Dirty Charmer

by Emma Chase

  And I wanted to know, needed to hear her say it.

  So I pushed and pushed until she fucking broke.

  Of course she did.

  I know Abby—I know her—how her heart beats and her soul sings and the way her puzzle-solving mind sorts things out. It’s why I fell for her. Why I’ll never love anyone as insanely as I love her. Her strength and weakness and tenderness and beautiful vulnerability that makes her trust so fucking precious. A gift.

  A gift she’s never given to anyone . . . except me.

  And I pushed it back straight in her face.

  “All right, lads, that’s enough for today.”

  I walk away from the startled looks of the new hires—because it’s only early afternoon and we’re supposed to go until evening. But Lo’s boys have colds and he’s home with them today.

  And I can’t do this now. It’s so unimportant it’s almost comical. None of this matters—and if I don’t get things straight with Abby, none of it will ever matter again.

  I head into my office for my wallet and keys. Then I’m going to the hospital and planting myself outside a surgical suite all fucking day if that’s what it takes.

  Until I can see Abby and tell her it’s all right—she can have her time.

  Yes, I’m going to hunt her down and corner her—to tell her she can have all the space away from me she needs. It may not seem to make a lick of sense . . . but it makes sense for us.

  “Hey, Tommy.” Celia sticks her head through my office door. “There’s an accident down on the corner—looks pretty bad. Emergency services are on their way, but Gordon and a few of the boys are going down to see if they can help.”

  I nod, snagging my keys and wallet and heading down to the corner to see if I can help as well.

  Halfway down the block I can smell the smoke, acrid and oily. In the distance, there’s a crunched heap that used to be two separate cars but is now molded into one metal monstrosity.

  And there’s a pushing at my shoulders. A cold, panicked spark streaking up my spine that says something is wrong. And I need to move faster, to get there.

  To get there now.

  My heart pounds and the blood rages in my ears and there’s a pulling pain deep inside, like a hook in my soul.

  I start to run. Sprinting.

  When I reach the car, I see the unmistakable smear of copper strands against cracked windowpane, glinting in the sun.

  And something between a roar and a wail comes out of me.

  Because Abby’s in there.

  In all that sharp, twisted, burning metal.

  God, please, please—fucking please.

  The driver’s seat is empty—I don’t know if the driver crawled away or was thrown from the car—and it’s just Abby inside. Alone. And the bent door won’t open, so I grip the metal and pull with everything I have. To tear it apart, to get to her—to get her out. The car shakes as I yank and strain, but it doesn’t fucking move.

  Inside, Abby jostles with my efforts—her skin terrifyingly pale, her eyes closed, lips still.

  This can’t be happening. Not now. Not after everything.

  It can’t end like this.

  It can’t end at all.

  I hear the echo of the last words I said to Abby and all the words I’ve wanted to say since, and it’s like I’m fucking dying inside. Like I’m already dead.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  There are so many things I have to tell her. So many words she needs to hear.

  In the edges of my vision, I see movement—the lads working around the other side. And I smell the black smoke, the heat, the fire.

  “The car’s burning, Tommy. The whole thing’s gonna go. We gotta move,” Gordon tells me in cold, clear tones.

  Because that’s how we work best. When we’re tactical. Detached. Assessment and risk. That’s what we do.

  But this is different.

  I punch at the glass of the window—not feeling a thing as the slivers stab into my knuckles, splitting skin and drawing blood. When it doesn’t break, I shift to jabbing with my elbow.

  Come on, come on, you bastard.

  “Tommy! Gotta move, gotta move.”

  And it’s all so clear. So simple, as the nanoseconds of precious time tick by. The kind of truth that’s settled in the deepest recesses of my being. And I know without question that I’m not moving from this spot. I’m not going anywhere.

  That if Abby is going to burn . . . I’m burning with her.

  I kick and smash at the window like a madman, a jumble of curses and prayers tumbling from my mouth.

  And at last—at fucking last—the glass gives.

  Chunks and shards of sharp glass rain over Abby, but my hands are on her. Wrenching the safety buckle out of the seat. Lifting. Pulling her through the shattered space, tucking her against me to shield her, turning and running.

  As the pop and hiss slashes the air behind me like a vicious snake, and the car—the seat where Abby was just lying and the spot where I stood—is consumed in flames.

  I fall to my knees on the pavement and turn her in my arms, brushing her hair and bits of glass from her face with my bleeding hands.

  “Abby. Abby, love, wake up. Wake up and look at me.”

  Her golden brows wrinkle and draw together as she whimpers.

  Then Abby’s eyes open. And she stares up at me for the longest moment and her words come on a soft, airy whisper.

  “Is this heaven?”

  And my vision, my whole fucking world, goes blurry with the relief. I choke out a laugh, as wetness seeps from the corners of my eyes.

  “It is now.”

  She smiles weakly, her green eyes shimmering with her own tears. She reaches up with one hand and strokes my cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Tommy. I didn’t mean—”

  “Shhh, it’s fine. None of that matters now. Don’t try to talk.”

  “No.” She clenches my shirt in her one hand. “You have to listen—I have to say this.”

  She licks at her lips, swallowing.

  “You were right—I was afraid. Afraid of wanting so many things at once. But it wasn’t about you. I love you, Tommy. I wasn’t unsure of that. I love . . .” Her voice catches, breaking, and she tries again. “I love you. I’m never, ever going to not love you. I want the whole messy box with you, Tommy.”

  I chuckle gently as her words wash through me—a smooth, soothing, healing balm.

  “And I don’t want us to be apart anymore. Not ever again.”

  I hold Abby closer, brushing my lips against her forehead.

  “Then we won’t be. Not ever again. I swear to God.”

  Tears streak down her sooty cheeks as she nods, smiling and crying at the same time as she nuzzles into my arms. The shriek of the ambulance sirens gets louder, closer, until paramedics arrive and I have to force myself to let Abby go so they can tend to her.

  There are more things to discuss and plans to make.

  But for now, this is enough.

  This is everything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Abby

  A WEEK LATER, I’M IN my flat at the dining room table, hunched over a red grape that’s stabilized with forceps, painstakingly suturing the delicate split skin back together with a needle and thread in my left hand.

  Because I was wrong. Doctors actually do make the worst patients. And a surgeon with extra time on her hands runs the risk of being especially petulant.

  In addition to a smattering of minor cuts and contusions, the accident left me with a concussion and a Grade 2 strain of the scapholunate ligament of my right wrist—which means I’m home from the hospital for two weeks and banned from the operating room for a month.

  There was a time when such a delay would’ve caused my whole world to fall apart.

  But my world is bigger now.

  And having a gorgeous man with a devilish smile taking extra good care of me—who enjoys being naked more often than not—has definitely pillowed the blo
w.

  That doesn’t mean I can’t put my recovery time to productive use, however.

  That’s where the grape comes in.

  I’ve been working on developing the dexterity and skill in my nondominant hand. My right forearm is encased in a black stabilizing splint, but I’m able to use my fingers to tie off the thread in the now stitched grape. The sutures aren’t pretty—the grape looks like the fruit incarnation of Frankenstein, but still . . .

  “Not bad,” I say out loud to myself.

  But a moment later when Tommy walks through the door, it’s not just myself in the flat.

  I feel my skin grow warm as I watch him approach—how the lines of his impressive physique stand out as he moves and his hair falls over his forehead in that careless way that makes my fingers twitch to run through the thick strands.

  Then that warmth penetrates deep, turning to a swelling tenderness inside my chest that always comes when I’m gazing at him.

  Because I love him.

  And I’m so grateful, so happy that he’s here and mine and I’m his.

  He stands beside me, the heat of his thigh against my arm, glancing down at my handiwork.

  “How’s the patient, Dr. Abby?”

  “He’ll live.” I smile.

  “Excellent.” Tommy plucks a grape off the vine from the bag on the table, tosses it in the air and catches it in his mouth with a smooth, effortless grace. “Then I came home just in time.”

  He gave notice on the lease of his place and moved in here with me—not just to take care of me while I recuperate, but for good.

  “You deserve a reward,” he says in a teasing tone. “And so do I.”

  Then he proceeds to unbutton his black shirt. Slowly.

  And I put down the suture needle.

  “Since you were so generous with the stripteases when I was on the mend, I thought it was time I return the favor. If you’re feeling up to it.”

  He strips his shirt off his arms—revealing deliciously warm, tan muscles—leaving him in black trousers that cling in all the best places.

  “I’m feeling all sorts of things at the moment.”

  His grin is wicked and his voice is a low, decadent promise.

  “Don’t get too worked up, lass. We’re going to have to go extra slow—I’m even thinking about tying you down . . . just to be sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

  My head goes pleasantly light—drunk on him—and my breasts are heavy and tingling for his touch.

  Tommy scoops me up, cradling me against the smooth heat of his chest, my hair swinging long and loose behind me in a way I know he adores.

  “You are a dirty, dirty man. And I am a lucky, lucky girl.”

  He dips his head, his mouth drifting close.

  “And you love me.”

  It’s not a question, but a declaration, because he adores that too—saying the words, hearing the confirmation out loud of all that we feel for each other.

  I lean in, kissing him softly and tracing his bottom lip with my tongue.

  “I really, really do.”

  * * *

  The following Sunday afternoon, we’re at Tommy’s parents’ house to celebrate his niece Matilda’s second birthday. The house and back garden are filled to the brim with his loud and plentiful family and I sit on a blanket on the grass beside Tommy’s youngest sister, Fiona, and the birthday girl herself.

  Matilda’s little face is scrunched with seriousness as she puts the new toy doctor bag Tommy and I gave her to good use—tapping the diaphragm of the brightly colored stethoscope against my chest and listening intently at the eartips that disappear beneath the baby-blond braids on either side of her head.

  “Hmm . . .” she hums thoughtfully, and it’s so adorable I smother a laugh.

  Then she nods, quite seriously. She drops her stethoscope into the bag and carefully sticks an oversized electric-blue adhesive bandage to my splint.

  And then she hands me a lolly.

  “Why thank you, Dr. Matilda! I feel so much better now.”

  She giggles in that magical, high-pitched way that makes anyone who hears it smile along with her, and then she toddles to her feet, gathers her bag and rushes off to see her next patient.

  A moment later, Tommy is dropping to his knees on the blanket next to me, handing me a plate of crackers and cheese.

  “Thank you.” I smile up at him. “Though I really could’ve gotten it myself—my wrist is sprained, not my leg.”

  He shrugs, then bends his head to smack a kiss on my lips.

  “Now you won’t have to get up—you can sit back and watch me and Lionel kick Andy and Arthur’s arses all over the yard.”

  He’s going to play football with his brothers—a common pastime at Sullivan gatherings, which can go from playful to deadly in a hot minute and usually does. Sullivan boys are competitive.

  Tommy kisses me again, then heads off—telling his sister as he passes, “Keep Abby company, Fi.”

  No sooner is he out of earshot than his youngest sister wonders, “Would you write a prescription for birth control for me if I asked you to?”

  I cover my eyes with my good hand. And groan.

  “Why me? Why do you ask me these things? You have three older sisters and a mother who loves you incessantly.”

  By “these things” I mean questions—generally sex related—for the past few months.

  At first I thought she was doing it to tease me or purposely make me uncomfortable . . . like her naughty brother before her.

  But now I think it’s something else. That Fiona’s looking for someone to talk to, someone who won’t judge her, someone she can trust.

  While that someone is absolutely me, it doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.

  “Have you met my mum?” Fiona gives me an inane look. “I could never talk to her like this. She’d lock me in my room until I was thirty.”

  I look across the grass to the lady of the house—Mrs. Sullivan—pointing and giving directions and orders like a drill sergeant gunning for a promotion. I’ve come to realize that handing out tasks is her way of showing affection—of saying she likes you enough to want your contribution and has faith in you to do it correctly.

  The woman’s never asked me to even pick up a bloody spoon.

  “Sometimes mums and dads can surprise you,” I tell Fiona.

  Mine did.

  After our heart-to-heart at my flat that day, and then the accident, things changed between me and my parents. Don’t misunderstand me—they’re still stuffy as all get-out—they don’t know how to be anything else. But they’ve gone out of their way to have lunch with me each week and there’s a closeness, an honesty, a realness to our conversations that wasn’t there before.

  “My mother will never surprise anyone,” Fiona insists. “She’s as stubborn as a stone in a five-hundred-year-old castle.”

  “Be that as it may, this is still a discussion you should be having with her. Or your regular physician.”

  Fiona leans forward.

  “But if I didn’t want to discuss it with either of them—would you do it if I asked?”

  I take a breath, and I think about it only for a moment.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “What if Tommy didn’t want you to?” she asks.

  “The prescription wouldn’t be for him, so it’s not really any of his business, now is it?”

  “What if he was angry about it?”

  My gaze finds Tommy across the way—his eyes dark and intense, his hair clinging damp to his forehead and a smudge of dirt on his cheek, making him look rough and rugged and so handsome it sears my heart.

  “He wouldn’t be. Nauseous more likely at the thought of his baby sister having sex, but not angry. Above all he would want you protected.”

  After a moment of thinking it over, Fiona nods.

  “For the record—I’m not asking. But it’s always good to know.” Then she reaches over and hugs me, quick and sweet. “Thank you, Abby.”


  After an aunt calls Fiona over, I find myself looking over at Mrs. Sullivan again.

  She’s standing on her own now, arms crossed, watching her four boys play ball with just a hint of a smile on her face. And speaking of discussions that should be had . . .

  I stand up from the blanket, brush my beige trousers off and walk straight over to Tommy’s mum. She doesn’t acknowledge that I’m standing next to her at first—but I tell her what needs to be said anyway.

  “I love your son, Mrs. Sullivan. It’d be easier for him if you liked me, but it doesn’t truly matter if you do. I’m not going anywhere.” I look across the grass at Tommy, then back to her again—and now I’ve got her attention. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure he feels like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a bit—she simply stares back with an unreadable face.

  Then she turns her gaze to the game—to Tommy—and sighs slowly, before nodding.

  “All right, then. I’m heading to the kitchen to get supper served. Tommy says you’re talented with a knife. Would you like to carve the roast, Abby?”

  And it’s like I’m glowing from the inside—alight with a wonderful contentment that spreads down my limbs to the tips of my fingers and toes.

  Because this is a peace offering. A start.

  “I’d be happy to help, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “Good.” She picks up a wayward plate from the table behind her, before turning back. “And you can call me Maggie. Or Mum if you’d like . . . everyone in the family does.”

  With that, she walks off ahead of me. And I just sort of stand there—stunned.

  I feel Tommy’s eyes on me, because he always knows where I am. When I look at him, he lifts his chin towards his mother—silently asking if I’m all right.

  I give him my biggest, brightest smile.

  Then he’s smiling back, sending me a sexy wink just because he can.

  And life isn’t just perfect . . . it’s extraordinary.

  EPILOGUE

  Tommy

  7 years later

  PERSONAL SECURITY HAS BECOME NOT just a necessity for the wealthy and privileged, but a status symbol of sorts. Like a private jet or an overpriced ugly handbag—anyone who thinks they’re someone wants to have it.