Working Back

by BJ Harvey

  I’m contemplative on the way home. The golf win was awesome. When I got five feet more than we needed to win with my last shot, the shocked look on Cohen and Jamie’s faces was a sight to behold. It was a win I’m not going to let any of the Cook brothers forget in a hurry, but after the thrill of the victory had worn off about halfway through dinner, I adopted the old adage of ‘fake it till you make it,’ because my old friend regret decided to plant itself in the forefront of my mind. Maybe I’ll try engaging my other companions—deflect and distract.

  After pulling into the driveway, Bry brings the bike to a stop in the garage and gives my arms around him a gentle squeeze. I brace my leg on one side and swing my other one over, hopping down from the bike and pulling my helmet off, as he does the same.

  “That was definitely a long, hard ride,” I say with a grin.

  His eyes widen before he throws his head back and cracks up laughing. He reaches his arm around my waist, tugging me to him as he leans against the bike seat. Dipping his chin, he kisses me once, then again. Pulling back to meet my eyes, his expression is full of the sort of intensity any woman craves to see from a man. “You were fucking magnificent tonight,” he says, his gentle voice belying his gaze. “Did anyone know you’ve been playing golf while you’ve been gone?”

  I jerk back, my mouth dropping open. “How did you…?”

  His grin widens. “You were good before. Now, you’re playing on a whole other level. You have either been playing or taking lessons in Australia.”

  I look away. “Both,” I mumble, earning a low chuckle for my efforts. He presses his palm to my cheek to turn my face back to his, and I lose myself in his eyes. We stand there, my legs inside his spread ones, my hips leaning against his stomach, my jaw cradled in his hands.

  He scans my face, and he drops it to my mouth as he runs the tip of his thumb over the seam of my lips. A rumbling growl escapes him. When my tongue darts out to touch his skin, he slams his mouth down on mine, and I scramble to stay standing as he devours me, his hard body pressing incessantly against mine, amping me up at the same time as terrifying me. There’s a prize owed to me that part of me is dying to claim. However, other parts of me—my heart and my head—are still in catch-up mode and don’t trust my hormones to lead me down the right path.

  When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing heavy. Bryant’s pupils are blown, and I have no doubt mine are the same.

  “Fuck, I won’t ever get tired of kissing you,” he says huskily, giving me another soft brush over my lips and staying there. “And I can’t wait to give you your prize.”

  “I might go have a quick shower,” I say quietly. Bry straightens, and I don’t have it in me to disappoint him by having another freak-out. My only hope is working through the feelings in my head before Bry comes to bed, so maybe I’ll be able to articulate them to him without sending us two steps back when we’ve had so many steps forward recently.

  “Okay. I’ll use the other bathroom and meet you in bed, yeah?” His words are so sweet, so normal, that it’s my turn to kiss him this time.

  “See you there,” I say as he smiles and steps aside to let me pass. This is what every night could’ve been like…

  After my shower, I spend what seems like forever choosing the right ‘might-be-having-sex-with-Bryant-for-the-first-time-in-twelve-years’ sleepwear. I lie in bed, facing away from him, my brain coming up with all the ways it might happen. Will he slowly and methodically seduce me? Or will it be a ‘wham, bam, spread your legs and give me your pussy, ma’am?’ We’ve been strictly first base for three weeks. Sure, I’ve felt his morning wood, and the hot-and-heavy make-out sessions we’ve had have definitely got both of us pent-up and in need of an underwear intervention—speaking for myself, anyway.

  To his credit, not once has Bry pushed further than I’ve been willing to go. And when we made the bet earlier tonight—albeit jokingly—I liked the idea of something so light and fun to help us break the ice.

  One thing I do know though is when it does happen—and believe me, it damn well better happen—I want it to be organic and as natural as breathing. I want it to be full of passion like we always had when we were intimate. I want to be so consumed with need, want, and desire that I can barely continue to live unless I jump him there and then.

  I don’t realize how stiff I am until Bry lets out a low sigh and tugs me across the mattress toward him. He pulls me in close, one arm under my head, the other wrapped tight around my front, not saying a word, just holding me. “As much as my body is ready for you to cash in your winnings, I know we aren’t there yet.”

  I let out the huge breath I was holding and physically feel the tension seep out of me, my entire body sagging back against him. He’s just verbalized the exact thing I’ve been tossing around my brain since we left the bar earlier tonight, what tortured me on the entire ride home, and what has kept me quiet ever since then.

  I turn over to face him, smoothing my hands over his chest, stilling them over his heart. I meet his eyes in the muted moonlight. “So I promised I’d be honest with you.”

  “And I promised the same, so don’t filter, Faith. It doesn’t matter how hard or difficult or even crazy it might sound in your head. I don’t want you to keep anything from me.”

  “Stop being so perfect,” I say softly, and I catch a whisper of a smile curving his lips.

  “How about I go first and say what I’m thinking? Because we may flirt, and kiss, and talk the talk, but I said this was real, and being real means being honest, however hard that may be.”

  I’m tongue-tied, staring straight into the eyes of my husband, who is now seemingly a modern-day sage.

  He presses our lips together and pulls back ever so slightly. “I’ve had you plastered to my back on the bike for the very first time, watched you kick all our asses at golf—something which damn near gave me a hard-on all in itself—and now you’re rubbing your hot body all over me without even realizing you’re doing it.” He leans his forehead to mine and inhales deeply as if breathing me in. Or possibly he’s trying to strengthen himself against the power of my feminine wiles. The man has the self-control of a monk, but he is 100 percent right. If it were meant to happen—or meant to happen now—there would be absolutely no hesitation from either of us. When did I forget never to underestimate the psychic powers of this man? His eyes roam my face, the intensity of his gaze like licks of heat against my skin. “I may not be a sinner, but I’m not so much of a saint that I can keep up the fight against this.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but my words catch in my throat the moment he kisses me. It’s not a gentle peck—it’s a claiming, deep, owning locking of lips that has my toes curling, my thighs clenching and my hands gripping his hair so tight he could quite possibly now have a bald spot.

  Instead of freaking out over what might’ve happened or how far it might go, that’s all we do—a lot of kissing, a little groping, and it’s absolutely perfect.

  A while later, Bryant is flat on his back, and my head is cradled in the crook of his shoulder, both of us holding each other close and tight.

  For the first time since he proposed this entire marriage, I’m not overthinking this. I’m done being a scientist when it comes to my approach to this man—the only man I’ve ever loved—because tonight has proven that nothing will ever happen naturally if I’m always running every scenario through my head all the time.

  As I feel the soft rise and fall of his chest, I now have a new resolve—what will be, will be. It will happen, or it won’t. Bry will trust me again, or he won’t. I’ll forgive myself, or I won’t. But even if I don’t, I won’t let it hold me back. I’ve got twelve years of memories to make up for, and I can’t wait to start. First step—cooking lessons. After that—helping out with the renovations. Our younger selves always talked about buying a rundown house and doing it up room by room. Now, we’re together, we’re in a rundown house—soon to be a spectacularly renovated home—and there’s nothing wrong
with playing pretend and imagining that this is our house.

  It’s time to get operation ‘be the best wife ever’ back on track.

  And as I slowly drift off to sleep, snuggling deeper into my hot husband, there are only three words going through my mind.

  Bring it on.

  Faith

  Another week has passed at my new job that I love, and another week of wedded harmony where slowly but surely, Bryant and I are settling into our new normal. I get up and go to work after Bryant makes me breakfast. I come home just in time for dinner—again, cooked by my husband—then we watch TV or a movie and talk about our day before going to bed, Bryant hauling me over to sleep in his arms. Then we wake up, and it happens all over again. But my plans to be the best wife I can be are well underway.

  Which is why I find myself parking Betsy in my parents’ driveway and walking over to the Cooks’ family home with two bags of groceries in my arms.

  “Faith,” Marcy says, pulling me into her arms as soon as I step inside. “It’s so good to see you. I’m super excited about this.”

  I smile because Marcy’s enthusiasm not just for today but life in general has always been infectious. “I’ve been looking forward to today all week.“

  “I hope my boy has been putting his skills to good use.”

  I splutter and cover my mouth, trying to hide it with a cough, but as always, Marcy Cook doesn’t miss a thing.

  “I like the way you think, but I meant his culinary skills. I love my boys, but I don’t need to know about things like that.”

  Unable to stop myself, I giggle, grinning at my mother-in-law’s dancing eyes.

  “Marce, are you embarrassing my poor, innocent daughter?” Mom calls out from the other end of the house.

  “Would I do that?” Marcy shoots me a knowing wink. She loops her arm in mine, and together we walk down the hall and into the kitchen where I find Mom, April, and Ronnie. I bend down and place the bags on the ground.

  “Hey,” I say, taken aback at my new sister-laws’ presence.

  April seems to study me, a soft smile curving her lips. “I promise we’re not here to gate-crash your lesson.” She looks to Ronnie, then back to me. “We’re just here as moral support.”

  “And we figure it’s easier to form a Cook Wives Pussy Posse if the guys aren’t around,” Ronnie adds, her eyes dancing with amusement when I snort at the title.

  “I’ve never been part of a posse before.”

  “Ah yes, that’s because you’ve never had us. Now, we’re all in this together,” Ronnie says. “We might even get matching T-shirts. I haven’t decided yet.”

  The thought of all of us turning up to the next family get together with pussy posse tops makes me snort.

  “Having girls at your back is always good. I love my sons and husband to death but, like any man, they have their moments where they can drive me wild—and not in a good way,” Marcy says. Mrs. Cook could never be called a prude. In fact, I don’t think her name and that word even belong in the same stratosphere.

  It was her who took Bry to the dentist after the head-meets-head blow-job incident. I was hysterical, Bryant was groaning and embarrassed to all hell. Marcy just looked at him, looked at me, and snickered before jumping into action.

  “Bryant doesn’t know why I’m here,” I whisper, my chest tightening. It’s not lying to him—I said I was coming, just not that I was doing it to start learning how to cook for him.

  “And he won’t until you tell him,” April says. “Jamie and Ax have gone over to the house to work out what to do about the back yard and then all the guys—Rick included—were going to take Ax to the park to throw a ball around.” Rick being my new father-in-law.

  My shoulders relax, and I let out the huge breath I was holding. “It’s not that I’m hiding it—”

  “You want to surprise him,” Mom surmises correctly.

  “That’s part of it…” I say, wondering whether I can still be part of the pussy posse if I admit I have a plan to prove myself to my new husband.

  “You’re doing this for him,” Ronnie says.

  “Well yeah…”

  Marcy places her hand on my forearm and gives it a gentle squeeze. “No, what Ronnie means is, you’re doing this for him.”

  I bite my lip and nod, my embarrassment fading away as I catch the looks of approval on everyone’s faces. Feeling emboldened, I explain further. “Okay, so this is probably too much information,” I say, turning toward my mom. “But then again, it was you and Marcy who sat me down at fourteen and scared me off even touching Bryant by showing me photos, diagrams, and a graphic childbirth video.”

  Marcy looks at Mom, and they both burst out laughing. “That was so much fun. I swear you almost passed out when that girl got an episiotomy.”

  “I had one of those. I almost passed out, and I was an adult and couldn’t even feel my lady parts,” April says. “Though as a fourteen-year-old seeing that, I would’ve gladly put on my own chastity belt to avoid a penis coming anywhere near me.”

  “Hey, I think I would’ve gladly had the Marcy and Patty sex talk. It’s better than freaking out when I first felt something hard poking my leg when I was fifteen and making out with Billy Harris—my biggest crush ever,” Ronnie says.

  “Oh God,” April gasps, wheezing with laughter. “I remember that. Good times.”

  “For you, maybe. I punched him in the junk and left him rolling around on the ground in the fetal position. He never spoke to me again. I even saw him a few years ago at a restaurant, and he turned around and walked the other way.”

  “Men and their fragile egos,” Marcy says with a smile. “I’m just glad we raised our boys to roll with the punches.”

  “There’s one thing I can say about the Cook and Baker boys—there’s nothing fragile about them,” I add, earning nods from everyone.

  “I don’t know. Our boys have a soft spot,” Marcy’s eyes drift around the room before falling on me. Her meaning is not lost on me. I’m Bryant’s soft spot. Probably his blind spot too.

  Knowing she’s aware of that fact—hell, everyone does—I decide to confess my plan.

  “I want to be the best wife, partner, everything for Bry. I screwed up years ago, and I know he’ll never forget that, but I’m going to work myself to the bone to make it up to him so he never doubts my feelings.”

  “Would he have married you if he held a grudge?” April asks gently.

  “No, but I know he’s still holding back.”

  “It’s only been, what? A month?”

  “Five weeks, and yeah, I know it’s still early days, but I see it in his eyes. He’s waiting for the penny to drop, for me to freak out and run away again, and I hate that because it means I hold back too. I don’t wanna get hurt, and I definitely don’t want to hurt him.”

  “You planning on running away again?” Marcy asks, her tone inquisitive. I meet her eyes head-on and don’t hesitate in reassuring her.

  “Hell no. I came back for him. I came back to win him back. Did I expect another marriage proposal? No.”

  A collective gasp fills the room.

  “What?” Mom whispers, her hand lifting to her mouth.

  Marcy’s eyes are wide and glassy. “Oh my goodness. He never… he didn’t…”

  I go completely still. He didn’t tell them. Why didn’t he tell anyone?

  “He proposed?” Ronnie whispers. I slowly drag my eyes from the moms, who are still standing there in shock, to my sister-in-law.

  “Yeah. The night before I left. I freaked out and ran away. I was leaving anyway; I just hadn’t told Bry about my decision.”

  Ronnie opens her mouth to say something, but I quickly beat her to it, feeling the need to justify myself.

  “I panicked. It felt like I was going to lose my one chance to make something of myself out of the spotlight of the Bryant and Faith show. So I—”

  “Ran,” Mom says from my side, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder. “I always thought it w
as something to do with that.”

  My head jerks back. My eyes snap to hers.

  “You always marched to the beat of everyone else’s drum. I knew the day would come when you wanted to set your own beat,” she says softly, and finally hearing someone say out loud what I always struggled to express myself, I lose it, wrapping my arms around her waist and crying into her shoulder.

  The soothing circles of her hand on my back calm me down, the tight feeling in my chest slowly easing as the other women in the room softly murmur around us.

  Then I feel heat at my back as Marcy joins us, making a Cook/Baker sandwich.

  “He knows,” she whispers in my ear. “And he gets it.”

  My sudden intake of breath seizes, and I freeze, my mother-in-law’s words surprising me. I pull away from Mom and turn to meet Marcy’s eyes.

  “My boys may seem big and tough, but there’s one other lesson I taught them from a young age. Whatever happens and however old they are, their mom will always answer her phone and will never not be there for them. Bryant would have known something was up when you left. Maybe not at the time, but looking back on it, he figured it out.” She reaches down and runs her thumb over my ring. “There’s no other way he would’ve given you the same engagement ring he’s had in his possession since he was eighteen otherwise. He begged me to help him choose it. He was always going to use it… with you.”

  I suck in a few breaths, desperately trying to quell the deluge of emotions threatening to drown me. It’s not a panic attack this time. It’s a warmth so all-encompassing that I feel like I might spontaneously combust. It’s the consuming realization that my gut instinct was not wrong when I was eight, fourteen and that it’s still right now that I’m thirty-four. Bryant Cook was, is—and will forever be—the best boy, man, and husband I will ever know.

  He waited for me.

  There’s never been anyone for me but him.

  “Swans,” I whisper, earning puzzled looks from all the women in the room.

  “What, baby?” Mom asks, giving my arm a gentle squeeze.