I don’t know what provokes me to bring this up. Silence doesn’t bother me when I’m around Maguire, but I blurt it out anyway. “Did you know Scott loved to tell dirty jokes? I mean, nothing about our sex life, but just funny one-liners. He normally left me with one every time we spoke.”
I think when I said dirty jokes, he jolted his head around so fast he almost fell off the truck. But with him no longer in glasses, the second I talk about our sex life, he starts coughing. When he’s finally calm and can breathe again, he looks at me, giggling like a girl.
“Well, you certainly have my attention.” He stops for a brief second as if he has something to say and then continues, “And no, I didn’t know this little fact about my son. But I’d love to hear one—maybe your favorite.”
I think long and hard. There were so many. A lot were meant to get me horny so I could tell him what I’d do to him if he were home. I leave this little fact out of the story. I think for a second and then a classic pops in my mind. “What did the hurricane say to the coconut tree?”
He squints his eyes at me and chuckles. “Hell, I have no idea, but I’m bracing myself for this one.”
I know it’s odd, what I’m about to say to my father-in-law of all people, but I’m going to be living with this man. I need to become comfortable with him. I smile when I reply, “Hold on to your nuts, this ain’t no ordinary blowjob.”
He almost falls off the truck while his hysterical laughs fill the air. “Hell, not many women would mention the word blowjob in front of their father-in-law.”
“I don’t shy away from what I want to say if you haven’t noticed.” I’m still laughing at Maguire, who is honestly funnier than the joke was.
“Yeah, Holland, I’ve noticed. Never a boring moment with you.”
My head turns to stare at him, though my eyes are covered by his aviators. He can’t see me watching him when he brings his hand to my chin. He doesn’t pull away, not like before.
“It’s safe to say there’s no one quite like you, darlin’.”
I don’t pull away either. I should. I need to. Maguire’s touch, it’s so familiar yet so forbidden and desired. “You call everyone darlin’?” I ask. In his pet name, it’s still so taboo due in part to what the six-letter word does to me. My skin flushes and my knees become weak with his own little term of endearment.
His face changes and he fixates on his hand touching me. He pulls it away like I’m fire to his touch. But his gaze, it’s just as intent. “No, you’re it. Never called anyone this before. Just you.”
“Why?” My desire to know what makes this man tick is all I want in the here and now. Do I care for him, needing his touch on me, because he’s an older version of Scott or his own man?
“I don’t know. The day I saw you walk in, your purple hair, the brightness of your clothes. You’d always been so precious to Scott. I know he called you Holly. I suppose it came out naturally, my own understanding of what you are. To me, you are as darling as they come.”
His hand lands on my cheek again, brushing it with his thumb. As quick as it’s on me, it’s gone immediately. He pushes himself off the top of his truck. “Listen, Holland, I have an idea. Ned has all the contractors lined up. Until then, let’s go to my warehouse. I have some custom furniture. I’ll let you pick out what you want.”
Maguire makes beautiful custom furniture. He’ll make ten to fifteen of the same item by hand and sell them for thousands of dollars. I’m about to protest. I can’t let him spend this money on me. He turns around and I’m still on the hood of the truck. He walks in front of me and grabs at my waist, bringing my body down.
“Don’t argue with me,” he commands, quickly dropping his touch from mine.
“I don’t need anything fancy,” I begin.
“It’s what I do. Everything in my house, from my cabinets to my table to my bed. Even the bathroom, I built everything. Of course, any apartment of mine will have the same feel.”
He passes me on his way to his side of the truck. Climbing in as Ranger jumps into the bed of his vehicle, it occurs to me. “You do a lot of building at home in the garage below. Scott said you build at night.”
“Oh, yeah, I thought of that. I won’t be building in there once you move into your new apartment. I have had plans for an actual building to be built near the garage. Contractors are coming out to start pouring the concrete. The construction will be done before the baby comes.” He pauses at the mention of his grandchild. “By the way, I want you to pick out some options for wood for the baby’s room. I’ll build the crib, changing table, and dresser and anything else he or she needs.” He stops. “The bedroom for the baby won’t be super big, but he or she will have their own space. You will have your own space.”
We stop by the house where Ranger jumps from the back of the truck and lies in the shade under the canopy on the front porch.
He yells out to his dog, “Guard the house, Ranger. I’m counting on you.”
I giggle—I’m positive Ranger would only lick someone to death, if anything.
As he’s slowing down for all the potholes that lead down the road from his property, I startle him when I reach for his hand. “Everything you’re doing for me, Sarge, it’s outside of the realm of your promise, you know this, right? Scott only asked you to make sure I had a job and a place my parents wouldn’t worm their way into my life, dragging me down with them.”
He brakes immediately. “Darlin’, I’m not doing enough to honor my son, believe me.” My hand is still in his. “If you only knew.”
It’s the first time he admits what I’ve already suspected, but it reaffirms I’ve not been off base.
“Maguire.” I don’t move my hand from his. I can’t.
His own hand reaches for my cheek again. “You know?” he asks. It’s like we can’t say it, verbally announcing what this is between us because it makes it that more real and forbidden.
“You know, too?” A tear falls from my face.
In the middle of this small dirt road, I ready myself for this kiss, it’s coming and coming quickly. Until we hear a loud turbo engine coming our way. We break from one another as if what could have happened would never happen ever again.
Chapter 17
I’m saved with the roar of my best friend’s truck barreling up the long road to my property. Her gaze is on the outside. Her shoulders stiffen and she won’t turn toward me, I know our moment has passed. And thank fuck.
I don’t utter a word to Holland when I open the door as Ned approaches me. This man, not only my business partner, is my mentor and best friend. He’s only ten years my senior, but this guy doesn’t look it. He’s not as big as me, but when the man hugs, he does it with his whole body.
He left me in North Carolina several weeks ago, escorting me on the plane there. I’d not been in any shape to take care of the travel arrangements on my own. He was with me for a week, being my rock, before he had to return. Plus, he’s single-handedly been in charge of the apartment for Holland.
I’m a man’s man, always have been, but when it comes to this big teddy bear, he sees the real me.
“Fuck, man, I’m so happy to have you home,” Ned begins. I look up, his sweet wife of twenty years is in their cab, tears falling down her face, too, at the sight of me. With everything and everyone I had to be strong for, I lose it in his arms—especially after what almost happened with Holland.
After a minute of crying and Ned being my anchor, I look back at him. “Well, shit, what a pussy thing to do.”
“Hell, Maguire, don’t insult me like this. You need to cry, to hit someone, someone to throw back beers with, yell at and at the end of the day, need to cry again, I’m your fucking man—you get me?”
Ned’s words pierce my heart, not because they hurt, but I’ve been strong for everyone else, knowing he’s my person gives me a much-needed source of comfort. “Yeah, you son of a bitch,” I joke, my term of endearment for him to lighten the mo
od a bit. “We’re heading to the warehouse. I’m letting Holland pick out some items for her apartment. Want to meet us there?” With a nod and agreement, I sulk over to my truck.
Back in the cab, Holland is still turned to the side. What can I say, Sorry for almost taking advantage of you? Sorry for nearly kissing my son’s wife? No, there’s nothing to say and for this reason, I back up a little to give Ned room to turn around and I follow him in silence.
Our warehouse and corporate offices are on the outskirts of town. This town isn’t all that big to begin with. Coral Creek, sitting at about three thousand in population gives off the hometown feel I love. Plus, I live far enough on the outskirts to enjoy the peace and quiet of it all. Holland has been plastered to the window since we left. Every once in a while, I see her out of the corner of my eye, wiping her face.
I’m such a dick. First today with Kat and now with Holland. I’ve never been this off-kilter before. One could say it’s losing Scott. Sure, I could use his death as an excuse, but deep down, I know it’s more.
It’s the biggest reason I need to get the apartment finished. Holland in my house is going to be a temptation I can’t deny much longer.
Once in the warehouse, and with Ned’s wife doting on Holland, he takes me aside to our offices.
“Shit,” I start, seeing my workspace for the first time since that fateful day. “I’ve missed this place, Ned. And your ugly mug.”
I grab for a bottle of the best Canadian whisky from my bottom drawer and pour us a drink. Passing it over to Ned on the other side of my desk, he holds it, his lips pursed. This is when I know he has something to say. “Out with it, Ned. I’ve known you long enough.”
“Holland, she’s certainly quiet.”
Could he read it? Could he sense it with the way my eyes roam over her tiny body? Or how I want to fist her hair in my hand. Does he know me this well?
With a long pull of my whisky, I shrug a non-committal answer. “Yeah, she hurts. It’s deep within her. Hell, it’s deep for all of us.”
“Have you talked to Christine? She’s up in arms over Holland living here.” My eyes dart to his. I should have known.
Once, a long time ago, Christine and Elise were the best of friends. We all were. When she cheated on me and punished me by moving Scott across the country, Elise distanced herself. But the sweet nature in Elise would not have left Christine alone. She reached out to her. I’m not surprised. Elise had finished chemo a month before Scott was killed. She wasn’t strong enough to fly out for the funeral. Though, she has been a comfort to Christine through many phone calls.
“Oh, poor Elise. She has to hear all Chris’s rants, doesn’t she?” I ask and a nod of his head gives me the answer. “And what’s her opinion?”
He shakes his head at me. “You know Elise. She’ll love on anyone who needs her, whether it’s the bitch known as your ex-wife or your daughter-in-law. I bet she’s already making plans for Holland in some way, shape, or form.” He props his elbows onto the front of my desk, placing his whisky down. “But, Maguire, it’s you I’m worried about.”
“I miss my son.” It’s the truth. I can’t go any deeper, not now. After my breakdown last night and the events of my day, my emotion meter is tapped out. I stand, returning my alcohol to the bottom cabinet. With Ned leading the way, we find the girls down in the warehouse. And I’m right as rain. Elise is in the middle of everything, pulling out cabinets and other furniture, chatting with Holland as if they are old friends. With Elise Landon and her mother hen ways, I have no doubt they will be.
In Maguire’s surplus, I’m drawn to a grayish color of reclaimed wood. I walk over to it while Elise and Ned discuss finishes in my apartment. I don’t know why I’m drawn to this wood. I’m not one for super modern furniture as are the vibes of this timber. I touch it, it’s smooth. The more my eyes fixate on it, the more I know this is the type of crib I want for my baby.
I’ve been trying to keep my distance from Maguire. I had been so close to kissing him. H…E…double toothpicks. How had I allowed myself to even think it—let alone almost do it?
“Darlin’,” he whispers behind me and I twist around.
“You scared the beetle juice out of me.” He cocks his head to the side as he begins to laugh so hard, it becomes soundless and his chuckle is quiet. My odd words confuse him, but in his grin, he’s also amused. This is the first time in a while his smile reaches the greenish hazel hues of his eyes. And it’s cute. No, it’s sexy.
He skips over the fact that he legit scared the crap out of me when his eyes search the same gray grain in the wood that has caught my attention. “Do you like this?” he asks.
“Yeah, there’s something about it. I’m not sure if it’s the right kind of wood, but do you think it would work for a…” I stop and bring my loud ass mouth down a decibel or five when I whisper, “Could it work for a crib?”
With his expertise, he must know. “Yeah, this will do fine. It’s a beautiful wood. I’ll get Ned to help me load it. I’ll want to work with it first before I make a…” He lowers his voice, too, and says the next words so quiet I almost don’t hear. “I want to build some things to test the durability because if it’s going to sleep my grandbaby, it will be safe as fuck.”
He’s opened the door and I grin when I ask, “How, in pray tell, is fuck safe?”
He twists his mouth to one side, as he does when he’s annoyed. “Holland,” he croons.
“Maguire,” I respond in a snarky kid-like tone.
I walk away laughing because nothing seems to give me more joy than goading my father-in-law.
Chapter 18
Three days. It’s been the number I’ve purposely avoided Maguire around the house. I’m up early for some unknown reason. An internet article claims insomnia during pregnancy isn’t uncommon. It’s funny how one moment I can barely make it to my room before I’m out like a light and the next, I’m wide awake counting sheep.
I’m a sucker for old movies. AMC is playing A Street Car Named Desire. I’m watching Marlon Brando tossing Vivien Leigh’s suitcase when a reflection from the television screen scares me. “Fiddlesticks, Maguire, you scared the shitake mushrooms out of me.”
Shaking his head at my words, his attention is on the screen when, out of nowhere, he bellows, “Stelllllla!”
It makes me smile—no, he makes me smile. It’s not original—not in the least, but it’s still funny. He takes a seat in his chair, kitty-corner from the couch. “You know what? If Scott was a girl, I wanted to name him Stella, strictly based on my love for this movie.”
I’m on the opposite end of the sofa. It’s as if Maguire purposely tries to put as much physical space as humanly possible between the two of us. “Are you a Marlon Brando fan?” I ask.
“I love all old movies. Besides a good football game or college basketball, I almost always watch an old classic.”
Who knew? “I would have never guessed this about you.” I stand before my yearning for physical affection finds its way to my father-in-law. I fake a yawn, though it’s now believable, at three in the morning or as Scott always called it—the devil’s hour.
“Going back to bed?” he asks, and his head follows every move I make with his question.
“Yeah, it’s late.” I start down the hallway, looking forward now, not back at him as I’d been doing.
“It sure is,” he calls behind me. “It’s the devil’s hour, you know.” I stop at his words. His comment and his phrase only further cement the fact I care for this man because he’s the carbon copy of my husband. I take one step and command myself to continue toward my bedroom.
The Sunday night before I’m due to start my new job, I walk down the hall from my bedroom, where I hide most of the time when Maguire’s in the house. He’s in the kitchen, making something, beckoning my hungry body out of seclusion.
“Hey, stranger,” Maguire begins, looking straight at me.
“Oh, hey. I think I may
be feeling better. Whatever you’re making smells amazing. Is there enough for me?” I raise one eyebrow at him, physically inhaling the aroma in the kitchen.
A slow smile builds when his eyes make firm contact with mine. “Of course, darlin’. Glad to see you looking a bit better.” He reaches up to his open shelves, grabbing two plates. When he does this, his shirt rides up and I see a hint of his abs. I’ve seen him shirtless a couple of times and hell, he’s simply beautiful.
“I’ve made a chicken pot pie,” he explains, though it’s as obvious as his handsome face.
I cross over to the kitchen and sneak around him, moving to the refrigerator. I’m so thirsty for orange juice. Opening it up, I’m relieved to see the O.J. is still there. Pregnancy cravings are no joke. I watch Maguire cut the pie meticulously as though he’s using a saw on something he’s about to build. I stop with the O.J. in the air, ready for me to pour it, staring at his detailed cutting skills.
“Holland, why are you staring at me so intensely?” he asks, a little of his dry humor in his tone.
“I’ve never seen someone cut a chicken pot pie with such precision.” Placing the spatula between the crust of the pie and the round pan, he tugs at the piece carefully, bringing it up in a perfect triangle. He neatly positions it on the plate and begins with the second piece. After witnessing the perfectionist he is, I finish pouring my juice and grab my serving, moving to the kitchen table.
I wager to guess Maguire eats all his meals in front of the television, watching ESPN. But he says nothing to me, pouring some milk, and bringing his dinner to the table.
One bite of the hot creamy goodness and I’m almost moaning. I have forgotten what real food tastes like. I’ve been living on Lemonheads, saltines, and ginger ale. My second bite brings me more pleasure and I stop when I sense Maguire’s gaze on me.
“What?” I ask with my mouth full of this dish.
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