by Shey Stahl
My heartbeat dips. “Oh, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”
He stares at my forehead, squinting as if he’s trying to exam it from a distance. “I’d still like to look at it.”
“Well.” I stop short of the kitchen island, feet from him. “I’d like to look at you naked, but that’s not going to happen tonight.”
Shit. I said that out loud.
He snorts or coughs, I’m not sure which, but the warmth in his cheeks tells me he hasn’t met anyone like me. Recovering just as quickly, he winks, a deep laugh rumbling his chest. In that second, it’s as if the air changes around us. “Let’s start with cleaning this up,” he says softly, invading the space where I’m standing and leading me toward the better lighting near the sink.
Closer to him, I resist the urge to bury my head in his chest and let the soft cotton of his flannel carry me away.
Wiping his hands on his jeans, he takes the cloth and touches it to my forehead. “Sorry if it burns.”
“It’s fine,” I grit through the sting, but don’t let on. Our eyes lock, heat rises up my chest, neck, and finally my cheeks. Hell, even the tops of my ears join in.
“Does it hurt?” He pins me with his dark eyes. I squirm. Hello, country boy. Fuck, I was missing out back home.
I watch his every move. “No. I think it’s numb.”
He holds my head in his hands, and I sigh. All out sigh and relax. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to need stitches or anything. Just a Band-Aid.” He drops his hands from my face and turns slightly toward the counter. Turning, he grins, and it’s fucking magnificent. “And it looks like I have Elsa or Sponge Bob.”
“I’m an Elsa fan.” I laugh, smiling. Everywhere I look are photographs of the two girls in his life, their sweet drawings, and photographs of them with him. In Tara’s home and her words, there’s not a single mention of these girls, even though I know for a fact she’s their mother. Despite knowing this, I say, “You’re young to have kids.”
He shrugs and there’s gruff laughter on his lips. “I started young.”
“I’ll say. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
Anxiety gnaws at me, my breathing picking up. “Is their mom around?” Part of me wants to make sure he’s who I think he is. Maybe there’s more than one Barron Grady. Could be, right?
His jaw clenches as he peels the bandage from the wrapper, but his expression doesn’t falter. “Nope.”
I swallow and nod, feeling the weight of my lie on my shoulders. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry into your life.”
After placing the Band-Aid on my forehead, he sighs. “Would you like something to drink? I have water, milk, chocolate milk, and juice. Or beer.”
I push the sleeves of my sweater higher on my forearms, stepping back away from him. “Got anything stronger?”
His lips turn up. “I’m sure I have some wine around here somewhere. I think Carly left a bottle the other night.”
Carly? Who the fuck is Carly? And why do I care? Good Lord, how hard did I hit my head? “I don’t like wine. Got any whiskey?”
He draws in a heavy breath, his half-grin turning into a light chuckle. “You were serious about getting me naked.”
“Well, yeah,” I tease. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep my welcome here.”
“You’re not,” he mumbles, his back to me as he motions toward a locked cabinet he’s opened. “Take your pick.”
He has an impressive stock of whiskey. Must be his favorite because he has about ten bottles of various brands. “Will you part with that Pendleton?”
He reaches for it. “What is it here for if not to drink it?”
“True, but I didn’t know if you were saving it for something special.”
“This is special. You didn’t die, and I didn’t have to explain a dead body to my girls.” Setting the bottle on the kitchen island, he closes the cabinet and then retrieves two glasses from the cabinet.
My heart swells at the way he says “my girls.” It’s clear, just by his actions within the last hour, they mean the world to him.
We take a seat at the kitchen island that’s covered in half-dressed Barbies and what looks like one dressed as a witch. He pours the whiskey, and I can’t help but watch his hands. Long, strong fingers grip the bottle easily, scarred knuckles, and calloused hands, which I want tracing the length of my spine.
I shift in the chair, clearing my throat, fully aware of the what I’m keeping from him but unable to pull away. He’s intriguing, and I can’t place if I’m attracted to his rough side or the mysterious eyes, but I’m pretty sure I’d fuck him just to find out.
We drink in silence, our breathing filling the space between us. I watch his reactions, the gentle breathing, the crease of his brow furrowed with concentration. If I had to guess, this guy keeps the shattered edges of his broken heart on lockdown before his flaws tell their own story. They’re stitched up tight and stuffing the void down deep. And though my presence here tonight is by accident, my lack of words is by design for my reckless selfishness.
“Did you build this place?” I motion around to his home. “It’s really nice.”
“It’s no mansion in the hills, but yes, I built it.”
I drift my stare around to the concrete countertops and stainless steel appliances. From the wood floors to the rough edge beams on the ceiling, it’s clear every detail went into this place. “It’s amazing. You’re talented.”
Clearing his throat, he taps my glass with his and shifts toward me, my senses overwhelmed by the rich smells of leather and man. “Want another?”
I smile. “I thought I was trying to get you naked, not the other way around.”
Barron chuckles, the sound muffled as he turns to reach for the bottle, but he doesn’t offer a response. Hmm. Maybe country boys aren’t as eager to take advantage of girls with long legs and blue eyes.
“In that case, I’d like another.” I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist his Southern drawl.
Pouring another, he smirks, his muscles flexing in the most delicious way as he fills my glass. “So… California?”
Handing it to me, our fingers brush. My heart jumps in my chest, and my stomach tightens. Fuck. I need to leave because if I don’t, I know what’s going to happen. I’m going to do something I might regret. I sip the whiskey, the burn welcomed, my eyes drifting shut. “How’d you know?”
“Plates.”
I fall into his dark eyes and know if I stare too long, there’s no going back. “Oh, right.”
“You’re awfully young to be out of town on your own.”
“Old enough.”
He waits as if he’s not going to speak again until I tell him. And then I think, oh, shit. What if he thinks I’m a runaway who stole my dad’s car?
“I’m twenty-one.”
There’s an emotion in his eyes, a tightening of his hand around his glass that I don’t miss. He blinks it away just as quickly and recovers with “Where ya headin’?”
“Anywhere but there.”
“Can’t say I’d stay there either.” He nods, setting his glass down on the coffee table. “Everyone I’ve ever known who lived there never had honest intentions.” His attention is on the glass in front of him, but his words, and the baritone way they rake over my skin, I’m fucking sweating. I can tell by his mannerisms, emotionally unattached is putting this guy in a category too predictable.
Tara definitely fucked him over.
“Have you ever left Texas?”
“Once.” Bringing the whiskey to his lips, his chest expands with a breath, his eyes distant. “Got to the California border and turned back.”
“Why?”
His dark brown eyes shift to mine, and their heat has me twisted toward him, unintentionally. Had I been drawn here for more than just a pee break and a deer that jumped on my hood? Had this guy been put in my path for a reason? “Decided she wasn’t worth it.” He swallows the drink he takes and then blinks away the
pain, tipping his glass at the photograph on the wall of him and his kids. “They were though.”
I don’t have to ask for an explanation. He chose his kids over Tara, and I don’t blame him one bit.
Lifting my glass, I down the remainder of the whiskey. “I’m getting tired.”
He stands. “I’ll let you get some sleep.” He waits. Our eyes meet and hold. “I’ll look at your car in the morning if you want.”
I get lost in the shades of brown that draw me in. It’s like looking into a canyon on a starry night and seeing every color imaginable, but knowing they’re all shades of the same color. “I’d appreciate that. I don’t know how I’m getting out of here.”
His eyes drift to the window. “It may take a few days.”
I hate the way my heart aches for that to be true.
Stay in your room. Turns out, I’ve never been very good at listening.
BARRON
“I’d like to look at you naked, but that’s not going to happen tonight.”
Why’d she say that? Why’d she have to fucking say that? I’m pissed because the second she put the words out there, my mind can’t move past them. I stare at the alarm clock on my nightstand and watch the minutes tick by. My mind won’t let me drift off to sleep. I fight with myself. The urge to open the door and take her in my arms battles with the need to leave her alone. I don’t need this in my life, or their life. There’s a reason why I don’t date. They don’t need women in their lives. It will only confuse them because I’m not falling in love again. Been there. Done that. It fucked me over. I’m stubborn enough to never try that out again.
As I stare at my nightstand, a memory gnaws its way from the edges of my thoughts. The one where Tara left the ring on the nightstand. The one where she waited until I was asleep before she slipped away into the darkness.
That’s been my experience with love, and I know enough about myself that I don’t want that again. I don’t need it.
I also don’t get any sleep. As you can imagine. For two reasons. My kids are in the house, and I’ve just invited a stranger into our home. I know nothing about her. She could kill us in our sleep for all I know.
Not likely since she probably weighs as much as my legs, and I could take her down with less effort than it takes to carry around two kids on my shoulders, but you never fucking know these days.
And my second reason. I keep thinking about dragging her into my room and having hot, sweaty I-don’t-know-you sex that doesn’t mean anything.
Fucking sue me.
That’s where my thoughts reside, both battling with the other for that number one spot. My dick’s hard, naturally. Three years. It’s been three fucking years since I’ve been laid, and believe me, I thought about paying for it lately. Not because I can’t get it here, but I don’t want the drama that comes with it.
Turning over, I stare at the wall and the window. With my blinds open, I can see the snow still coming down. There’s at least two feet on the ground and more to come before the sun comes up.
I roll over and eye the door. Tempted. What if she’s cold? The gentlemanly thing to do here would be to check on her, right? See if she needs another blanket?
Jesus Christ. Stay in your fucking room.
Would it be wrong to invite her in here? It’s warmer in my bed.
No, it’s not. The fire is going out there. She’s probably too hot. Maybe I should make sure she’s not?
Fuck. No!
Running my hands over my face, I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling fan. “Why did I invite her to stay here?” I mumble, just as my bedroom door cracks open.
“Daddy?”
Christ almighty, I can’t catch a fucking break. Sighing, I roll my eyes. “Camdyn, it’s three in the morning. Go back to bed.”
She doesn’t and climbs onto my bed, sitting with her legs tucked under her. “I think there’s a monster in my room.”
I stare at her, blinking slowly. I can’t remember the last night I slept more than four hours. “No, there’s not.”
“Can I sleep with you?”
“No.” Remember my rule about not letting them sleep in my bed? It still stands. “Let’s go check for monsters.” I haul her into my arms and carry her out of my room. At least this way I can check on the girl. Right?
Camdyn rests her head on my chest, yawning. “Daddy?”
“Yes, darlin’?” We pass by Kacy sleeping on the couch. She’s turned to the cushions, and I can’t see her face. What I can see is the curve of her waist and her hair spilling over the pillow. I want to trace my fingertips along the swell of her hips and sweep her hair off her shoulder. That’s not wrong, is it?
Yeah, it is, asshole. Leave her alone.
Camdyn shifts in my arms, lifting her head to watch my face. Touching her finger to my jaw, she tips her head to the side. “Serenity told me that kangaroos can’t fart. Do you think that’s true?”
This makes me mad. It makes me so fucking mad because I don’t need to know this shit, and when I get up at three in the morning with the kids, they tell me crap like this, and I think about it. “I don’t care if they can or can’t.” I kick the door to their room open to see Sev sprawled out in her bed, half on it, half off, and snoring. “What I care about is you going to sleep.”
“But there’s a monster in here. I know there is,” she whines. “I can hear him breathing.”
I set Camdyn on the top bunk and rest my chin on the railing. I can hear Sev talking in her sleep. “Eat the stew,” she mumbles, flipping her hand up and then back down again.
We both laugh lightly. “The only monster in here is Sev.”
Camdyn stares at me, a stuffed Elsa doll in her hand, and beside her, the teddy bear Morgan gave her last week when she fell off Lulu and got right back on again. “Do you know that girl?”
“No. I don’t. Please sleep.”
She closes her eyes. “Fine. But I want to talk to her in the morning.”
“Why?”
“She’s pretty.”
Shaking my head, I reach for her ankles and yank until she’s flat on the mattress, and I cover her with her blanket. “Sleep.”
With a grin, because she knows she’s pushing my patience, she lifts her head up. “Where she come from?”
I want to yell at her to close her fucking eyes and sleep, but it’s been my experience, kids don’t respond to this. They ask more questions and have you eventually questioning your sanity for bringing them into the world. I love my kids more than my own life, but when you haven’t slept much, your rationalization skills weaken. “California,” I tell her, running my hands through my hair.
“Is she going to be my mom?”
“What?” I gasp. “No. I don’t know who she is.”
The corners of her lips twitch. “But maybe you might like her, and she can stay.”
I put my hand over Camdyn’s face. “Sleep. Stop talking.”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “But I’m talking to her in the morning.”
“I never had any doubt,” I whisper, kissing her forehead before leaving their room.
Nerves run through me as I walk back to my room. But I stop in the living room. My stare unintentionally moves to the couch, where Kacy is now turned toward me. She’s sleeping or pretending to be. She’s half on the couch, half off, sleeping much like Sev does. I don’t know why, but I stare at her face, and the way the flames of the fireplace reflect on her skin has me thinking maybe getting to know her wouldn’t be so bad.
My jaw works back and forth, and I find myself stalled in the hallway, battling within my head and heart for reasons I don’t understand.
With a deep breath, I run my hand through my hair and close the door to my room.
Fix her car, I tell myself. Get her out of your life and theirs, I plead, but when have I ever been good at listening? Maybe I’m a shrimp. Think with my heart, because it’s in my fucking head now.
It’s the best place on earth.
/>
KACY
I wake up in the morning to no sounds. Nothing. No police sirens, dogs barking, or the construction outside my apartment.
It’s… glorious. Pure, heavenly serenity.
I take that back. There are sounds, just not ones I’ve been accustomed to over the years. And talking. From little voices.
Do you know when someone is staring at you? That feeling you get like you’re being watched? I have that now, but I keep my eyes closed and wait. I listen to their voices and soft breathing, knowing they’re close to me, if not sitting right in front of me.
“She’s pretty.”
“She’s drooling.”
“I likes her hair.”
“Do you think she’s hungry?”
There’s a sigh followed by “I not know. I’m hungry. Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s outside moving snow. I’ll make you some waffles.”
“Okay. Lots of sirup.”
“Syrup.”
“Can you make them black?”
“No.”
“Look at the snow!”
I hear footsteps and pry one eye open to see the girls moving away from me toward the windows overlooking what looks to be a complete whiteout. The snow is so high you can see it pilling up against the windows.
Both girls are still in their pajamas, their hands pressed to the windows. I take a minute to watch them, enthralled by their every movement. The taller one with dark hair presses her face to the window, her breath on the pane as she watches her daddy.
The little blonde one, who’s less than impressed, drops her hands from the window. “It’s cold.”
“I hope I don’t have school,” the darker-haired one notes.
Sitting up, I smile at them. In the process of moving, I drop a pillow on the floor, and they both turn to face me.
“Hello,” I say, unsure what else to do. Weird woman waking up in their home. What else am I going to say?
“Hi!” The taller moves toward me. Actually, they both do and stand about a foot from my face. “What’s your name?”