Chapter 4

Simone

Apparently tomato sauce on light blue porous paint doesn’t come out so easy. I’ve been scrubbing the wall in the kitchen for over an hour now, and there’s still a tinge of orange stain. I bend my elbow and scrub harder, trying to work out my angst over this situation.

Not the tomato sauce, but Lucas.

He was gone this morning when I woke up, and that was sending me a very direct message. I know he has to feel like shit this morning given how drunk he was last night and the copious amounts of vomit he threw up. Because I work late and don’t get home until two or so in the morning, I usually sleep in. But this morning I made myself get up so I could make a pot of coffee and some dry toast for Lucas.

Except when I knocked on his bedroom door and peeked my head in, he was gone.

I can’t even imagine where he went or how he snuck by me while I slept on the couch. Perhaps he went over to Stephanie’s to try to talk some sense into her. Perhaps he went out to breakfast. Or perhaps he went over to the Neuse River Greenway to walk the beautiful paths and mourn his loss.

My heart squeezes painfully at that thought. I actually can’t bear the thought of Lucas being in pain from a broken heart. Not when I’ve seen how he feels about her, and not when I know how important this baby has become to him. Certainly not when I know that he loves her, and his dream of having a family with her has just been crushed.

I scrub harder at the wall and tears spring to my eyes in frustration, as I just can’t get the stain out. I have been nothing more than a screaming ball of frustration for months. Beyond distressed over dropping out of school, knowing it was the moronic thing to do and would kill my parents, but truly having no other choice for my own happiness. Stressed about not knowing what the hell to do with my life. Fretting over how to pay my parents back the massive amounts of money they put into three and a half years at Dartmouth for me. Feeling lost as I moved to Raleigh, North Carolina, without any job or home, and crashing on my brother’s couch.

And finally, beyond crazed over what might be an actual unhealthy, stalker-attraction thing I’ve got going on with Van that seems so fucking unnatural and yet completely right at the same time that I’m having a hard time sleeping at night because of it.

“Fuck this,” I mutter as my gaze sweeps the wall, trying to see if I missed anything that I could at least give another scrub. My eyes take in the spread pattern of tomato sauce as it goes up the wall and over the top of fridge.

Hmmmm.

I pull a chair from the small table, placing it in front of the appliance. I hop up and take a look, and sure enough, there’s lasagna all over the top as well.

This actually makes me feel better.

It gives me something proactive to do to help remedy the situation. It might not ease Lucas’s broken heart, and it might not fix things between Stephanie and him, but I can at least help to clean up the fucking mess he made last night.

I rearm myself with cleaning spray, a new rag, and fresh determination.

Climbing back up on the chair, I start to work. The top of the refrigerator is far easier to clean dried-up lasagna off than the painted walls, but the top is also super gross, as there has to be years of dust and dirt up there.

Despite my best efforts at almost pulling my arm out of my socket, I can’t quite get to the small portion of wall behind the top of the refrigerator. There are small splatters of sauce, a tiny sliver of cheese, and a lonely piece of ground beef up there. No one can see it from the floor, and I should just leave it, but I can’t leave this job undone. I feel it would be a disservice to the entire situation.

I survey the mess. It would be easier if I had a ladder, but without even looking in this tiny house, I know no such thing exists. There’s no consideration given to just leaving it alone and asking one of the guys to get it; both have several inches more on their reach.

So I improvise. I open the top freezer door, knowing there is nothing in there but two ice cube trays. The guys don’t grocery shop, and what I buy is only for the meals I intend to make that night. Mostly we all eat out because Lucas and Van are only here 50 percent of the time and it’s no fun cooking for myself.

With the door open, I shiver as the cold air hits me in the chest. I stand on my tiptoes and raise my right leg, intent on putting my knee just on the inside edge of the freezer so I can haul myself up a little higher to get the wall behind the appliance.

What happens next is almost too unreal to believe. It’s a comedy of errors and a lot of fucking bad luck.

The minute my knee rests on what I think is a solid purchase inside of the freezer and I start to pull myself up, the refrigerator door actually gets pried open. This is because my knee dips into the sealed groove above the door and the seal isn’t all that great.

The movement of the door opening causes a minor freak-out, including my other leg kicking out, causing the chair to skitter away. This causes the refrigerator door to open even more, and as I start to slip down, I instinctually—with very bad instincts, apparently—grasp on to the open freezer door to stop my fall. I’m not heavy by any means—just 125 pounds on my five-eight frame—but it’s apparently heavy enough to topple a fridge.

My instinct—which, yep, still fucking sucks—is to hold on tighter to the door. This does nothing to help me but certainly helps the fridge to lean forward.

Then it falls, with me underneath it.

I have visions of how my obituary would read.

Simone Fournier, age twenty-two, died when a mostly empty refrigerator/freezer combo crushed her to death as she foolishly tried to clean lasagna off the walls. She’s survived by the rest of her family, all of whom are inherently smarter than she is.

When I’m about three quarters of the way into the fall, the appliance coming at me fast, I manage to release the door and thud to the floor. I also manage to roll over, bringing my hands over my head as I prepare for death.

The resulting crash seems to shake the entire house, and the noise is so loud I’m sure someone will call 911 so they can remove my body before Lucas gets home.

But then I feel nothing, other than a sharp pain in my back where I think I landed on top of the cleaning spray bottle.

I hesitantly open my eyes and roll to look above me.

The refrigerator had apparently caught the kitchen table, which buckled under the crushing weight, collapsing two of the legs. The heavy wooden top caught the floor at an angle, and stopped the fridge inches from crushing me.

“What the ever-loving fuck?” I hear Van roar as he comes crashing into the kitchen.

My heart is still pounding madly from my near-death experience, but to prove the power of Van Turner and his magnificence, my brush with death is completely forgotten as I take him in.

I knew his body would be spectacular. Thickly muscled chest with a light dusting of hair that indicates he’s all man and not a boy. He’s breathing hard because I’m sure the crash scared the shit out of him, and that makes his abs contract inward as he exhales. I almost sigh at the ridges that are formed, but then I’m taking in the fact that his briefs are tight, and although he’s completely without any morning wood, he is still very well endowed in his natural state. My eyes even slip lower, taking in strong, powerful legs, and God…even his feet are hot.

My eyes move back up his body and there’s no doubt I woke him up from a sound sleep. His eyes are barely open, slightly glazed, and his hair is sticking up all over the place.

“Jesus Christ, Simone,” Van mutters as he drops to his knees to peer at me under the fridge lying atop the broken table. “Are you okay?”

“I think a spray bottle may have fractured my spine,” I groan as I try to roll over in the small space to get off it.

“Don’t fucking move,” he orders me, and I obey without question. “If you’ve got a spine injury—”

“I don’t,” I assure him as I start to wiggle.

“Stay the fuck still,” he bellows at me, his expression a mask of acute worry.

I go absolutely still, not because I have a broken back, but because as much as Van has yelled and cursed at me over the last few weeks, I’ve never heard him do so with a tinge of fear in his voice.

I watch mesmerized as every muscle in his body contracts and strains as he single-handedly pushes the refrigerator up and back into place. He immediately spins and drops back down beside me.

“Okay, do you hurt anywhere?” he asks as his eyes roam over me. I was so worried about Lucas this morning I didn’t even bother to wear something sexy. In fact, I’ve got a baggy Dartmouth T-shirt from a former boyfriend and a pair of sweatpants on.

“There’s a spray bottle under me,” I murmur. “Otherwise I’m completely fine.”

Van’s eyebrows draw inward. “A spray bottle?”

“I was trying to clean the top of the refrigerator and the wall behind it,” I explain, and because I know he’ll want the details, I continue. “I was trying to put my knee inside the freezer to haul myself up, and well…it’s a chain of events that led to me being down here on the floor.”

“Of all the fucking stupid idiotic things,” Van mutters under his breath as his arm slides under my shoulders to help me sit up.

“Your white knight skills suck,” I mutter back, not needing or appreciating the way in which he’s making me feel like shit.

“I’m not your white knight,” he says as he helps to pull me to my feet.

I wince as I straighten my back, knowing that there’s probably a bruise in the middle in the exact shape of a spray bottle.

“What’s wrong?” he says as he turns me around, and before I can even tell him, he’s pulling up the back of my T-shirt. He hisses slightly between his teeth and his fingers touch my skin ever so gently. “You’ve already got a bruise forming.”

My breath catches in my throat, not from the promise of a bruise, but just from that tiny touch of his fingertips to me. Feather light, but feeling like a wrecking ball, knocking the wind out of me.

I want more, and the part of Simone Fournier that is devious and plain trouble with a capital T says, “I think I might have cracked my ribs.”

“Where?” he asks with concern as he gently turns my body.

I have to keep the smile off my face as I pull my shirt up at the side and flat-out lie. “Here, on the side…and to the front. It hurts worse in the front.”

Van bends to peer at my ribs, his fingers tracing the skin there. I pull my shirt up higher in the front until the underside of my breast is exposed. I hold my breath as his fingers skim closer, but as I look down at him, his face is clinically worried as he looks for a broken rib or something.

He presses tentatively on my top rib just under my breast. “Does this hurt?”

Only between my legs, I think unabashedly.

I shake my head and whisper, “Maybe a little higher.”

For a brief, glorious moment, his fingers actually start to drift higher and are within an inch of feathering across the bottom of my breast, but they pull up short and his eyes lift to mine. I try to look at him as if I might be in pain, but he’s having none of it as understanding dawns clear in his eyes, which look more like the steel gray of a cloudy day right now.

“God, you’re fucking shameless,” he growls as he straightens and jerks his hand away from me.

I give him a mock guilty expression. “Sorry?”

“You are totally not sorry,” he mumbles.

“No, I am,” I say as I turn to face him and take a step closer. My hands go to his naked chest…nothing more than a light laying of my palms against his warm skin. I can feel his heartbeat thundering madly, and I wonder if it’s because of the crash that had him tearing out of bed or the fact I’d almost had him caressing my breast.

Van stands his ground, though, and doesn’t dislodge me. I press the advantage by moving in just a little closer.

“It’s just,” I say softly as I let my thumbs gently stroke the skin and crisp hair of his chest. “I can’t help it, Van. I’m so damned attracted to you. You make me crazy.”

It’s not lost on me that this is the first time I’ve been completely and utterly honest with Van, without some cheesy pickup line or come-on.

Van’s nostrils flare wide as he looks down at me. His eyes darken, every bit of the blue leeching out until they look like orbs of charcoal.

“Give into it,” I beseech him softly, sliding just one hand up and over his shoulder. I go to my tiptoes to put my mouth closer to his as he stares stonily down at me. I let the other hand drift down his abs with no particular destination in mind.

I have no motive at this point, only a very insane and hopeful wish that he would just merely kiss me. I’ve never been this close to him before. He’s never let me get this close to him before, and I’ll chastise myself thoroughly and much later, but I’m not giving up this advantage right now.

My fingers skim the edge of the elastic waistband of his briefs, and Van actually stops breathing. My breath catches in my lungs, knowing that this could go either way, and not wanting to make the wrong move. I hold my ground and we stare at each other with an intensity that seems to create almost tangible arcs of electricity between us.

For a moment, everything just freezes in place except my own galloping heartbeat…

Then Van’s hand locks around my wrist so fast and hard I gasp. I’m filled with disappointment as he starts to pull my hand away from the edge of his underwear, but then I’m completely bowled over when his other hand clamps onto the back of my neck and he jerks me into him.

His eyes go darker and I can see actual distaste in them for what he’s about to do, and then he does it.

His mouth hits mine, crushing in its force, full of anger, desire, and loss of control. I involuntarily push my hips into him, my body not having any control either. I can feel he’s thick and hard, and a shudder ripples through me at the knowledge.

Van spins me, pushes me back into the fridge, and it rocks as I hit it. He thrusts his entire frame into me, pinning me there so I can’t move.

Not that I want to.

This kiss is everything I imagined it would be on that one day I’d find a man who could really push my buttons. It’s something I never expected from Van, as he doesn’t seem like the kissing type. If I had to bet, I’d say he’s more of the ripping-clothes-and-taking-what-he-wants type.

When his tongue touches mine, not hesitantly but absolutely claiming, a deep moan tears free from within me. It rumbles so hard, is so harsh and abrasive because of the need behind it, that Van goes utterly still for just a moment before he’s actually pushing away from me.

My palms go to the fridge to hold me upright because he has rendered my legs completely weak. He stares at me hostilely and I can’t help it. My eyes drop momentarily to see his thick erection straining against his briefs.

My fucking mouth actually waters, but when I look back up to him, I’m dismayed to see him put the back of his hand to his mouth and give it a quick wipe, as if he can’t stand the taste of me.

It’s a clear indication that he’s done.

This is proven when he spins on his heel and storms back to his bedroom, slamming the door resolutely behind himself.