SIX
IF PRE-SCOTCH ORIGAMI cranes looked like poodles, post-scotch origami cranes looked like mutated poodles from Mars. Theresa eyed her work, all dozen additional attempts at paper folding stacked before her, and then she eyed her drink.
“This is officially not working,” she announced. Alex peered at her over his own glass of scotch, a V of a worry line etched into his brow.
“I may have mentioned that six or eight or twenty cranes ago.”
“Yes, well. When Rain loses her mind that she has no wedding favors, I can present these as proof that I gave it my all.”
“That you did.” Alex drained his glass, set it on a coaster on the coffee table, and leaned back in the tufted leather couch, his body so wide it took up more than half the cushion. He really was enormous, which didn’t bother her in the slightest—she was a tall woman, broad through the shoulders. It was rare that she felt small next to someone.
And yet.
He’s a good-looking bastard, I’ll give him that.
“I’m sorry about what happened in the storeroom,” he said, reaching for one of her winged paper atrocities, lifting it before his nose, and staring. “Sol’s always been like this, though. I hope Rain’s ready for it.”
“Don’t apologize! You didn’t do anything, and it’s obvious they’re having fun together, even if their idea of fun isn’t my cup of tea.” She smirked and flicked at the paper bird in his hand. “This thing is hideous.”
“You’re getting better! This one’s only sort of lopsided. Two or three more, you’ll probably have it.”
“Except I already want to light them all on fire, so that’s out of the question. Thanks, though, prick.”
Immediately, the V in his brow was twice as deep as it had been the moment before. “I didn’t mean—that’s to say I was teasing, so—”
She put up her hand and smiled. “I know! I was teasing back. It’s fine, Alex. Just trying to bring some levity, considering the cranes and the wedding and the”—she paused to sip her drink, a coy smile playing around her lips—“interlude we witnessed downstairs.”
“Sol can be such a pig.” As soon as the words left this mouth, he winced and cleared his throat, a faint flush coloring his cheekbones. “Pardon. I don’t mean that. My brother’s a man driven to impulse, is all. He always has been. Rain seems receptive, though, and that’s all that matters, I suppose.” He put the crane back with the others, his fingertip poking through the pile. He pulled out a black-and-white-striped one and tipped it upside down. “This one looks like a dinosaur if you turn it this way. Would she like dinosaur origami favors?”
Theresa plucked it from his grasp. “Excuse me. Blood, sweat, and tears went into every pterodactyl.”
“Raptor,” he corrected. “They have tiny arms.”
She was laughing as she threw herself onto the couch beside him. She poured herself another glass of scotch, topped off his glass, and propped her legs on the coffee table, crossing her left foot over her right, her eyes skimming the room. It was opulent; the wallpaper was gold damask print that shone like silk in the overhead brass chandelier. The velvet curtains adorning the window were royal purple with gold tiebacks and matched the purple and green comforter stretched over the king-size bed. Two bureaus, matching cherry pieces with a bevy of antique knickknacks on top, flanked the bed. The bathroom door was tucked into the corner of the room next to a hamper. She could see into the bathroom from her seat, the walls, floor, and countertops all gold-toned marble, the sink fixtures and wall lamps equally as gilded. The tub was deep enough she could swim in it. The bidet was something she’d ignore; after an awkward misfire in France last year, she’d forever sworn off bum squirts.
The left side of the room was a full-size sitting area complete with the couch they occupied, two armchairs with brocade fabric and silk throw pillows, and the glass-top coffee table. Before them was a mahogany TV cabinet that might have been a wardrobe at one point. The front was carved with roses and vines and looked like something torn from the set of Beauty and the Beast. Ornate carpets, oil paintings of flower arrangements, some black-and-white photos of turn-of-the-twentieth-century New Orleans—it was a slice of decadent yesteryear on the third floor of The Seaside. The effect was completed with French doors that led out onto a terrace with a hanging swing bench, flower buckets, and wrought-iron railings. She had a fantastic view of the courtyard below with the water fountain and the paths that curved around back to the indoor pool.
“This place is beautiful,” she murmured, appreciating the burn of the Glenlivet on her tongue. “Rain said in her emails that it was one of the loveliest places she’d ever been, but I couldn’t have imagined.”
“It wasn’t so lovely when we first moved in,” Alex replied. He reached for his own glass and slumped into the couch, his legs spreading, his arm draped across the back. His fingers brushed a lock of her red hair, his finger curling in it mindlessly and tugging it straight.
Don’t say anything. He’d be embarrassed.
She did smile, though.
“I was nine when we moved here from Dallas,” he continued. “It wasn’t much to look at. It’d been a Confederate hospital originally, and then it was a storage facility for years before it was abandoned. We lived on the top floor while my father renovated it. It came out so nice we ended up staying until us boys graduated high school. Sol never really left; he went to Yale and came right back to The Seaside, but the rest of us moved back to Dallas just before Dad died. This was always my father’s favorite hotel, though. I miss it sometimes, but I’m content enough at The Diamond. My mother lives nearby and she likes having at least one of her sons around.”
“Ahhhh. Well, more reason to visit your brother then, aye?” she asked, extending her leg to nudge his knee with her foot.
He’d been lifting his glass to his mouth but paused, his brow furrowing, his shoulders tensing. “Hmm? Oh. I should visit more than I do.”
Alex DuMont didn’t strike her as the type to open up, and yet there he was, conversational as anything—probably because the scotch had loosened his tongue. “Like I said, Sol and I are different. We’re opposites—physically, personality-wise. I could never be as laissez-faire as him, and he could never be as regimented as I am. He’s more like my mother, and I’m more like my father. And Nash, we’re not sure where the hell he came from.” He paused. “Pardon my language.”
Just like Rain’s “pardon my French” every time she cusses.
It’s cute, in a way.
“Pardoned.” She winked at him and his eyebrows lifted, nearly grazing his hairline before he smiled, a few fine lines appearing around his very blue eyes. Sol had green, she recalled, but not Alex. Alex’s eyes were an icy shade that reminded her of winter skies.
They’re nice eyes.
In a nice face.
On top of a nice body.
“Funny that twins can be so similar in some ways and so different in others,” she said, hoping she wasn’t croaking it out, but she really was far too aware of the physical appeal of the man next to her and it was doing things to her. Weird things. Her voice was a little huskier, her posture a little sloppy. Maybe it was the scotch.
Or maybe I have a thing for surly giants and hadn’t realized it until now.
Alex turned his body on the couch so he was facing her, his gaze fixing on her face and then . . . dipping. Hovering. Appreciating her curves for an illicit moment. He’d done something similar when he’d caught her fresh from the shower yesterday, too. She hadn’t wanted him to notice her then, as angry as she was, but now? Well, a little flirting wasn’t a bad thing, was it?
If he’s flirting. I’m not sure.
“Nash is a nerd. I say that with fondness, of course,” he said, jerking his attention away from her body and back to her face. A flush rose on his cheeks, up to the edges of golden hair above his ears. “I love him. He’s just very Nash. I think you’ll see what I mean when you meet him.”
“It’s interesting. You boys all sound so different. I have five sisters—”
“Wait, five sisters?” Alex interrupted.
Theresa laughed. “Aye! And three brothers. My parents are very Catholic and never quite figured out the rhythm method. I’m the oldest of the bunch. The youngest is my brother Aiden. He’s four.”
“Don’t they have a TV?” Alex murmured beneath his breath. She’d asked the exact same thing of her mother many, many times, and she chortled as she rotated in her seat so she could lean in closer to him, her knees brushing his. Both of their glasses were empty, so she collected them and put them together beside the half-drunk bottle of scotch on the table.
“Wasn’t anything good on those nights, I guess,” she said. “Ma said they did a lot of cuddling to keep warm.”
“I guess so.”
She smiled; he smiled.
And their eyes met.
They’d matched gazes a few times in their short acquaintance, both in anger and in commiseration, in frowns and in smiles, but this was different. This was thick and heavy and more. It wasn’t something tangible that she could put her finger on. She couldn’t really explain it beyond mutual attraction firing off at the exact right moment, but when his hand that had been toying with her curl moved up into the dense red tangle atop her head, cradling her skull and pulling her forward, she was already meeting him halfway. She smelled scotch and a subtle, masculine cologne as she neared him. She felt the heat of his body as her soft chest pressed to his much harder one. There was a moment of staring at each other, her nose a scant inch from his, before he jerked her forward. It wasn’t a gentle tug, but firm and powerful, which she was just fine with. Her lips mashed to his, her head tilted so she could better settle herself against him. Mouths met, collided really, and then all too easily nestled in, two parts of one whole.
It was exhilarating, but it was also eerie in a way, because it was too easy to kiss and be kissed alike. The escalation happened fast, but it felt natural, too, and her pulse pounded and her hands roamed, latching on to his thick biceps and sweeping up over his shirt to grasp his wide shoulders. He was such a refrigerator of a man, so dense, and she marveled at his solidness as he nudged her lips open and tasted her, his tongue claiming hers not with gentle touches but with full, hot sweeps. It was confident and assured, like he knew exactly what she wanted and was going to give it to her, and she practically melted atop him like a pat of butter.
She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sweet-and-sour taste of scotch. It was probably wrong to undulate against him, to slither her tongue against his so invitingly, but she couldn’t help herself. She felt good all over, tingly and warm, and he pulled her whole body forward, arms dropping to her waist and positioning her so she could sprawl on top of him, using him like a fleshy mattress. It made the kisses more intense, to be aligned so perfectly, and she laced her fingers behind his neck, enjoying the feel of his muscles as he stole her breath away.
She shivered. He rocked his hips up at her.
Oh. Oh he’s . . .
Wow.
Hard. Alex was hard. It hadn’t taken him very long to get there, or maybe it had; she wasn’t sure how long they’d been going at it—a few seconds, a few minutes. It was organic, and she realized, much to her chagrin, she was as ready to go as he was. She was wet, could feel it between her legs as she squeezed her thighs together. He groaned beneath her, one of his hands back in her hair, the other sliding down to cup her ass and squeeze it. He tugged her against him, she humped back and moaned into his marauding mouth.
Light-headed. Breathless. I want . . .
“Fuck!” He ripped his head away from her, his pupils so large they practically hid his irises. She stilled immediately, trying to catch her breath and her wits, which had flown off to the hills, getting more and more distant with every kiss.
“I’m sorry. I—” she started.
“No, no. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I’m so damned sorry. I . . . it’s just, I don’t . . . I don’t do casual. Or even not casual. It’s been a long time. ”
“Same, and I get it. I don’t really do casual, either, being a practicing Catholic and all, so I know,” she said quietly, taking a deep breath to quell her pounding heart before she pushed herself up off him. Her legs were shaky, her nipples hard in their bra cups, but she managed to stand tall in front of him, her fingers raking through her hair. “We hardly know each other, anyway.”
“I want—I don’t know what I want.” Alex sat up straighter on the couch, and very delicately—with as much dignity as he could muster—adjusted himself, his eyes not daring to meet hers. She couldn’t blame him for that, nor did she really trust herself if he managed to make eye contact. The way she felt, the way her body practically vibrated, one glance and it could be all over for both of them.