Happy Thanksgiving . . . Or Not

Delaney

 

 

 

BROOKLYN LOOKED AT ME oddly when I stepped into the kitchen, balancing two Tupperware containers with my pies. Even so, the sight of my man at the stove and the smells of home-cooked food wafting through the kitchen were welcome after the morning I’d had.

A smile curved his mouth, replacing the scowl I’d walked in on. He took the pies, set them on the center island, and curled his arms around me.

The smell of roasting turkey had nothing on his scent as I burrowed my nose against the hollow of his throat. He smelled like the forest, sturdy, powerful, manly. I hooked my arms around his waist, safe for the first time all day.

“Missed you at practice this morning.” His chest rumbled against my ear.

“I missed you too.” He has no idea how much.

Framing my face in his palms, he kissed me sweetly, hotly, slowly before pulling back with a groan to check his watch.

“Probably better not keep that up. Bunyan and Calder should be here anytime.” He cleared his throat and threaded our fingers together. “Don’t need those two walking on us making out.”

“Ahh. Yes. The nonfraternization policy.” I smiled for the first time all day. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m not really sure we’re flying that far under the rules radar, baby.”

“Baby?” He wiggled his eyebrows, smirk forming on his ruddy lips. “I like the sound of that.” After squeezing my ass, he moved away. “So . . . these are the famous Delaney Jones pies?”

He started popping one of the Tupperware tops free, but I swatted his hands away.

“Hey. No peeking at my pies.”

His head fell back as a full roaring laugh belted from his mouth. “Babe, I already done seen, and eaten, your pie.”

My cheeks heated when he slanted a searing look at me. My insides trembled. I grew warm, instantly wet and ready between my legs.

“And talking dirty to me is how you think we’re going to pretend we’re not together in front of your teammates?”

“Good point.” His lusty dark eyes scanned over my dress and the high boots.

A noticeable bulge thickened in his pants.

He shifted.

I blew him a kiss.

He groaned.

“Tell me about the pies.”

“The pies I made or the pie I—”

“Those pies there, girl.” His voice dropping, he pointed at the goods on the counter, not the one between my thighs. “Didn’t know you baked.”

Setting my hands over one of the circular covers, I sucked in a breath. “I really didn’t. I had no interest in baking until I got pregnant with Katie.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Delaney. You don’t have to tell me.” From behind me, his arms folded around my middle.

“It’s okay. Even if it hurts, it’s okay.”

“Then I’m listening.”

“I always pictured the holidays and her birthday. Making homemade goodies for my baby. A first birthday cake she’d smear all over her highchair and her face. Probably fling all over the kitchen. Things like that so she knew how much her momma loved her.” I swiped at my cheeks. “You know, all those photos I imagine for her scrapbook I’d have made.”

His hands cupped my belly. “You don’t know how sorry I am. I’d give anything if you could have her back.”

“Me too.” A glimmer of tears blinded my eyes, and I ran my hands along his forearms. “But it’s not your fault.”

Spinning me around, his gaze delved to mine. “Not yours either.” His shoulders stiffened. “We both know whose fault it is.”

“I don’t want to talk about him today, Brooks.”

His jaw clamped down. “I don’t either, but—”

“Were you on the phone when I came in?” I interrupted him.

“Uh. Yeah. Never mind that.” He drew back to check something on the stove. “We’ll talk about it later.”

The tone of his voice unsettled me for a moment, and I was already shaken enough for one day.

I’d been taking my pies from the oven when there was a knock on the door of my apartment. I’d figured it was Brooklyn—he’d offered to drive me to his place. The man couldn’t stand to be away from me for more than a few hours, not that I was complaining. I felt the same way. My body ached for him. I liked working out with him, shooting hoops, shaking it up in the sack, and even riding the horses on his land.

Every day delivered something new and hopeful and, well, incredibly sexual. The man had no quit and he fired me up just as much.

After dusting the flour off my hands, I’d smoothed my hair back and answered the door.

Only it hadn’t been Brooks.

Before I had a chance to react, Eric busted into the apartment, the same sick sneer on his lips. Slamming the door shut, he locked it.

“What do you gotta say for yourself, slut?”

Swallowing down hysteria, I stood in front of him and squared off. “How’d you find me?”

Certain he had the upper hand as always, he strolled around me, through the entryway and into the living room. He touched the furniture, the framed photos on the mantle, my hoodie tossed over a chair.

“Carolina Cougars?” He snorted, slouching into a seat and spreading his thighs wide. “You made it easy this time.”

“That’s because I don’t give a shit, you fucking asshole. I don’t care if you come after me. I’m done running.” Hands on hips, I glared with all the fury coursing through my body.

He still had the crop of blond hair, but now it receded from his forehead. His gut drooped over his belt buckle. His blue eyes were bloodshot. Eric had gone to seed, and this time I wasn’t giving in, giving up, or losing myself to his twisted ways.

“I want a divorce.”

“That ain’t ever gonna happen, whore.” He lumbered to his feet, menacing in front of me. “Sleeping with a footballer, are ya? You always were ready to spread your legs for an athlete. Too bad you never learned how to shut up and get me off. Fucking bitch.”

His heavy hand lifted to hit me, but I feinted aside.

I pushed my fists up. “You’re not going to beat me up this time, baby killer.”

“That was all you cared about at the end.”

“Because Katelynne was the only thing to care about!” I spun around, kicking him in his droopy gut.

Crouching down, I readied for Eric’s attack.

Winded, he straightened slowly. The sneer never leaving his lips. “Well, look at you. You grow a dick too?”

“I don’t need a cock to be better than you. This is all me.” I slammed an uppercut against his jaw. “You’re slower than you used to be. Getting too soft to take on the little woman?” I taunted the bastard.

“Not too soft for this.” Launching at me, he crashed me against the wall.

The breath shuttled from my lungs.

He pressed my legs open and pushed between them, his sweaty stench soiling the air around us as his erection shoved against me.

“Honey.” I smiled, staying completely still while he slavered over me. “Your cock never really did anything for me. I never even had an orgasm with you.”

“Bitch!” Eric rammed a fist into the wall beside my head.

My eyes narrowed. “That’s right. That’s exactly what I am. A footballer bitch. And in the shape you’re in, you couldn’t take me on the field . . . or in the bedroom.”

“Cunt.”

“That too.” I shoved the scum-sucker off me and drew up my fists again. “Cunt. Bitch. Slut. Whore. Free. Woman. It doesn’t matter what you say or what names you call me.” I danced on the balls of my feet around Eric as he fumed uselessly. “You can’t hurt me anymore. Because I punch back. I’m taking the power you stole from me back.”

I blasted at his face, connecting my balled fist with his twice-broken nose. Hopefully that made three times as bones crunched under the impact and blood spewed.

Eric tackled me around the knees, dropping me to the floor. His blood dripped onto me.

Bucking up, I rocked him off me.

My heart racing, my knuckles hurting, panic nearly taking hold, I pointed at the door. “Get the fuck out.”

“Like it or not, I still own you, Delaney.” The snide fucker swiped his nose against his sleeve, leaving a red patch, then he snickered at me. “You’ll always belong to me.”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

“Sure.” He opened the door. “But I’m coming back.”

“Like hell you are.”

“Count on it, bitch.”

Determined not to involve Brooks in my domestic drama, I showed up with the pies and a smile only to find him wearing a glare while my insides rocked from the confrontation with Eric. I only hoped the bruises on my knuckles weren’t too noticeable—I could always play them off as collateral from the game.

Brooklyn had enough going on with the string of defeats, and this wasn’t his battle.

He shook my shoulder. “Delaney? You okay? I didn’t mean to upset you by asking about Katelynne.”

I captured his hand. “Nothing to worry about. Chalk it up to a long day?”

“It’s only noon.”

“I know, but—”

The doorbell rang, cutting Brooks off midsentence.

Calder Malone and Paul Biggs stormed into the house, the big beautiful distraction needed as they filled the rooms with booming voices and huge personalities.

After laying on the fist bumps with Brooks, they sent me sort of shy smiles and little waves, which was kind of adorable considering the two men were massive pro football players who dealt with stardom, fans, and fame on a daily basis.

“We brought wings.” Biggs, the man dubbed Bunyan by his teammates, rattled a couple Styrofoam takeout boxes.

“And nachos and dip.” Calder held a tinfoil-covered platter that smelled like hot gooey-nacho-cheese heaven.

“On Thanksgiving? That’s blasphemy.” Brooks wrinkled his nose, then he held out his hands. “Gimme those. We can eat ’em later when we watch the game.”

“And beer,” Bunyan added, handing a six-pack to me.

“Bonus.”

“So you didn’t invite our resident shit stirrer?” Bunyan mentioned Luke Buckley.

“Not likely.”

“He can’t be that bad,” I said.

Brooks snorted. “Bullshit. But I’m thinking it’s just a maturity thing.”

Bunyan burped so loud the rafters shook. “Yeah. Because we’re all about that around here.”

With the ensuing laughter I relaxed a little more, shaking off the episode with Eric.

“Can we help with anything?” the massive linebacker asked.

“Nope.” The host with the most led the guys to the living room, clearly proud of his domain as he showed off the view.

“Good. Because I suck at the kitchen stuff.” Calder sat down on one of the couches, his big thighs spread.

“Speak for yourself,” Bunyan said. “I rock in the kitchen.”

“So you two, right?” Pointing between the pair of Brooks and me, Calder gave a knowing smirk.

“Hey, how’d you know, and I didn’t? I thought he was just crushing on Delaney.” Bunyan crossed burly arms over his chest that looked to be about the size of Brooklyn’s fireplace. “Don’t I rate anymore?”

“Quit your bellyaching.” Calder relaxed back on the couch. “Pretty obvious when Brooklyn here flew out to New Jersey for half a day to watch our Lady of Football play against the She-Devils.”

“Shut it,” Brooklyn coughed into his hand.

“What?” Calder asked, grinning wide.

“Not a single word about it to anyone else.”

“Oooh. That nonfrat-thingy gonna bite you in the ass.” Bunyan clearly enjoyed his teammate’s discomfort.

“No offense?” Hooking an arm around my waist—seeming relaxed for the first time since I walked through the door—Brooklyn winked at his friends. “But Peyton can bite it.”

“But I thought it was mine to bite?” I teased, reaching down to goose Brooks.

He rocked forward, chuckling.

Bunyan and Calder crowed with laughter.

Maybe this wasn’t going to end up being just another shit holiday after all.

Bunyan began asking Brooks about the menu for dinner while Calder rolled his eyes. Punching up to his feet, he roamed around the room until he found the stash of footballs hidden in the corner by the giant rustic fireplace.

“You wanna throw a few?” he called to me. “Let the women handle the kitchen?”

I laughed, nodding, and Brooklyn and Bunyan shot dirty looks at the man.

“You’ll be eating those words later, dude.” Then Brooks snagged me for a light kiss. “Take it easy on him, we’re still breaking him in.”

“Breaking me in bullshit.” Calder swaggered to the French doors that opened to the porch and backyard.

“He’s got a nice spread here, huh?” Calder rocketed the ball toward me.

I caught it and tossed it back. “Yeah. Horses too.”

“Makes sense. Mr. Lone Star Cowboy.” A grin stretched his lips as he leaped to snag my pass.

Calder was easygoing, easy to talk to, and he possessed killer skills. He wasn’t bad to look at either, but in my eyes his handsome appeal was no comparison to Brooklyn’s complete rugged yumminess.

“Hey, you know Raquel is really interested in you?” I couldn’t resist teasing him a little.

“Nuh uh. I ain’t messing with that fraternization rule.” He launched the ball back at me, using a little more force than before. “Got myself in enough trouble over that Reno Ravens mess.”

“How’s that going?”

“Rehab? It’s no fucking joke.” He grimaced. “Worth it though when I get to play on another team. Man, I thought my career was a total bust after I screwed the pooch so badly.”

“Second chances are good.”

“Preaching to the choir.”

“Hey, you two ladies done gossiping out here?” Brooks stood on the porch above us. “Dinnertime.”

We settled in at the table, every square inch covered by steaming serving dishes, gleaming plates, glasses, cutlery, and of course the carved turkey that looked cooked to perfection.

“All right, y’all.” Brooklyn nodded. “Hold hands and no funny shit. My ma would be pissed if I didn’t say grace all good and proper.”

His fingers slid through mine on one side, Bunyan’s on the other, and around the table our hands joined. I’d never had this . . . family, even if none of us was related by blood. Something shifted in my chest as Brooks began to talk.

“Thank you, Lord, for giving us this meal, these friends. We ask you to guard over the loved ones we can’t be near, the ones we’ve lost”—he squeezed my fingers—“and those we hold dear.”

I glanced up after he said Amen to find him looking strangely at me again. I had no idea what was going through his mind as he rubbed a hand across his clipped beard, a frown drawing his brows together.

I hoped this didn’t end up being another dysfunctional family Turkey Day, though.

Whatever tension I thought I felt pulsing from him melted as soon as food was doled out and the wine poured—water for Calder, of course. Brooks, Bunyan, and Calder fought over the two turkey legs while I stuck to the white meat.

Gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes. Green bean casserole, sweet potatoes with marshmallow and cinnamon . . .

“Holy shit, man.” Calder groaned after swallowing a bite of the sweet potato concoction. “You’re definitely gonna make someone a great wife.”

Brooks chuckled, reaching out to slug Calder on the arm.

“No doubt. This is quite the spread. If you don’t marry him, Delaney, I fucking will.” Bunyan took a mountainous bite of stuffing.

At the mention of marriage, Brooks stiffened, and I did, too. We both knew—whether we wanted to wed or not—that wasn’t an option. Not with Eric hanging around my neck.

Calder and Bunyan seemed unaware, and as everyone started in on seconds then thirds, the atmosphere eased a little. I’d lost my appetite, rallying only to serve the pies I’d made.

“Yup,” Bunyan said after his first bite of my pecan pie. “That seals the deal. You two are destined for one another.”

“I’ll tell you what a match made in heaven is, bro.” Calder piled a fork high with some of the pumpkin pie on top of a piece of the pecan.

“Shit yeah. I’m all over that.” Bunyan went at it like it was an eating competition.

I laughed, and that time even Brooklyn’s deep brown eyes twinkled.

They made short work of the pumpkin and pecan pies, pretty much demolishing both until there weren’t even any crumbs left in the tins.

Feeding three footballers on a daily basis would cost a small fortune. I was glad at least two of them didn’t belong to me.

“The workout tomorrow is gonna make me its bitch.” Bunyan patted his stomach.

“Fat ass,” Brooklyn heckled. “Every practice makes you its bitch.”

“You know what? I’m too stuffed to thump you right now. Count yourself lucky.”

And three footballers around a dinner table basically equaled a three-ring circus.

“I’m on cleanup duty I guess.” Calder groaned as he shifted his chair back.

“Hell no. My house. My mess. I got it.” Brooklyn pushed him back down.

“I’ll help,” I offered.

“No need.” He declined woodenly, gathering the first plates from the table. “I think you’ve done enough today.”

I looked at him quizzically, and he shot me a strained smile.

Something was definitely wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

By the time he’d finished clearing and cleaning everything, it was time for the big game. Reno Ravens vs. Arizona Arrows, and we gathered in the living room.

“You still root for the Ravens, Calder?” Bunyan asked.

“Hell yeah. What happened to me wasn’t their fault. I gotta own my shit, you know?”

“True that.”

“Can’t we have one day without football?” I teasingly asked.

The men all looked at me like I was crazy.

“Blasphemy!” Brooklyn declared, hauling me down to his side.

But he didn’t hold me as close as usual. He didn’t stroke my arm or pay much attention to me at all. Maybe it was simply because the other guys were present, plus that stupid team policy, but I wasn’t sure.

Even later, when the guests got up to search out more beer—Bunyan—and more snacks—bottomless-gut Calder—Brooks kept an inch of space between us.

“Is something wrong?” I whispered.

“I don’t know.” The stark seriousness of his expression startled me. “We’ll talk about it later.”

By the time Bunyan and Calder left, the awkwardness between Brooks and me had escalated, and I wanted to leave, too.

After the door shut, he stood there in the entryway, watching me, jaw clenched hard, eyes hooded.

“Look. I don’t know what’s up, Brooks, but if you didn’t want me to be here because it was outing our . . . relationship or whatever, you could’ve just said so. I’d have been fine on my own.”

“You’d have been fine without me, huh?”

My chin thrust up. “That’s what I said.”

“Is there something else you need to tell me about how fine you are without my help?” His expression darkened, and his tone dropped.

A sudden sick feeling twisted my insides.