away from calling them that anymore. When you’re spending time alone with a man, whether it’s going out to eat or giving him oral sex in his workshop … it’s a little bit more than hanging out.
Yes, I blew him on the floor of a barn. And it was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done.
It was impulsive, and at the time, I was acting on instinct rather than logic. This is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever met, in an understated way, and no one had touched his cock in five years. That just seemed wrong to me. So, I righted the problem.
Watching Fletcher Nash come undone because of my touch, my mouth … fuck, I have to rub my thighs together just thinking about it. The prickling friction I desire in between my legs is at the forefront of my brain when he swings the door open.
“Hey,” His smile is easy, and he pulls me into a hug.
Gosh, he smells good. Like cinnamon and mint in one big, beautiful manly package.
“Hi.” I press a light kiss to his cheek in a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Fletcher kissed me after our last date. Not that the kiss had been our first, or the date, technically. But it had felt like it. He’d done it in Presley and Keaton’s backyard, just outside my door to the guest cottage. All slow and gentle, placing his hands on my cheeks and coaxing me in for a gentle caress, that turned into a simmering, smoldering kiss. I’d felt like we were high schoolers, sneaking in our first bit of making out before mom and dad turned the porch light on. It was the perfect end to a pretty awesome night, and I went to bed with butterflies bigger than any I’d felt before.
“Wow, this place looks so good …” I break away from him, entering his apartment without his invite.
Behind me, Fletcher chuckles and says, “Come right in.”
“You’ve really done a lot, Fletch.” I use the nickname without thinking, but it feels right rolling off my tongue.
In the two weeks since we moved him in, he’s hung some cool wall art, gotten a rug for the living room, and set the kitchen table with a decorative wooden centerpiece I’m sure he made. Peeking into the bedroom, I can tell that the mattress and box spring are no longer on the floor but encased in a cognac tufted leather frame with a matching headboard.
“I like to think it looks more sophisticated than your average bachelor pad.” He pats himself on the back.
“And that smell …” My stomach grumbles and we both laugh.
I hand him the bag with a loaf of crispy, crunchy Italian bread, just like he asked me to pick up.
“Oh, this is perfect, thanks. Have a seat and I’ll serve us.”
When Fletcher asked if I wanted to come over for dinner, I got a bit nervous. Having a guy cook you dinner, alone in his apartment, it felt like fifth or sixth date territory. But then he clarified that he wanted to do something special for me and have me as his first guest at his new place … and I’d melted. It was a really sweet gesture.
Fine, my rose-tinted glasses were completely on, but Lily Nash had told me to jump in and she was the most conservative person I know, so I was following her advice.
The bread is in his one hand, and he laces his other through mine to lead me the short couple of steps to his table. It’s romantic, and I notice when he’s pulling out my chair, that he’s set two candlesticks in the center. There is a new white tablecloth draped over the surface, and he’s already set down plates and utensils.
“This is fancy.” I give him a sarcastic smile.
“Only the best for Ryan Shea.” His big hand squeezes my shoulder before he retreats to the kitchen.
My heart races with anticipation, because this is our third date. You know what they say about the third date.
“So, you cooked all this?” I ask, trying to distract myself.
“I mean … I may have gotten Carlo, the chef downstairs, to give me a couple of tips. And his special marinara sauce, but you knew I wouldn’t make that from scratch.”
Carrying two plates loaded with spaghetti and chicken parmesan, Fletcher sets one down in front of me before taking his seat. It smells like heaven, and I can’t think of a more comforting meal.
“You cooked the chicken and spaghetti, though? I’m hugely impressed. I burn microwave macaroni and cheese, so anything you do with a burner is already more advanced than my level of cooking.”
It’s true. You don’t want to eat my food for fear of poisoning … which I actually gave to Presley and me one time when I cooked chicken wings.
“Note to self, never accept an invitation to have you cook for me.” He sticks out his tongue, and we both cut into our food.
The first bite is incredible. “I think Carlo’s sauce really makes it.”
“Hey! I did the heavy lifting, put my heart into it. But … fine, the sauce is really freaking good.”
We lapse into silence for a moment, eating, before Fletcher picks the conversation back up.
“How is the summer course going?”
I take a sip of water to clear my throat. “It’s great. The kids are learning a lot. I have them doing these modules I created, of how to stop a minor data breach. Or how to detect what the hacker took using the clues in the code.”
“That sounds totally badass. Like some secret spy type of stuff. It always amazes me, what you do. You have to be really smart to understand all of that … code is like another language.”
A small smile stretches my lips. “That’s what I always say; I’m fluent in computer. It really is another dialect, and it just happens to come naturally to me. Speaking of that, I got your Etsy page up and running. And I created a brand logo for you, I think you’ll like it.” I cut into my chicken, fork a piece, and sigh when it hits my tongue.
Fletcher’s eyebrows knit together. “You made a logo for me and didn’t even run it by me?”
I shrug, not fazed that the move was a tad bossy. “It’s not like you bothered having one before. Or a website, or an online storefront. Did you really care what your branding looked like?”
He tips his head to the side, the longer brown locks on the top of his head shifting to fall over one side of his forehead. “I guess not. I mean, I’d have no idea how to even create branding, much less what I’d want for it. I trust you. Plus, you’re hot when you’re in charge.”
A blush creeps up my neck. He trusts me, that’s what he just said. Out of all the men I’ve been with, not one has uttered that sequence of words to me.
“How is the clock project?”
Fletcher has already finished half his plate, and yet again I’m amazed at how fast men eat. “Going good. The sketches are finalized and have been approved by the town council. So now I just have to start carving, building, working with metal … w
hich I’ve never done before. And then there is the whole process of building the mechanism inside. I have no idea how to make a clock actually work … so it’ll take some time.”
Just hearing him talk about it, you can see the excitement on his face. “I think it’s great, though. You’ll get it done. Especially since you’re so passionate about it. That’s what matters.”
“And how about you? Have you found your next passion project?” There is a slight edge to his voice, and I think I know why.
We haven’t talked about me staying or going, when it comes to Fawn Hill. This is his home, not mine, and no one in the Nash clan really has any idea how long I’ll be in town.
“Not yet. I kind of like teaching the kids, though.” I avoid answering in any other real sense, and we finish our meal with small talk about TV shows, sports teams, and the like.
When Fletcher gets up to clear the table, silencing me as I protest that he cooked, I take the time to look around his apartment. It’s clean and homey, if not a bit sparse with some outdated pieces. But, he’s finally out of his mom’s place, and I can thank the privacy gods for that.
“Do you want to go out for ice cream or something? Take a walk in the park?” Fletcher asks as I push out from the table.
Something comes over me, and I realize … I do not want to do either of those things.
“No. I want you to show me your bedroom.”
I don’t put on that husky, fake sensual tone that you see in pornos. I also don’t wink or raise an eyebrow. I say it to him straight, so that he knows I’m not teasing. I really want him to take me into his room so that we can fall into bed together.
Fletcher must understand that, or maybe he’s just taking his reward for putting on an excellent dinner date, because he doesn’t hesitate. One second, we’re standing a respectable distance apart, and the next, his mouth is covering mine and those sturdy hands are guiding my hips backward toward the bedroom.
We kiss as we stumble toward the mattress, our lips fusing as frustrated breaths slip out. There isn’t enough, we seek more as fast as it will come. Another lick, another nip, another tingling sensation that zips down the spine. My need to get out of my clothes and feel him skin to skin is so primal, I find myself growling into his mouth.
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