Chapter 5—Shot to the Heart

Arriving home from the road trip, Brick dragged his tired ass into the house about 4:00 a.m. Not bothering to turn on any lights, he tiptoed down the hallway, stopping to nudge the thermostat down a few notches. He hesitated near Amelia’s door and regretfully forced his feet to walk on past.

Later.

He turned toward his own bedroom door and came to an abrupt halt. Driven by the inexplicable need to check on Macy, he pivoted and peeked in. She lay on her stomach, her eyes closed and her face the picture of childlike innocence. A slow grin crossed his face, and his chest ached for no good reason he could discern. He shut the door quietly and immediately went to bed. Not that he slept any. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind a jumble of thoughts bouncing from Macy to Amelia and back again. He didn’t know which one disturbed him the most.

A few hours later, he heard Macy and Amelia bustling around the house. He’d already warned Amelia he’d be home early morning and asked her to take Macy to day care and bring her home that evening.

He could’ve picked Macy up, but he liked having an excuse to corner Amelia in his home. She’d gotten under his skin, and he couldn’t shake her lose. Not to mention, he was in the middle of a dry spell. He couldn’t recall his last celibate road trip. It was almost unheard of.

About 9:00 a.m., Brick dozed until he heard insistent rapping on his front door. He ignored the pounding and pulled a pillow over his head. His phone rang, followed by the buzzing of text messages.

Scowling, he sat up in bed and grabbed his phone to read the messages. That asshole Rush was at the door. He’d probably fallen right to sleep and gotten several hours, unlike Brick, who’d made tossing and turning an Olympic sport.

Now wide-awake, Brick didn’t bother with clothes and staggered down the hallway to the front door. He paused to turn the heat down to a tolerable temperature. No reason to sweat like a pig when the kid wasn’t here.

Yanking the door open, he glowered at Rush. “What the fuck are you doing here at this hour?”

Rush snorted and pushed his way in, toting a six-pack of Brick’s favorite microbrew. Perhaps he could forgive him, since he’d brought his favorite beer. “It’s two in the afternoon. I brought lunch.” Rush lived in the same complex and often dropped in without an invitation.

“Beer? For lunch? Let me get dressed.” Brick started to turn down the hall, but Rush had frozen in place, staring horrified into his living room as if there were a Sasquatch in it ready to have them both for lunch.

Brick followed Rush’s astonished gaze, which had now transitioned from horror to disbelief to amusement. Brick’s subconscious registered that the place was unusually tidy, but the not-so-miniature horse farm dominating one large corner of his bachelor pad had him gasping for air, almost hyperventilating.

Rush dragged his attention from the horse farm on Brick’s floor to Brick. “You having panic attack?” He scrutinized him for a moment, after which he threw back his head and hooted with laughter so loud it shook the windows.

“Fuck no.” Brick shot him a brief glare. He blinked several times, but the wooden barn, fences, and plastic horses running across his hardwood floors and onto his carpet didn’t go away.

“Nice decorating touch.” Rush was in full-blown shithead mode now and enjoying Brick’s discomfort way too much.

“Fuck you.”

“Where is fun in that?”

Brick rolled his eyes. “This stuff won’t be here long. Al expects the DNA report any day.”

Rush shrugged. “Is this why you not wanting to party?”

“It’s messing with my mojo.” And his sex drive—except where the sexy nanny was concerned.

Rush laughed.

“I’m not father material.”

“How do you know? You haven’t been around her long enough to find out.”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that question. I’d make as good of a father as you would.”

Rush scowled as if he were insulted. “I make good father.”

“Yeah, but do you want to be one right now?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” Brick turned his gaze back to the toys. On the back of his couch sat a stuffed bear. Several children’s books were stacked neatly on his coffee table. The walls started closing in, his stomach clenched, and he felt as if he were going to barf.

Disgusted by his weakness, he fought off the nausea and ignored the odd look Rush gave him as he pushed past his buddy, poured a glass of water, and guzzled the entire thing.

He leaned against the counter, his eyes drawn back to the white and blue horse barn.

“It could be worse. It could be pink Barbie house,” Rush pointed out helpfully.

God help him. That would probably come next. The thought horrified him to his playboy core.

“Could be good vay to snag women. Cute little girl, single father, women dig that shit.”

“I don’t need a way to snag women. I have this.” Brick pointed at his face. “And this.” He pointed at his chest. “And most of all, this.” He pointed at his crotch.

Rush grinned. “Those women don’t vant to be around a guy with kids. You need to catch different type of woman now. One who”—he spread out his arms to take in the armada of horses—“would appreciate your new decorations.”

Brick scowled, grateful for once he didn’t bring women home. Most women he dated didn’t want any more of an attachment than he did. This domesticity would scare the crap out of them. And the women who attempted to get their claws into him with more permanent intentions would go apeshit over this stuff. Either way, he was screwed.

Brick sank down onto the couch, his head in his hands. “Fuck. This can’t be happening.”

“It could be worse.”

“How is that possible?”

“You could have twins.”

Brick groaned. “Two little girls? God must hate me.”

“God is laughing his ass off right about now.”

“I’m betting he is.”

“So where is your daughter?”

Brick stiffened at Rush’s use of the word. It made it more real, and he was still in the denial stage. “She’s not my daughter. There’s no proof of that.”

Rush cocked his head and spiked a brow, another smirk crossing his face. “Whatever you say.”

“She isn’t.”

Rush glanced pointedly at the horse farm. “Someone believes she is.”

Brick’s stomach clenched with a reality he refused to face. Macy looked like him, and deep down he knew DNA would only confirm what he already knew.

But a man could still hope.

 

* * * *

 

That afternoon Amelia let herself into Brick’s house, not expecting him to be home. But he was, and he had company. She recognized the handsome Russian immediately as another one of her sister-in-law’s team crushes. Brick and his buddy were drinking a beer, and a couple empty beer bottles and a pizza box littered the coffee table. Brick wore nothing but a pair of shorts. The muscles in his arm rippled across a fish tattoo as he placed another empty beer bottle on the coffee table.

A fish?

Amelia frowned, but before she could react, a whirlwind of pink slipped past her and swirled into the living room spinning like an Oklahoma tornado. She ground to a stop in front of the two men and slid a few feet on the hardwood floors. Her eyes doubled in size as she regarded the two men.

All the boldness drained right out of Macy. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she gazed at the men through lowered lashes, suddenly shy, as she kicked at the floor with the toe of one shoe.

“Hi, there,” said Rush. “What’s your name?”

She giggled, stole a glance at Rush, and said quietly, “I’m Macy. Who are you?”

“I am Rush. Happy to meet you, Macy.” He stood and smiled his most charming smile at her, instantly making a friend for life. She smiled back, and the shy Macy was gone with the wind as she switched back to bold Macy faster than a crazed New York taxi driver switches lanes.

Macy tugged on Rush’s hand. “You have to meet my horses.” Then as if she remembered Brick, she turned back to him and grabbed his hand. “You, too.”

Brick glanced at Amelia with a God help me expression. Since she wasn’t God, she chose not to rescue him from the clutches of a five-year-old on a mission. He was kind of cute out of his element with his cockiness stripped away.

Macy led the two large men to her farm, which she’d dubbed the oh-so-original “Macy’s Farm.” She picked up each horse and introduced it to the men. Rush got down on his haunches as if this were the most fascinating thing he’d ever done. Watching Rush, Brick followed his lead, probably because he hadn’t a clue what else to do, and his discomfort was painfully obvious. Amelia almost felt sorry for him—almost.

“This is Wildfire. I call him that because he’s almost red.” She held the horse up for both men to see. “You can hold him if you’re careful,” she offered. Rush took her up on it, inspecting the animal as if it were a real horse he was considering buying.

Brick glanced helplessly at Amelia, who did her best not to laugh. She smiled sweetly at him, and he grimaced.

“This is Lady Bell. You can hold her if you want.” She handed the second horse to Brick. He took the brown horse from her little hands and held it as if it were delicate china he was afraid of dropping. Macy chattered onward, showing them every item in the barn and describing a typical day in the life of a rancher as she saw it. Amelia left them at Macy’s mercy and went to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee.

Macy abandoned her horses and ran up to Amelia. “Uncle Rush said I can go to his house and see his cat. Can I go, please?” she begged.

Amelia glanced at Brick. He rose to his feet and appeared more relieved than concerned his daughter was asking her for permission instead of him.

“He’s harmless. Rush, that is. Can’t speak for the cat. Milo is a crotchety motherfucker,” Brick said, misinterpreting her expression as concern over Rush.

“What’s a mothertrucker?” Macy asked.

Brick had the decency to wince.

“It’s bad word. Your father didn’t mean to say,” Rush supplied happily, ignoring Brick’s steely goalie gaze.

Macy shrugged, her tunnel vision laser-focused on seeing Rush’s cat. “Can I go?”

Amelia deferred to Brick, giving him a chance to step up and act like a father. He shrugged.

“I guess you can go, but be back in fifteen minutes,” Amelia answered, more than annoyed with Brick.

She waited until she heard the click of the door.

“It’s freezing in here,” she said, her voice frostier than the room.

His dark eyes bored into hers, causing an odd curling sensation in her stomach and a tingle between her legs. It figured her body would react like this when the rest of her preferred to be mad at him.

“I like it that way. I could keep you warm.” He winked, and his grin showed a row of perfect white teeth.

“No, thank you.”

“You’re killing me, Amelia.” Brick faked a pout, looking way too much like Macy. He waited several heartbeats, but she didn’t dignify him with a response. Sighing deeply, he walked to the thermostat and turned up the heat to sixty-five.

“Seventy.”

“Ah, come on. Can’t we compromise?” His dark eyes pleaded with hers as a smile tugged at the corners of his sexy-as-sin mouth.

“What is it with you and frigid temps? Were you born in an igloo or something?”

The teasing light that had shone in his eyes dimmed, leaving Amelia to ponder briefly why such an innocuous statement would disturb him. Yet it had, for reasons she couldn’t fathom.

“You might want to put on some clothes, too, before she comes back,” Amelia said, knowing her reasons had as much to do with her own sanity as with Macy.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw jutted out, but a second later he huffed and walked toward his bedroom. He returned wearing a tight T-shirt, which accentuated the taut muscles in his chest and arms, a towel draped over one shoulder. She could clearly see the tattoo on his other arm of a Playboy bunny with the words Play Hard.

“You should do something about that tattoo.”

“What the fuck are you, my mother? Or even worse, my moral compass?”

“Moral compass, yes. As long as this little girl lives with you, and I’m around.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his short hair. “This is exactly why I make a fucking bad father.”

“There’s plenty of room for improvement, starting with the cussing.” She smiled sweetly, certain she’d thwarted his attempts to flirt with her by pissing him off, but she’d underestimated his persistence once again.

“I like to cuss.” He took a few steps toward her until they stood inches apart. She could smell a hint of expensive cologne, but mostly some kind of manly soap. For a split second, her mind wandered down a forbidden path as she imagined all that muscular power and raw maleness focused on giving her pleasure. Perhaps Brick wasn’t just his nickname. Maybe he lived up to it in other ways. She shivered at the thought, and a slow, knowing smirk slid across his face.

“I also like to fuck, and I want to fuck you.”

Amelia blanched, at a loss for words over his directness. Normally, she could hold her own, but he’d caught her off guard. She expected propositions like his in a bar and had numerous prepared comebacks, but she was out of her element in his house with his little girl due back any moment.

“It’s time I left.” She hated how stuffy and bitchy she sounded, but he brought it out in her.

The skin between his brows wrinkled, and his smile dipped downward. Uncertainty flashed in his eyes. She blinked a few times to make sure she’d seen correctly.

“Macy will be returning any minute. You need to spend some quality alone time with her.”

“Ah, yeah.” He glanced nervously at the door. She couldn’t hide her smile. He looked adorably uncomfortable. The big man didn’t want to be alone with his little girl, and his distress wasn’t feigned. As if realizing he’d revealed a weakness, he recovered in a matter of seconds, that cocky grin returning full force.

“I’d like to spend some quality time with you. Your bed or mine? Take your pick, baby.” The man’s ability to go from uncertain to über-confident in the blink of an eye fascinated her.

“Give it up, Martin.” Amelia shot him her best withering look, but her best appeared to have no effect on him.

“Martin?”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but no one calls me that.” He frowned again. He’d been doing a lot of frowning tonight.

“Your family calls you Brick?”

“Uh, no. They call me Marty.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. While she applauded her ability to throw him off-balance, seeing him flustered didn’t give her as much pleasure as she’d expected.

She narrowed her eyes, assessing whether or not he was bullshitting. “You don’t look like a Marty.”

“Tell me about it. You can call me Brick, ’cause my entire body is as hard as a brick.”

The visual in her brain of exactly what he’d look like naked had her almost fanning herself, while fighting the sparks snapping between them. She had to get a handle on her crazy infatuation. “I told you to save your lines for one of your fans. You’re not my type.”

“Sweetheart, I’m every woman’s type.” He moved in again, his close presence throwing her even more off-kilter. She backed away, scrambling to put some space between them, and stumbled over a horse in the middle of the floor. Brick reached out and put his huge hands on her shoulders to steady her. Those eyes of his—heaven help her—a woman could get lost in those eyes and never want to be found again.

His lopsided grin was designed to seek and destroy any resistance, but she deflected it with a salvo straight to his big fat ego. Amelia rolled her eyes. “Conceited much?”

He frowned for a brief moment as if trying to regain his footing and plan the next attack.

“When you’ve got it, you know you’ve got it.” The man recovered quickly and once more gifted her with a broad, boyish grin.

“Good thing I’ve had all my shots.”

He leaned into her, his eyes hooded, and his smile turned to a smirk. “Then there’s nothing stopping us.”

“From what?”

“Getting naked.”

“There’s plenty, such as I’m not sure I like you.”

“What did that ever have to do with fucking?”

“Obviously, nothing to you, but a lot to me.”

“I’ll wear you down. I’m irresistible.” He leaned closer. He was going to kiss her. She’d been kissed by many an attractive man in her life, but this one—

No, she would not let this happen. She wouldn’t be one more conquest in an entire continent of conquests. She jerked away from him and put the dining room table between them. “I really need to leave now.”

He shocked her by dropping his playboy act. “I’m sorry. I’m being a dick, aren’t I?”

“A little.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to come on so strong,” he stammered.

“Well, you did.”

“I’ll behave myself if you’ll stick around for a while.” He looked almost—lost? She could fight off the arrogant Brick, but this humble version—he was dangerous.

Against her better judgment, she took the glass of wine he offered and sat on one of the barstools. He sat, too, wiping his face with the towel before taking a long pull on his beer. She watched him, mesmerized by the movement of his throat as he swallowed. When had she ever found a man’s neck sexy?

Needing to find some way to ease the crackling tension between them, she sought a safer subject.

“Exactly how long have you been a single father?”

“Counting the road trip?”

She nodded.

He rubbed the towel across his face before answering. “About twelve days.”

“Twelve days? Where’s her mother?”

“Dead, so I’m told.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and she glimpsed a different man in those eyes than the cocky party boy he presented to the public and to his friends. This man felt deeply, had been wounded deeply, and had compensated the best he could. Just as she had.

He was broken, too. Not it the same way she was, but still broken.

“Were you two close?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Brick studied his beer bottle long enough to have memorized the label. “I don’t even know who she might be,” he muttered, and had the decency to look sheepish.

“At the risk of sounding judgmental, how does something like that happen?”

“What can I say? I’m a douche.” His face twisted with derision, then hardened, turning to stone right before her eyes. She caught a flicker of regret before he battened down all the emotional hatches.

“When did her mother die?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t even know if she’s my kid. As soon as the DNA comes back, and I find out, I’ll make sure she has a good home.”

“She’s not a pet you no longer want.”

“Sorry, that came out wrong. I’ll do right by her. I promise. I’m not father material.”

“You keep saying that long enough, you’ll believe it.”

“I already do,” he said.

“How did you end up with her?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, chin resting on his palms, and stared straight ahead. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and launched into the entire story as Amelia listened incredulously. She couldn’t imagine any caring person leaving a young child on a doorstep and running off. What kind of person did that? Anger tore through her at such an outrage. Life wasn’t fair. How could one person throw away a child so callously while more deserving people were denied the joy of ever having one of their own?

Brick watched her, a puzzled frown marring his handsome features, and she got the distinct feeling he could see right past her walls to the scared little girl hovering beyond them.

“You’re just going to give her up?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. His narrowed eyes indicated he’d caught her tone.

“I’m a playboy. A party boy. Footloose. Fancy-free. I’m the wrong home for a child.” He pointed at his Playboy tattoo for emphasis.

“You could change. You’re all she has.”

“Assuming she’s mine, but she isn’t.”

Amelia bit back her reply. She had news for Brick. The child looked like him, and all the denial in the world wouldn’t change who contributed to half of her DNA.