Accidentally Family

by Sasha Summers

  His hands ran up her back, pulling her closer. Her curves, against him, knocked the air from his lungs. It didn’t help that she was moving, impatient, her hands sliding down his chest and tugging the tail of his shirt from his pants.

  “Felicity…” His hands caught hers, firm but gentle. If he didn’t stop this now, stopping would no longer be an option. And, dammit, he knew this was too much, too soon. For both of them. But the fire in her green eyes shook his resolve. It had been so long since he’d felt this way, needy and raw. He ached to touch and taste and explore every inch of her.

  He blew out a long, slow breath, wishing she’d stop looking at him that way.

  But what worried him more? That she would stop looking at him that way.

  The featherlight stroke of her fingers against his bare stomach triggered a head-to-toe quiver.

  “Dammit,” he whispered. Right or wrong, his senses were invaded, submerged—happily—in the woman in his arms. At the moment, she was all that mattered. Had he ever been so aware of another person?

  The spot behind her ear smelled of cinnamon and berries. No…orange, from baking this morning. He drew her scent deep, his restraint melting away as she leaned in to him. He ran his nose along the shell of her ear, his lips nipping at her earlobe until her breath hitched.

  He did that to her. And knowing that was powerful. A surge of exhilaration and hunger rolled over him—kissing her was all he could do. And, damn, he liked kissing her.

  She was so soft. The dip in the middle of her lower lip demanded extra attention. A hint of wine clung to her mouth, making the too-sweet red his new favorite flavor. And when her lips parted, his hands were tangling in her hair to pull her closer. The touch of her tongue was a jolt to the system, one he’d forgotten existed but didn’t want to forget again.

  He took his time exploring the warmth of her mouth, tasting her, breathing her in and leaving them both gasping for air.

  When her fingers unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it wide to stare at his chest, he tilted her chin up—forcing their eyes to meet. All his want and hunger, passion and need blazed back at him from her green eyes.

  Ignoring the rational arguments for why this was a mistake wasn’t easy, but her touch helped, short-circuiting the rational side of his brain.

  When his phone started vibrating, he was willing to ignore that, too. But one of the cats decided to swat it off the dresser. It landed with a thud and a crack—instantly severing the connection between them.

  “Oh no.” She knelt. “Praline, what did you do?”

  He was breathing hard, doing his best to rein in the craving thrumming through his veins.

  “Graham, I’m so sorry.” Her nose wrinkled as she held up the phone. The glass face was lined with hundreds of tiny, spiderweb cracks.

  He was sorry, too. But not over his stupid phone. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  The cat meowed, flopping over and rolling onto her back.

  “She’s sorry.” Felicity glanced his way, her cheeks flushing red.

  He looked at the cat and ran a hand along the back of his neck. What was he doing? He wasn’t sixteen years old. He knew how to control himself. He jerked his shirt into place and began buttoning, missing a button.

  “I’ll replace it,” she offered.

  “It’s fine, Felicity.” Then why was he snapping at her? Don’t be an asshole.

  “You’re mad?”

  “No.” But he still sounded mad. He sucked in a deep breath. “I’m not mad at you.”

  “At the cat?” She was trying to tease him, but she looked, and sounded, nervous.

  “I should thank the cat.” He tucked his shirt into his pants.

  “Oh.” Her brows shot up, and she chewed on the inside of her lower lip. “Because he stopped…us.” Her nose wrinkled up, and she hugged herself.

  I am now officially an asshole. Talking about emotions didn’t come easily—as was evidenced by his daughter’s need for therapy. Even though he didn’t know what the hell to say or what exactly he was feeling, he couldn’t walk away from this. Uncomfortable or not, he had to try talking to Felicity.

  “When I’m with you, everything gets…scrambled up.” He swallowed. “I forget things. Important things. Like control. Cause and effect. Being responsible.”

  She was frowning at him now.

  “I don’t want to risk ruining what we have.” He swallowed again. “Or losing you.”

  Her mouth opened, but she didn’t say a word. She stood there, flushed and bright-eyed, staring at him. What the hell did that mean? Was he making it worse? He was pretty sure he was.

  But now that he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop talking. “What was happening here tonight—”

  “M-me throwing myself at you, you mean?” Her words ran together, and she covered her face with her hands.

  Dammit. He was making this worse. He stepped forward, pulling her hands away, but she continued to stare at his shirtfront. “I’m not complaining.”

  Her head popped up, those green eyes fixed on his face.

  “But if we do this, I don’t want to rush into things. Or mess it up.” His voice lowered. “You’re important. And this”—he took her hand in his—“scares the shit out of me.”

  Her gaze fell from his to their hands. Her thumb traced along the top of his hand before her fingers threaded with his. She took a deep breath. “We’re on the same page, then.” When she looked at him, he could breathe again. “What do we do now?”

  He had plenty of ideas. Things to look forward to. For now, he’d be content to hold her hand and savor her smile. “A dance?” he asked, the radio playing Nat King Cole’s version of “As Time Goes By.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Would he ever get used to that smile?

  He wasn’t sure what he liked more—her smile or the feel of her in his arms. They swayed more than anything, his arms around her waist, her head resting against his chest. With any luck, the song was on repeat.

  Praline meowed loudly, leaping from the dresser to weave between his legs.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” he murmured, loving the way Felicity laughed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Thanks,” Nick called out, tapping the side of the beat-up truck he’d hitched a ride in. The old man waved and pulled away from the curb, the one working taillight disappearing around the corner and fading into the dark of night.

  He was here. No backing out now.

  Crickets chirped. A few tree frogs croaked. The single streetlight on the corner flickered and hummed. The wind whipped through the pecan trees lining the fence of Pecan Valley Cemetery. Not that he was ready to acknowledge the fence—not yet. One thing at a time.

  Sneaking out of Granddad and Mimi’s had been easy. Wait for the snoring. He knew which boards squeaked, which door stuck, and how long it would take him to walk back into town. He’d been prepared to walk all night if he had to. No one would mess with him. And, if they did, he had a sledgehammer and a serious case of repressed rage to help defend himself.

  He got lucky with the ride.

  Now he was here. Staring down at the duffel bag with his grandfather’s sledgehammer in it, a bottle of water, a flashlight, and a bottle of vodka. He wasn’t sure if the vodka was for before or after, but he was sure he was going to need it. Once he was face-to-face with Matthew Buchanan’s headstone, he’d know.

  Screw it. He pulled the half-empty bottle from the bag and gulped, wincing and gagging until it was gone. “Fuck,” he spit out, throwing the bottle across the street to smash against the uneven asphalt.

  He tucked the flashlight into his pocket and hefted the bag onto his back before walking the perimeter of the fence. When he found a tree sturdy enough to climb, he was up and over and in. He landed, the sledgehammer in the bag slamming into his back with enough force to knock
him breathless and onto his knees.

  Cut grass, dirt, and musty flowers.

  A cemetery.

  He pushed himself up, dizzy and unsteady, and turned on his flashlight. Maybe it was the vodka, maybe it was the dark, but it took him a hell of a lot longer to find his dad’s headstone than he’d anticipated. Long enough for him to feel buzzed.

  Once he found it, he stood staring, gulping in air. His father wasn’t alone. Even in death, she was here. Right beside his dad.

  Amber Strauss. Not Buchanan.

  That was something, wasn’t it? He’d never married her.

  Not that it made him feel better. Something about seeing Amber’s name on that stone only reminded him of everything she’d taken. His family. Happiness. His dad… It didn’t matter that she had no one else in the world. She didn’t deserve it, not after what she’d done.

  He didn’t understand why.

  “What did she have, Dad?” His voice was high and broken like a kid. A whiny, pathetic kid. He cleared his throat, refusing to look at her headstone—refusing to think about her. Not anymore. He balanced the flashlight there, the beam making the dirt black, like a hole. A massive, gaping, bottomless hole.

  Nick stepped back, momentary panic setting in.

  “Fuck you,” he ground out, stomping on the very solid dirt beneath his feet. He knelt, unzipping the duffel bag and pulling out the sledgehammer.

  “You picked her.” His eyes burned. “You left us. You deserved to be unhappy.” He stood, wiping at the tears. “You deserved it.” He hefted the sledgehammer up and onto his shoulder, the tears making the words on the tombstone blur and dance. “You deserved this!” He screamed the words—and kept on screaming—as he swung the sledgehammer with all his weight. It landed hard, the impact radiating up his arms and into his chest, wrenching it free from his hands to fall on the ground.

  The corner of the headstone was gone—no more than a chip—but a deep crack splintered down a good two inches into the marble.

  And his heart twisted at the sight of it.

  He wouldn’t cry. Not for his father. Never again. He wouldn’t remember the way his father laughed. Or how strong his hugs were. Or the scent of his cologne. Or how broad his shoulders had been, how many times he’d fallen asleep on one.

  You can’t hurt me anymore. I won’t miss you.

  He sniffed, a lump lodging in his throat.

  “I hate you,” he ground out. “I hate what you did to us.” Because he couldn’t miss him—couldn’t love him. He wouldn’t.

  When he’d fallen on his knees, Nick didn’t know. The dewy, freshly turned earth soaked through his jeans. Dirt from his father’s grave. He pushed away, crawling back to wipe it away, only vaguely aware that the ground beneath him was brighter now—the face of the broken headstone illuminated by something behind him.

  I’m glad you’re dead. But he couldn’t get the words out, no matter how badly he wanted to mean them.

  The tears dripping off his cheeks only pissed him off more. But he couldn’t stop them.

  All he could do was cry. And cry.

  “Nick?” The word was soft. Low. Calm. “Nick Buchanan?”

  The vodka put everything in slow motion. Spinning around. Jumping up. Running. None of that was going to happen. Instead he looked over his shoulder, holding up a hand to stop the blinding spotlight.

  “It’s Sheriff Martinez,” the voice said, still calm. “You okay?”

  He nodded.

  The light cut off. A car door slammed. Followed by the jingle of keys.

  He was going to be arrested now. For drinking and breaking in and vandalizing his father’s headstone… Because, like Diana, I’m a fuckup. “Fucking great,” he bit out as he fell, face-first, into the dirt and passed out.

  …

  Charity finished her box of Junior Mints and eyed the bucket of popcorn. If she was smart, she’d stop while she was ahead. Her night promised heartburn as it was; no point adding to it. Especially since the first movie was still wrapping up. But it was the movie’s fault she was eating her feelings. Nothing like sitting through a happily-ever-after chick flick to remind her of her situation—pregnant by a married man, living at home, keeping secrets from, well, everyone, and going to the drive-in movie theater with two teenage girls for entertainment. Who even knew drive-in movie theaters still existed? Whatever.

  Bottom line? Her life was way more disaster flick than rom-com.

  Bitter much, Charity? She took a bite of a red licorice twist and a handful of popcorn.

  Her phone vibrated, and since it had to be Felicity or her folks, she answered it without bothering to check. “Hello?”

  “Charity?” The deep rumble on the other end of the line had her sitting up in her seat.

  She knew that voice. Braden Martinez, their brooding, hot sheriff. If she wasn’t pregnant and eating her body weight in junk food, she would happily show the man how fun being bad could be. She sighed.

  “Shhh,” Diana hushed her from the back seat of the SUV.

  “It’s Sheriff Martinez.” He paused, then added, “Braden Martinez.”

  Like she didn’t know who Sheriff Martinez was. “Hi.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I have your nephew with me.”

  Nick. Considering he was supposed to be spending the night with her parents, this couldn’t be good. She slipped from her car, ignoring Honor’s and Diana’s hushing, and slammed the door behind her. “What’s happened?”

  He sighed. “He’s drunk.”

  “Shit,” she bit out. Not that getting drunk was the worst thing a teenager could do. “Where?”

  He cleared his throat. “He was at the cemetery.”

  She ran a hand over her face. “Is he okay?” Really? She knew the answer to that question. If he were okay, he wouldn’t be drunk at the cemetery. Unless that was something kids did for fun these days.

  “Passed out.” There was a hint of amusement. “Some vandalism, though. He took a sledgehammer to his father’s headstone.”

  “Oh God,” she moaned, her chest tightening.

  “I thought, if you could come get him, maybe…” He broke off. “I’d be willing to let him off with a warning this time. Considering.”

  She blinked. Was he serious? “But… Will you get in trouble?” she whispered.

  “Only if you tell on me.” No denying the amusement this time.

  “Thank you. Seriously, Braden… I mean, Sheriff Martinez. I’ll be there as quick as I can.” She hung up without waiting for a response. A glance at the massive screen told her they had a good fifteen minutes left in the movie. She yanked the car door open. “We’re leaving,” she said, returning the tinny speakers to the stands outside the windows and starting the car.

  “What’s wrong?” Honor asked.

  Diana leaned forward between the seat, listening.

  “Nick,” Charity said, refusing to say more.

  She tried not to speed—too much—as they headed to the other side of town, taking the farm-to-market road that circled it. The drive was mostly silent except for Honor asking if he was okay and Diana asking where they were going. Once they knew that, it was pretty easy to figure out the gist of it.

  Still, pulling into the cemetery to find Braden Martinez leaning against the trunk of his black-and-white police car was unnerving.

  “Stay put,” she said, climbing out of the car before either girl could argue.

  Braden wasn’t smiling. This Braden Martinez was nothing like the easy-going, quick-to-smile guy she’d had a major crush on in high school. This guy was… different. He had that blank expression down to an art. She wasn’t a fan. As a woman who prided herself on reading people, the poker-face thing was beyond irritating. So was the way he watched her. What was he thinking? Was he judging her? Her family? Her nephew? There was no wa
y he could understand what Nick had been through—what they’d all been through. By the time she was standing toe to toe with the six-four sheriff, she was irritated and extra emotional.

  “Sheriff Martinez,” she snapped—for no reason. Pregnancy sucked.

  His brows rose. “Evening.”

  Chill. He had called her to come get Nick. And he was offering to let him off with a warning, which was huge. Be nice. She sighed. “Sorry. Where is he?”

  “In the car. Out cold.” He jerked his head to the car he was still leaning against. “Honor with you?”

  “And Diana Murphy.”

  His brow furrowed, everything about him stiffening. “Oh.” His gaze swept hers quickly, then away.

  That look. “Graham is, hopefully, with my sister.” Why was she explaining why Diana was with her?

  Because she didn’t want him to think she was involved with Graham. She couldn’t have been more surprised by that revelation.

  His brows rose. His posture eased. “Oh.”

  Was that almost a smile? Almost? Did she care? She’d figure that out—later.

  “Guess I should get him home?”

  He nodded, pushing off the car to tower over her. “I’ll get him.”

  Her hand shot out, resting on his forearm. “Why are you doing this, Braden?”

  He stared at her hand, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “He’s a kid.” His gaze swiveled to her. “He’s been through enough. We all do stupid things when we’re hurting. He’s hurting.” Braden had been a lot like Nick at this age. Unlike Nick, Braden’s father hadn’t left. Unlike Nick, Braden had wished his father would leave. Mr. Martinez senior wasn’t a good man.

  Of course he got it. He was hot and sweet and… Oh my God, pregnancy sucks. She nodded, squeezing his arm lightly. “Thank you.” Which wasn’t enough. But how could she repay his above-and-beyond awesomeness?

  He opened his mouth, took a step toward her, then stopped. With a stiff nod, he headed to the car and opened the door.

  “Nick?” he asked, calm and low—like this was a normal evening for him. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was. In Pecan Valley? Unlikely.