Preston's Honor

  “I . . . I want you to keep touching my breasts. I want you to put your mouth on them.”

  I hissed out a breath, the words uttered in her sweet, breathy voice turning me on even more.

  “Unbutton your shirt.” I felt shaky with lust, and I didn’t want to end up damaging her shirt the way I’d done the first time.

  She reached up and unbuttoned her shirt slowly and I lowered my mouth to one nipple, licking it gently as she arched and moaned, threading her fingers through my hair and gripping my head. “Yes,” she panted. Oh, Jesus. I pressed my erection into the soft place between her legs and shuddered with the pleasure. It felt so fucking wonderful and utterly torturous.

  My body broke out in a sweat and my heart pounded in my ears, the whooshing sound increasing the intimacy of the small space we were in. It was only her and me and no one else in the entire world. My face was pressed against her skin, her scent filling my nostrils, her taste sweet on my tongue, my throbbing shaft cradled between her open legs and the pleasure was so overwhelming—

  Three sharp raps snapped me out of the sexual fog. Shit. We both froze, my wide eyes staring into hers in the dim light of the truck cab. I looked over my shoulder and a bright light suddenly came on, causing me to squint and turn, bringing my arm up in front of my eyes.

  Behind me, I heard Annalia moving, the rustling of clothing and her harsh breathing.

  Oh fuck, it was the police. Good Lord.

  I glanced back at Annalia and saw she was decent. I offered her a regretful look as she sat up and then I opened the door to the cab. The light was still in my face, but it quickly lowered.

  “Will you step out of the vehicle, sir?” came a female voice.

  For fuck’s sake. I was still hard.

  I took one long, deep breath, willing my body to relax and then stepped out of the truck. I recognized the female officer, had seen her around Linmoor. The police force was small and mostly everyone knew the cops who worked there.

  “Officer Lief.”

  She squinted at me. “Preston Sawyer, is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She had the flashlight pointing upward so it wasn’t in my eyes but cast light over the two of us. She leaned around me and peered into the truck and then leaned back. “Well now, from what I recall, you have a big farmhouse out on that property of yours.”

  I cleared my throat. “It’s not overly big—”

  “There a bedroom in that house?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Several.”

  “Uh-huh. I suggest you use one of them. Public indecency is a misdemeanor, punishable by jail time and a fine. You wouldn’t want to get arrested for that, now would you?”

  “No, ma’am.” I tried to look repentant, but I swore she was trying not to laugh. Her lip kept tipping upward and shaking slightly as if she was forcing it back down with effort.

  She looked around me again. “That your girlfriend?”

  “Yes. And the mother of my son. And, uh, I hope my wife. Someday very soon.”

  She nodded. “Uh-huh. Sounds like you did things a bit backwards.” Understatement of the year.

  “Umm, yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, you go on home now. And don’t let me catch you up here again, unless all your clothes are on.” I grimaced and noticed another small quirk of her lip before her face became stern again.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned and went back to the police cruiser parked a little ways away—the one I hadn’t even heard arrive—and got inside. I climbed back into the truck and started the ignition, staring ahead for a moment before glancing at Lia. She was looking straight ahead too, biting her lip, and obviously trying not to laugh.

  A small chuckle escaped my throat, and she looked at me and we both cracked up. I leaned my head back on the seat, getting control of my hilarity and pulling my seatbelt on.

  Lia did the same, and as we drove down the hill and out of the park, she turned to me, a smile on her lips. “Your girlfriend?”

  I grabbed her hand. “Yes. Is that . . . I mean, will you?”

  “Go steady with you?” She grinned.

  “Yeah.”

  She leaned her head back on the seat, too, looking so pretty, all I wanted to do was stare at her, but I was driving so I forced my eyes back on the road. “Yes, Preston. I’ll go steady with you.” She grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I laughed. I’d loved starting over, but maybe we needed to speed things up just a little bit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Annalia

  “It smells incredible in here already.”

  “Oh, thank you, mi amor. Will you grab me another large spoon?” Rosa asked, shooting me a sweet smile.

  The Sawyer kitchen was bustling with activity, the savory smell of grilled chicken and pork combined with the spicy richness of red chili sauce filling the air, even though the windows were wide open to provide a cooling breeze to the room.

  Corn husks soaked in water in the two farmhouse sinks and several Dutch ovens with steamer baskets were on stove burners, awaiting the assembled tamales.

  Rosa was at the helm, watching over the cooking meat and stirring the sauce, while her parents, Juan (Abuelo himself) and Lupe, sat in chairs near the window. They’d all arrived only an hour before and set up operation.

  My mother had come with me, too, even though I’d had to practically drag her out by force. But I had taken Rosa’s advice to heart—my mother needed community. I couldn’t force it forever, but I could lead her to it and hope it would feel good enough, that she’d seek it out herself at some point. She wasn’t even forty years old.

  My mother and I had never been close, but I didn’t want to see her withering away in depression. I’d experienced some of that myself and knew the hopeless misery of it. She sat alone at the far end of the table, but I watched her eyes move from one person to another as they spoke Spanish, and I thought I’d even seen a small smile twitch her lips once or twice.

  How isolating it must be, not understanding the language spoken around you for years and years. Like being in your own lonely bubble. I’d always tried to bridge the gap, but it hadn’t been enough, and I had been ashamed of that. But I thought now that it had been too big a job for one person—one small girl—and one who felt unloved at that.

  In a sense my mama was right. It had been a devil who had placed me in her womb. Such horrific trauma to experience a husband’s death and then to be raped—an unthinkable violation first of the soul and then of the body. She had been so alone, so bereft, so isolated. In her mind, I was the eyes, hands, and product of the devil. Maybe she had needed something to hold on to—anything, even enmity—in order to stay sane. Finally, it had come to define her. But it no longer defined me. Standing there in the middle of a bustling, fragrant kitchen, I realized that I, too, had experienced a tiny semblance of that vulnerable, aching loneliness and desperation and, though she had hurt me, I could forgive her. It may never bring reconciliation between us, but my heart could know peace.

  Preston came downstairs and was introduced to everyone, and they all gave him warm welcomes, fawning over how handsome he was and how much Hudson looked like him in rapidly spoken Spanish that I knew he understood little, if any, of. They switched to English when I told them he didn’t speak Spanish, but they spoke just as quickly and with just as much enthusiasm in any language and Preston continued to look slightly unbalanced.

  Rosa asked him to taste test a piece of pork to see if the seasoning tasted right and he did so, his eyes glazing over. I laughed at the look of pure pleasure on his face.

  Abuela Lupe smiled prettily at him and told him if she was twenty years younger, she’d toss old Juan aside. Juan clicked his tongue and told her he was going to toss something of hers later when they were alone, and she giggled like a schoolgirl, putting her wrinkled hand over her mouth, pretending to hide her amusement as Juan grinned and nodded like a proud peacock.

  Preston blushed, looking so
rt of awestruck and mildly panic-stricken by the loud, boisterous, affectionate crowd, and escaped through the back door to work.

  Rosa and Alejandro’s boys had come along to help unload all the food and then help load it back up when needed. Now that the cooking was underway, they were in the backyard with water guns, apparently having some kind of war.

  I held Hudson on my hip as I stirred the corn husks, and he pointed out the window, shrieking in glee as one boy nailed another with a stream of water to the face.

  “Ay yay yay. Boys.” Rosa sighed. “You couldn’t even give me one girl?” she asked Alejandro, who was reading the paper at a bar stool on the other side of the island.

  “We can try for one later,” he said, winking at her. “One more chance—I’m sure I’ll do it right this time.”

  She threw a dish towel at him. “You’re as bad as them,” she said, pointing to her parents. But her laugh was full of affection.

  Mrs. Sawyer came into the room, looking around narrow-eyed at the group of people who had taken over her kitchen and I stilled, my heart thumping nervously, hoping she wasn’t going to make anyone feel uncomfortable.

  She had displayed a moment of kindness the other day when she had told me to go to the barn for Preston, but I was almost certain it wasn’t something I should come to expect on a regular basis, lest I be sorely disappointed.

  I introduced her to everyone, and she took a seat at the table near my mother, greeting her, too.

  “I thought you were off to San Francisco today, Mrs. Sawyer,” I said.

  She sighed. “I am. My friend has been delayed, so we’re leaving a little later than we planned.”

  I nodded. “Thank you for allowing us the use of the kitchen.” She hadn’t looked surprised to see us all here, so I knew Preston had mentioned it to her.

  She made a noncommittal sound, and I focused my attention on the corn husks again, finally draining the water once I determined they were soft enough. Hudson laughed and clapped as I bopped him on my hip to the soft sound of the Spanish music playing in the background.

  Fifteen minutes later, Preston came back in. “Are you already done?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Went a lot more smoothly than I thought it would.” I wasn’t sure what “it” had been, but I was glad and poured him a glass of iced tea as he sat down.

  I scooted in next to him, putting the corn husks in front of me so I could clean off any strings and start piling them up for Rosa.

  I glanced at Mrs. Sawyer who was looking at the array of Mexican food on the table, not just the ingredients for the tamales, but food that had been brought to feed the chefs and helpers as they worked: crunchy taquitos, tortilla chips, chunky guacamole, and hot salsa.

  Hudson reached for a taco and I pulled him back, taking one and breaking it open so I could give him the soft pulled chicken inside rather than the hard shell. Mrs. Sawyer watched us with a look of mild horror on her face. “That will be too spicy for him.”

  “It’s not spicy,” I said. “Try one.”

  “No, no thank you.” She turned her head to the side and looked out of the window longingly as if she’d rather be anywhere than here.

  “She looks like one of those man-eating flowers,” Abuelo Juan observed in Spanish. My eyes widened and shot to Mrs. Sawyer but she didn’t react, didn’t understand a word he’d just said.

  “Hmm,” Abuela Lupe answered agreeably. “Nice to look at but if you get too close,” she made a snapping gesture with her hand, “she’ll digest you and spit you out.”

  “Mama,” Rosa said softly, shooting her a look, a warning in her tone, along with a small, suppressed laugh.

  I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh myself. I glanced quickly at Preston, and he was studying his iced tea. I swore I saw his lips trembling a little in an effort not to smile, too.

  And it healed something inside me to joke about Mrs. Sawyer, for others to notice her coldness and comment on it, because for so long I’d thought it was because of me. I didn’t have any interest in hurting her, but to make light of Mrs. Sawyer’s snobby disdain was . . . not unpleasant.

  She sighed loudly, running a hand over the table. “You know this table has been in the Sawyer family for four generations.”

  I glanced up at her as she stared at the table as though with fond memories. I had fond memories of the table, too, actually. I swallowed down an embarrassed laugh at my own thought, the memory that flashed in my mind of writhing bodies and moans of bliss. Mrs. Sawyer was obviously trying to make a point about how the generations she spoke of would be rolling over in their graves to see—gasp—taquitos and tamale corn husks on their family heirloom while the straining sounds of Alejandro Fernandez played in the background.

  “Your father’s family came from Oklahoma, but they were originally from Germany—strong stock, you know. If this table could talk, oh, the stories it would tell. I can imagine all the history it holds, all the pleasure that was had by those that gathered at it, all the things that have soaked into the wood—”

  “Mom,” Preston said, his voice sounding strangled and full of barely checked laughter. He cleared his throat. “I think we get the picture.”

  She sighed again, and he glanced over at me, and at the hilarity still in his eyes, I snorted, putting my hand over my mouth to hold back the laugh.

  He laughed, too, and the rest of the people at the table looked at us curiously, which made me laugh harder. “It’s a good picture,” I said, which made Preston grip his stomach as he leaned forward, his laugh deep and rich. Hudson, who was still sitting in my lap, squealed with laughter, mimicking us.

  “I’m not sure what’s so funny,” his mother said. “You have a rich heritage. My own ancestors were Nordic Vikings and seafarers.”

  “That’s great, Mom.” If his mother sensed his sarcasm, she didn’t comment on it.

  “Ah,” Rosa said, turning and raising her spoon. She came over to Hudson and rubbed her nose against his and he laughed, squeezing her cheeks in his pudgy hands. When she pulled away she was laughing, too. “No wonder you are so fierce, little one. You have the blood of champions inside you—Vikings and great Mayan warriors.” She winked at me and used her finger to tickle Hudson under his chin, which sent him into more peals of laughter.

  “Gloria,” Rosa called as she returned to the stove. “Could I beg you for your assistance getting started with the tamales?” She spoke in Spanish and my mama paused momentarily but then stood and went to stand beside Rosa where they began stuffing the tamales and placing them in the steamer. I watched for a long moment as Rosa spoke softly to my mama, causing her to laugh—though shortly—and give her a shy smile.

  I stood to take the husks I’d piled up to Rosa, and Mrs. Sawyer held her arms out. “I can take Hudson,” she offered. I handed him over, which was helpful, so I had both hands free to work. I didn’t want to put him down since he was walking like a little pro, and he’d only get underfoot. Thankfully, he seemed happy enough to remain in my arms, probably because of all the new faces in the room. When I was done with the corn husks, I’d take him outside so he could play. He was obviously entranced by the water guns.

  As I was standing at the sink looking out of the back window, I saw Tracie come around the corner of the house. I’d known she was coming by to pick up her two-week check as she’d accidentally left it on the table by the door when she’d left on Monday.

  I opened my mouth to tell Preston she was here when Rosa’s oldest boy, Joaquin, shot out of the bushes with a bucket of water in his hands and threw it at Tracie, drenching her completely. I gasped at the same time Tracie let out a short scream, and we all froze, although they didn’t know I was watching them.

  “Oh, shit,” Joaquin said. “I mean, oh crap. Damn. Oh . . . shit.”

  Tracie blinked at him, her mouth in an O shape, her white shirt clinging to her, clearly showing the white bra beneath. Joaquin’s eyes looked down and then back up, taking in Tracie’s wet frame. His mouth opened, a
nd then he looked her up and down once more. I put my hand to my mouth so as not to giggle, and Preston and Rosa, who had heard me gasp, joined me at the window where they quickly took in the situation, too.

  “I thought you were my brother,” Joaquin said.

  Tracie took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not your brother.”

  “No,” Joaquin gave her a bashful half smile, “you’re most definitely not.”

  Tracie’s eyes widened, and she paused for a second, looking him up and down as if just noticing he was a very cute, very repentant boy who was staring at her in a way that said he’d noticed she was a very pretty girl. I was almost positive we were watching the beginning of a love connection.

  “Rosa,” I murmured, “how old is Joaquin?”

  “He’ll be nineteen in June,” she said. “He took a year off school, but he starts at an art college in San Francisco in the fall.”

  “Art college?” Preston asked. “Did he by any chance draw the mural at Abuelo’s?”

  “He did,” Rosa said, sounding surprised.

  “He’s very, very good.” The intensely earnest note in Preston’s tone caused me to glance at him.

  “Yes, he is. Abuelo Juan says he has an old soul, though I watch him play water guns with his brothers and I wonder about that.”

  We all turned as Joaquin led a soaked Tracie into the kitchen, and I ran to get her some towels. When I returned, she began to dry off and the younger boys burst in, laughing and ribbing their brother about his water gun faux pas, obviously taking great pleasure in their brother’s embarrassment.

  “Tracie, if you want to go up and use my blow dryer, you’re welcome to,” Mrs. Sawyer said. I looked at her and then frowned.

  “Where’s Hudson?”

  “Oh,” she said, looking down and turning. “He was just here.”

  We all began looking around for him as Preston called his name. “I’ll check the stairs,” he said, his jaw tight. “He’s obsessed with trying to get up and down them by himself.”