Locusts buzzed as Brock did his usual, stalking around the house to check for any sign of Lambert. Stalker Man hadn't been spotted since the spitting incident.
Finding no evidence of an intrusion, Brock made his way inside--and braced for impact. AKA his first contact with Lyndie after hours apart. His heart pounded against his ribs as the sweetness of her scent enveloped him and his skin heated.
All the colors of the rainbow greeted him, a sight he would never tire of seeing. Though every piece of furniture bore some kind of scuffmark or scratch, he'd never once considered suggesting they replace a single item. An expensive couch, chair, or coffee table could not compete with the hominess of Lyndie's pieces.
Hmm. She wasn't in the living room. He made his way to the kitchen...
Impact. There she was, seated at the counter, her hands digging inside a large pumpkin.
His heart beat even harder. His skin burned even hotter. She'd piled her strawberry-blond mane atop her head, though multiple tendrils had already escaped confinement to caress the elegant line of her neck. A frilly pink apron covered a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. On her feet were black-cat slippers.
The animals slept around her, choosing to lie on the hard tile floor just so they could be near Lyndie.
Brock understood. He was pretty sure he'd move heaven and earth just to be close to this woman. Too bad the sentiment wasn't reciprocated.
He set down his briefcase and keys with more force than intended and loosened his tie.
She glanced up and offered him a small smile. "Hey. You're back earlier than expected."
"I am." Because I can't stay away.
She spent the bulk of her time at the school. If she wasn't teaching class, she was meeting with parents or lesson planning.
He'd had to search for ways to be together even as he searched for ways to stay way and preserve his sanity. Flying the Hud and Son jet out of a private airport in Strawberry Valley cost more but shaved four hours of daily travel from his schedule. Monday through Thursday, he made the three-and-a-half-hour flight to New York to oversee day-to-day operations at the company--no, he hadn't closed the doors yet. He also worked with a forensic accountant and pored through the books. Unwilling to spend a single night away from Lyndie, he returned every evening.
Fridays, he stayed in Strawberry Valley to visit Lyndie at school and make sure Lambert wasn't hiding nearby. Last time she had looked at Brock like he was a hero.
Now he lived for the next moment.
In fact, he made the decision then and there to stay in Strawberry Valley from now on, saving even more time for Lyndie. His original plan had failed, so he needed a new one anyway.
He would host video conferences with his employees while avoiding Miranda and Braydon.
Braydon continued to come to the office under the guise of getting to know him better.
"How was today's trip?" Lyndie asked.
"Productive. So...what is it you're doing?"
"Carving pumpkins for my class like a boss."
"Halloween is...when?" He'd lost track of time.
"Three days away." Her eyes widened. "Oh my gosh. Do not tell me that you haven't gotten a costume."
"Guilty." Perhaps he would dress up as a doctor, and Lyndie would dress up as a patient who'd just been admitted to his ER. After Dr. Love gave her a thorough exam, he could have a treat...
He would remind her of how good things could be between them.
Anything would beat their "baby-making" sex. AKA the sex without any emotional connection. She would slip off her panties, sit at the edge of the bed, recline and spread her legs. He would open the fly of his jeans, his erection springing free from its prison. Then he would spear her with two fingers to make sure she was ready for him.
The shocking truth, and the only reason he'd clung to hope? She was soaked. Every--single--time.
He'd done his dead-level best to ensure the experiences were as stilted and perfunctory as possible, and the complete opposite of their first explosive encounter. He'd hidden the nearly all-consuming desire to worship her with kisses and caresses behind a bland expression and impersonal touch.
A few days ago, he'd taken it a step further and asked, "This the way you like it?"
She'd replied, "Shhh. Let me concentrate on being fertile."
At first, he'd held her for five minutes after every encounter before climbing out of bed and returning to his bedroom. No more, no less. He'd watched the clock, hoping she would cling to him, ask him to stay, to hold her all night--something! The past few times, she had left him.
He was pretty sure his behavior had only reinforced her ridiculous notion that she was better off without him.
Sometimes he suspected she had taken things a step further, actually fighting her pleasure, as if she didn't want to give Brock--or herself--the satisfaction of climaxing. It only added fuel to the fire of his resolve, prompting him to reach between their bodies and stroke her little bundle of nerves until she erupted.
Anytime she came, he came, her climax always pushing him over the edge. More than once, however, he'd considered faking it.
As soon as she started baking a bun in her oven, she would have no more need of Brock. On the opposite end of the spectrum, she might decide to stay with the father of her child.
He truly hated the needy POS he'd become.
Yesterday he'd almost come unglued. Just as she'd gotten into position, she'd said, "Can we hurry? I have papers to grade."
"You mean last evening's ten-minute longie was too much for you?" His tone had been drier than dirt.
"Yes! How about this? If you can keep this under five minutes, you'll win a prize."
He'd ground his teeth. "Such as?"
"I won't complain."
His main goal in bed was now to stop complaints? Come on!
"Well," Lyndie said now. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about trying to track down a decent costume at the last minute. I'll take care of everything."
"Tell me about your costume." He sat at the table, watching as she scooped out a handful of pumpkin guts.
"Well. It's short..."
Short enough to see the Promised Land? "And?"
"And maybe just a wee bit tight..."
Blood heating, he leaned forward so that his body angled toward hers. "And?"
"And it's covered in fake blood!" As he sputtered with indignation, she laughed a magical fairy princess laugh. "I'm going as Alice in Zombieland."
"Well then, I guess I'm going as a zombie." He snapped his teeth at her. "I'll have an excuse to eat you up."
Just like that her amusement faded, and tension wafted from her. "Well." She cleared her throat. "Speaking of sexual intimacy... I was thinking we should maybe might probably take a night off."
What! "No sex?" he asked, his new plan crashing and burning spectacularly. "Tonight?"
For a moment, only a moment, she radiated all kinds of hurt and dismay. But just as quickly as the emotions appeared, they vanished. "No sex tonight," she said with a nod.
Panic knocked on the door of his mind, seeking entrance. What if his childish tactics had driven her away? What if she'd come to dread being with him? Why else would she not want to try to make that baby?
Calm. Steady. He could win her back. Commitment was new territory for him, but seduction wasn't.
Seduction...
Yes. Of course. He would addict her to his touch. She would crave him, only him.
Determination seemed to fuse a rod of iron to his spine. Tonight he would get her used to conversing with him. Lay the groundwork. Tomorrow he would make her body desperate for his...
He stood and walked into the kitchen where he gathered a carving knife of his own.
Lyndie came up behind him, the heat that radiated from her body leading the way. She reached around him to pluck the knife from his grip. "Not that one."
"Which one then?" he asked, praying she never moved. He liked having her pressed up against his back and
--
He liked having her pressed up against his back. The realization shocked him.
Unaware of his inner turmoil, she clasped his wrist and lifted his hand to a pumpkin-carving kit resting on the counter.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"You're welcome, city boy."
He turned, facing her. His hardening shaft rubbed between the apex of her thighs, and she gasped. Music to his ears.
She flittered away, but not before he caught the hammering pulse at the base of her neck.
Fighting a grin, he plucked a pumpkin and returned to the counter. "I'm starved. What's for dinner, wife?" he asked as he got to work.
"Whatever you want to cook. And hurry, 'cause I'm starved too. My stomach has been rumbling for the past ten minutes."
He barked out a laugh. Darling Scottie. She never pandered to him or treated him as anything other than an equal. "I'd cook, but you told me I could only do so once. Been there, already done that."
"Congrats! I'm giving you a kitchen hall pass for the rest of the week."
"In that case, I hope you like pizza."
"Love it. But I'll only eat it if you agree to let me pay half."
"No," he said. "I'm paying."
"No way. You'll find my half in your wallet. I'm sure I put it there for safekeeping."
He snorted, wishing she spoke true. Wishing she would let him take care of her in this way. In all ways. "Tell me about your day."
The request seemed to surprise her; she blinked over at him, her lush red lips forming a small O. "All right, but first I have to share a little backstory. So, you don't know this about me, but I allow a lot of movement in my classroom. It's called kinesthetic learning."
Interesting. He found himself interrupting her story, fascinated by her and desperate for more information. "Did you hate sitting still as a child?"
"I did. But I was so afraid one of my teachers would tell my father I'd caused trouble, I ended up sitting as still as a statue every single day. It was absolute torture."
His Scottie never got to be a child, did she?
"Anyway. I digress," she said, unaware of just how badly his heart ached for her. "As soon as class started, I had the kids do a little jumping around. One of my boys hunched over and puked all over my shoes."
As he imagined the incident and his wife's reaction, amusement replaced sadness. "My poor, sweet Scottie."
She nodded, not seeming to notice his possessive phrasing. "By lunch, three more of my kids were puking. Not to mention the other kids in other classes. Apparently there's some kind of stomach bug going around."
"How are you feeling?"
She winked. "My stomach is made of steel. I'll be fine. So tell me about your day."
Pleased by her interest, he said, "I haven't pulled the trigger on the Hud and Son Group. First I want to find new jobs for the employees." More than that, he wasn't yet ready to lose his reason for remaining married to Lyndie. Unfortunately, time had become his greatest enemy.
He'd told Lyndie they would be together a month, maybe two though highly unlikely, but he'd already wasted month one.
"To be honest," he said, "I like the idea of ruining my father's legacy less and less." And liked the idea of passing a legacy on to his son or daughter more and more... Not that he could admit that little gem.
Morning, noon, and night the two desires fought a new battle: preserve the business...or destroy it. The constant tug-of-war had left him with a serious case of indecision.
In the past, he would have used alcohol and sex as a coping method. Now? Even the thought of drinking added all kinds of stress.
"Brock, that's wonderful." She pressed a pumpkin-gut-smeared hand over her heart, leaving stains on her apron. "I'm so proud of you."
Proud? Of him?
She must have sensed his confusion, because she said, "You are going to so much trouble to ensure your employees are okay. Not everyone would do the same or be as kind."
The praise went straight to his head, like a fine wine. "I don't know what I'm going to do about Miranda. While my father battled cancer, she was busy stealing millions. Not just from the company but also from clients."
"Well. She's just given you another reason to doubt everything she's told you throughout the years. She's a thief and a liar."
Lyndie was...right. Miranda was a liar. She'd shown the darkness of her heart. Why should he believe the hateful things she'd said throughout the years?
"Throughout history, privilege has created few heroes while adversity has created thousands," Lyndie said.
Brock had certainly experienced his fair share of adversity. A long list of people he'd killed in the line of duty. Friends he'd loved and lost during war. PTSD. A father who'd ignored him. A mother who despised him. A brother who'd once wanted nothing to do with him.
Boo-hoo. Poor you. Stop whining! Other people had it worse.
"My therapist told me we have two choices," she added. "Either we let our past define and defeat us, or we fight for a better future. The responsibility rests on our shoulders. No one can make the decision for us."
With Lyndie's words ringing in his ears, he felt whole for the first time in...ever. How could he ever give her up?
How could he ever give up their child?
Brock reeled and hurried to return to the subject at hand. "Braydon offered to repay every cent on her behalf."
"You going to let him?"
"I don't know. He helped me, as promised, and convinced Miranda to leave Strawberry Valley. He's been keeping me updated about her antics. But if she made him as miserable as he claims, why would he want to help her?"
"You know why," she said, her tone gentle.
Yes, he supposed he did. No matter how terribly a parent treated a child, the child continued to crave a relationship.
If Lyndie got pregnant, their child would want to know Brock. And I'll want to know him. Or her.
Pang.
"What would happen if you gave Braydon a second chance?" Lyndie asked. "What if you guys could have some sort of relationship?"
"I don't know."
"Think about it. I can see the longing in your eyes every time...every time...oh my gosh." She moaned as she pressed a hand against her stomach. Little beads of sweat popped up on her brow. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her pale and waxen--until she turned a light shade of green.
Brock jumped to his feet. "Scottie, sweetheart, are you okay?"
"I think I'm going to be--" She rushed to the sink, hunched over and emptied the contents of her stomach.
*
Lyndie vomited all night, and it had nothing to do with morning sickness. Whatever virus had rampaged her classroom now rampaged her. The pain! Fever left her chilled one moment and burning up the next. Aches plagued her, relentless.
Brock carried her to bed and eased her under the covers. "Earlier I was thinking I'd be Dr. Love for Halloween, and you would be patient zero. Bad idea. Horrible. Knowing you're hurting is hurting me."
The darling took such amazing care of her, cleaning up her humiliating messes, sponging off her clammy skin, and making her weak tea. He even massaged her lower back when the aches were at their worst.
At some point, as he cleaned her mouth with a damp rag, she managed to croak, "What if I'm pregnant? Do you think the baby--"
"The baby will be fine," he said, his tone adamant. "Pregnant women get sick all the time and give birth to healthy babies."
"But some haven't--"
"Nope. No worrying about something you can't control. Something that might not even be relevant."
He was right. Absolutely. Worry was stress, and stress was worse than any virus. The human body fought viruses--it collapsed under stress.
"Everything is going to be--" Brock went quiet. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his color faded, leaving him ashen.
Uh-oh.
He basically leaped into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time.
They spent the nex
t three days confined to bed, too weak to leave. They missed Halloween, but at least they had each other and their crazy pack of animals.
Anytime Lyndie had been sick in the past, she'd taken care of herself. Her father had avoided her. James had avoided her. When they were gone, she hadn't wanted to risk infecting anyone else, so she hadn't said anything to anyone about her condition.
Brock's kindness was causing deeper fractures in her resistance.
A thousand times she'd nearly begged him to want her the way he had in the beginning. She'd feared her worries had come true, that he'd had her once and no longer wanted her. She missed the way he'd looked at her--as if the sun rose and set with her. She missed the way he'd touched her--as if he'd never felt anything so fine. As if he couldn't get enough. She missed his ferocity--as if there was nothing and no one he would rather be doing than her.
Lately he'd been so cold and impersonal, giving her exactly what she thought she'd wanted from a man.
How wrong she'd been. She wanted--needed--more.
Despite every climax Brock had given her the past two weeks, she'd felt hollow and achy, never really satisfied. Dang it, what would it take for him to become lost in pleasure again, like the first time they were together, rather than terse and ill at ease?
Nowadays, every time they finished having sex, she had to rush out of the bedroom so he wouldn't see the tears brimming in her eyes.
Her stomach began to roil, and she doubted it had anything to do with the virus. How had she ever thought she could keep a playboy's attention? Or rather, playman.
Why even try?
Because--just because!
Just need a little more time with him.
At some point, she and Brock rallied the strength to shower together. When they finished, they crawled into bed. They even spooned, her back pressed against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, maybe even clinging to her. For the first time in weeks, contentment drifted through Lyndie.
She'd worry about possible consequences tomorrow.
"Sorry I got you sick," she mumbled.
"I welcome your cooties anytime," he mumbled back. "Except when the next stomach virus hits. Then I'm taking care of you while I'm wearing a mask and gloves. Now go to sleep and get better."
Silence. Then, "Hugsy? I mean darling?"
A warm chuckle caressed the back of her neck. "Yes, Scottie boo?"
As weak as she was, she had no real filter and found herself saying, "If I were grading all our recent sexual encounters, I'd give you an F and you'd fail my class."