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Romancing the Rival by Kris Fletcher (8)

Chapter Eight

The first words out of Bree’s mouth the next morning were not ones that anyone would call polite.

Her sisters always acted so shocked when she started cursing, like they didn’t believe she knew how. It was easy to tell that none of them had woken up with her in the past few years.

“They’d be proud of me this morning,” she said, adding, “that’s for fucking sure,” just on principle.

Most days she didn’t mind rising before the sun. She didn’t love it, but she was accustomed to it. Last night, though, she had set the alarm even earlier, thinking that since the evening had been a total bust, work-wise, she would go to bed early, get up early, and get her page count in first thing.

She hadn’t counted on lying awake half the night, wondering what was going on with her and Spence. Or wondering what would happen when she went to his place for dinner on Friday. Or wondering why, exactly, she had agreed to go in the first place.

It wasn’t until she hauled herself to the computer and took the first sip from her oversize coffee that she admitted the truth to herself: she’d been dwelling on what was happening with her and Spence because it was easier than facing the uncomfortable truth that dug into her every time she thought about people uniting to make her father leave town.

Jenna was right. No one who was writing a book built around trickle-down shame should be bothered by learning that there were people who wanted their father gone.

So why was she bothered by this, even slightly?

She stared at the blank screen that she was supposed to be filling with words of insight—or, at the very least, words that would keep the reader engaged. As fate would have it, she was working on her family’s chapter in the scandal time line right now. She had known it would be the most difficult to write. She hadn’t expected that it would leave her frozen.

Maybe that was why the whole citizen’s group bothered her so much—because she was reliving her family’s history as she wrote. All the events were fresh in her memory, and yeah, a part of her was still feeling the impact every time she read a statement by one of her sisters talking about how it felt to lose a father to death, then lose him a second time to fury and deceit and lies.

It was so strange, Kyrie had said in her interview. Like I couldn’t believe anything anymore.

Paige had said, I remember feeling like God must really hate me, because why else would he let that happen?

And Jenna, who was not quite two years younger than Bree, had probably put it best: I definitely remember thinking that I could never do anything worse than what he had done. So why should I bother trying to be good?

All of which fit in very nicely with her thesis, that living through a parental scandal had a detrimental effect on a child’s locus of control. But every one of their statements pulled her back as well. Back to the confusion, to the feeling that her world was suddenly part of an earthquake zone, to feeling like no matter what she did, how hard she tried to grab hold of the insanity and make it stop until she could sort it out, it never happened. Life had spun out of her control.

Enough. She took another swig of coffee, sat up straighter in her chair, and began typing. She was an adult now. She understood more and could do more. She might not be able to stop people from working against Rob, even if she had wanted to—which she didn’t—but she still had power. She could and would write this book, damn it. She would work past those pesky leftover emotions and attitudes. All she had to do was get through this chapter, then she could push her own story back into the depths of ancient history where it belonged and move on.

And then she could turn her attention to another man who rocked her sense of control, but in a very different way.

*   *   *

Spence wasn’t in the habit of turning to others for advice. For one thing, no one could understand his situation better than he could, so what exactly did he expect them to bring to the table? For another, there weren’t a whole hell of a lot of people whom he trusted enough to pour all his problems over them. He didn’t see how having something wrong in his life could be made better by having it become common knowledge.

And yet, his gut kept telling him that he needed some female insight into the whole thing with Bree. Not advice, really. Perspective. A view from the other side, as it were. And while Spence wasn’t so big on trusting people, he absolutely paid attention to his gut.

Which was why he sent his sister a text Friday morning, asking if she wanted to come over for lunch.

Ten minutes late as always, Livvy waltzed into his kitchen, dropped her giant mom purse on his table, and grabbed a Coke out of his fridge, all before saying a word. She popped the top, inhaled about half the can, then dropped onto a barstool with an exaggerated sigh.

“Good God, I needed that.”

“Rough morning?”

“The kids had a two-hour delay because of icy roads, my boss gave me hell for coming in late because of said delay—even though Carl got stuck covering the last delay and the snow day before that—there’s rumors that we’re moving to a new building, and one of my favorite coworkers gave her notice today. She got hired away by the competition.”

“The scum buckets?”

“The very same. But they waved a silver tray under her face with the magic words of fewer hours, more money, and onsite child care.” Livvy hoisted her can. “Kerry might have sold her soul, but at least she made it worth her while.”

“You know you can come work for me anytime.”

“I do. And I thank you.” She reached across the counter and patted his cheek. “But you are my baby brother and I don’t want to end up wringing your neck when you make a boneheaded decision, which we both know would totally happen. So thanks but no thanks. Now, feed me and tell me your woes quick, because I don’t dare take a long lunch today.”

Spence reached into the fridge for eggs and cheese, anticipation spiking when he glimpsed the chicken marinating in a mix of ginger, lime, and mint on the lower shelf. Hello, possibility. “What makes you think I have woes?”

“Because, sweetie, whenever you invite me over alone, it’s either because something’s wrong with your life or because you think something’s wrong with mine. Given the choice, I’ll stick with your problems, thank you very much.”

Shit. He had a flashback to the night of the pizza place.

“I haven’t heard of anything that might be wrong in your life,” he said carefully.

“Good. Neither have I.”

It had better stay that way, he thought. The only reason he hadn’t gone after Carl’s sorry ass months ago was because it would hurt Livvy and the kids.

“Liv—”

“You know,” she said, pulling herself up straighter in her chair, “you haven’t fed me in ages, and unless people are holding out on me, I haven’t heard anything around town about you seeing someone new. So what gives? Are my sources out of the loop, or is this something that’ll totally blindside us all, like you’re finally coming out of the closet?”

“Not that it makes any difference to me, because I don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone’s leanings as long as they’re decent people, but why do you keep insisting I’m secretly gay?”

“Because it would make my life so much easier.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.” He cracked eggs into a mixing bowl. “How?”

“Because then you could be the Sassy Gay Uncle, and you’d babysit all the time and give Emma the fashion advice that I never absorbed, and when I have people over for dinner you could do the cooking and basically, you could be my bitch.”

“You know that could all happen anyway.”

“I know.” Her grin was part real, part cover-up. “I’m a tragic figure. Indulge me.”

He wanted to give her a hug and tell her she was triumphant, not tragic, and that he would happily be her bitch if it meant she would lose the loser. But she had made it clear she wasn’t ready to hear any of that. So he made himself shrug and say, “Sorry. No closets involved. You want to eat or not?”

“Of course I do, especially if you’re cooking.”

“Good.” He poured the eggs into a hot pan, gratified by the way she perked up at the sound of the sizzle.

“Oh God.” She inhaled, deep and long, her smile relaxing into something that looked a lot more like the sister he knew. “Someday, you’re going to realize you’re wasting your talents in the landscaping world, and you’re going to open a restaurant and you’ll let me bring the kids there every night and feed us for free. I’ll weigh three hundred pounds and I won’t give a damn, because it will absolutely be worth it.”

“You know it’s just going to be an omelet, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s what you do with it.” She gestured toward the cooktop, where he was adding shredded cheese and herbs to the pan. “It’s like you made a pact with God or someone.”

Not that he had anything against having the Almighty on his side, but Spence was more inclined to give the credit to the fresh thyme he’d grown in the greenhouse. But since it never hurt to let people think he was capable of magic, especially when that someone was the sister who might need a lot more from him if the jackass she’d married ever decided to fuck up again, he would stay silent this time.

“So if you’re not secretly gay, are you saying that the gossip network has missed a juicy morsel?”

“I’m saying there’s no morsel. Yet.”

She paused with her soda can hovering in front of her mouth. “Ah. The all-important ‘yet.’”

“Yeah.” He hesitated, unsure where to start. “See, there’s a possibility that something might happen with someone. A woman,” he added swiftly as her eyes took on a familiar gleam. “But we have a bit of history that could be a problem.”

“Setting aside the irony of you asking me for relationship advice, let’s take this one point at a time. When you say ‘history,’ do you mean there was a pre-existing relationship?”

“Not a romantic one, no.”

“Oh, that was a fine bit of tap-dancing from someone who swears he’s straight. You want to give me a name? Or at the least, a little more insight into this pre-existing relationship?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Jesus on a joystick, show me a relationship that isn’t.”

“There’s parts she knows, which we have dealt with. And parts she doesn’t know about.”

“I’m assuming there’s a yet in there somewhere.”

“Yeah.” He slid the omelet onto a plate and passed it to Livvy. “I keep trying to convince myself I don’t need to tell her everything, but the more I try, the more I dig myself into a whole pit of bullshit.”

Livvy forked up a bite, closed her eyes, and sighed blissfully as she chewed.

“You need me to leave the two of you alone?” he asked after a couple more bites.

“Stuff it. This is a food miracle and I intend to enjoy every bit of it.” She took another bite, then leveled the fork in his direction. “So let me recap. You’re trying to boink someone.”

And people said that men were crude.

“You say there was no previous boinking, but there was some kind of connection or whatever, and that there’s even more stuff in the way that she doesn’t know about. So which Elias sister are we talking?”

Shit. He really needed to expand his circle of people he trusted.

“No, wait.” She rubbed her hands together. “This is like a puzzle. I can figure it out. It could be the oldest one, though from what I hear, she’s married to her career. It’s not Future Mrs. Mayor unless she’s cheating before she’s even married, which I might have believed of her a few years ago, but now? No. And if it was her, I’d have to cuff you for being an idiot. The twins are both blissfully engaged. Besides, I think both of them are out of town more than they’re around. Which leaves the youngest. Annie? Yeah. Annie.” She cut another bite of omelet. “She’s definitely cute enough. She has that whole cheerleader thing going on, and as I recall, you always had a thing for that type, though I still refuse to believe that story about you and Sophie Morelli and the basketball hoop.”

Thank God she was staring into her plate when she said that. He was pretty sure a blind man could have read the guilt in his face.

“But Annie seems a bit young even for you. Also, rumor has it she’s been seen around town having lunch with Darth Daddy once in a while, and though you’re a pretty tolerant guy, I think that would be a deal breaker for you.”

Damn straight.

“Which means you’re trying to get into Bree Elias’s corset.” She licked the back of her fork. “Good luck with that.”

“Interesting reaction.” For the sake of his pride, he added, “Assuming we were talking about Bree, of course.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Spence. I changed your diapers.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Livvy. You’re barely two years older than me. I don’t think Mom was handing me over to you and leaving you in charge while she made dinner.”

“It’s a figure of speech. Get me some water, please. My point is, Bree isn’t your type. Nor are you hers, I would think, given the way she went off on you that time.” She scowled as she reached for the glass he extended. “Totally uncalled for. I still haven’t forgiven her for that one.”

“It wasn’t about me. It was about what she thought I did.”

“So that time you punched Carl had nothing to do with him? Just with what he did?”

Damn it to hell and back. Spence had never said anything to Livvy about that, and Carl had made it clear that he wasn’t about to admit to having his lights decked by Spence. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.”

“I didn’t, for sure.” She glanced into her glass. “You’re a macho idiot, baby brother. But thanks.”

“Trust me, it was my pleasure.”

She nodded. “Anyway, back to you and Bree. She made it clear that she can’t stand the sight of your cute little face. So what’s changed?”

Well, I did have my hand between her legs in her office . . .

“We’re on a task force together. The one for Dad’s forest.”

“Really? It’s really going to happen?”

“No guarantees, but it sure looks possible.” And if it kept his sister glowing that way, he would make sure it happened if he had to pay for the whole thing himself. “Anyway, we have to work together on this, and she apologized for that time, and things have been . . . interesting.”

“Interesting, huh?” She chased a last fragment of omelet with her fork “There’s a big difference between making peace with someone so you can work together and boinking that person.”

“Do you have to use that word?”

“You’re my brother. I’ll always think of you in teenage terms. And you haven’t answered my question.”

“You haven’t asked one yet.”

“It was implied. Are you going to tell her the truth?”

“About me, no. That’s nobody’s business but mine.”

Her snort managed to carry almost a decade’s worth of disagreement in one short sound.

“But I might have to tell her about Dad.”

Livvy leaned back in her chair and gave him a long look. When she spoke, her voice was gentler than it had been since she’d arrived.

“This is more than just scoring with her, isn’t it?”

Damn it, why had he chosen to talk to someone who knew him so well? “I never go into something thinking that it’s just about scoring, Miss Elegance.”

“Well, then, you’re one in a million.” Her flip tone didn’t cover the underlying hurt. “But you know, nobody ever said you had to maintain this cone of silence around what happened. Dad’s gone. It’s not like he’s here to be hurt.”

“Are we talking about the same man? The one who broke down crying the day they moved, because he had to leave everything he’d built over his life?”

“He cared about being forced to leave. He cared about being played by someone he had trusted.” She eyed him over her coffee. “You were the one who had a shit fit about his reputation.”

“Maybe so. But you know damned well that reputation matters, especially in a place like Calypso Falls.”

“It does. Not going to pretend it doesn’t. But it’s not the be-all and end-all that you think it is, so if you’re asking my blessing for you to tell Bree what her father did, you have it.”

Was that what he had wanted from her? He could have sworn that all he wanted was insight. But there was no denying that he felt a lot better about opening up to Bree now that he knew it was okay with Livvy.

“Even though you don’t think I should start something with her?”

“For one thing, your love life is your call, not mine. My job is to advise when asked. Anything else, I keep my mouth shut.”

Which was about how he would describe her attitude about him interfering in her marriage. Once again, he reminded himself to play it cool.

“For another thing . . .” Again, she gave him the look. Gentler this time. A little kinder. A little more amused.

“You know,” she said, “I have to admit, I never really bought that whole death rivalry that was between you two back in school. It always felt like you were hiding behind it.”

Hadn’t he said almost the same thing? But he still found it hard to believe.

“I don’t hide behind anything.”

“Oh, you sweet, delusional child. Everybody hides. The only difference is in how fast we admit to it.” She swiveled to check the time on the microwave, grimaced, and pushed out of her chair. “I have to go. Thanks for feeding me.”

“Anytime.”

“Good. The kids and I will be here for dinner.”

“Not tonight,” he said automatically, pulling a knowing “oooooh” from her as she took one last glug of water. When she set the glass down, she gave him a wink.

“Good luck, Lover Boy. Keep me posted.”

“In your dreams.” He kissed the top of her forehead. “Thanks, Liv. Take it easy.”

It wasn’t until she was gone that he realized what she had said.

The kids and I will be here.

No mention of Carl.

“Son of a bitch.”

*   *   *

Bree was bent over a test she was marking, idly wondering what hallucinogens the student must have been on to come up with some of the answers in front of her—seriously, this kid really listed Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson as a defense mechanism?—when there was a knock at her door. She flipped the test over and called an invitation to enter, but the door was already opening. For one wild second she thought it was Spence, and she glanced at the filing cabinet, now covered with strategically placed pots of cacti.

Then the door swung wide to reveal her father.

Bree reached below her desk and gripped the edge of the drawer. “That invitation wasn’t meant for you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m here now so you might as well listen to me. Unless you want me to walk into one of your classes and try to talk to you while you’re teaching.”

She would have loved to call his bluff. She had a feeling it would be a serious mistake.

“Fine.” She glanced at the clock. “You have five minutes. Say what you need to say and leave.”

“What if it takes longer?”

“Then you’ll have as long as it takes for security to get here and escort you out. I advise you to start speaking.”

Damned if he didn’t seem to approve.

“Your mother and I are talking.”

Bree had never had an elephant sit on her chest, but she was pretty sure that if it were to happen, the sensations of having her lungs cave in would be a lot like how she felt as she fought to breathe after Rob’s blunt announcement.

She stared at him, uncertain what to say or do, uncertain how to breathe or think, and some of her shock must have shown because Rob frowned and took two steps closer.

“Jesus, Bree. Are you—”

“I’m fine.” She raised both hands, not in surrender but in an unspoken request—demand—that he stay his distance. “Just . . . don’t come any closer.”

“Sorry,” he said. “But you didn’t seem like . . .” He looked down, gave his head a slight shake, then looked back up at her, a silent plea in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Bree.”

Sure. Now he was sorry.

“In the grand scheme of sins committed by you, this is nothing more than a blip.”

Some of the lines in his face relaxed. “That sounds more like you.”

“How you think you have any idea who I am anymore is completely beyond me.”

“Oh, Breezy. I’ll always know you.”

Her stomach clenched. She had a fleeting hope that she might throw up on him, but then she remembered that they were in her office and she, not he, would be the one left living with the lingering stink. Which was a pretty good metaphor for their entire so-called relationship, come to think of it.

“Mom is free to do whatever she chooses,” she said carefully. “I’m not sure why you feel you need to tell me.”

“Maybe because I want you to know that you’re the lone holdout.”

That couldn’t be true. Okay, her sisters were all in various stages of reconnecting . . . and now Neenee . . .

“Wait a second. What about Margie?”

“Margie is in a different category.”

Well, that was undeniably true.

“But, yes. I had coffee with her yesterday.”

Despite herself, Bree would have loved to have watched that one.

“I’m surprised your head is still attached to your neck.”

“I might be a former criminal, Bree, but I’m not an idiot. I chose a place with tables too wide for her to reach across.”

The mental image was almost enough to make her smile.

“So I’m the only one keeping you from a perfect record, and you want me to give in so you can tick me off your list? Sorry. Not gonna happen.” She checked the clock. “Three minutes left.”

“This has nothing to do with a record.”

“On the contrary,” she said. “It has a lot to do with yours.”

If she had expected him to look ashamed, or guilty, or pained—or anything other than resigned—she was sorely disappointed.

“I’ve explained it to your sisters. I know you talk to them, so if you want the details, they have them. But the long and short of it is, I screwed up, I regret it more than you will ever understand, but I can’t turn back time, so all I can do now is move forward and try to use what I’ve learned to help other folks in the same boat.”

It was a pretty speech. And yes, her sisters had made sure to keep her updated in their dealings with him—not because they were trying to change her mind, she knew, but because they had all agreed a long time ago that when it came to Rob, they needed to be on the same page.

“And Mom?”

“What about her?”

“What are you telling her?”

“I can’t see how that’s any of your business.”

She leaned back in her chair and made a show of checking the time. Fewer than two minutes to go. If she got on a roll, she could filibuster him.

“You know,” she said, drawing out the words and making them sound almost conversational, “that’s an interesting perspective coming from you. Especially since you weren’t here to watch Mom spend every minute of every day and every night trying to keep things together for us. The others might have been too young to remember what it did to her, but I wasn’t. And you know what? I might find it in me to understand what you did to us. It’s not going to happen, but there’s a statistical chance that it could happen, say, if the fate of the free world depended on it. But there is no way in this world or any other that I could ever forgive or forget what you did to Mom.”

She’d ended too early, but it was too perfect a spot to stop. Especially when she saw what it did to him. With those few words, she had stripped away his bluster and revealed the broken shell that lay beneath.

He seemed so small, so frail, that she almost felt sorry for him.

But not quite.

“There’s a group in town trying to get rid of you,” she continued. “Did you know that? They think you have no right to be building your future in Calypso Falls, and I happen to agree with them.” She picked up her phone. “In fact, I wasn’t sure I had the time, but now that you’ve seen fit to barge into my place of employment, it seems the choice is clear. I’ll be working with them. I’ll be giving them every bit of information I know about you so they can use it against you. I’m going to expose your weak spots and give them all the insights I can, and at the end, you will find that though you might still be able to live here, you’re not going to be able to work here. You’re not welcome in this town or in my life.” She raised her phone. “And if you’re not walking out the door by the time I count to three, I’m calling security. One . . .”

“Bree—”

“Two.”

He let out a huff, shook his head, and left. Bree stared at the empty door for too long, waiting to see if he would come back.

This time, at least, it seemed he was gone for good.

*   *   *

It took about three seconds after opening the door to Bree that evening for Spence to figure out that the flush in her cheeks had nothing to do with him.

Oh, she was polite. She said hello and let him take her coat and gave Furgus a brisk pat on the head. But the spots of color in her cheeks were too concentrated. The glitter in her eyes was too sharp. And when he gave her arm an experimental stroke as he helped her with her coat, she stayed stiff and distant.

Okay. So either she had changed her mind or something had gone wrong. He hoped to hell that whatever it was had nothing to do with him. Not just because he wanted to see what sparks they might be able to light if they were on the same page, but because everything about her screamed unhappy.

Spence might have a wide streak of selfish, but even he didn’t want to see folks unhappy. Unless they had earned it, of course, in which case, more power to the misery.

He had planned a meal that could go any way, timing-wise, either as soon as she arrived or—his own personal preference—after spending some time working up a major appetite. Seeing her now, he was pretty sure that both food and wine were going to be required before anything else could happen. Also, time, distance, and conversation.

Well, he had said he wanted to be upfront with her before anything else happened. This could be the opening he needed.

“Come on.” He led her back into the kitchen. “I need a few minutes to cook the chicken, but there’s wine and a cheese plate ready in case you’re starving.”

“That sounds good. Great, even.” She shook back her hair, wriggling her shoulders as she perched on one of the stools at the island. “I should be a good guest and offer to help, but honestly, right now I think I would be more of a detriment than anything else. So please excuse my bad manners and pour me a very large glass of whatever.”

“With pleasure. And don’t sweat it. I don’t like working around anyone else, anyway.”

A hint of a smile tugged on her lips. “Why am I not surprised?”

He filled a glass with semi-sweet Riesling, pushed it toward her, and raised the bottle in her direction. “Salut.”

“None for you?”

“Oh, I will. But not until I’m done handling onions.”

She looked into the depths of her glass longingly, as if debating holding out until he could join her, then shook her head and helped herself to a healthy mouthful. Good. There was a time and a place for politeness, but this wasn’t it.

“Rough day?” He plugged in the indoor grill, pulled the plate of appetizers from the fridge, and set it before her. Her eyes lit up in a way that had his gut tightening.

“It just got a whole lot better.”

Oh, Bree. I can do so much more for you than just feed you stuffed dates.

“Is it something you need to talk about?”

“Probably.” She picked up a date. “But not yet.”

Worked for him.

“What’s your average day like?” He tossed skewers of chicken and vegetables on the grill, closed it, and set the timer. When he turned back to her, he saw that she was staring at his hands. Assessingly. Like she was measuring them.

Her gaze flitted to his feet.

“Size eleven,” he said without losing a beat. “Listening to old wives’ tales?”

Another hint of a smile flitted across her mouth. Maybe there was hope after all.

“My average day?” She took another sip of wine, her eyes closing appreciatively. “Oh, that’s delightful. My days are pretty full. A lot of grading and clerical work. Lectures. Psych 100 seminars.”

From the way her mouth twisted, he could guess how high that ranked on her joy list.

“Too many meetings, of course, and then my own research and prep for my dissertation. Those are the key ingredients. The actual proportions shift from day to day. How about you?”

“Depends on the time of year. Right now, it’s a lot of paperwork, lots of planning, ordering things. Getting ready for the busy season.”

“Which is—summer?”

“Spring is the wild one. Getting rid of the winter debris, prepping grounds, adding new plants. Plus spring is the time everyone decides that this is the year they’re going to make their grounds look good, so, plenty of new clients.”

“You say that like there’s a better time to make that decision.”

“There is. Fall. That’s when folks should be looking ahead and having us come take a look, so we can get a jump on any changes that need to be made before the ground freezes. But I’m not in the business of telling people that they waited too long. We work with them whenever they call.”

“Which season do you like best?”

He had an immediate vision of Bree in a skimpy bathing suit, stretched out on a blanket on the beach with a straw hat tipped over her eyes, a book in her hands, and a lot of bare skin beckoning.

“Summer has its moments.”

“True.”

“But if I had to pick one, I’d go with fall. People freak out because it means winter’s coming, but you know, there’s something to be said for slowing things down and hanging out in front of the fireplace.”

This time her smile was a little wider, a little looser. “In summer you can have bonfires.”

“Yeah, you can. But you also have mosquitoes.”

“Greedy little bastards.” She nodded. “Though the smoke usually keeps them away.”

“It helps. But if you’re making s’mores in a fireplace and the marshmallow goes rogue and you end up licking it off, it’s a lot more enjoyable when there’s no insects around.”

“Why, because the mosquitoes get stuck in the goo?”

“No.” He placed one finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “Because I’m talking about licking chocolate and crumbs off of someone else’s fingers. Or elsewhere.” He tipped her chin higher while mentally rearranging his dessert plans. He had marshmallows, didn’t he? “You would be amazed at all the places that stuff can land.”

There was an encouraging amount of humor in her eyes. “And the mosquitoes?”

“Well, sometimes you have to get rid of some clothes to get all the gooey places.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. Fireplaces are definitely the way to go.”

“You do know that the only bonfires I attend are with my sisters.”

Not the answer he’d been expecting. “So next time you’re at one with them, you’ll be making s’mores and you’ll remember this and start laughing. And they’ll want to know what’s so funny. And”—he paused for dramatic effect—“why you’re blushing.”

“No, my sisters are more likely to come up with their own explanations.” Her smile widened. “Ones that would leave your story in the dust.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Did I show you my fireplace the last time you were here?”

“No.” She moved his hand from her chin, but gave it a heartening squeeze as she did. “But if there’s a bearskin rug in front of it, I’m reporting you to the cliché police.”

“Not to worry.” He turned to pull the chicken from the grill. “That’s where I keep my blow-up dolls.”

The coughing, snorting sound behind him told him that he’d scored a direct hit.

“Fine,” she said in a strained voice. “You win this round.”

“I didn’t know this was a competition.”

“Like hell you didn’t. Could I have more wine?”

“Only if it doesn’t make you sleepy.”

“It does not.”

He held the bottle over her glass. “What does it do to you, Bree?”

“Well, for one thing, it helps me forget that my asshole father came to see me today.”

Oh shit.

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