Naked
Megan Hart

www.spice-books.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Also by Megan Hart

SWITCH

DEEPER

STRANGER

TEMPTED

BROKEN

DIRTY

Watch for two brand-new novels byMegan Hart

COLLIDE

and PRECIOUS AND FRAGILE THINGS Coming in 2011 from Spice and MIRA Books

Author’s Note

This book wouldn’t have been written without the constant support of my family and friends. Thank you, all. Thanks especially to The Bootsquad for the encouragement and motivation to continue when it would be easier to play the Sims. Also to my BFF Lori who keeps telling me I can’t quit writing because she needs more books. And finally, to everyone who asked me if Alex Kennedy was going to get his own book, this one’s for all of you.

I could write without listening to music while I do it, but I’m so glad I don’t have to. This is a partial list of what was on my playlist for Naked. If you like the songs, please support the artists by purchasing their music.

Justin King, “Reach You”; Kelly Clarkson, “My Life Would Suck without You”; Lorna Vallings, “Taste”; Hinder, “Better Than Me”; Staind, “Everything Changes”; Sara Bareilles, “Gravity”; Tom Waits, “Hope I Don’t Fall in Love with You.”

Chapter One

“Alex doesn’t like girls.” Patrick said this like a warning.

I’d been staring at the man from the corner of my eye, framing him as part of the overall picture here at Patrick’s annual Chrismukkah party. Alex was prettier than the bunches of Martha Stewart–inspired poinsettias and twinkling fairy lights, but so were all the men here. Patrick had the hottest friends I’d ever seen. Seriously, it was like a convention of hot men. After Patrick’s admonishment I looked Alex over again more closely, mostly just to jerk Patrick’s chain. He was so easy that way.

“Is that his name?”

Patrick gave a low snort of disapproval. “Yes, that’s his name.”

“Alex what?”

“Kennedy,” Patrick said. “But he doesn’t—”

“I heard you.” I pressed my lips to the rim of my wineglass, warming it. The rich, strong scent of red wine wafted under my nostrils. I could taste the aroma on the back of my tongue, but I didn’t sip. “He doesn’t like girls, huh?”

Patrick pursed his mouth and crossed his arms. “No. Jesus, Olivia, stop ogling his ass.”

I raised an eyebrow, mirroring Patrick’s earlier expression. An old habit and one I knew irritated the shit out of him. It seemed like that kind of night. “Why do you invite me to your parties if it’s not to ogle men’s asses?”

Patrick huffed and puffed and frowned briefly before he must’ve remembered what that did to the lines around his mouth, and he forced his face to neutral smoothness. His gaze followed mine across the dining room and through the archway. Alex had his back to us, one arm on the mantelpiece of the living-room fireplace. He had a glass of Guinness. He’d been holding it for as long as I’d been watching, but I hadn’t seen him drink from it even once.

“And you feel an especial need to point this out to me…why?” I sipped more wine and stared him down.

Patrick shrugged. “Just thought I’d make sure you knew.”

I looked around at the half-dozen men helping themselves to the buffet, and then through the arch to the living room where another dozen men chatted or danced or flirted. Ninety-nine percent of them were gay and the other one percent was thinking about it. “I think I know better than to expect to get laid at one of your parties, Patrick.”

Before I could comment further, a pair of thick, muscled arms gripped my waist from behind and a tight belly pressed along my back. “Run away with me and see how long it takes before he notices we’re gone,” said a deep voice directly into my ear.

I twisted, giving in to laughter at the tickling touch of a beard on my earlobe, and turned. “Patrick, you didn’t tell me you were inviting Billy Dee Williams to your party! Oh, wait…Billy Dee would never wear that sweater. Hey, Teddy.”

“Girl, don’t you be making fun of this sweater. Mama McDonald sent me this sweater and her boy Patrick got one just like it.” Teddy dropped Patrick a wink. “Difference is, I’m man enough to wear it.”

I got a hug, a squeeze, a kiss and a pat on the ass all within the span of seconds before Teddy moved on to provide the same for Patrick. Patrick, still pouting, swatted at the bigger man and pushed him away while Teddy laughed and swiped a hand over Patrick’s hair. Patrick scowled and smoothed his ruffled feathers, but allowed Teddy to kiss his cheek a moment later.

I gestured with my wineglass. “He’s trying to tell me not to ogle an ass.”

“What? I thought we were all here to ogle men’s asses.”

Teddy shook his, I shook mine; we did The Bump and dissolved into the sort of laughter helped along by a liberal helping of holiday cheer. Patrick watched us with his arms crossed and eyebrow lifted. Then he shook his head.

“Pardon me for trying to be a friend,” he said.

Patrick and I had been friends for a long time. Once, long ago, we’d been more than that. Patrick thought that gave him the right to be my aunt Nancy and I let him because…well, because I loved him. And because there was never been too much love in my life to turn any small bit of it away.

This, though, seemed a little excessive even for Patrick. Teddy and I shared a glance. I shrugged.

“I’m making a run to the kitchen for some more wine, loves,” Teddy said. “Do you want any?”

“I’m good.” I held up my glass, still half-full.

Patrick shook his head. We both watched Teddy make his way through the crowd. Only when he was out of earshot did I turn back to my ex-boyfriend.

“Patrick, if you’re trying to tell me in a not-so-subtle way that you fucked that guy—”

Patrick’s short, sharp bark was so different from his normal laughter it startled me to silence. He shook his head. “Oh, no. Not him.”

I didn’t miss the way he cut his gaze from mine. That more than anything told me an entire story that needed no words. Hell. It didn’t even need a picture to make it clear.

My grin faded. Patrick had never made a secret of his private life, and I’d heard more stories about the men he’d slept with than I ever wanted to. Patrick didn’t get turned down, at least not often. I watched the red flush creep up his perfect, high cheekbones.

I looked again across the room at Alex Kennedy. “He turned you down?”

“Shh!” Patrick hissed, though the music and conversation was so loud nobody could’ve overheard us.

“Wow.”

His mouth clamped tighter. “Not another word.”

I looked again across the room at Alex Kennedy, still standing with one arm on the mantel. Now I paid attention to the crease in his black trousers and the way the soft black knit of his sweater clung to his broad shoulders and lean waist. He wore the clothes well, but so did all the other men here. From this distance I could see darkish eyes and longish medium-brown hair that looked as though he’d run a hand through it one too many times—or just rolled out of bed. Hair like that took lots of product and effort to look good, and his did. I had an impression of handsome features more than an actual view, and some of that was assumption. Alex was very pretty, there was no doubt about it, but if Patrick hadn’t gone all “don’tcha dare” on me, I probably would’ve looked once, maybe twice, and never again.

“How come I’ve never met him?”

“He’s not from around here,” Patrick said.

I looked back at the man Patrick seemed so desperate for me to ignore. Alex appeared to be locked in deep conversation with another of Patrick’s friends, their faces intense and serious. Not f lirting. The man across from Alex drank angrily, his throat working.

I didn’t need to lift my hands, thumb to thumb and pointer to pointer, to make a frame for the picture I was composing. My mind did that automatically at the same time it filled in the details of their story. Snap, click. I didn’t have my camera, but I could imagine the shot, just the same. I framed Alex in my head, slightly off center and a little out of focus.

Patrick muttered and poked me in the side. “Olivia!”

I looked at him again. “Stop being such a mother hen, Patrick. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

He frowned. “No. I don’t think you’re an idiot. I just don’t want…”

Teddy came back just then, so whatever Patrick wanted got swallowed behind a tight, hard smile. I recognized it, along with the look in his eyes. I hadn’t seen it for a long time, but I knew it. Patrick was hiding something.

Teddy slung an arm over Patrick’s shoulders and pulled him close to nuzzle at his cheek. “Come on. The cheese tray’s been decimated and we’re almost out of wine. Come to the kitchen with me, love, and I’ll give you a little treat.”

Until Teddy, Patrick had never stayed with anyone longer than he’d been with me. I adored Teddy despite this, or maybe because of it. I knew Patrick loved him, though he hardly ever said so, and because I loved Patrick I wanted him to be happy.

Patrick’s hard glance cut across the room again, to Alex and back to me. I thought he might say something more, but instead he shook his head and let Teddy lead him away. Me, I took another ogle at Alex Kennedy’s very, very fine ass.

“Livvy! Merry holidays!” This came from Jerald, another of Patrick’s friends, and a man who’d done some modeling for me more than once. I traded him some nice head shots for his portfolio in exchange for using him in some stock photos I needed for my graphic design business. “When are you going to take more pictures of me, huh?”

“When can you come in?”

Jerald grinned with perfect white teeth and a smile as straight as he was not. “Whenever you need me.”

We chatted for a few minutes about when and where, and for what, and then Jerald gave me a hug and a squeeze and a kiss before abandoning me in search of someone with a penis. That was all right. I didn’t need Patrick to hover over me to make me feel at home. I knew most of his friends. The ones of recent acquaintance viewed me as a curiosity, a relic, the woman who’d been with Patrick before he came out, but they were friendly enough. Liquor helped, of course. Friends who’d known Patrick and me since college, on the other hand, could all still laugh about the good times that had happened when Patrick and I were a couple without the half-disguised gleam of pity his newer, gay friends often gave me. Booze helped that, too.

Wineglass in hand, I made my way over to the buffet to load my plate with all sorts of delicacies. Squares of Indian naan bread paired with spicy hummus, cubes of cheese dipped in cranberry honey mustard, a few purple grapes still clinging to their stem. Patrick and Teddy knew how to throw a party, and even the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I still had room for food as good as they served. I was debating about sampling the slices of rare roast beef settled next to the crusty French rolls or the waistline-conscious strawberry walnut salad when a tap on my shoulder turned me.

“Hey, girl!”

I stopped with a roll in my hand, halfway to my plate. I knew Patrick’s neighbor, Nadia. She’d always gone out of her way to be friendly to me, not that she had any reason not to be. I’d always thought Nadia’s overtures of friendship had less to do with me and more with her, and tonight was proving that suspicion correct.

“I want you to meet Carlos. My boyfriend.” Nadia had a pretty smile in an otherwise unremarkable face, but when she used it I wanted to take her picture. It transformed her.

“Meetcha,” Carlos mumbled, his eyes on the food, though Nadia’s hand held him in such a tight grip he couldn’t actually grab any.

“Nice to meet you, Carlos.”

Nadia gave us both an expectant look. Carlos and I gave each other the once-over, his dark eyes traveling over my entire face before meeting my gaze. He glanced at Nadia, whose fingers were curled into the crook of his elbow. Her skin was very white against his. I think we both knew what she wanted, but neither of us was going to give it.

I didn’t know I was black until second grade. Oh, sure, I’d always known my skin was darker than my parents’ and brothers’. My features not the same. They’d never hidden the fact that I was adopted, and we celebrated not only my birthday but the date I became part of their family. I never felt anything less than loved completely. Cherished. Spoiled, even, by two much older brothers, and parents I’d know later were trying to overcompensate for the cesspool their marriage had become.

I’d always believed I was special, but until second grade I’d never understood I was…different.

Desiree Johnson moved to my school in Ardmore from someplace closer to inner-city Philadelphia. She wore her hair in hundreds of tiny braids close to her scalp and clipped at the ends with plastic barrettes. She wore T-shirts with gold shiny lettering, and soft velour track pants, her sneakers star-tlingly white and huge for the size of her feet. She was different, and we all stared when she came into our classroom.

The teacher, Miss Dippold, had told us only that morning we’d be getting a new student. She’d taken care to mention how important it was to be kind to new students, especially those who weren’t “the same.” She’d read us a story about Zeke, the pony with stripes who’d turned out not to be a pony at all but a zebra. Even in second grade, I’d seen the end of that one coming from a mile away.

What I hadn’t seen coming was Miss Dippold’s command to me to shift my desk so Desiree could sit beside me. I obeyed, of course, atingle with delight at being chosen to befriend the new girl. Was it because I was the class’s top speller for that week, with my name on the board and first-in-line privileges for recess? Or had Miss Dippold noticed how I’d lent Billy Miller my best pencil, since he’d left his at home again? My desk scraped along the floor, curling small shavings of polish off the wood as I moved it aside so Randall, the janitor, could fit in another desk and chair for Desiree.

It was none of those reasons, but one I’d never have guessed.

“There,” Miss Dippold said when Desiree had settled herself into the new desk and chair. “Desiree, this is Olivia. I’m sure you’ll be best friends.”

Desiree’s barrettes clacked against one another as she turned her head to look up and down at my pleated skirt, knee-high socks and buckled Mary Janes. My hair, twisted into tight curls and held back with a matching headband. My cardigan sweater.

For a second-grader, Desiree already had a lot of attitude. “You got to be kidding me.”

Miss Dippold blinked behind her huge tortoiseshell glasses. “Desiree? Is there a problem?”

She gave a world-weary sigh. “No, Miss Dippold. Nothing wrong with me.”

Later, just before lunch, I leaned to take a peek at the drawings she was making on her notepad. Mostly swirls and circles, shaded with pencil. I showed her my own doodles, which weren’t as elaborate.

“I like to draw, too,” I said.

Desiree checked out my drawings and snorted. “Uh-huh.”

“Maybe that’s why Miss Dippold thought we’d be friends,” I explained patiently, still trying. “Because we both like to draw.”

Desiree’s brows rose up to meet her hairline. She looked around at the others, classmates who were getting restless in anticipation of sloppy joes and afternoon recess. She looked back at me, then took my hand and laid it next to hers. Against the pale gray desktops, our fingers stood out like shadows.

“Miss Dippold didn’t know anything about my drawing,” Desiree said. “She meant it’s cuz we’re both, you know.”

“Both what?”

Now she gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes at me. Her whole tone changed. “Because we’re both black.”

It was my turn to blink rapidly, trying to take all of this in. I looked around the room, at a sea of white faces. Caitlyn Caruso was adopted, too, from China, and she looked different than the other kids. But Desiree was right. She’d pointed it out as if I should’ve known all along.

I was black. This revelation stunned me into silence for the rest of the day, until I went home and took down all our family albums to flip through page after page of photos. I was black! I’d been black my entire life! How had I never noticed it before?

The answer was simple—my parents had never said so, never made it a big deal. I’d been brought up to appreciate diversity. I had little choice. Born to a white mother and a black father, I’d been adopted as an infant by parents in a mixed marriage, though of religion, not race. My nonpracticing Jewish mom had married my fallen-away Catholic dad and they’d raised two sons together in a haphazard clash of holidays until they divorced when I was five. We never talked about the color of my skin, or what it meant, or if it should mean something.

Desiree didn’t stay long in our class. Her family moved again a few months later. But I never forgot her for pointing out to me what I should’ve known my whole life.

But here’s the thing about people like Nadia, who pride themselves on being color-blind—in the end, all they see is color. Nadia hadn’t introduced me to her boyfriend because we both liked to draw, or we both listened to Depeche Mode, or even just to be polite. Carlos and I knew it.

Nadia didn’t get it. She chattered on between us, dropping names as if I should know them, referencing hip-hop songs. Carlos caught my gaze and gave me a small shrug she didn’t see. He looked at her with obvious affection, though, stopping her finally with a single murmured, “Baby.”

Nadia laughed, looking confused. “Huh?”

“If you don’t let me eat some of this food, I’m going to pass out.”

“Carlos works out a lot,” Nadia confided as her boyfriend began to decimate the buffet table. “He’s always hungry.”

I was saved from having to comment by the kerfuffle arising in the living room. I’d still been aware of Alex Kennedy at the corner of my vision. He hadn’t strayed from the fireplace. The man he’d been talking to had raised his voice and his hands, gesturing and pointing. Accusing.

This would not be the first time drama had exploded at Patrick’s house; throw a party for a bunch of queens and there are never enough crowns to go around, as he was fond of saying. I wasn’t the only one who turned to watch, either. Alex, instead of engaging in the back-and-forth, only shook his head and lifted his beer to his lips.

“You…you’re such an asshole!” cried the other man, voice wobbling in a way that made me cringe in sympathy and embarrassment for him at the same time. “I don’t know why I ever bothered with you!”

It was easy enough for me to see why he’d bothered. Alex Kennedy was a smoking-hot piece of yum. He stood, stoic, in the onslaught of another round of insults and accusations, until finally the other man stormed off, followed by a few clucking friends. The entire incident had taken only a few minutes and had turned only a couple of heads. By far not the most exciting or dramatic argument ever to hit one of Patrick’s parties, and in fact likely to be forgotten by the end of the night by everyone but the two men involved.

Well, and me.

I was fascinated.

He doesn’t like girls, I reminded myself, and dug into the roast beef, diet be damned. And when I looked up from the carnage of my plate, Alex Kennedy was gone.

It was a good party, one of Patrick’s best. By the time midnight rolled around, I’d had my fill of goodies and gossip and had to hide my yawn behind my hand so nobody would accuse me of being the old lady I sometimes felt I’d become. Karaoke had begun in the living room, where so many people were dancing both the menorah in the window and the Christmas tree in the corner were shaking.

Was that…? Oh, no. It was. I covered my eyes with a hand and peeked through my fingers as a man took center stage to sing along with Beyoncé’s runaway dance-club anthem from a few years before. The one about putting a ring on it. Oh, and he was dancing, too, keeping perfect time without missing a step. He probably had his own clip up on YouTube. Everyone clapped and shouted, but I looked to the corner by the fireplace for the object of his attention. Yep. Alex Kennedy.

Somehow I didn’t think a ring had ever been put on any part of him but his cock.

“Perk up,” Teddy advised, and filled my glass with wine I didn’t want. “Party’s not over yet.”

I groaned and leaned against him. “Maybe I should just head home.”

He shook his head with a laugh and patted his pocket. “Got your keys.”

I lifted my glass. “If you hadn’t insisted on keeping this full…”

We both laughed. I’d spent so many nights in their guest room his insistence on me staying had almost nothing to do with the fact I’d been drinking. Now, though, as I watched through the arched doorway to the living room-cum-dance floor, I wished I’d been smarter and not planned ahead to spend the night; I wished I could walk from here, but it was too cold and dark and too long a way. I wished I could hitch a ride with someone, but though a few guests had already left, most were still in full-on celebration mode and none of them lived out my way.

I hid another yawn. “I think I need some coffee.”

Teddy frowned. “Poor Livvy. Always working so hard.”

“If I don’t, nobody else will do it for me.” I shrugged.

“Well, I’m impressed. Striking out on your own. Quitting your job. Patrick didn’t think you’d stick with it.” Teddy looked momentarily uncomfortable, as if he’d spilled a secret.

“I know he didn’t.”

“He’s proud of you, too, Liv.”

I wasn’t so sure Patrick had a right to pride in my accomplishments, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I let Teddy hug and pet me a little, because he’s like a cuddlier version of the Borg from Star Trek. Resistance is futile. Not only that, but I’m a sucker for a big man in a Santa sweater; what can I say?

I handed him my glass of wine. “I’m going for some coffee. Or at least a Coke or something.”

I could’ve just gone to bed, but with the party still in full swing it was unlikely I’d be able to sleep. Patrick’s kitchen was kitschy cute, complete with a swinging-tailed kitty clock and retro-looking appliances. Well, except for the space-age espresso machine, the fancy kind that steamed milk and used those special pods. I’d never learned to use it and in fact didn’t dare touch it in case I dialed something wrong and sent us all back to the Stone Age. I’d be the one to step on the butterfly.

I knew he had a regular coffeemaker someplace, but a search of the cabinets didn’t turn one up. Patrick never got rid of anything—and I mean never, not his favorite T-shirt or a lamp with a broken switch. Hell, obviously not me. He hoarded belongings and people like the Zombpocalypse was coming and the only way to survive was by building a new civilization out of outdated wardrobes, nonfunctioning appliances…and past lovers. I knew he still had that coffeemaker.

Maybe on the screened back porch, plastic-sheeted now for protection against the winter. Patrick had stored a couple dozen boxes of miscellaneous crap there, promising Teddy he’d sort through it, but never doing so. His espresso machine was new, so there was an excellent chance he’d simply moved the old machine aside.

Bracing myself against the cold, I pushed open the back door and went onto the porch. I hissed out heat and broke at once into goose-pimply shivers. I didn’t turn on the overhead light, but went for the first stack of boxes. Didn’t find the coffeemaker, just a collection of porn mags I flipped through with numb, fumbly fingers and shoved back inside the box. It was the closest I was likely to get to an erection tonight, and don’t think I didn’t mourn that fact just a little.

Starting my own business had been great for my ego and sense of satisfaction. It’d been hell on my bank account and my sex life. No time to date, no time to invest in another person, even if I’d found someone I thought would be worth making an effort for. No time even for casual f lirting, since working for myself meant I was alone most of the time. My other two jobs, the ones I’d kept so I could cover my mortgage, weren’t exactly conducive to meeting men. Taking school and sports team photos required a lot of traveling, and though I met many a DILF—a dad I’d like to fuck—most of them were married. My job at Foto Folks was fun and paid well, but my clients were invariably middle-aged women looking for “boudoir” shots or moms who brought their kids to get pictures taken in front of giant stuffed bears. I’d developed a severe allergy to feather boas. I was run-down, but I was happy. I was tired and sometimes stressed, but I was doing what I loved.

I was also officially undersexed.

“C’mon, Patrick, where’d you put it?” I moved toward the porch’s far end, around the sheet-covered wicker furniture and behind a large stack of lawn chairs. “Ah, bingo.”

Coffeemaker, filters, even a zipped plastic bag of coffee beans. He really never got rid of anything. I laughed and shook my head, and turned at the sound of the back door opening behind me.

Freeze-frame.

Two silhouettes appeared in the doorway. Men. The smaller one shoved the bigger one against the wall. Oh. I got it. I was ready to clear my throat and announce my presence when the taller man turned his face toward the light.

How could I have ever thought him commonly, regularly handsome? Alex Kennedy’s profile made me want to weep, if only because there are too few people in this life who are so beautiful while also being so real. In full light everything on his face had lined up just right. Here, now, with shadow splitting him in half, I could see his nose was too sharp, his lower jaw a little too undercut for perfection. His hair fell over his forehead, and he grimaced as the man in front of him dropped to his knees and unzipped Alex’s trousers.

I still had time to call out a warning. They were far gone, maybe drunk or maybe just so deep in their lust they weren’t paying attention to anything else, but I could’ve stopped them if I really wanted to. I didn’t.

“Evan,” the low, creamy voice that must belong to Alex said. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Shut up.”

The shadows morphed into figures again, one standing tall, the other crouched at his feet. The light from the streetlamp down the alley was barely bright enough to illuminate anything, but it was enough to show me what was going on. And, I thought, to block me from their view if they’d bothered to look, since I was in the far corner and settled deep in shadow. So long as I kept quiet and still, chances were very good they’d never even know I was there. They would come…and then go.

Evan yanked Alex’s trousers down past his knees. I stifled my sudden harsh breath with my hand. I couldn’t see cock, but I’m not too proud to admit I looked for it. What I could see was Evan’s hand stroking. His shoulder moved, a lump of black against gray. Alex’s head tipped back with a dull thud against the wall.

“Shut up and take it,” Evan said.

Maybe he meant to be menacing or sexy, but Alex only laughed and put his hand on Evan’s head. Did I imagine the twist and twine of his fingers in the other man’s hair? It was impossible to see, but in the next second, when Evan’s head jerked back, I thought it must’ve been from his lover’s grip.

“Are you fucking serious?” Alex said around his laughter.

The next noise Evan made didn’t quite hit menacing. I didn’t find it very sexy but Alex must have, because he loosed his grip enough to let Evan’s head bob forward. I heard the soft, wet noise of a mouth on f lesh.

Damn.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

“I know how you like it,” Evan said, softer this time, without the attitude.

“Who doesn’t?” Alex laughed, low and slow and a little drowsy.

If it makes me a pervert to get excited watching two people fucking, then sign me up and send me the T-shirt.

More soft, wet sounds. I was sort of soft and wet myself at that point, and the only thing stopping me from reaching between my legs was that I was frozen in place with fascination—and of course, knowing I wasn’t watching some surreptitious gay porn, but real live men getting off.

I squeezed my thighs. Wow. That felt good. I did it again, putting pressure on my clit that wasn’t as good as a fingertip or a tongue would have been, but the slow and steady clench of muscle nevertheless started the buildup of pressure inside me I recognized.

I blinked, my eyes adjusting further to the darkness. I could see the flash of Alex’s eyes as he looked down at Evan, then the gleam of Evan’s smile as he pulled away from Alex’s cock. Alex put his hand on Evan’s head again. Evan got back to the business of cock sucking.

Alex moaned.

Evan made a muffled noise that didn’t sound nearly as nice. I heard more shuffling. The floorboards creaked. Another dull thump on the wall made me open my eyes, and I watched Alex’s silhouette arch.

He was coming. I had to close my eyes, turn my face. I couldn’t watch this, no matter how sexy it was, no matter how kinky and perverted I was. I wasn’t cold anymore, that was for sure.

“No,” Alex said, and I opened my eyes.

Evan had stood. There was distance between them, a space of light in the darkness of their two shadows. I watched Evan’s move forward again, a little, and Alex stepped to the side.

“No?” Evan repeated, voice querulous. “You’ll let me suck your dick, but you won’t kiss me?”

Zip. Sigh. Alex’s shape moved in what looked like a shrug.

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”

“I know it,” Alex said. “But so did you before you brought me out here.”

Evan, incredibly, stamped his foot. Even Patrick at his queeniest never stamped his foot. “I hate you!”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do!” Evan opened the door and I shut my eyes tight against the sudden spilling of light. “You can just forget about coming home!”

“Your place isn’t home. Why do you think I took all my stuff?”

Ouch. That stung even me. If I were Evan I’d have hated Alex, too, just for the smug tone.

“I fucking hate you. I never should’ve given you a second chance!”

“I told you not to,” Alex said.

Evan swept out. Alex stayed behind for another minute or two, his breathing heavy. I kept as still as I could with my heart pounding so fast it made stars behind my eyelids. I was sure he’d hear me, but he didn’t.

Alex went inside.

I discovered I didn’t need coffee to keep me awake.

Chapter Two

Patrick pounced on me in the kitchen, his expression fierce. “Where were you?”

I gestured at the back porch. “I went looking for your coffeepot.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s right there on the counter.”

The party was still going strong, but I’d had enough. Too much drama for one evening. If I hadn’t had a few too many glasses of wine, screw the drive, I’d have gone home to sleep in my own bed. As it was, I was coming down from the adrenaline high and could barely manage not to slur my words.

“You know I can’t use that one. Too complicated.”

He eyed me. “Are you drunk?”

“No. Just tired.” I hugged him, surprising him for a second, I think, given the way he jumped. Only for a second, then his arms went around me. Held me tight until I pushed him away. “I’m going to bed.”

“Already?”

“I’m wiped out!” I knuckled his side and Patrick tried not to laugh, but gave in. “What is your problem, anyway? Why’d you come in here like the back end of your broom was on fire?”

My joke annoyed him. “Very funny. I was looking for you, that’s all. You disappeared.”

“Uh-huh.” I yawned behind my hand. “Well, here I am. No big deal, Patrick, sheesh.”

He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, Liv. Is that so wrong? Making sure my best girl’s all right?”

“You haven’t called me that in a long time.” My fingers, trapped in his, twisted. He let me go.

“I mean it, and you know it.”

If you’ve ever loved someone for too long to stop, you know how I felt just then. Standing in the kitchen Patrick shared with someone else, bleary from exhaustion and red wine, I refused to give in to melancholy. I kissed his cheek instead and patted his ass the way I always did.

“I’m going to bed.”

I went up the back stairs. Narrow and steep, with a sharp bend halfway up, they were difficult to navigate even clearheaded. The sound of the music faded but the bass thumpa-thumpa continued as I climbed the stairs and went through what Patrick and Teddy called “the back room,” which had one door leading in and another leading out, and down the long, narrow hall. Like the stairway, the hall had a jog in it, sharp to the left. I loved old houses for their nooks and crannies, and this was no exception. It had been cut into apartments when Patrick and Teddy moved in, but they’d been renovating back into a single dwelling. I touched the wallpaper in the hall, revealed when they’d stripped off a layer of tacky 1970s paneling. In the dark I couldn’t see the tiny sprigs of lavender flowers against the pale yellow background, but I knew they were there.

Once I’d taken a photo of the view down this hall. The light from the window at the end had sketched shadows beneath the light fixtures, which weren’t fancy enough to be considered antique, just old. I’d captured a misty, fuzzy figure in the corner, something like the shape of a woman in a long dress, her hair piled high on her head. Trick of the light, perhaps, or optical illusion. It was just out of focus enough for me to never be sure. But nights like this, when I thought I might stumble from weariness or too much cheer, I imagined I felt her comforting hand helping me along.

I went from doorway to bed in a few steps, shedding my clothes and diving onto the soft mattress with its mound of covers and pillows. I tossed them on the floor without ceremony, knowing Patrick would squawk, but too tired to pile them neatly on the trunk beneath the window. I reached to the nightstand and ruff led around inside, past the box of tissues, the lip balm, and found the small square box of earplugs I kept in there the way I kept a spare box of “girl” things under the bathroom sink.

In half a minute I had blessed silence, though an occasional surge of bass from downstairs still vibrated my stomach a little. I pulled on an oversize T-shirt from the bottom nightstand drawer and snuggled beneath the heavy comforter, the extra pillow tucked firmly between my knees to alleviate the pressure on my aching back. I couldn’t hear my sigh, though the dull thud of my heartbeat still sounded in my ears.

I couldn’t sleep.

My sophomore year of college, I shared a room with three other girls. The dorm I’d chosen had been overbooked. I’d been given the choice of living in a different building, farther away from my classes and the cafeteria, or moving into a converted study lounge for the semester. It hadn’t been so bad. The larger room meant we’d all had a bit more space, and the lounge was in the corner of the building, so instead of the one small window the regular rooms had, we had four large panes of glass. The downside was the complete and utter lack of privacy. Forget about having a guy over; it was impossible even to masturbate without an audience.

I don’t know about the other girls, one of whom was a devout Christian whose missionary position had nothing to do with sex, but I have always been, and suspect I always will be, an avid fan of getting myself off. I’d learned the trick back then of rubbing off on a pillow tucked between my legs, just this way. Of using the slow, steady push of inner muscles to bring myself close, slowly, and finishing myself off against the pillow. I hadn’t come that way in a long time—I lived alone now and could strip down naked and do it on my dining-room table, if I wanted. Not that I ever did.

But I hadn’t forgotten how to do it, how to press and release and inch my hips forward and back, just so. I gave half a second’s thought to embarrassment and tossed it aside in the name of orgasm. After all, I hadn’t burst in on them, or sneaked up to peek through a window. The show on the porch had been dropped in front of me like nondenominational holiday gift, and I’ve never been one to return a present just because it didn’t fit quite right.

The memory of Alex Kennedy’s groan slid over me in the darkness and straight to the pit of my belly, inside me. Down to my clit. I shifted ever so slightly against the pillow. How must it feel to be the reason he made that sound?

I was suddenly tipping closer to the edge. I shifted again, tightening my inner muscles and holding, then releasing. Slow, sweet waves of climax began deep inside me. I turned my face into my pillow and bit the softness to stifle my own groan. I rode the waves of pleasure with my eyes closed tight.

Of all the pictures my mind had taken that night, his face was the one I could still see.

The house was quiet when I woke. I stretched under the weight of the blankets. The tip of my nose and cheeks had gone cold, and that didn’t bode well for how the rest of me would feel should I venture out of my warm cave. Patrick and Teddy’s house was old and heated unevenly, and I’d forgotten to open the register the night before. This could mean only my room was chilly, or that the entire house was shiver-inducing; it really depended on what they’d done with the thermostat before they went to bed.

My stomach rumbled. My bladder, the most effective alarm clock I would ever have, reminded me of all the wine I’d drunk. Worse, my mind insisted on replaying the activities of the night before in vivid black on black.

Had I really made myself come while thinking about Alex Kennedy getting a blow job? It would seem I had. I stretched again, feeling softness beneath me, warmth around me, the brush of smooth fabric on my belly where my T-shirt had bunched up. I waited for shame, or at least embarrassment, but nope. Nada. I was thoroughly depraved.

This more than anything got my ass out of bed, because one could really be appropriately depraved only with an empty bladder and a full stomach. I took care of the first easily enough, skip-hopping down the cold, bare wooden floor of the hall and into the bathroom, where I could actually see my breath, and the hot water from the sink scalded my hands. I gave a longing look at the bathtub, an old-fashioned claw-foot tub Patrick hated and I coveted.

Downstairs, the kitchen was gloriously warm. Heat flooded up from the open grate in the floor from the furnace directly below. In another twenty minutes I’d probably be sweating, but for now I gloried in it. I also reveled in the shelves of leftovers from the party the night before, everything tucked away in plastic containers and stacked neatly according to size and shape. Patrick’s work. I could only guess how late he’d stayed up, tidying, before Teddy forced him to bed. On the upside of that, I could be sure none of the food would give me food poisoning. Patrick was a stickler for keeping his buffet table appropriately cold or hot, depending.

Chicken pot stickers called my name, the little bastards, not even trying to pretend they didn’t know I was trying to lose a couple of pounds. The chocolate cake I could ignore, but not the little dumplings of fatty, sweet-and-sour goodness. I pulled the container from the fridge and turned to put it on the table—and almost ran smack into a bare chest.

The container of pot stickers hit the floor and bounced. I screamed. Loudly.

Alex Kennedy smiled.

“Damn, you’re pretty,” I said.

He blinked, his smile getting wider. He crossed his arms over his very fine, naked stomach. “Thanks.”

I thought about bending to pick up my breakfast, but doing that would put me at his feet, and that wasn’t a place I was sure I could stand to be. Not after last night, and what I’d seen. He cast a glance at the container by his toes, then at me. Then he bent to pick it up.

Alex at my feet, on the other hand? Very nice indeed.

“Thanks.” I took the container and eased past him to put it in the microwave. I looked over my shoulder. “Want some?”

He laughed and shook his head and took a step back. And then I realized something sort of funny, sort of strange. He was…uncomfortable?

I was used to finding half-naked men in Patrick’s kitchen the morning after a party. True, I’d never watched any of them come down someone else’s throat, and then used that thought to give myself an orgasm, but he didn’t know about that.

“I’m Alex. Patrick let me crash here last night.”

“I’m Olivia,” I offered, and waited for a reaction. Not even a blink.

“It’s nice to meet you, Olivia.”

He cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. His bare toes were as lovely as the rest of him. For the first time I noticed his pajama bottoms, printed with Hello Kitty faces, a faded pair that looked well loved and often worn. They covered more of him than my thigh-length T-shirt did of me, and I wished for a robe or at least a sweater, though I was no longer the least bit cold.

I gave them a look. “Nice.”

Alex laughed, staring down at his toes. The glance he gave me was amused, a little embarrassed, but not much. “Thanks. They were a gift.”

The microwave dinged and I removed the container, holding it out. “You sure you don’t want any?”

He shook his head, even though his tongue crept out to dot his bottom lip. “I think I’d better go with oatmeal.”

I pulled a fork from the drawer and poked it into a dumpling. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to make me feel guilty because I’m not up this early to run a mile and a half.”

His laugh sounded more genuine this time. “Hell, no. I’m not going for a run. Not in this weather, anyway. Or, well…not ever.”

I swallowed a bite of delicious. “Thank God.”

I went to the fridge again for some orange juice. Teddy squeezes it fresh and never leaves the pitcher empty. I pulled it out and offered some. Alex nodded. I grabbed a couple of glasses and set them on the table, then poured. His expression prompted me to check if I had something in my teeth or hanging from my nose.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just…”

I sat at the kitchen table and waved him to a seat, too. He pulled the glass of juice toward himself and sipped. I waited.

“Just what?” I said, when it seemed he’d stalled.

“Patrick didn’t mention he had another person staying here. That’s all.”

“Ah.” I dug into another pot sticker, which shouldn’t have been so tasty washed down with orange juice, but was. “He didn’t tell me you were staying here, either. In fact, he said…”

Both of us seemed to have come down with a case of bite-your-tongue-itis.

Alex quirked a brow and sat back in his chair. The kitchen was warm, but he was shirtless, and goose bumps dappled his skin. An image of myself leaning across the table to lick his nipples sent a flash of heat through me that didn’t come from the furnace chugging to life beneath our feet.

“What? Tell me.” The man I’d seen last night at the party, the one in my room, was back. His voice melted, gooey caramel on soft ice cream. I wanted to lick it.

“He said,” I told him, carefully not looking at him but at my food, “to stay away from you.”

“Did he?”

I knew my laugh sounded forced, but he didn’t know me. “Yes.”

“Why?”

I licked soy sauce from a finger and caught him looking, his eyes narrowed but not angry. Interested, maybe. Intrigued. “Because Patrick likes to make sure I don’t get into trouble.”

Alex snorted lightly and drank more juice. “He thinks I’m trouble?”

“Aren’t you?” It sounded like flirting. It felt like flirting, but I knew better than to flirt with a man who was into guys. I’d learned my lesson on that a long time ago.

“I guess that depends,” he said. Then, “Yeah. I am.”

We both laughed at that, somehow companionable in our assessment of his character via the conduit of Patrick’s warning. “I thought so. You look like trouble.”

Alex’s fine brown hair had been carefully groomed last night to look like a mess, but now it fell in genuine disarray over his forehead and into his eyes. When he bent to stare at the table, tapping his fingers on it, his hair obscured his face. I wanted to brush it off his forehead.

“Emo bangs,” I said.

He looked up at me then and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Huh?”

I gestured. “Your hair. Those long bangs, like one of those emo kids who wear skinny jeans and black fingernail polish.”

He laughed again, for real this time, and long. “I guess that’s a sign if nothing else is, huh? Time for a cut?”

“I don’t think so. I like it.” I speared the last pot sticker and held it up to him. “Sure you don’t want it?”

“What the hell.” He plucked it from the fork and ate it from his fingers.

I watched his lips close over his fingertips and suck away the soy sauce. Warmth swirled inside me, which was stupid, but hey, a girl can look even if she can’t touch. We both finished our orange juice at the same time.

Then we sat in silence. Alex might be trouble, but he sure wasn’t chatty. Not that I got a snobby vibe off him or anything, as if he just didn’t want to talk to me. More like he wasn’t sure what to say.

“How do you know Patrick?” It was ask or leave the kitchen for the chilly wilds of upstairs, where I’d have to dress and go into the colder outdoors to head home. Besides, I wanted to know.

“We met in Japan.”

“You work for Quinto and Bates?” That was the law firm where Patrick worked.

He shook his head. “No, I was brought in as a consult with Damsmithon Industries while Patrick was there for the international business meeting.”

“So you’re not a lawyer.” I swirled a finger in the remains of the pot sticker juice in the bottom of the container. I wasn’t hungry anymore, but couldn’t resist the savory tang.

He laughed. “Hell, no. But Patrick and I hit it off, hung out after the meetings. Kept in touch. When I told him I was coming back to the States he said I should stop by to see him.”

All of this didn’t sound like it should go along with the image of Patrick’s face and his warning to me about Alex being trouble. “So…you’re friends?”

“What exactly did Patrick say about me?” Alex’s bangs fell down again, and he didn’t brush them away.

I paused for a second before answering. “Not much, actually.”

Which wasn’t like Patrick at all. He usually had something to say about everybody, and if he didn’t have anything, sometimes he made stuff up. I pondered this while Alex got up and went to the fridge. Patrick had warned me away from Alex, but hadn’t given me details. No gossip. Strange.

Alex brought back the pitcher of juice and a tinfoil-covered plate of cookies that had escaped my notice. He offered them to me first, and don’t think I didn’t notice that he had manners. I didn’t pretend to myself or him that I shouldn’t eat any cookies. It was too late for that. Come January I’d be moaning about the size of my ass, but so would everyone else I knew, whether it was warranted or not.

I picked up a gingerbread man with a huge erect cock. “Hmm. Normally I bite the heads off first, but…”

Alex snorted and picked up one for himself. “Now there’s a dilemma.”

We were still laughing when Patrick came down the back stairs. He wore a silk kimono and a bleary expression. His blond hair stuck up in corkscrews all over the place. He gave us both an imperious look from his spot on the last step.

“We can hear you all the way upstairs.”

“Sorry.” Alex sounded contrite.

I didn’t bother. “Oh, Patrick. C’mon. It’s, like, noon already. Get your lazy ass up and about.”

Patrick yawned broadly and swept past me, then turned to give me a real glare. “You didn’t even make coffee?”

“Your fucking machine is too complicated,” I told him fondly, though of course he knew that, and of course he was still miffed that I hadn’t started it brewing for him.

“I’ll do it,” Alex said, and was up and around the table before either Patrick or I could do more than blink at each other in surprise. “I should’ve thought of it, man. I’m sorry.”

I raised a brow at this sudden leap to obsequiousness, but hell. I didn’t know the guy beyond what? A warning, a karaoke serenade and a drunken blow job in a dark room. He hadn’t quite seemed the servile type to me, but then I was forever being surprised by what I didn’t expect.

“Thank you,” Patrick said a little stiffly. “Alex, this is Olivia Mackey. Olivia, Alex Kennedy. Olivia is an independent contractor with her own graphic design company, and Alex does consulting for several international corporations.”

Coffeepot carafe filled with water in his hand, Alex turned while Patrick made the cocktail party introductions. He and I shared a look past Patrick’s kimono. I gave Alex a tiny shrug. I didn’t get it, either.

“We met,” I told Patrick. “What is up with you?”

“I’m just being a good host.”

“Thanks, Patrick,” Alex said, and set about making the coffee.

He figured out his way around Patrick’s kitchen, faltering only once, when he opened the wrong cupboard to pull out the coffee pods, and found the spice jars, instead. I turned in my chair to watch him. He was no casual houseguest. He knew how to make himself at home.

Patrick and I could hold entire conversations without words, but this morning he was deliberately not giving me the right signals. Or he was misreading mine. He could be selective that way. Before I could get him to tell me what the hell was going on, Alex turned from the coffeemaker.

“Anyone hungry for pancakes?”

“I couldn’t,” I exclaimed.

Just as Patrick said, “Alex, you’re a darling.”

Patrick looked at Alex. Alex looked at me. I looked at Patrick.

“Actually,” I said, “I should get going. I’ve got some work to do—”

“On Sunday?” Patrick asked incredulously. “What’s the point of working for yourself if you can’t take the weekend off?”

I stood and stretched. “The point of working for myself is that I can work whenever I want.”

“Yeah, and work whenever you have to.” Alex leaned against the counter, one long leg crossed over the other at the ankles.

I nodded. He understood. Patrick, who worked eighty-hour weeks but also took a month’s vacation every year, understood the importance of hard work, but would probably never comprehend why I’d quit a stable salary to go out on my own.

I hugged my former boyfriend and kissed his cheek. Patrick softened, finally, his embrace unwilling but inevitable. He held my face still and looked into my eyes.

“Don’t work too much, Livvy. It’s the holidays.”

I put my hands over his on my cheeks and carefully peeled away his fingers to release his grip. “You want me to take back all the presents I bought you?”

He laughed the first real Patrick laugh I’d heard in a few days, and squeezed me close. He whispered in my ear, “Remember what I said.”

Most of the time when Patrick hugged me I could take it for what it was—a physical expression of the affection and love between two friends. Platonic friends. And then there were the times when I breathed in the scent of him, the cologne I bought for him so many years ago and which he’d never switched from, even though he could afford something trendier and more expensive. When I felt the press of his body along mine and I had to close my eyes and remind myself to let him go, and when I found it almost impossible to do so.

Still locked in Patrick’s arms, I forced myself to open my eyes. Alex’s gaze found mine over Patrick’s shoulder. With that scrutiny as motivation, I patted Patrick’s back quickly and stepped away, hoping my nipples weren’t hard through my T-shirt or that my cheeks weren’t as flushed as they felt.

Patrick caught my wrist before I could get entirely away. “Stay for a while. It’s Sunday.”

“Patrick…”

He didn’t let go. “Alex, tell Liv she should stay.”

“Olivia. You should stay.” Alex, still leaning, smiled.

I smiled, too, even as I turned and gave Patrick a good, hard poke. “I have a life, Patrick.”

He scoffed. “What are you going to do today? Hang around that cold apartment and fiddle with your pictures? She’s a photographer,” he added for Alex’s benefit, and jabbed at my ribs.

“Cool. What do you take pictures of?”

“Everything!” I said over my shoulder as I tried to dance out of the way of Patrick’s poking fingers.

I looked at him, hard. Last night he’d warned me off Alex as though my mortal soul depended on it, and now he was begging me to hang around for the day. Of course, he often persuaded me to stay longer than I’d intended, and often I let him. But I did have work to do in my studio, which wouldn’t paint or clean itself, and which had been sadly neglected since I’d bought it six months before.

“Patrick…”

Knowing he was manipulating me didn’t make it any easier to resist him. When he flashed me the familiar pout, the one that had always swayed me, I sighed. I glanced at Alex, who was watching us both with an expression I could only describe as intrigued.

“Alex is making pancakes,” Patrick said.

I looked at Patrick. Patrick looked at Alex. And Alex…Alex looked at me.

“I am,” he said. “And I’m really good at it.”

I knew enough to admit defeat.

“Fine, but I’m taking the first shower, and I don’t care if you run out of hot water,” I told Patrick, who smirked how he always did when he got his way.

Upstairs I bumped into Teddy coming out of his bedroom.

“You’re staying?”

Another man might have hated the fact I was still so much a part of Patrick’s life, but not Teddy. But then I’d never seen him hate anything. Teddy fully believed in that crap about lemons and life.

“Yeah. Just for a little while. I do have to get home tonight.”

He laughed. “You should move back up here, Liv. It wouldn’t be such a long drive then.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re as bad as he is. Annville’s only half an hour away, for crying out loud.”

Teddy had spent his entire life in Central Pennsylvania, a place where crossing the Susquehanna River could be considered entering a whole new world. He grinned. “But it’s Annville.”

“Pfft.” I waved a hand. “I’m taking a shower. I hear there are pancakes in the making.”

Teddy rubbed his stomach. “Yum. Our guest, I assume, not our beloved Patrick.”

Patrick never cooked. “Yeah. Hey, Teddy…” I paused and leaned against the doorjamb to my room. “What’s the story with him, anyway?”

“Alex?”

“Yeah.”

Teddy shrugged and his smile became a tiny bit strained. “He’s a friend of Patrick’s. He needed a place to crash. He’s only going to be here for a few more days. Nice guy.”

That answer floated between us, a bit of fluff on a current of not-going-to-bring-up-certain-topics. The topic in question being why Patrick felt he had any right or interest in my love life, or lack thereof. I shrugged, finally, because sometimes you simply have to put aside things that have no answer.

“Taking a shower,” I said, and Teddy left me so I could.

Forty-five minutes later, my stomach full of pancakes and turkey bacon and good, strong coffee, I was attempting to kick Alex’s ass at Dance Dance Revolution and failing pretty miserably. I had Teddy beat, and was pretty well matched with Patrick, but Alex…he was a superstar.

“My feet keep slipping on the dance pad,” I complained, out of breath.

“I’ll set myself to advanced,” Alex offered with a wicked gleam in his eye. He was practically rubbing his hands together and twirling an imaginary mustache. “You can stay at basic.”

I wasn’t going to turn down that offer. “You’re on.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you start playing,” Patrick said from his place on the couch, where he was reading a thick paperback novel.

At the sound of affectionate amusement in his tone, I looked at him while Alex used the Wii remote to switch the settings. Patrick, bundled under a heavy quilt, had gone back to his book. Teddy’d disappeared, probably to play The Sims on his computer upstairs. And Alex and I were playing DDR. It was a picture of lazy Sunday bliss, so why did suddenly it all feel so…wrong?

“Olivia?”

I turned at Alex’s question and flashed him a smile I couldn’t be sure looked real. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He tilted his head the tiniest bit. “You want to take a break?”

Patrick must have heard concern in Alex’s tone, because he looked up again. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” I waved a hand. “Too many pancakes. Let’s go.”

Alex had changed out of his Hello Kitty pajamas and into a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but his feet were still bare. He tapped one against the dance pad, but didn’t start the next song. He looked from me to Patrick.

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

But there was no way I could beat him, even with the different levels set to make it more to my advantage. I was distracted by the sudden, unexpected wave of nostalgia and something else, something I couldn’t parse. My performance was sucktastic.

“I think you’re letting me win,” Alex said.

Patrick scoffed from the couch. “Olivia never lets anyone win. Take your victory and savor it.”

I gave Patrick a narrow-eyed glance. His teasing had a ring of truth to it that sat wrong with me. “I should get going.”

This got Patrick’s attention, and he looked up. “Now? I thought you’d stay for dinner, at least. Alex says he’s going to cook lamb chops.”

Alex laughed. “Dude.”

I looked at him. “Now you know the real reason he’s letting you stay.”

My teasing, too, had a ring of truth to it, but Patrick didn’t seem to care.

“It’s okay. I like to cook.”

In the background, the music of the game blared on and on, though I couldn’t blame my inching headache on that. I looked at Patrick again, settled so neatly on his couch with his book, and his friends around him, catering to him. Giving him whatever he wanted. Patrick annoyed me sometimes, the way anyone can on occasion. I hadn’t hated him in a long time, but I remembered, suddenly, how it felt to hate him.

“I’m sure they’ll be delicious, Alex, but I can’t stay. It was nice meeting you.” I reached for his hand, and he took mine. Shook it firmly and let it drop.

He put his palms on his hips. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“Well, if you ever come back to visit Patrick, I’m sure you will.” I was already turning to go.

“I’m staying in the area, actually. I got another consulting job. Just short-term.”

I paused. Patrick looked up. He put down his book.

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“My contact with Hershey Foods just got back to me,” Alex said. “I’ll be here for about six months. Maybe eight, depending.”

This caught Patrick’s attention and he sat straight up. “Where are you staying?”

“Not here, don’t worry.” Alex laughed. “I’ve got a room booked at the Hotel Hershey for a week, but I’m looking for a place to rent for the rest of the time.”

The sound of heels echoing on the wooden floors of my too-empty extra apartment rang in my ears, along with the ka-ching of a cash register. “I have a place you might be interested in.”

Both men gazed at me then. Patrick’s brows had raised. Alex looked assessing.

“I bought a building,” I explained. “An old firehouse. I live on the second floor, but the ground-floor apartment is vacant and partially furnished.”

“You told me you didn’t want to deal with the hassle of having a tenant.” Patrick’s tone, faintly accusatory, put a small curl in my lip.

Alex, on the other hand, let his gaze drift back and forth between the two of us before his mouth tipped up a fraction at the corners. “Where’s your place, Olivia?”

“Annville.”

I said it just as Patrick said, “The middle of nowhere.”

“Annville,” I repeated, “is about twenty minutes from Hershey. Same distance as from here.”

“Sounds great. When can I see it?”

“How about right now?”

Alex smiled. “Perfect.”

Chapter Three

Alex drove a crappier car than I expected. I hadn’t noticed the baby-shit-brown sedan parked along the street in front of Patrick’s house the night before. It probably looked much better in the dark.

“Rental,” he explained when I stared at it.

I’d parked my own car with the pride of privilege in Patrick and Teddy’s narrow driveway in front of the garage. “Mine’s around back. I’ll pull out and wait for you so you can follow. Oh, and let me get your cell number in case we get separated.”

He had a crappy car but a very, very nice and shiny new iPhone, the latest model. “Yeah, I’d better take yours, too.”

There was nothing strange about this exchange. Hell, random strangers gave each other their numbers all the time. Texting had replaced normal face-to-face conversations. Pretty soon we’d all just implant chips in our heads and never leave our houses. Even so, tapping his long and unfamiliar number into my phone felt somehow intimate and strangely permanent.

“Now you,” Alex said, and held up the phone’s camera. “Smile.”

“Oh, you’re not—”

Too late; he’d taken the shot, and held it up to show me how I had a place now in his list of contacts. I was smiling, my head half turned, and the light was better than I’d thought, the picture clear and crisp. I’d be in his phone forever, or until he deleted me.

Alex unlocked his car with the keyless remote. He’d put on a black wool peacoat with an upturned collar and a long, striped scarf. With his tousled hair and long bangs he could’ve been a catalog model, and I mentally snapped a few shots of him looking into a sunset, maybe standing next to a golden retriever, advertising something sexy like cologne or designer sunglasses. Not that I ever got those sorts of jobs, but someday I might.

He caught me looking and smiled as if he was used to being stared at. “Ready?”

“Yep. Follow me.”

He put a hand over his heart and gave a half bow. “Wherever you may go.”

My mouth opened, flippant words ready to spill out, but somehow they got tangled up on my tongue and all I managed was a smile. It had been quite a while since any man had left me speechless with something as simple as a grin and a few words. No wonder Patrick had warned me off. Alex Kennedy was trouble, unfortunately of the best kind.

And he didn’t like girls, I reminded myself. “I’ll be in the silver Impala.”

I kept my eye on him in the rearview mirror the entire trip, but Alex had no trouble navigating the sparse traffic and keeping up with me. We pulled into the alley next to the three-story building that had once been the firehouse on Annville’s Main Street, and parked in the lot behind it. He got out before I did, and tipped his head back to look up at the building.

“Sweet.”

I felt a rush of pride as we both took a minute to look at the building’s brick backside. The iron fire escape wasn’t pretty, but even so, the building was impressive. And I owned it. The whole thing, just me.

“So, this is Annville,” Alex said.

A car crept slowly along the alley and kicked up a stray grocery bag I snagged to toss in the trash. While living in Harrisburg I wouldn’t have bothered, but since moving to the small town I’d taken more pride. “Yep. In all its glory.”

Alex, hands in his pockets, turned around in a circle to give everything another once-over. “Nice.”

I laughed as I turned the key in the back door’s lock. “It will be quite a change from your international globe-trotting.”

“That’s okay. I grew up in a small town. Not as small as this,” he amended, stepping through after me and stomping his feet on the mat. “But believe me, I wasn’t raised a world traveler.”

The long, narrow hall led to a three-story foyer with the wide, wooden spiraling staircase to our right and the door to the ground-floor apartment to the left. Directly ahead, a front door opened onto the sidewalk along Main Street, and tall windows let in a lot of light. Alex looked up, smiling, and let out a whistle.

I looked over my shoulder at him as I opened the door to the flat. “Come inside.”

It wasn’t anything special—a living room, dining area and kitchen, with a bathroom and two bedrooms that had been carved from what had once been the garage housing the fire trucks. It was darker than my place, not having the big second-and third-floor windows, but it did have immense, broad beams in the ceiling, and a nice, open layout.

“What do you think?”

Alex walked around, checking out the wooden floors, the plastered walls. He tested the spring-cushioned love seat left behind by the previous tenants, and peeked into the kitchen while I watched. He looked into one bedroom, then the other, and finally the bath. The whole tour took about seven minutes. He turned to me with a broad grin.

“I’ll take it.”

“Really? That fast, huh?”

“Sure. It beats sleeping on someone’s couch,” he said. “I like it.”

“You don’t even know the price,” I pointed out, though I hadn’t planned on charging much since the place did need some work and something was better than the nothing I’d had from it before.

“Name it.”

I thought. “Four hundred a month?”

“Sold.”

“Should I have asked for more?”

Alex looked around. “Probably. That couch adds a lot of value. The smell, especially.”

“It doesn’t smell!” I cried, horrified. “Does it smell?”

He laughed. “I’m kidding you, Olivia. It’s fine. So…you want first and last month’s rent? A security deposit? Got paperwork to sign?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Umm…”

Alex came forward, hand out. I thought he meant to shake, but when he took mine, he didn’t let go. He pumped my hand slowly, smiling. “Maybe we should just spit on our palms.”

“Wow. No. How about we skip that part. First and last month’s rent is fine, if you have it.”

“I have it.” Alex squeezed my hand and let go, then looked around again. “When can I move in?”

“Whenever you want.”

“Sweet.” He turned to me. “Next week? It’ll take some time for me to get some things shipped here. Buy a bed. That sort of thing.”

“That’s fine. I’ll get you a copy of the keys.”

Alex studied me. “You sure you don’t need references or anything like that?”

“Why? Because you’re trouble?”

Alex laughed. “Right. That’s me.”

“I can handle you,” I said.

“I’m sure you can.” Alex’s stomach rumbled suddenly and loudly. After the pancake orgy earlier I’d have thought I wouldn’t eat until the next day, but of course my own stomach had to answer his. “Let me take you to dinner.”

“It’s only three o’clock.”

“Late lunch, then.” He grinned. “Where do you want to go?”

“Alex…I really need to get some work done.”

“Olivia,” he wheedled, a man totally used to getting his own way. “I heard your stomach rumbling. You can’t deny you’re hungry.”

I’d known him for less than forty-eight hours and already I’d seen how he looked when he came, tasted his cooking, had my ass handed to me playing Dance Dance Revolution, and now I was going to practically be living with him.

I let Alex take me to dinner, too.

It was hard to eat while laughing, and he wasn’t giving me much chance to do anything else. Alex had stories, and if I could tell that many of them were exaggerated for effect, it was also easy to believe them. He’d been all over, done so much, that I felt like a real country mouse beside him.

“What is your story, really?” I said over slices of cheesecake and mugs of espresso. “How’d you make it here from Japan?”

“I came from Holland, actually. Before that I was in Singapore. Went to Scotland, too.”

I made a face. “Smart-ass. You didn’t come to Central PA just to visit Patrick?”

“Well…” Alex shrugged. “He invited me, for one thing, and it was on my way back home. Plus I had a lead on this consulting gig. It all worked out.”

“Where’s home?”

“I’m from Ohio. Sandusky.”

“Cedar Point!” I said. “I’ve been there.”

“Yeah. That’s the place.” Alex drank some espresso and leaned back in the booth. He still wore the long scarf, though his peacoat was scrunched in a pile by his side. “I thought I’d get back there for the holidays, but it looks like I’ll be staying here instead.”

“How come?”

This time Alex did more than glance at me. He gave me the full weight of his gaze. “I haven’t been back in a long time. Sometimes, the longer you stay away from something the harder it is to go back there.”

I knew that already. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. So…you don’t get along with your family?”

A pause, a breath. He raised a brow.

“Too personal?” I asked.

“No. Just not sure how to answer.”

“You don’t have to,” I said.

He shook his head. “No, it’s okay. Have you heard the expression ‘home is the place where they have to take you in’? Or whatever it is?”

“Of course.” I licked the tines of my fork and then dragged it through the chocolate syrup on my plate.

“Well, let’s just say I’m more of a ‘you can never go home again’ type of guy.”

“Wow. That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. I guess so. I used to not get along with my family at all. My dad was…” Alex hesitated again, then kept going before I could tell him once more he didn’t have to speak. “He’s an asshole. I was going to say he was an asshole, but I guess he still is. He doesn’t drink anymore, but he’s kind of an ass, anyway. I think that’s just who he is.”

I sipped at the last of my coffee. “But?”

“But he’s trying. I guess. Not that I think my dad and I are ever going to go on that big father-son fishing trip or anything,” he added.

“You never know.”

“I know,” Alex said pointedly. “But at least he talks to me when I call home. And he cashes the checks I send. Well, hell, he always did that.”

Alex laughed. I laughed a second later, thinking I should feel a little awkward about this sharing but…not.

“People change,” I said.

“Everything changes.” Alex shrugged and looked away. “Shit happens. Anyway, I’d been working overseas for a long time. Sold my company a few years ago and wasn’t doing a whole lot. I went back home for the summer and…fuck.”

A harsh word, a little out of place for the circumstances. It put me on the edge of my seat. It sounded good, coming from him, as if he said it a lot. He must’ve been keeping himself in line until now. I liked thinking he might be letting go.

“Let’s just say I remembered all the reasons I’d left home in the first place.” He flicked his bangs from his face with a practiced jerk. “Anyway, I got some offers to do some consulting, got a start with a new company. Traveled for a while, went back overseas. Worked for a while in Japan. That’s where I met Patrick. But the job ended and I had to go somewhere. Thought I’d travel around my homeland instead of being a stranger in a strange land.”

“I love that book.”

He looked at me. “Me, too.”

“So, what, you’re not working at all? Just going wherever you want, whenever?”

“Sleeping on a series of couches.” Alex paused to bite some cheesecake. “I’m sort of a professional houseguest.”

“That sounds…” I laughed.

He laughed, too. “Shitty?”

“Sort of.”

He shrugged. “I’m good at making a pain of myself by abusing hospitality.”

“I don’t see that about you at all.” I thought of how he’d moved around Patrick’s kitchen, making himself at home, but not overstepping. “Besides, people wouldn’t invite you to stay if they didn’t like you.”

Alex dragged his fork through the cheesecake and kept his gaze there. “Sure. I guess so. But now I don’t have to worry about it anymore, right?”

Warmth eased over my cheeks at that, and I couldn’t keep my smile tucked away. “I guess not. I’ve got your first and last in my pocket, and it’s pretty much already spent.”

“I guess you’re not treating for dinner, then.” He reached to jab his fork through the last bite of my cheesecake, and while I might’ve stabbed out the eyes of anyone else who dared do such a thing, I could only laugh at him.

“No way. You invited me.”

I don’t think it’s possible to know someone in just a couple days, a few hours. I didn’t believe I knew him then, no matter what I’d seen or said. But at that moment, I believed I could know him. More than that, I believed I wanted to.

“That’s right, I did. The person who asks should always pay for the date.”

He looked up at me with those dark eyes, that soft, smirking mouth, and I once again found myself without words and wondering how he managed to strike me so stupid with nothing but a glance.

“C’mon,” Alex said as he got up from the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

And I followed.

The first clue I had that Alex had actually moved in was the different car in my parking lot. It wasn’t a new car, but whoa. Bright yellow Camaro with black accents? Not at all what I’d have picked for my new downstairs neighbor. It looked to be from the mid-to-late eighties, the only reason I could guess that close being that my brother, Bert, was something of a muscle car buff and would often wax poetic about a certain type.

I pulled in beside it and stepped out to look it over. The car itself was in fine but not pristine condition, the interior a little more worn. This wasn’t even a showpiece car. This was a butch, wheels a-rollin’, smoke-out-at-a-traffic-light sort of car.

I liked it.

It had been only a few days since we’d sealed the deal without the spit on our palms, and I’d put the cash Alex had paid me with to good use—toward groceries and some bills, and added a new photo printer I didn’t need but really wanted. I hadn’t seen him since Sunday, though he’d left a message on my voice mail telling me he’d be moving in sometime this week. Judging by the car and the boxes stacked up in the front entry, he’d made a good start.

His door opened as my foot hit the first stair, and I turned, setting the heavy printer box on the railing to rest my arms. “Hi.”

“Olivia.” Warm and gooey caramel, smooth and yummy, that was his voice. “Hey, can I give you a hand?”

I’d have said no but for the fact I’d been stupid and tried to carry not only my three bags of groceries but also the printer, and my arms were already shaking. “Yeah, that would be great. Can you grab—”

He’d already lifted the heavy box from my hands. “I got it. You go on ahead.”

I shifted the plastic bags in my two fists and led the way up the stairs to my own door, unlocked it and pushed it open. “Thanks. You can put the box over there on the dresser at the foot of the steps.”

I pointed to one of the dozen dressers I’d collected from thrift shops and used furniture stores. Patrick called it a fetish. I called it a practical use of space and an appreciation for recycling. The one I meant was long and low, about thigh-height on me. I’d covered it with a collage of articles and photos cut from the stash of photography magazines I no longer subscribed to. It fit just right against the wall under the metal spiral stairs leading up to the loft, and because of this was covered with all the junk I meant to take up there and consistently forgot.

Alex set the box next to a collection of hardback novels I’d picked up at a library sale and hadn’t had time yet to crack open. “Big Jackie Collins fan, huh?”

I laughed. “Hey. Some books are bad because they’re bad. Some books are good because they’re bad.”

He looked over his shoulder at me. “People, too.”

Before I could answer that he’d stepped back to look up through the spiral stairs, his hands on his hips. “What’s up there?”

“Just the loft.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure.” I followed him up the winding stairs.

At the top, Alex let out a low, impressed whistle. “Sweet.”

Downstairs, the large open space and elevated ceilings dwarfed my few pieces of furniture. But I’d made this space up here comfy and cozy with a jumble of thrift store and salvage pieces—a curving sectional that had come from a hotel lobby, a low coffee table and dozens of cushions. The floor-to-ceiling windows that let in so much light below were bisected a few inches from the ceiling by the loft’s floor, and I’d hung sheer colored scarves and strings of beads in front of them. A cheap paper lantern from IKEA dangled in a corner.

“I read up here.” It wasn’t really big enough to do much else.

Alex ducked reflexively as he stepped to the loft’s center. He wasn’t in danger of bumping his head, but the ceiling was so low up here it felt possible. Grinning over his shoulder at me, he sank onto the sectional and bounced a little, then put his hands behind his head and his feet on the table.

“Awesome.” He looked at the pile of books stacked on the floor next to the sofa. “More Jackie?”

“Probably.” I tilted my head sideways to check out the titles. Lots of science fiction, some romance, a couple of mysteries. “I think there’s a little bit of everything there.”

Alex lifted the book from the top of the pile. “Robert R. McCammon?”

“Swan Song. Have you read it?”

He shook his head. “No. Should I?”

“It’s scary,” I told him. “You can borrow it, if you want.”

Grinning, he tucked the book into his fist and stood. “Thanks.”

Alex was tall but not big, not broad, more lean than anything. Yet he took up an awful lot of space. He stretched up one arm and placed his hand flat on the ceiling, and the lines of his body shifted. A hip went down, a knee bent. Once again I pictured him in a catalog. He had a face that could convince people they wanted stuff they couldn’t afford and didn’t need.

“Well, I’d better get back,” he said after a spare few seconds.

“Lots of unpacking?” I asked over my shoulder as he followed me down the stairs.

“Umm…no.” He laughed. “I don’t have a lot of stuff.”

“But you got a new ride. I saw it out back.”

Alex laughed again. “Yeah. Fucking Bumblebee. What can I say? I got my first hard-on for the Transformers.”

“Better that than Rainbow Brite, I guess. Or the Smurfs.”

We laughed together and he looked around my apartment again. The layout of my place was a little different than his, with more open space and higher ceilings, plus the loft. It was brighter, too.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks. I can’t take much credit for it. I bought it already made into apartments. Hey, would you like some hot tea? I just got some chai.”

“That would be great.”

I left him to make himself at home while I heated the water and put away my groceries. I had no doubt he would, and though I was more one to guard my privacy, that was surprisingly okay with me. By the time I came out of the kitchen with two mugs of steaming chai, he’d made the tour around my apartment.

“You took all these?” Alex reached for the mug without looking at me, his gaze fixed on the photos I’d hung in stark glass frames without mats.

“Yes.”

We studied them together. I warmed my hands on my mug. He sipped. He said nothing for so many minutes I began to feel nervous, as though I wanted to speak. Had to speak. I bit my tongue, determined not to ask him what he thought.

“This one.” He pointed to a shot of me and Patrick at the far end. “You didn’t take this one.”

“Oh. No.” I’d hung it there because it was a favorite, a candid shot of us in happy times. Our hands were linked, my head on his shoulder. We looked like a normal couple.

Alex sipped more chai.

“I should take it down, I guess.” I made no move to do so.

He looked at me then. “Why?”

“Well…because…it’s a lie.” It wasn’t what I’d expected to say, but once the words came out they felt right. “That picture isn’t real. It was never real.”

Alex handed me his mug and I took it automatically. When he lifted the frame off its hook I made an unexpected noise of protest. He gave me a look and took the single step up onto the level where my dining table was. He put the photo facedown on it.

“Now, it’s down.” He reached for his mug and I handed it to him. “Feel any better?”

“No.” But I laughed a little. “Thanks.”

“Hey, do you have any plans for tonight? I know it’s Friday. You probably have something going on.”

I had to work the early shift at Foto Folks the next morning. “Actually, I don’t.”

“I rented some movies. And, like a d-bag, didn’t remember I don’t have a TV yet.”

“Ah. So you’re going to use me for mine, is that it?”

“I’d be ashamed to say yes, but it’s the truth.”

I sipped from my mug as I pretended to think about it. “What did you rent?”

“The new Transformers movie. And Harold and Maude.”

“Yeah, wow, because those two are so similar,” I told him with a laugh. “But I haven’t seen the Transformers and it’s been years since I watched Harold and Maude. Sure. I’ll let you use my TV.”

“I’ll buy the pizza, how’s that?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

We made arrangements to meet later, and Alex showed up at six o’clock with a large pizza from the place down the street in one hand, a bunch of DVDs in the other. I hadn’t done more than change my clothes into Friday-night-stay-at-home sweatpants and a T-shirt, but he’d showered and shaved, and wafted through my door on a delicious cloud of garlic and cologne. I wondered if I should’ve made more of an effort.

“Dinner by candlelight?” he asked as he set the pizza on my dining table.

“Oh…no. They’re not for ambience.” Lighting candles was something I did on Friday nights when I wasn’t out and about, a habit left over from my childhood, when my mom had made a point of lighting candles even if she’d done very little else to usher in the Sabbath. Big change from now, when her life revolved around it.

He gave me a quizzical look. “Are you Jewish?”

I shouldn’t have been surprised he guessed—a world traveler would probably have encountered some Jews somewhere along the way. “Not really. Sort of.”

“Oookay.”

I laughed, self-conscious. “It’s complicated.”

“Fair enough. It’s not any of my business.” He glanced at the candles. “They’re pretty, though.”

“Thanks.” My mother had given me the candlesticks. I don’t think she knew I used them. At least I’d never told her. “What can I get you to drink?”

Moving right along. Alex got the hint. “Water’s good.”

“You sure? I have some red wine. In a bottle even, not from a box.”

He made an impressed face. “Fancy. But no, thanks.”

“Do you mind if I have some?”

My question seemed to surprise him. “No, of course not. It’s your house.”

He’d been gracious enough not to push me on the religion issue; I gave him the same treatment about the drinking. We piled slices of pizza on our plates and ate in front of the television while the Transformers blew up a lot of stuff and Harold fell in love with Maude. We laughed a lot and talked over the movies. We sat at opposite ends of the couch, but our feet met in the middle, nudging every so often.

It was the nicest night I’d had in a long time, and I told him so.

“Get out of here.” Alex flipped a hand at me.

“I’m serious!”

“Well. Good. I’m glad.”

A few glasses of red wine had left me mellow and languid. “It’s nice, just hanging out with you, Alex. No pressure. None of that stupid back and forth stuff.”

He was silent for a few seconds as the credits rolled. “Thanks. It’s nice hanging out with you, too.”

I yawned under cover of my hand. “But it’s late, and I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Work?”

“Yeah. Think of me while you’re still snuggled down under the blankets in the morning.”

He laughed and got up, held out a hand to help me up, too. “Oh. I’m sure I will.”

Our fingers had linked, but now he let me go. I watched as he popped open the DVD player to take out the disc, and slipped it into the paper rental sleeve. He caught me looking as he turned.

“We should do this again,” I said. “It was fun.”

I wasn’t drunk, but I was tired and more than a bit fuzzy. I couldn’t quite read his smile or the expression in his eyes—something was there that looked like amusement. Something beneath that, too deep to decipher.

“Yeah. I’d like that. Good night, Olivia.” Alex didn’t move toward the door.

This was the point of the night where, with another man, I’d have been tipping my face up for a kiss. Hell, this was the part of the night where I’d already have decided if he was going to spend the night or be kicked out. Instead, we both laughed at the same time. Alex stepped away. Whatever tension I’d imagined—and it had to be imagined—faded.

“Good night, Olivia. See you.”

“Night,” I called after him as he let himself out the door. “Catch you later.”

The door clicked shut behind him. I gathered the trash and put the leftover pizza in the fridge, then padded into my bathroom for a hot shower so I wouldn’t have to wake up so early the next morning. Usually the steam and water relax me enough so that I’m boneless by the time I come out, ready immediately for sleep, but not this night.

My soap-slick hands slid over my skin. Nipples tight. An ache between my legs. I wasn’t making myself come with Alex’s face in mind, his long, lean body…the sound of his moan. I wasn’t sliding my hands over my breasts and thighs and belly pretending they belonged to him. I was absolutely not lying in darkness on my bed with my legs spread, a finger in my cunt and another on my clit, working my body into ecstasy while I pretended it was him.

All right, so I was. It was impossible not to. He was beautiful and sexy and the closest I’d had to a date in months. That was by choice, since plenty of men asked me out but very few impressed me. And he wasn’t into women. I’d seen evidence of that with my own eyes, even if Patrick hadn’t warned me off him.

Yet my body gave it up for him, my mind swirling with thoughts of how wrong it was. How stupid and useless. My mind knew better, but my pussy didn’t care. I slid fingers deep inside my hot, slick flesh and felt the clamp and grip of my internal muscles as I spasmed. My clit throbbed, pressure building while I tapped a fingertip in a slow beating rhythm on top. Teasing. Holding off.

Until at last I thought once more of his voice, my memory conveniently merging the sound of his groan with my name, and the way he said “fuck me.” In my head it had become a command, not an exclamation of surprise. And as I surged up and over and down into the spiral of heat and pleasure, I wished he would say it to me for real.

Chapter Four

“I haven’t seen you in forever.” Patrick frowned. “You never return my calls and I sent you about four dozen pings at Connex and you ignored me there, too.”

I fiddled with my camera settings and took a few shots of nothing just to test them. “I’ve been busy with work. I haven’t even logged in to Connex lately. What sorts of pings?”

“I invited you to our New Year’s party. Teddy thinks I’m crazy for having another party so soon after the last one. But what can I say? I like parties. Besides, I don’t want to go out anyplace around here for New Year’s Eve and nobody invited us anywhere.” Patrick shrugged. “You’ll come.”

“What if I have plans? Turn to the left a little. Hold up the cup. Look like, c’mon, Patrick, look like you’re enjoying it.” I peered through my lens to frame the shot I was supposed to use in an ad for a local café. “I’ve seen you look more enthused about watching Lawrence Welk reruns.”

“What do you want me to do, look like I’m getting ready to fuck the mug?” Patrick frowned and lifted the cup higher and forced an entirely false grin onto his handsome mouth. “Is this better? How’s this, Olivia? Ooh, coffee, I’m so horny for you…”

I snapped a couple of shots just to annoy him with later, when he saw how ridiculous he looked. “Quit being a jerk. C’mon, I need this for tomorrow.”

“Nothing like running behind schedule.” Patrick licked the mug.

I snapped another shot and thought I might frame that one as a gift. “It’s a last-minute job, and I can’t afford to turn them down.”

He shot me a glance, then put his pout into place. “How’s this?”

“A little less constipated, but yes. Good.” Finally I got something that would work. It wasn’t art, but it would do. Patrick put the mug down while I transferred the pictures to my computer.

“You’ll come, right? And dinner on Friday. You haven’t been over since the party.” He flipped through the large album of photos I’d chosen as my best, to show off to potential clients. “Oh, I like this one. Why don’t you do more of these, Livvy? They’re so good.”

I glanced at the picture, a nude I’d taken at a photography workshop I’d gone to the year before. “Because I’m not an erotic photographer and I don’t have much use for nudes.”

“She’s pretty.”

I gave him a look. “Yes. She is. She’s a model.”

He flipped a few more pages. “I like this one, too.”

A landscape. Nothing special. I could add text to it and play with the dimensions to use in brochures or Web sites. I shrugged.

“You don’t take compliments very well.”

I laughed and began toying with the pictures I’d taken of him. “I want to make my living doing this, Patrick. I don’t have any grand ideas of becoming a famous artiste. The work’s good. Yes. I get it. I’m not setting up shop at the street fair to sell my prints, okay?”

“You could have a gallery show. Your work is good, as good as some of the stuff I’ve seen hanging up downtown. You know I have a friend of a friend—”

“Stop,” I told him firmly. “Patrick, I love you, but I’m not having a gallery show. And besides, I know people, too, you know. It’s not like I couldn’t get something going if I wanted to.”

“So why don’t you?” He leaned against the large wooden chest of drawers I’d salvaged from the back alley.

I thought about warning him he’d get his designer jeans dirty rubbing up against the old wood, but decided against it. As fussy as Patrick could be, he liked to pretend sometimes he wasn’t, especially when we were alone and sort of reverted to the way we’d been as a couple. When he’d had to be what he felt was “manly.”

“Because I don’t want to.” I shrugged again.

“You should do it anyway.”

Now I turned to look at him full-on. “You know, you can leave anytime.”

Patrick-my-boyfriend would never have flipped me the finger. Patrick-my-boyfriend had insisted on using tools and playing sports. He’d farted and burped a lot more back then. I couldn’t say I wasn’t happy he’d let go of that.

“You don’t go that way, remember?” I said with a glance at his middle finger.

He snorted and stood up. “You’ll come to dinner.”

The past two Fridays I’d spent watching movies with Alex. “I might have plans.”

“What on earth could you be doing on a Friday night that would be better than games and food and drinks at my house?” He paused. “Do you have a date?”

“I love how you make that sound like science fiction.” I sighed, giving up trying to work on the pictures with him there. “As a matter of fact, my tenant and I are probably going to be watching the entire BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. The Colin Firth version.”

Patrick gasped and recoiled. “What? You…with him? But…”

He looked so shocked and hurt I shouldn’t have laughed, but I did. “He’s never seen it.”

“Liv!”

“Patrick!” I mocked.

He shook his head, frowning, brows pulled low over his blue eyes. “I knew you renting to him was going to be bad.”

“What’s bad about it?”

Alex had been great. He took the big garbage cans out to the Dumpster in back, had cooked dinner for me twice the week before, and hung out watching old movies with me. He had a great sense of humor and didn’t play his music too loud. He also liked to do yoga, shirtless, and that was a bonus. I’d found myself unable to sleep for thinking of him, but I didn’t want Patrick to know that. I sounded a little too gushy, too perky, but my focus was on the computer screen and not my tone of voice. Patrick’s silence alerted me to my faux pas, and I turned to look at him.

“Don’t be like that,” I told him.

“Well, you haven’t called me, like, in a week,” he said. “I thought you were going to come over to watch Supernatural on the big screen. You know Teddy bought the Blu-rays.”

“I’ve had to work, Patrick. I can’t just throw all that aside all the time.” I tried to sound gentle and it came out annoyed. Probably because I was annoyed.

Patrick just glared. He was jealous. This realization punched an incredulous laugh out of me. He hadn’t been jealous of the past three guys I’d dated, but he was jealous of this?

“Oh, Patrick.”

We knew each other well enough that some things didn’t need to be spelled out. He frowned and kicked at the floor. “I guess you’ll be spending Christmas with him, then?”

“Instead of you?”

He crossed his arms and looked dour.

“I do have a family, Patrick. My dad’s invited me home with him and Marjorie. And my brothers have, too.”

“And you’re going to go?”

“I think so. I don’t see them that much.” My brothers had invited me for past holidays and I’d declined, not wanting to make a trip either to Wyoming or Illinois in the winter. I believed them both when they said they’d miss me, but I was also sure they weren’t heartbroken. We’d all grown up. They had families. Kids. Our family had never been as close as some and never as distant as others. What we had worked, at least for us.

“What about your mom?”

“My mother doesn’t celebrate Christmas, remember?” I gave him my full attention, and a scowl. It had certainly been a bit of an issue when we were dating. Not as much as the eventual revelation that he preferred sausage to tacos, but it had caused some tension.

“I can’t believe you’re blowing me off for someone else.”

“Get out.” I pointed at the door, but not before Patrick danced closer, just out of reach, to smack his lips at me. I didn’t want to smile or laugh, but I had to. “Out! I have work to do! Isn’t Teddy waiting for you?”

“Teddy’s always waiting for me.”

“And I’m sure he has dinner all ready for you when you get home, too. Don’t be late, hanging around here. Go on. Go.” I shooed him. Patrick grabbed at my hand but missed.

I liked him this way, acting silly as he had when we’d been together long ago, before sex got in the way and he thought he had to be something he wasn’t. He was different now. We both were. But Patrick was really different with his new friends, his new partner. It might have been the “real” him, but this silliness was part of him, too. Time had passed, wounds had healed. In many ways Patrick and I were closer than we’d ever been as a couple. I knew in every part of me that mattered that if we’d gone ahead and done it, married, we’d have been miserable and divorced—or worse, miserable and not divorced—in less than a year. I was happy my Patrick had found his place in the world with someone who loved him the way he deserved and wanted to be loved, and I didn’t mope around wringing my hands, wishing for my prince to come. Or I tried not to.

Then I was feeling sad and nostalgic again and hating it. Part of it was the time of year, when I felt caught between my different worlds, anyway, but part of it would always just be…Patrick.

“Just don’t forget about me,” he said.

“Oh, Patrick. As if I ever could.” I stood to give him a hug and a kiss he didn’t deserve, but I couldn’t deny. “Now. Get out. I’m busy.”

“Call me,” he demanded.

“I will! I will. Now go!”

“Liv…”

“Yes, my dear one?” The words were sweet, my tone a little bitter.

“Nothing. Never mind.” Then he went out and closed the door behind him.

I turned to my computer and lost myself in work. It was better than being lost in anything else.

I wasn’t brought up stupid.

On the contrary, both my parents were part of the sex, drugs and rock-and-roll generation. Fans of the Grateful Dead. I had two much older brothers who hadn’t thought a lot about shielding me from the movies they watched or music they listened to. I knew about sex.

After my parents divorced, when I was five, my dad remarried almost immediately. His new wife, Marjorie, an enthusiastic member of Sacred Heart Catholic Church, had brought with her my two stepsisters, Cindy and Stacy, both a year or so older than me. My mom stayed steadfastly single, rarely even dating. My parents were cordial to one another as they shared me, neither ever making me choose, and if there was always a little bit of tension with my dad over my place in his new household, it was made up for by my mother’s complete indulgence in me. We were best friends, my mom and I.

I had my first “real” boyfriend at fourteen, gave my first hand job a year later. Most of my friends had lost their virginity by the time we were sixteen, but I waited another year before I gave it up in my boyfriend’s basement at a graduation party for his older brother. I wasn’t scarred by screwing him, even though we broke up shortly after that. I knew enough to use a condom and was smart enough to go all the way with a guy who’d already proved himself adept at getting me off. It was as fine a first time as I could ask for.

My life changed my senior year of high school. My mom, who favored f lowing gypsy skirts and long, unbound hair, had always been a reader, but her choices of material had changed over the past year from Clive Barker and Margaret Atwood to thick, leather-bound copies of the Tanakh and journals on Jewish commentary. I knew about Judaism, though we’d never practiced anything more religious than spinning the dreidel. But now…well, they say there’s nothing like the enthusiasm of a convert. My mother, born and raised Jewish, wasn’t technically a convert, but she was definitely enthusiastic.

Suddenly, most of what we’d done together as a family disappeared, tossed out in the garbage along with an entire pantry of food she deemed unfit to eat. She put away half her dishes to keep them unused for a year, the time it would take to make them kosher again. The others she koshered by pouring boiling water over them, and maintaining a completely meat-free house.

Suddenly we were Jewish and vegetarian. My mom had always been a devout carnivore. The Friday-night dinners I could’ve dealt with. The candle lighting, the baking of challah. But giving up cheeseburgers? No way.

I moved out to live with my dad and Marjorie, who took me in, but not quite without making it seem as though I were a burden. It was her duty, I heard her whisper to a girlfriend once, when they were gathered for coffee. Her Christian duty. It bothered her more that I hadn’t been baptized than the fact I was black—which was good, because there was always the chance I might accept Jesus Christ as my savior, but I could never change the color of my skin.

I loved my dad and didn’t mind having to share a bathroom with my stepsisters, or having a small, dank bedroom in the basement. I didn’t mind the prayers before meals, because at least they were giving me plenty of bacon, ohhh, bacon. Every morning, bacon and eggs. I didn’t even mind church so much, because the altar boys were cute.

My mother didn’t like any of this, but caught up in her own journey, she let a lot of things slide. So long as I was with her for the holidays she wanted to celebrate, she didn’t mind what I was doing the rest of the time. If I was there to light the menorah, she was all right with me going home to my dad’s to stuff the stockings. I was smart enough not to tell her about the youth group Marjorie encouraged me to join, or how my dad had been hinting that it might be a good idea for me to get baptized.

I escaped salvation by heading off to college. Where I met Patrick my sophomore year. He lived in my dorm, and the first time he smiled at me, I imprinted on him like a duckling. Tall, fair-haired, ruddy-cheeked…and Catholic. As in can-name-all-the-martyred-saints Catholic. I was smitten.

I like to think of life as an infinite jigsaw puzzle with so many pieces that no matter how many you fit together, the picture’s never finished. Meeting Patrick was the culmination of a hundred thousand choices. He was the end of only one path, but it was the one I took. No matter how it ended, he was the choice I made, and while I’d always felt I would never waste time in regretting it, I was beginning to think I might.

I thought I knew what love was with a handsome boyfriend who was a very good kisser. I thought I knew what it was for three years, all through college, even when all my friends were fucking like bunnies and the sheen of chastity was wearing off. Love is patient, love is kind, right? Love forgives all things?

That’s what I believed then. I wasn’t so sure now.

Our senior year, Patrick got down on one knee and asked me to marry him, with a princess-cut diamond ring in one hand and a bouquet of twelve red roses in the other. We set a date. We planned a wedding.

And two weeks before we were due to walk down the aisle at my father’s church, I found out Patrick had been lying to me all along.

I hadn’t been raised stupid, but I’d sure ended up feeling dumb.

The week passed. I heard the sound of voices as I passed Alex’s apartment, and I saw his car come and go, but I didn’t see him. I ended up watching Pride and Prejudice alone and somehow blaming Patrick for that.

The week before Christmas is busy for most people, even those who don’t celebrate the holiday, and I had a to-do list as long as anyone’s. I hadn’t put up a tree, but I had bought presents. I’d be spending the day with my dad and his family, though my brothers and their wives and children weren’t going to be there. I’d also picked up a slew of last-minute design jobs for after-Christmas sales promotions, and a few portrait sessions for friends looking for down-to-the-wire stocking gifts for friends and relatives.

The little girl in my camera’s viewfinder didn’t have wings, but she was a little angel. Four years old, mop of curly black hair, stubborn little rosebud mouth and a pair of crossed arms. A tiny, badass version of Shirley Temple, including the dress with the bow at the waist.

“No! No, no, no!” She stamped her foot. She pouted. She glared.

“Pippa. Sweetie. Smile for the picture, please?”

Pippa looked at her daddy Steven and stamped her foot again. “I don’t like this dress! I don’t like this headband!”

She tore the bow from her hair and threw it on the ground, and to make sure we all knew just how much she hated it, stepped on it with her patent leather shoes.

“I blame you,” Pippa’s other daddy, Devon, told me.

I raised a brow. “Gee, thanks.”

Devon laughed as Steven grabbed up the bow and tried to salvage the look. “She’s stubborn, that’s all. A lot like you.”

“Pippa, princess, please—”

“Oh, and her daddy spoiling her has nothing to do with any of that?” I murmured, my attention focused on the scene playing out in front of me. Point and shoot. Click. I captured the battle between father and child with a press of one finger.

“Don’t take pictures of this!” Steven demanded.

Pippa, laughing, dodged his grasp and ran around the studio. Her shoes pounded the old wooden boards, the beat of freedom. She ran fast, that little girl. Just as I always had.

Devon laughed and sat back, shaking his head. I snapped picture after picture. Pippa running. Steven grabbing her up, dangling her upside down, her pretty dress flipping up to show the rumba panties beneath, and her springy curls sweeping the floor. Daddy and daughter snuggling close. Then, two daddies with their little girl, the love among them a visible, tangible thing I didn’t control or edit, but merely captured.

“Pippa, do it for Daddy,” Steven said. “I want a pretty picture of you to give Nanny and Poppa.”

That rosebud mouth pursed again and the small, fine brows furrowed, but at last Pippa gave a sigh better suited to a little old lady. “Oh, okay. Fine.”

He settled her on the upturned wooden crate and arranged her hair and dress, then stepped back. I framed the shot and took it. Perfect. But even as I tilted the camera to show the digital image to Devon, I knew this wasn’t the one I’d tweak and polish to give them for their wall.

Small arms hugged my knees and I looked into an upturned face. “Lemme see, Livia! Lemme see the pitcher.”

I knelt beside the little girl and showed her the photo on the screen. She frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“Shh,” I whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t tell your daddy that or he’ll make you sit for another one.”

Even at four, Pippa was smart enough to figure out when a smile was a better weapon. She giggled. I joined her. When she hugged me, her small, soft cheek pressed to mine, I smelled baby shampoo and fabric softener.

“Why don’t you go play with the dollhouse,” I told her. “Let me show your daddies the pictures.”

“I wanna see the pitchers, too!”

“You will,” I promised, knowing there was no way to keep her from it, but not willing, as her fathers were, to indulge her every whim. “But first I have to put them on my computer. Go play.”

“She listens to you,” Steven said with an exhausted sigh as Pippa skipped off to the corner where I’d placed my old dollhouse. “Thank God.”

I shrugged and slipped the memory card from the back of my camera. I took it to the long, battered table I used instead of a desk, and pushed it into the card reader plugged into the back of my Macbook. My photo program opened, showcasing the series of pictures I’d taken. Steven and Devon pulled up chairs on either side.

“Look at that one,” Steven said about the one showing the three of them. “Gorgeous, Liv. Just amazing.”

The heat of pride flushed my cheeks. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously. Look at that.” Devon pointed to one of Pippa, backlit in front of one of the studio’s long, high windows, her dress belled out around her knees as she spun. “How do you do it?”

“Practice. Talent.” I clicked on the shot to enlarge it, and toyed with some settings to bring out the contrast of light and dark. “Mostly practice.”

“Anyone can take a snapshot. But what you do is art. Really art.” Devon sounded awed. He turned from the monitor to look at me. “She draws, you know. Pippa does. The pediatrician says kids her age are just barely making stick figures, but she’s already drawing full bodies.”

“I don’t draw,” I told him gently, and kept my focus on the screen.

“I’m just saying,” he answered softly.

We worked together for a little while on the photos they liked best, until I’d cleaned them up and added them to a disc for them to take home. I added the raw shots, too, in case they wanted them for any reason. I lingered on the one of Pippa in front of the window.

“Can I use this in my portfolio?”

“Of course. Absolutely.” Devon had taken the disc and put it in his bag, while Steven went to check on their daughter.

“Thanks.” I’d get a print made later. For now I looked again, only for a moment, before clicking it closed and removing the memory card to place back in my camera.

“You know, Liv…” Devon hesitated until I glanced at him, and then he looked across the room. “You know you’re welcome, anytime, to see her. Not just when we come over for pictures or when we invite you. That was our agreement, wasn’t it? That you’d always be welcome to be a part of her life.”

I followed his gaze with my own. Pippa had rearranged the furniture in the dollhouse, putting beds in the living room and an oven in the attic. She giggled as Steven took one of the dolls and made it speak to the one in her hand.

“I know. Thanks.”

Devon meant well, so how could I tell him that I didn’t want to invite myself into their home to watch them raise my child? That I appreciated being kept a part of Pippa’s life, but that I didn’t expect or even crave anything more than what I already had? She was my child, but I was not her mother.

“Thanks again for the pictures.” Steven settled a check on my desk.

I didn’t pick it up. He’d have written it for too much, again, and I didn’t want to be ungracious by arguing with him about the amount. I liked taking pictures, but I liked paying my bills, too. Besides, taking his money made this not a favor, but a job. I think we both preferred it that way.

“Livvy, are you coming to my birthday party? It’s a pretty princess party.” Pippa twirled. “And I’m going to have a piñata.”

I laughed and tugged one of her long, silky curls. “A pretty princess piñata for Pippa. Perfect.”

She tipped her face to look up at me, her eyes squinched shut with glee. “Yes! And all my friends are coming.”

“Then I guess I should come, too. Since I’m your friend.”

Pippa hugged my thighs just briefly before dancing off again. “Yes, yes, you’ll come to my paaarty. And bring a present.”

“Pippa!” Steven said, exasperated.

Devon chuckled and met my eyes. I think he understood me more than his partner did. Steven, hovering just a little too close, watched me. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. I could imagine how he felt. So I stepped back and watched Pippa, who twirled again, already chattering at her daddy about where she wanted to go for dinner and what she wanted to watch on television when they got home.

“I’m going to take Pippa out to the car. Get her strapped in the seat. Devon?” Steven lifted Pippa’s coat, an entirely impractical white, fur-collared jacket. “You coming?”

“Yep. I’ll be right along.”

Devon waited until the sound of Steven’s boots and Pippa’s patent leather shoes echoed away down the concrete stairs. He shrugged into his own coat, a soft brown leather that hit him at midthigh and belted at the waist. Something in the way he turned his head as he tied the belt caught my eye, and I lifted my camera to take a shot.

It blurred, but I took another as he glanced up at me with a self-conscious smile. I’d missed what I was looking for, something elusive I couldn’t have described in words. “Look back at your hands.”

The moment was lost, though, and I pressed the button to view the blurred shot, thinking how I could fix it. Devon peered over my shoulder. He laughed.

I looked up. “See? It takes practice.”

“And talent,” he told me.

Devon is a tall, broad man with skin the color of dark caramel. He shaves his head and wears a cropped goatee, and when he flexes I always expect to hear the purr of ripping fabric as he pops the seams on his shirt. He’s also one of the most gentle men I’ve ever met.

“You should come in and let me take your picture. Just you.”

Devon raised a brow. “Uh-huh.”

I punched his arm gently. “I like taking portraits when I’m not at Foto Folks. It would give me material for my portfolio, anyway.”

“We’ll see.” He smoothed the front of his coat. “I meant what I said, Liv.”

“About coming over? I know.” My camera made a nice barrier between us. I didn’t want to disappoint Devon, and I knew that’s what would happen. He wouldn’t understand my feelings about his daughter. Nobody seemed to.

“It’s just…we’re family, you know? All of us. I lost my parents years ago and my sister doesn’t speak to me.” Because he was gay, he didn’t have to say aloud. “Family’s important. I don’t want you to think you’re not welcome to be a part of her life.”

I nodded. “I know, Devon.”

“Merry Christmas, Liv.”

“Thanks. Same to you.”

He touched my shoulder gently and left, closing the door behind him. When he’d gone I sat back in my chair and opened the file with the photos I’d taken today.

Devon’s family had disowned him at age seventeen, when they’d found out he was gay, and he’d never reconciled with his parents before they passed away. He’d made his own family, gathered friends around him to love and be loved in return.

Pippa was my child, but not my daughter. Steven had requested we not call me Pippa’s mother, and that I sign all parental rights away upon her birth. I’d had no objections. I hadn’t counted on Devon’s love for family making this so complicated.

I took a last look at the photos of the little girl and her parents, her real and true parents. She looked like me and even acted like me a little, and I was blessed to know her. But I was not her mother, and never would be. I took one last look at the photos, and then I closed the folder.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.