Happy Ever After

“Yeah. Sure.That’ll work.”

The more discomfort she sensed in him, the more enthusiastic she became. It was, she admitted, small of her, but what the hell. “Ask her if I can bring dessert, or maybe a bottle of wine. Or, never mind, I’ll just call her.”

“You’ll call my mother.”

She smiled, eyes wide and calm. “Is that a problem?”

“No. That’s fine.You two figure it out.” He waved it off. “It takes me out of the middle.”

“I’ll get in touch with her.” She lifted her wine again, at ease now. “Is she seeing anyone?”

“What?” Pure, undiluted shock swept over his face. “My mother? No. Jesus.”

She didn’t manage to swallow the laugh, but softened it by reaching out, laying a hand over his.“She’s a vital, interesting woman.”

“Don’t go there. Seriously.”

“I only did because I wondered if she might have a friend there, or if it would just be the three of us.”

“Us.Three.That’s it.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ve got to get going.”

“Have fun tonight.” She rose as he did.

“Yeah, you, too.”

“And be lucky.” She moved into him. “Maybe this’ll help.”

And kept moving, slowly, deliberately, until her body molded to his, until her arms twined like ropes around his neck. Until her lips brushed, retreated, brushed, then sank soft and warm against his.

She let a sound of pleasure—escape, seduction, surrender, a shimmer of promises to come. And felt her body yearn with that promise when his hand gripped a fistful of her shirt at the small of her back.

He forgot, nearly forgot, where he was. Forgot, nearly forgot, everything but Parker. Her scent, that subtle, unforgettable hint of fragrance that was woman and secrets and cool breezes all at once. It stirred him, tangled in his senses with the hot, velvet punch of the kiss, swamped him with a staggering flood of need against the firm, lithe lines of her body.

Then she sighed again, skimmed her fingers through his hair, and started to ease away.

“No.”

He yanked her back and took them both on a dangerous fall.

“Malcolm.” She’d opened the cage door, and now however much she wanted to fling it yet wider, she knew she needed to gentle them both. “We can’t.”

“Wanna bet?” He pulled her across the kitchen, his strides long and fast enough to have her scrambling to keep up.

“Wait.Where are you going?”

Her breath stuck somewhere between her lungs and her throat when he dragged her into the utility room, shoved her back to the door. Flipped the lock.

“We’re not going to—”

He smothered her protest with a ravenous kiss while his hands began to take and take.

He forced himself to flip open the buttons of her shirt rather than simply tear it off her, then tugged the cups of her bra down to rub calloused palms over her nipples.

She moaned. She trembled.

“God. Malcolm.Wait.”

“No.” He yanked up her skirt, then slid that calloused palm between her legs. “I’m going to have you here, right here. I’m going to watch you come first.” He skimmed a finger under lace, into her. “Then I’m going to make you come again, and again, taking you right here, against this door, until I’m finished.”

She had to grip his shoulders or fall as her knees trembled, as they buckled. As the vicious, battering heat assaulted her. His eyes, wildly green, captured hers, and she saw something flash in them—triumph, no less than triumph—when her body erupted.

She heard the swatch of lace rip, and could only moan again.

“Tell me you want me.” He had to hear it. Had to hear her voice, throaty with passion, tell him she was as crazed as he. “Tell me you want this. For me to take you like this.”

“Yes. God.Yes.”

He gripped her thigh as she lifted her leg to hook around his waist. Opening, offering. His mouth muffled her cry of release when he thrust into her. Hard and deep.

She let him ravage her—no other word came close—and she thrilled to it, rushed with him, beat by mad beat, to the final, breathless fall.

Even then she shuddered. Even when her head dropped to his shoulder, when his hand stroked down her hair, she couldn’t quite find her breath. When he tipped her face up, cupping it in his hands as his lips moved gently, gently over her cheeks, her temples, she thought: Who are you? Who are you that you can do this to me, take my body, take my heart?

Then she opened dazed eyes, stared into his, and she knew. Not all, maybe not enough, but she knew she loved.

When she smiled, he smiled. “You started it.”

She would’ve laughed if she’d had enough breath. “That’ll teach me.”

He dropped his forehead to hers, began to button her shirt. “You got a little wrinkled.”

He smoothed her skirt, her hair, tilted her head. “It’s no good. You look like a woman who just had sex in the utility room.”

“I guess I earned it.”

“I’ll say.” He bent down. “And I earned these. I’m keeping them.”

Her mouth dropped open when he pushed her torn panties into his pocket. “Like a trophy?”

“Spoils of war.”

She sputtered out a laugh, then just shook her head. “I don’t suppose you have a comb?”

“Why would I have a comb?”

She sighed, tried a little more smoothing and brushing with her hands.“That’ll just have to do.” She laid her finger on her lips, got that quick, cocky grin in response. “I mean it,” she hissed.

As quietly as possible, she unlocked the door, opened it a crack. Listened. “You’re going straight out, through the kitchen, out the door. And I’m—”

He grabbed her, giving her ribs a tickle as he pressed his mouth to hers. “Stop! Malcolm!”

“Just wanted to muss you up again.” He took her hand, pulled her out.

Relieved to find the kitchen empty, she nudged, pushed, shoved him at the door.

“I feel so used,” he said, and made her laugh even as she gave him a last push.

“Go play poker. Be lucky.”

“Got my lucky charm right here.” He patted the pocket holding her panties.

When her mouth dropped open again, his laughter rolled through the damp autumn air. “See you, Legs.”

She made a dash for her room, then couldn’t resist detouring to the window, looking out. She saw him change direction, walk to Mac’s to speak with a man—a boy?—who’d just come out.

They talked for a moment, exchanged fist bumps. Then the boy climbed into a compact, gunned the engine, and drove off as Malcolm backtracked to his truck.

She jolted when she heard the step behind her, and turned to see Mrs. Grady. “Oh.” And mortified to feel heat rise to her cheeks, Parker cleared her throat.

“Hmm,” was all the housekeeper said.“You certainly kept him company.”

“Ha. Well . . . Um, do you know who that boy was, over at Mac’s? Malcolm seemed to know him.”

“Well, he should as the boy works for Malcolm. Can’t read,” she added, “or only enough to skim by. Mal asked Carter to tutor the boy.”

“I see.” She stood there, looking out through the thin rain. Just when she thought she had a grip on the man, she found yet another angle, another layer.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN




“IN THE UTILITY ROOM.” IN HER PAJAMAS, SPRAWLED ON THE SOFA OF the family room, Mac stared up at the ceiling.“Parker Brown of the Connecticut Browns doing the wild thing in the utility room.”

“We were animals.”

“Now she’s bragging,” Laurel commented and bit into a slice of pizza.

“And I like it.”

“Let me say congratulations, but really, I’m just in love with him taking you to his mom’s for dinner.” Emma topped off wine-glasses. “And being so obviously weirded out by it.”

“It should be interesting.”

“What I want to know is, can he fix small appliances? One of my stand mixers is acting hinky.”

Parker glanced at Laurel. “Ask him. He seems to like fixing things. Which brings me to him asking Carter to tutor that boy. When did that start?”

“Last month,” Mac told her. “Carter says Glen’s really coming along. He’s got him reading Carrie.”

Emma swallowed hard. “You mean pig-blood-at-the-prom Carrie?”

“Carter found out Glen likes horror flicks, and he’s seen the movie a bunch of times, so Carter thought he’d like reading the book. And it’s working.”

“That’s smart,” Parker commented.“A really good way to show someone how to read for fun, that it’s not just work, not just studying or a chore, but fun.”

“Yeah. Carter . . . he’s just good, you know?” Mac’s face went soft with a smile. “So patient and insightful and innately kind without being sticky about it. I think some people, like him, are lucky to end up doing what they were born to do. And the rest of us benefit from that.”

“Like us. I really believe we’re doing what we were born to do,” Emma added. “That’s what makes it more than a business—like teaching is more than a job to Carter.We make a lot of people happy, but one of the reasons—beyond, ‘hey we’re just that good’—is because what we’re doing makes us happy.”

“Here’s to us.” Laurel lifted her glass. “Happy, hot, sexually satisfied, and just that damn good.”

“I’ll drink a whole lot to that,” Mac said.

Parker acknowledged the toast, started to drink.And her phone rang. “Oh well, I’ll just step out and be happy. Be right back.”

“Okay,” Mac said the minute Parker was out of the room. “What do we think?”

“I think their chemistry is off the charts,” Laurel answered. “And that they’ve each got an emotional hook deep in the other. A man with Mal’s kind of edge and ’tude doesn’t fumble his way through a dinner at his mother’s unless it matters.”

“Because when Mom’s important—and Mal’s is to him—it’s a step. It takes it up a level.” Mac nodded.“If he didn’t want it to go up a level, he’d have found a way to back his mother off.”

“It’s sweet it makes him nervous,” Emma added, “because yes, it matters. Both these women matter. You know, my sense is he faces things head-on.The way he told Del straight off he was interested in Parker.The way he brought up the money-status deal to Parker when they first got physical. It’s lay it out there and deal. Kind of his default. So I don’t think much makes him nervous.”

“What I see?” Mac contemplated another slice of pizza. “I see two strong, confident, I-can-fix-it personalities not only trying to figure out the vulnerabilities of being in love, but the risks and the potential outcomes. Basically? I think they’re perfect for each other.”

“Yes! So do I.” Emma glanced toward the doorway. “But it’s not the time to tell her that. She’s not there yet.”

“Neither’s he,” Laurel commented. “I wonder which one of them will get there first.”

MAL RAKED IN THE POT. THE FINAL CARD TURNED HAD GIFTED HIM with a very pretty full house—queens over eights—which left Jack’s ace-high straight in the dust.

“You’re awful damn lucky tonight, Kavanaugh.”

Mal stacked his chips and got a flash of Parker, the utility room, and the tattered white lace in the back pocket of his jeans.

Pal, he thought, if you only knew.

“Brought it in with me,” he said, and smiled as he took a pull of his beer.

“How about passing some around.” Rod, one of the poker night regulars, scowled as he tossed in his next ante.“I’ve had crap all night.”

“Don’t worry. This next hand’ll clean you out. Then you can just watch the rest of us.”

“You’re a cold bastard, Brown.”

“No heartstrings to pluck in poker.”

Mal tossed in his own ante. The thing about Del, he thought, was the man was merciless at the table. Probably much the same in court, though Mal had never seen him work. But under it? A whole different engine hummed.

Poker night had been going on since Del and Jack had been at Yale together, and Del was the foundation of the continued tradition. Most of the men who came had been playing together for years. He and Carter were the newest members. Carter’s entre had been through Mac primarily, though he and Del had known each other back in the day, too.

And his own? He wasn’t quite sure, except that he and Del had simply clicked.

So the engine driving the man—other than poker and law—was a traditionalist, generous, loyal, fiercely protective of the people who mattered to him.

Parker mattered. He wasn’t sure how Del, or Parker, would react to the fact she’d come to matter more to him than he’d ever imagined she would, or could. How could he speculate on their take when he didn’t know how the hell he felt about it himself?

He studied the flop, his cards, calculated possibilities, and rolled with the next bet while conversation flowed around him. Trash talk, a little business, bad jokes.

When Carter turned up the next card, Mal recalculated, saw possibilities narrow.Then Del bumped the bet, and he folded.

The way he saw it, poker and life had a lot in common.You played the cards you were dealt, figured the odds, took the gamble or not. And when your cards were shit, you bluffed if the pot was worth it, and if you had the balls.

Otherwise? Wait for the next hand.

He figured the way he’d played the game had worked out for him pretty well, life-wise. Now he needed to take a good look at the cards, figure the odds with Parker. She was worth the gamble.

Frank, another regular, tossed in his cards. “So, Del, when is your new male palace going to be ready?”

“Talk to the architect.”

Jack saw Del’s next raise. “Working on the permits.Things go smooth? We should be taking your money in the new place by March, April latest.” Jack glanced around Del’s game room. “I’m going to miss this place.”

“It’s going to be weird,” Rod added.“Poker night with women right . . .” He pointed his thumb at the ceiling.

“Not just women,” Frank pointed out. “Wives, once you and these three take the plunge. Jesus, this time next year we’ll all have taken the dive. Except you,” he said to Mal.

“Somebody has to hold the rope.”

“Skirting pretty close to the edge yourself.” Rod grinned at him around a cigar.“Dating Parker.The last holdout of Del’s Quartet.”

Mal flicked a glance at Del, but his friend’s poker face stayed intact, and the return look was very cool.“I’ve got good balance.”

Frank snorted.“Keep thinking that, buddy, right until you find yourself over the edge with your hands slipping off that rope.”

“Good thing he used to be a stuntman,” Jack added.“He ought to know how to fall.”

Mal just took another pull on his beer.Yeah, he knew how to fall. But he also knew just what could happen if the landing didn’t go the way you’d planned.

HIS MOTHER KEPT A TIDY HOUSE, MAL THOUGHT. THAT WAS PRIDE, habit, and basic disposition. But for Sunday dinner—this Sunday dinner—she’d gone on a cleaning binge equivalent to a drunk’s binge with a bottle of Wild Turkey.

It was a nice house. He’d been careful when he’d started the hunt for one that would work for her, one he’d feel confident about her living in. He’d wanted a good neighborhood, the sort where people actually talked to each other, looked out for each other a little. He hadn’t wanted anything so big she’d be overwhelmed or rattle around, or anything so small she’d feel closed in.

He’d found it in the modified ranch with its traditional brick face, the plot of lawn they could easily maintain between them. The attached garage with second-story apartment had been the big bonus.

They loved each other, even liked each other quite a bit, but neither of them had wanted to actually live together. This way they each had their space, their privacy, their routine. But he was close enough to keep an eye on her. And, he knew very well, vice versa.

He could, and did, forage in her kitchen if the mood struck, grab a cup of her coffee in the morning—or not. And she could call on him to see to some household repair or haul out the trash.

The system worked for them.

Except for the times she drove him crazy.

“Ma, it’s just dinner. It’s food.”

“Don’t tell me what it is.” Kay wagged a finger at him as she stirred the sauce—again—for the lasagna that was, he knew, her signature dish.“When’s the last time you brought a woman home to dinner?”

“It’s been about never, give or take.”

“Exactly.” She stopped wagging her finger to jab it at him.

“I’m not bringing her anyway.” The idea made his shoulder blades itch. “She’s bringing herself.”

“And shame on you for that.”

“But she—”

“Eh!”

It was another signature, the sound that said “don’t even try to argue with me.”

He took a breath, changed strategy. “It smells good.”

“Tastes better.” She took a spoon, dipped, offered.

“Yeah it does,” he agreed after the sample.

“It better. It’s important to me.The girl’s got class.”

“So do you, Ma.”

“Damn right, but you know what I’m talking about. It was class that had her calling me to thank me for inviting her. I’m going to give her a good meal.” She winked. “With a little class. I made fancy hors d’oeuvres.”

“Pigs in a blanket?” When she laughed, tossing back her head the way she did, he poked her. “I like pigs in a blanket.”

“You’re not getting them tonight. You’re sure that’s a good wine?” She pointed to the two bottles on the counter, one opened to breathe.

“I’m sure.”

“You know more about that than me, with your Hollywood debauchery.”

“Yeah, but back then I only drank it out of women’s navels.”

“Sure can’t get a good drunk on that way,” she said, and this time he laughed.

She stepped back from the stove, took yet another survey of the kitchen.

She had a pretty bowl of fruit on the little drop-leaf table under the window where she liked to sit and have her coffee in the morning. The cute little shamrock plant Mal had given her shot up white blooms from its perch on the sill above the sink.

Her collection of salt and pepper shakers filled the shelf on the wall over a