THIRTEEN
“So, how’s the Italian Stallion doing? Still putting it to you good?”
Violet peered over her sunglasses at her best bud, Cade “Alamo” Burnett, leading defenseman for the Chicago Rebels. A Texan cliché, he wore a Stetson pulled down low over his forehead to block the unseasonably warm mid-May sun. Close to eighty degrees and Chicagoland had gone berserk. People walking around in shorts, sidewalk cafes busting open, and gorgeous gay guys lounging shirtless in Adirondack chairs in the burbs.
Her own gorgeous gay BFF didn’t even look at her as he answered. “My hot boyfriend is just fine, and why yes, Vasquez, the sex is awesome.” He whispered that last part so impressionable ears wouldn’t hear. Which reminded her: time to check in with her charges.
“How’s it going, girls? Any questions?”
“No, we’ve got it,” Franky called back.
Violet had set them a Saturday morning task to weed the flower beds in the backyard. Children needed sunshine and fresh air—she’d read that somewhere—and putting them to work had a triple benefit: keep ’em busy, keep ’em healthy, and get the garden ready for planting. They’d embraced it with a lot more enthusiasm than she’d expected.
Bren had left as soon as she returned from Home Depot with supplies. He hadn’t said where he was going, just that he’d be out for a couple of hours. She wondered where he was, then wondered why she cared.
The past two weeks had gone so well. The Rebels made it through round two of the play-offs, beating the Detroit Motors 4–1 in the series. The semifinals started on Wednesday in LA.
Eyes closed against the warm sun, she asked Cade, “Have you and Moretti done anything public yet?”
“Why, because all gay guys are into exhibitionism?”
She turned to him. “That’s not what I meant. You came out at a press conference a month ago, and yet no one knows that you and the team’s general manager are a soap opera supercouple.”
Cade rolled his beautiful hazel eyes. “It’s tricky for him. Hell, you’ve seen some of the shade people are throwing at me online. And him.”
The tweets and social media comments were vile, most of it aimed at this sweet, brave man who had come out in the face of an inevitable hurricane of hate. Some assholes were also blaming the hiring of Dante as GM and how he must be pushing “the homosexual agenda.” Why else would a healthy, red-blooded Texan specimen like Cade “turn” gay?
Cade sighed. “Dante’s had to deal with a lot of negativity getting to the top of the hockey management food chain, and he doesn’t want to look like he’s taking advantage of me. We’re waiting until after the play-offs to debut Cadante, so for now, we’re getting to know each other better.”
“Burnetti has more of a ring to it.” She heard the smile in his voice, his acceptance that Moretti, his boss as well as his lover, had to do this his way. But she didn’t agree. If you loved someone, then shout it out. Violet was the kind of person who went all in, to hell with the consequences.
If Clifford Chase had given her even a smidge of encouragement, she would have shown him how lucky he was to know her and have her as a daughter . . . She shook off that thought. If wishes were horses.
“Have to say I’m surprised you took this on,” Cade said.
“What?”
“Nannydom.”
“That makes two of us.” She could feel his eyes on her, so she continued, her voice low. “We already kissed. Got it out of the way.”
Cade pushed his Stetson up with an index finger. “You didn’t think to share this tasty nugget?”
“Nothing to report. It was just okay.”
“Just okay?”
She shrugged. “Yep. Nice but nothing to text my BFF about. And knowing that there aren’t any real sparks between us meant I could happily take on this job without that hanging over us.” Did she sound like she was overdoing the protest? She felt like she was.
Cade remained quiet, so she filled the silence.
“I can see he’s objectively hot. The beard, the bod, the burr. But when all’s said and done, he’s a mess and I don’t have time for all that drama. The Year of the V is all about me, not some guy with issues. He needs to focus on those two and his career.”
She chanced a peek at her friend, who considered her thoughtfully.
“You’ve changed your tune. For the past nine months, you’ve been taunting him with your Latin booty, driving the man nuts, and now you’re pulling the rug out from under him?”
“Believe me, this is better.” For him, but mostly for her. Bren St. James was the kind of guy Violet could fall for. She never would have thought it before, given that she usually liked flashier guys. But having talked to him more in the past month than she had all year, having seen how he was with his daughters, she knew this proximity was dangerous.
“Not sure he’s as much of a mess as you’re making out,” Cade said. “Now, I know it’s kind of hard to distinguish between happy Bren and miserable Bren—”
“Beard rubs,” she said. “Beard rubs increase when he’s in a good mood.”
Cade shook his head in pity, a knowing grin playing on his lips. “If you say so. It’s clear to me that he’s in a much better place now than when he was drinking. Drunk Highlander got into fights, on and off the ice. Missed practices and games. Hell, we had to leave him once in Toronto because he’d gone on an all-night bender and stolen a horse from the mounted police!”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.” He cast a quick glance to the girls and lowered his voice. “Now he’s focused, present, rock solid. I’ve no doubt it’s still a struggle for him, but the guy’s in a better place. The least you could do is throw a blow job his way.”
“Cade!”
“Oh, like it’s never crossed your mind.” His phone vibrated and he picked it up, already smiling. A quick read of the text, and Cade took a sharp breath. That was an imma get some inhale if ever she heard one. “It’s been swell being your muscled eye candy, but I’m out of here. Bye, Cat! Bye, Francesca!” He left the yard with a haste that might be considered indecent.
With Cade out of her hair, she decided to check in on the seasonal workers.
“How’s it looking, ladies?”
Franky peered up through her glasses. “I found two more citizens for Slugville.” She pointed at two slugs on a patch of grass, nudging each other in a manner that Violet assumed was slug flirting.
“What about you, Cat?” Caitriona had already started planting, so points for initiative. Violet knelt down beside her and dug a petunia out of the plastic tray. “We’ll want to place these at least four inches apart.”
“I know,” Caitriona muttered. “It says it on the tag.”
“Awesome! Sounds like you’ve got it.” She sat back on her haunches. “So, do you guys know the boys next door? Godfrey and Sebastian?”
Caitriona blushed. Interesting. “Their names are Jeremy and Lance.”
“Their names are Dumb and Dumber,” Franky said.
She looked to her sister for confirmation, who merely said, “They’re boys.” Confirmation enough.
“Well, I ran into their mom a while ago and she said that they’d like to come over to see you guys sometime. I figured I’d ask before we set something up.” It would be good for the girls to have someone else to hang with. This homeschooling business wasn’t exactly conducive to the development of social skills.
Franky checked in with Caitriona again. Something passed between them, and Franky—who Violet was figuring out was the leader despite being younger—pronounced the sisters’ decision. “Maybe on Monday after lessons.”
They spent the next hour planting the beds with colorful petunias and pansies. Just as they were finishing up, Violet brought out the hose and its spray nozzle attachment.
“Stand back, ladies.” She watered the newly planted beds, and then Gretzky jumped into the stream because he was a total drama hog. “Dog!”
The girls laughed, so she turned the hose on them. Ha! After a few yelps, they managed to work together to wrestle it from her—okay, she might have let them—and turned it on each other, then Violet herself.
She didn’t mind. She was wearing a bikini, cut generously so there were no visible scars. Still made her boobs look awesome, and awesome boobs needed an audience, right?
“Dad!” Franky screamed.
Well, what do we have here . . .
Violet had no choice but to pivot—would’ve been weird if she didn’t greet the man of the house—and face him in all her slick and wet bikinied glory. There was no missing the flare of surprise in his eyes. Maybe, more. And the more lasted a lot longer than was decent considering his spawn was nearby.
Seeming to realize the inappropriateness of it all, he dragged his thermonuclear gaze away. “What’s going on here, then?”
“We’re planting,” Franky said. “Violet says it’s healthy for us.”
“Does she now?” Bren’s gaze found Violet’s again, this time dipping over the thin fabric clinging—just—to her breasts. She didn’t usually let them all hang out, but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want him to look at her. To see her as a woman. And oh, how she enjoyed the way Bren St. James assessed her, like she was the only thing worth having on the menu. He ate her up with a heady regard that made her dizzy.
So she did the one thing guaranteed to cool everyone down: she grabbed the hose from Franky and turned it on the boss.
His grin lit up her world while the way his wet tee clung fondly to his pecs and six-pack lit up places that hadn’t experienced these kinds of heat levels in a long, long time.
Not such a great plan after all.
“I’m hardly wet,” said his soaked-through nine-year-old.
“Into the shower, Franky.”
“I’ll have dry clothes ready for you,” Violet called out as Franky plodded into the bathroom. She was still at the age where baths were a chore. It might have been unseasonably warm, but he didn’t want his girls catching a chill. Hot showers were the solution.
As for himself, a cold shower might be best, because Violet Vasquez now stood in his youngest daughter’s bedroom looking like something out of a wet T-shirt contest. It wasn’t the most revealing bikini he’d ever seen, but combined with the Daisy Dukes, it was doing a fair-to-decent job of making him lose his mind.
Today’s AA meeting was supposed to help him to refocus on what was important. His team was through to the semifinals. His girls were settling back into life in Chicago. He had almost convinced himself that the attraction between himself and Violet was all in his imagination.
And then he’d come home to find his daughters’ nanny holding a dripping hose like she might hold his cock. His thick, leaking, hard-for-Violet cock. A savage kick of lust had almost paralyzed him.
He wanted her to stroke him roughly, squeeze his fat head, milk every drop, and run her tongue around the rim. He wanted to see that flash of pink tongue as she teased him with whether he deserved a blow job or if she’d allow him the privilege of entering her body—slowly, until he was seated deep and all he could feel was Violet, Violet, Violet.
Until now, he’d mostly focused on her ass, because had you seen her ass? Beautifully rounded, high enough to park a mug of coffee, close to perfect in every way. As wowed as he’d been by her rear, he’d not spent nearly as much—or enough—time on her breasts. All this time, he’d been missing out, because these beauties were teardrop-shaped, firm and high, ready for his mouth . . .
“We should hit the shower as well,” he muttered, and immediately felt his cheeks heating at that verbal slipup.
Her grin was slow and knowing. “We?”
“You’re wet.”
“I am.” Another grin.
“You’ll catch a cold.”
“Or maybe I’ll catch a fever.”
Her skin gleamed, those tattoos running down her arms drawing his greedy gaze. Better he focus there than on her tits. But inevitably, his brain returned to those beautiful swells like a magnet, hauling very willing eyes with it.
She inhaled deep, thrusting her breasts forward in invitation. Not deliberate, he was sure. Breasts had a habit of filling the space in front of them, usually through no fault of their own. His cock stiffened, trying to RSVP with a resounding yes!
“Can I borrow a T-shirt?” she asked, low and husky.
“Must you?”
She smiled. “I thought you preferred when I cover up. Less distracting.”
“Never said I preferred it.”
He kept his eyes on her face, and then without his knowing quite how it happened, his hand found the curve of her jaw. She trembled under his touch, as affected by receiving it as he was by giving it.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered.
Her breath hitched in her chest. “Bren—”
“I’ll get you something to wear.” He cut off whatever she was about to say, telling himself he was in control, when they both knew each day was another chip in the wall of his resistance.
She slipped by him, her scent sweet and floral. Scent of a woman, which was catnip for a man who’d gone so long without. But that made it sound as if any woman would do.
Only this woman would, and that was not a good conclusion to reach.
“Stay for lunch,” he said, pleased to hear his voice was steady. “The girls would like it.”
A slight pause, then a small “Okay.”
He headed into his room, adjusted his painful erection in his jeans, and changed into a dry tee. For Violet, he lay a pair of drawstringed sweatpants and a Rebels T-shirt out on the bed, then headed downstairs to make lunch. This was good. He’d passed a test. The test. He could view a teasing, taunting, sexy-as-hell Violet and not paw at her. Much. Congratulations, St. James!
Five minutes later, a sound behind him made him turn, expecting to see one of his daughters. Instead it was Violet, but something wasn’t quite right. Like his job of assessment on the rink, he weighed all the details. The T-shirt swam on her; the sweats weren’t much better, and had one leg rolled up. Her hair was wet, straggly, and uncombed. Was that shampoo dripping from the ends?
Most disturbing, those green eyes were wide and dazed with something he’d never have expected to see: fear.
“You okay?”
“I can’t—I can’t stay. I need to leave.”
“What’s happened?” Because something had to have occurred in the past five minutes. He moved forward, closing the gap between them quickly. “Are your sisters okay?” That was the only thing he could think of that would make her act this way.
She backed up toward the front door, shaking her head as if she was afraid his touch would send her into some sort of downward spiral.
“Th-they’re fine. Just tell the girls I had to leave.”
“Viol—” But she was already gone.