Chapter Nine
Spence filled her glass to the top.
She plucked a date from the plate and stared into it so intently that he almost started believing in X-ray vision. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is all so nice.” She waved, encompassing the brick cooking arch, the candles on the island, the wine and dates. “And there’s nothing I can do about him, and you’re actually making me laugh—”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“Not surprised. Grateful. And I don’t want to talk about him.” She bit into the date. “Is that blue cheese in here?”
“It is.” He focused on plating the food to hide any signs of his internal debate.
On the one hand, this might not be a great night to drop another Rob bomb on her.
On the other hand, if she was already pissed off, telling her now could get it all over with at once and avoid messing up another night.
On the third hand, she might need a distraction. He was hell at distractions.
On the fourth hand, what the hell was he doing, thinking about future nights?
Sure, he had told Livvy that he didn’t go into things simply looking to get laid. It wasn’t totally true—no guy on the planet would give his sister a hundred percent truthful answer to that one—but on the whole, it was pretty accurate. He wasn’t looking for anything long-term, not at the moment, but never—okay, rarely—did he get involved with a woman unless he could see himself spending at least a little time with her. Definitely more time than was required simply to boink her, to use Livvy’s term.
Bree was a different case, though. A totally different circumstance. And while a couple of months ago he would have sworn up and down that he had nothing in common with her, that as far as he was concerned she was an uptight, self-righteous academic who was all theory and no action, well, now he knew there was a lot more to her. And not just because of the interlude that had left him needing to avoid the sight of filing cabinets for a while.
Bree was . . . well. She was more than he’d expected. He found, somewhat to his surprise, that he wanted to keep exploring. Find out what else might lie beneath that fancy-talking surface.
He was intrigued.
Which meant he had to take the chance.
He slid her plate in front of her, grabbed his own food and glass, and took the stool beside her.
“Bon appétit,” he said, raising his wineglass.
She leaned back ever so slightly. “No candlelit dining room? I’m surprised.”
So was he. Not that she had anticipated the whole seduction scenario, but that he had changed course and abandoned the white linens and candles he’d set up in the other room. Somehow, the kitchen, complete with pans on the stove and the lingering smells from the grill, seemed like the right choice.
After all, he and Bree had a whole lot more than dirty dishes between them.
“I did set that all up,” he admitted. “But this feels more like you.”
She glanced around, her gaze lingering on the brick, the pans on the stove, the cluttered prep area, and he winced.
Then she looked down. At their hands resting so close on the island, on their knees bumping up against each other. A soft smile crept across her face.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I do believe you’re right.”
It was the first time in his memory that she had said that. It felt ridiculously warming.
“To fresh starts?” He raised his glass once more.
“Haven’t we done that already?”
“We said the words.”
She speared a chunk of zucchini and lifted her fork in salute. “You’re right. There’s words, and then there’s actions.”
Her lips closed over the food and he thought, yeah, actions were sounding a whole lot more appealing right then.
“Oh wow. This is . . . Is this really a zucchini? Because I have to tell you, these are usually on my Do Not Consume list, but these . . . wow. I could eat this every day.”
Again with being inordinately flattered. “Funny. You’re the second woman to praise my cooking in one day.”
“Oh?”
If she was trying to sound casual, she was failing miserably. He laughed. It was kind of nice to hear that reaction.
“Livvy was here for lunch.”
“Oh, of course.”
Yep. Way too casual. He shoved in an extra-large bite of chicken in case he got caught grinning.
“How is she doing?”
That, he was pretty sure, was as close as Bree would ever come to asking about the night at the pizza place. He couldn’t give her details, but he could provide reassurance.
“All good,” he said firmly.
She nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. Her kids must be, what, eight and ten now?”
“Ten and fourteen.”
“You’re kidding. How the heck did that happen?”
“Hey, you think you’re surprised; try walking in my shoes. I’m their guardian.”
She made a choking sort of noise. “Seriously? You?”
He shouldn’t be offended. After all, that was precisely the way he wanted people to see him—as a badass businessman who wasn’t afraid to do whatever it took to close the deal. Still, it bugged him.
“I said yes when Emma was born,” he said, deliberately ignoring her implication. “That was terrifying in its own way. But now that she’s a teenager—well—all I can say is that there isn’t a brother in the world more concerned about his sister’s health and safety.”
She laughed and speared a cherry tomato. Good. If she was laughing, she might not notice that he had completely failed to mention Carl.
They chatted easily as they ate, catching up on old acquaintances, touching on but not diving into the subject of the food forest. It was light and easy, and by the time his plate was clean, almost all the tension seemed to have rolled off her shoulders, leaving her looser, more relaxed. What surplus energy was still buzzing around her was the good sort that started a low-level hum rolling through him, simmering deep and ready to grow to a boil at any moment.
It was a damned fine feeling.
Her sigh was the kind every cook longs to hear at the end of the meal. “That was amazing. Thank you. If I’d known you could cook like that, I would have made peace with you ages ago.”
“There’s a reason a secret weapon is called a secret.”
“Good point.” She sat back on her stool, twirling back and forth in a slow, steady rhythm. The lines in her forehead deepened again.
“You know,” she said slowly, “I just realized that I was here the last time I talked to my father, too.”
“I’d forgotten.”
She grimaced. “I’m jealous.”
His internal debate—distract her or get the truth out of the way?—was swift and decisive.
“Bree.” He caught her hands in his. “Not that I want to keep coming back to the topic of your father, but there’s something I need to tell you. And then, as far as I’m concerned, we never have to mention his name again.”
“You already told me about the committee.”
“Yeah.” He squeezed her fingers. “But I never told you why I’m on it.”
Her laugh was too short, too brittle. “You don’t have to. Believe me, I don’t have any problem with—”
“Bree, your father is the reason my parents had to leave town.”
Her eyes went blank. Not long. Just enough to know that she was feeling this a lot more than she was willing to admit.
“How?” She blinked. “Or . . . why? I mean . . . I know they must have been hurt by the things he did, but they were . . . How would his actions have anything to do with them?”
“Your dad invested in James Landscaping.” When she didn’t seem to understand the implication, he explained. “Back when a lot of Rob’s income might be considered . . . questionable.”
He saw her processing the words, following the consequence trail. “You mean like . . . Okay, believe it or not, I don’t know a lot about illegal money . . . things . . . but do you mean he was using your dad’s business as a . . . a money-laundering thing?”
“It was never clear. My dad swore up and down he had no idea Rob was doing anything wrong. All he saw was, old friend, business that needed to expand, all those good things.”
“I take it the authorities didn’t see it the same way.”
“Let’s say they were a lot more suspicious than my folks ever were. Especially when Dad started paying back the loan right around the time the legal types started looking into Rob’s shenanigans.”
“But . . . I mean, it was years between when they first investigated him and when your parents moved. That happened right before you . . .” Her voice trailed off and he knew what she was thinking—that the timing was all too convenient.
How was he supposed to tell her about his folks without her figuring out the rest?
“Right before I came back home from school. Exactly. That was when it finally blew up. From what I was able to piece together, just as you said, the investigation into the arrangement started way back when, back when Rob was first being charged. I don’t remember a lot about that, other than my mom crying and my dad walking around like someone had pulled the world’s worst and biggest gotcha on him.”
“His best friend,” she whispered, and pushed her wineglass in Spence’s direction. “You’d better refill this.”
That sounded like an excellent plan for both of them.
“Then Rob disappeared,” Spence said as he poured, “and things eased off. Life went back to normal, at least on our end.”
“Until they found him in Costa Rica.”
“Yeah. That was . . .” Spence gripped the stem of his glass, remembering that day. “It was one of the strangest days of my life. I remember coming home from school and my dad was there. Totally blew me away. Dad never came home in the middle of the day. He was sitting in his dad chair, one of those recliners, with a big glass of Scotch in his hand. I walked in and said something to him, I don’t remember what, but he looked at me like he couldn’t remember my name for a minute. Then he raised his glass and said, ‘That lying, cheating bastard is alive.’ But the way he’d said it . . . it was like he was glad. Like even after everything Rob did, my dad was still glad that his old friend was alive.”
“Your father was a good man.” Her hand settled over his, warm and comforting, and without thinking he rotated his palm to lace his fingers through hers. “I wish I had known him better. I just have a few memories, from when we were so little. Mostly of his voice. He had the biggest, boomiest voice I think I’d ever heard.”
“Yeah. He did.”
This time she was the one squeezing his fingers. “So after my— After Rob was hauled back to the States . . . did the investigations start again?”
“Yeah. It was pretty bad. The people looking into it—they were determined to find something. But you know, it had been years, my dad was never the best record keeper . . . the cops hunted and hunted but could never find anything definitive. Finally they worked out an agreement. My parents were told that they weren’t going to be charged, but it was strongly recommended that they leave town and do everything possible to make sure they never had anything to do with Rob again.”
“So that whole line about going to Arizona to look after your grandparents?”
“Not a total lie. Gran had been after them for a while to come out there, at least for winters. But on their own, it probably wouldn’t have happened for at least a few more years.”
She pinned him with the unblinking gaze from behind her glasses. “Interesting that you managed to be sent home from school right at that time.”
So much for hoping he could keep her away from that part of the story.
“No comment.”
“Spence—”
“Nobody knows this, Bree. My father was so embarrassed over letting himself be played that way, so ashamed of what he had let happen to his family . . . he didn’t tell anyone. His reputation was about all he had left by the time it was done.”
“Mmmm. Especially when the town had other, juicier topics to discuss. Like, say, you.” She sipped her wine, watching him over the edge of the glass as she drank. Those eyes saw too much. Knew too much.
He should never have let himself get involved with her. All it would take was one word to her sister, the future Mrs. Mayor—or even more dangerous, to that crazy Aunt Margie—and the entire town would know that Spencer James wasn’t half as badass as he’d led them all to believe.
But deep down, he knew he’d done the right thing. Bree deserved—no, needed to know. Spence had never demanded a woman’s entire life story before he slept with her, but things were different with Bree. History had to be dealt with before he could think about—well, not a future. This wasn’t a relationship that had any future built into it, he was pretty sure. More like they were finally acknowledging something that had been simmering for a long time. Definitely more of a get on with the inevitable and then move on kind of thing.
But when it ended, he wanted it to be because it had run its natural course. Not because she found out he’d been hiding something so massive from her.
He shook his head. What the hell was he doing, already planning how this would end when they were still on the brink of beginning?
“I know I had nothing to do with any of this,” she said at last. “But I guess that whole thing about blood being thicker than water might have some truth, because I have the strangest urge to apologize.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“I know. But I still feel . . . it’s weird. Almost guilty.”
“The only guilt you would need to feel is if you mentioned this to anyone. I mean it, Bree. Not even your sisters.”
“Lips are sealed.” She drew an X over them, momentarily diverting his attention to far more interesting areas. “But I confess to being curious.”
“About what?”
“About why you told me all of this. You didn’t have to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you did, which seems kind of strange in itself. But you didn’t have to say anything.”
“Yeah, I did. Not to make you feel guilty. But because”—he paused, wondering how to explain the unexplainable—“it felt important. I don’t really understand it, but it just felt like something I should do.”
“Because you want to have a clear conscience when you sleep with me?”
When. Not if, but when.
He liked the sound of that.
“How about, because I didn’t want you to feel blindsided by anything?” He slipped a hand around the back of her neck, sliding it through her curl. “I want you to feel good about this, Bree. No regrets. No second thoughts.”
Her hand came up to cover his. Her other hand rested on his chest as she tipped forward on the barstool.
“It goes both ways, Spence.” She scooted closer, dropped one light kiss on his mouth, and whispered, “I want you to feel good about this, too.”
When she leaned in and kissed him again, he was pretty sure that the feeling good part was all but guaranteed.
* * *
Bree willed herself to go supple. Spence was an accomplished kisser. She wanted to take it slow, let herself learn his rhythms and tastes and preferences.
Except she also wanted to get to the point where thinking was nigh impossible. Because she was having a hell of a time turning her brain off long enough to get turned on.
She edged forward on her barstool, gliding her hands across his shoulders. Muscles. Muscles were good. Kissing was good. Spence was good.
His hands were at her waist, softly kneading, thumbs brushing little pleasure circles below her breasts. She smiled against his mouth. His chuckle was deep against her ear.
“Who would have believed . . . ,” he said softly, but she stopped him with a kiss before he could say anything else. She was sorting through enough new truths and revelations as it was. She didn’t need to be reminded that this, now, was also verging on the incredulous.
No second thoughts, he’d said, and she’d agreed. Because she wasn’t having second thoughts. Not about this.
It was the constant stream of other thoughts that was knocking her sideways.
She wriggled her fingers beneath his sweater. Skin. Hot, smooth skin. Sure enough, her pulse kicked up a little at the contact. Exactly what she needed. More skin. More touch. More blood pounding in her ears, blocking the nonstop thoughts chasing themselves through the part of her brain that wouldn’t shut off.
Except that even while his lips glided across her jaw, she couldn’t stop thinking of everything he’d said. About his father. And her father.
And him.
His hands were on her thighs, deliciously close to resurrecting memories of the filing cabinet interlude. She sank deeper into him, against him, and almost—almost—lost herself in the moment.
Spence, she thought firmly. Spence. Fisherman’s sweater. Jeans. Muscles. Doing all the things that had made her act like someone totally not herself when they were in her office, but now—
He stilled beneath her mechanically roving hands, then pulled back and looked down at her.
“Uh, it’s not like I know what to expect from you, but I get the feeling you’re not really here right now.”
Damn it.
She hesitated the merest fraction of a second, debating with herself. Deny and carry on?
No. He’d had the guts to be honest with her. She owed him that same courtesy.
“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it more than she would have thought possible. “It’s not that I don’t want to do this. I do.”
His raised eyebrows told her that he had suspicions.
“This is nothing about you, Spence. Okay? I’ve been . . .” She breathed in deep, determined to tell the total truth. She could at least give him that. “Ever since the day in my office . . . No, ever since the, um, experiment in the greenhouse . . . I’ve been thinking about this. Imagining it. Dreaming about it.” Heat climbed to her cheeks, but she pushed on. “Trust me. This isn’t cold feet or second thoughts or anything to do with you. It’s just—”
“Too much in one night?” he asked, and his voice carried such a potent mix of understanding, gentleness, and regret that she almost kissed him in appreciation.
“That’s a good way to put it.”
He rested his forehead against hers and sighed, his breath tickling her face. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Problem was, I knew I couldn’t not say anything, either.”
“You made the right choice.”
“I hate when that happens.”
Seriously, what was wrong with her? She hadn’t been lying. Thoughts of sleeping with him had been hijacking her attention almost constantly over the past few days. She’d debated and considered and made her decision, and she had been happy about it. There hadn’t been a shred of doubt when she dressed this morning that she was seriously looking forward to removing those clothes in front of him.
Her body was issuing a bunch of reminders that it was still ready, willing, and able to make that happen.
But her mind kept whispering things about betrayal. And intrusion. And something about taking control. None of it at his hands, which made the thoughts even more infuriating, because damn it. Wasn’t she entitled to a good time once in a while?
She laced her fingers through his, soaking up some of the strength. “I promise I won’t mention any of what you said to anyone.”
His head dipped in what she supposed was acknowledgment.
“And even though this is pure conjecture on my part, let me just say that if, perhaps, someone decided to sacrifice his own reputation to protect his family . . . well . . . if someone made that choice, I might think it’s one of the most ridiculously honorable things I’ve ever heard of.”
“If, hypothetically, I knew of anyone who did something like that, I would convey his thanks.”
She let herself lean into him a moment longer. If this was all that was going to happen tonight—and it certainly seemed that way—then she was going to appreciate every moment of it.
But she had to be fair to him, too. And fairness dictated that, after a few seconds, she pulled back, cupped his cheek, and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“I should probably leave,” she whispered.
His sigh was a deep echo of her regret. “I guess so.”
He helped her down from the barstool and kept a light hand on her elbow as they walked back into the living room where he’d stashed her purse and her coat. She cast a longing look at the wide expanse of the sofa, the fireplace, the shadows, and bit her lip. The things she could do with those . . .
But she couldn’t stop thinking. And he deserved more than someone who wasn’t truly here.
“It’s funny,” she said, because silence offered too many openings for self-recrimination. “My research is all about the impact of parental scandal on their children’s locus of control. Their feelings that their life is either determined by their actions or by outside events,” she added automatically, because it seemed that was always the next question whenever she mentioned it to people. “If, hypothetically, someone did spread some rumors about himself to help his parents save face, that would definitely fall into one of the coping methods I discuss.”
“A coping method?”
The man could convey more with a quirked eyebrow than most guys could do with their whole face.
“Taking control of the story. Changing the narrative to suit himself. Becoming the storyteller instead of merely a character.” She smiled. “Definitely someone who sees himself as the author of his own life.”
“I take it that’s a good thing.” His hand rested on the doorknob.
“It is.”
He bent and kissed her lightly behind the ear. “Maybe you should try it sometime,” he whispered, and opened the door. She took one step.
And froze. Though absolutely not from the late-season Arctic cold front that had settled in over the past few days.
Maybe you should try it.
If she left—if she walked down those steps and into her car and drove home—then that would be it for her and Spence. Even if he was generous enough to try again, which she suspected he might be, she would be hampered by embarrassment and regret, uncertain if she was acting out of true desire or simply gratefulness. Not that she had a problem with gratitude sex. There were times when it was absolutely justified, a way of saying thanks that went beyond simply words.
But not for a first time.
“Bree?”
Spence had seized control of his story. He had taken a situation where life must have felt unfair, as if it was spinning away from him, and he had found a way to make it his. It might have been shortsighted and kind of ridiculous, but his intentions had been good and his heart had definitely been in the right place. Most important of all, it had worked.
Maybe you should try it.
She had lost huge chunks of her heart, her childhood, her whole life to her father. She had mastered the art of pushing on anyway. She had immersed herself in everything she did and thrust Rob out of her life and congratulated herself on being the winner.
Yet here she was, letting him into her head again. Letting him take over her thoughts. Letting him steal yet another shiny possibility from her.
The hell with that.
She whirled around. “Spence. I know this is going to seem mercurial and kind of unhinged and maybe like I’m a flip-flopping fool, but the thing is . . . you’re right.”
“About . . .”
She could have explained it with words, but seriously, was that the best use of her lips?
Instead, she stepped back inside, closed the door, framed his startled face with her hands, and kissed him. The way she had in the greenhouse. The way she had in her office. The way she had wanted to for the past few days of waiting and wanting and hoping and counting.
By the time she finally was forced to come up for air, her fingers were wedged beneath his waistband and he had her pressed against the door and her coat was half off and his hands were on her butt and it felt as if someone had lit sparklers all over her body.
And the real fireworks hadn’t even started yet.
“Is this about that whole taking charge of the story thing?” he asked, his voice ragged.
“Mmhmm.”
“What if I told you”—he grabbed her hands—“that there’s a time to take control. But then”—and he lifted her hands above her head, pinning them in place while leaning strategically closer—“there’s something to be said for losing it, too.”
“I’d say that that’s a theory I’d like to put to the test.”
He nipped the side of her neck. “Another experiment?”
“Damn straight,” she said. “This one is about . . . uh . . . sofas. And . . . floors. And . . . um . . . and . . .”
“And?” he mumbled from somewhere between her breasts.
“And other—oh, God—horizontal surfaces.”
Which was the last complete sentence she managed for the rest of the evening.
* * *
Spence was almost out the door for a meeting of the Stop Elias group when he got a call that plans had changed. Their designated host had a sick kid, one member was out of town, and another was unreachable. It seemed he and Fred Gettman were the only ones available.
Spence had no burning desire to spend the evening with Fred, but the man had some decent ideas, and they could compare notes about the task force work as well. Which was how the two of them ended up in a corner booth at Lakeshore Burgers discussing fruit trees, fire halls, the uselessness of most committees, and the perfect onion ring.
“Beer batter,” Spence insisted. “It’s the only way to go. With thick slices of onion to hold up to the flavor of the batter.”
“Oh, sure. If all you want is to taste some crunchy flavored dough, that’ll work great. But if you want to taste the onion, you need sweet ones. Vidalias. Slice ’em thin and barely coat them with buttermilk and flour. A light hand, see? That’s the trick. A light hand, light breading, and then all that crispy, sweet crunch in your mouth. Yeah. That’s what you want.”
“Tell you what,” Spence said. “When it’s my turn to host the meeting, you come early. We’ll have a fry-off.”
“May the best cook win,” Fred said with a laugh, and raised his beer. Spence clinked his mug against Fred’s.
Once the mugs were back on the table, Spence pulled out the photos of the proposed food forest location. “Listen,” he said. “Before we go, I want you to have another look at these with me.”
“What am I looking for?” Fred pulled his reading glasses into place and leaned over.
“I’m thinking there has to be a way to work in a playground and a pavilion. They both would add a lot of appeal to the place and draw people there even when it’s not harvest time. But to fit in both, we’d have to cut down on the trees, and since they are supposed to be the main draw . . .”
“Got it,” Fred said, and pulled the photos closer. Spence sipped his beer while Fred hummed softly to himself and traced lines with his finger. At one point Fred said something under his breath, grabbed a knife, and used the blunt end to draw invisible lines that left him muttering with barely concealed excitement.
“You figured it out?” Spence asked.
Fred nodded, then shook his head. “I might have something. I don’t want to say anything yet, in case it’s not possible, but I’m thinking . . .” He gathered the papers. “Let me do some exploring. I’ll get back to you on this ASAP.”
“Hang on,” Spence said as Fred slid out of the booth. “Don’t I even get a hint?”
Fred grinned and tossed money on the table.
“Two birds, one stone.”