Authors: Julie Ann Walker
Two: She smelled like vanilla, which had worked to remind him that his own aroma left a lot to be desired. After a thirty-six-hour training exercise where he’d been forced to belly through a swamp, he remembered thinking Eau de Old Gym Socks and Unwashed Armpits pretty much summed it up.
And three, the most important thing: She was his commanding officer’s kid sister. Which landed her directly in the column marked “hands off.”
Of course, he’d instantly forgotten number three when she finally noticed him, turning those eyes of hers that were gray and turbulent—like the Atlantic after a storm—in his direction. He’d very astutely thought
homina, homina, homina
.
And then when she’d smiled at him? Word, it straight-up stopped his heart.
And that’d been the end of it. Right then and there, in the doorway of the Clover Bar and Grill, he’d fallen ass-over-teakettle in L-O-V-E.
Opening his eyes now, his stupid, lovesick heart thundered in his chest. He watched hungrily as she retook her seat and delicately lifted the wine to her killer lips. What he wouldn’t give to be that wine, sliding into that sweet-tasting mouth, over that soft, agile tongue…
Whoa.
Dock
the
love boat, Sommers.
He couldn’t let his mind wander down
that
prickly little path unless he wanted to pop an immediate chubby.
Which he
so
didn’t want to do.
Because then it’d be all over before he really got a chance to start. She’d take one look at his growing bulge and roll her eyes in that way she had, instantly dismissing him as the same skirt-chasing hound dog he’d been when she’d known him years ago. And that was the dead last thing he wanted.
Not if he hoped to win her. And he was determined to win her despite the fact that every time she looked at him, her expression filled with a wary kind of sadness.
Of course,
not
having those kinds of thoughts was proving nearly futile considering it’d been over two years since he’d been inside a woman, and she had to go and get more beautiful on him.
At thirty-four, Shell was fast approaching perfection. She was just hitting that sweet spot in a woman’s life when her body lost the last rough angles of youth and developed a certain soft magnificence a guy could really revel in.
He opened his mouth to ask her how she’d been, to tell her how much he’d missed her. But he was stopped when the shop’s back door flew open, and a short blur of denim overalls and blinking sneakers came streaking into the courtyard.
“Uncle Frank! Uncle Frank!” the blur skidded to a stop beside Boss, attaching himself to the big man’s leg like a barnacle to a battleship. He held a cherry lollipop in one hand and, from the red splotches around his lips and on his chubby little cheeks, it was obvious he needed to work on his aim. “That purty lady showed me the motorcycles, and I gotta sit on one. Not yours. But the red one with the fire. I like the fire. She told me she painted it. Can I have a red motorcycle with fire when I grow up?” He didn’t wait for Boss to answer before he pressed on, “But then I wanted to go upstairs and, and, and,” he stuttered in his excitement, “she wouldn’t let me. She said it was only for grownups. Why is it only for grownups, Uncle Frank?”
“Frank” came out sounding like “Fwank.”
Boss opened his mouth, but again he didn’t manage to get a word in edgewise before the boy was steaming ahead. “I don’t care anyway, ’cause I got a sucker instead.” He brandished the sloppy piece of candy frighteningly close to Boss’s eye as the big man bent to scoop the little curtain-climber up in his good arm.
So
this
is
Franklin.
Jake had wondered if perhaps he might suffer a few pangs of jealously when he first saw the boy, but thankfully, he didn’t. Perhaps it was because it seemed somehow appropriate there should be a reminder of Preacher and Shell’s union other than his near nuclear jealousy when he thought about the two of them together. Or perhaps it was because no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see one ounce of Preacher in Franklin’s little face.
The rug rat was 100 percent Shell or, more accurately, 100 percent Knight, because he happened to look exactly like Boss…if Boss wasn’t covered in half a dozen scars, that is.
“Well, there isn’t a single doubt as to who this little guy is, is there?” He pushed up from his chair and strolled over to Boss and the sticky little boy in his arms.
“Who’re
you
?” Franklin asked, steel-gray gaze sliding suspiciously over Jake’s shirt before dropping to his feet. “It’s too cold to wear flip-flops now,” he announced gravely. “Mama says so.”
“Yo, little dude.” Jake held out one hand and was surprised when Franklin tucked his head under Boss’s chin, suddenly going all shy. The kid had been Mr. Life-of-the-Party two seconds ago. He tried a different tack. “My name’s Jake. And your mama’s right. It
is
too cold for flip-flops, but I can’t help it,” he shrugged and made a face. “My toes like to breathe.”
The boy tentatively reached out to shake his hand with red, sticky fingers before surreptitiously glancing at his mother. He leaned toward Jake, grinning and whispering conspiratorially, “My toes like to breathe, too.”
Jake laughed and turned to tell Shell she was suffocating her son’s toes when the stricken look on her face had him frowning. “Shell? Is something wrong?”
***
Is
something
wrong?
Yes, something’s wrong!
Everything’s
wrong!
She shouldn’t still have to catch her breath whenever Jake moved with that silky, sliding, big-cat grace of his. She shouldn’t still get light-headed just by being next to him.
He
shouldn’t be able to cruise back into their lives without so much as a by your leave, making her want to forget the awful things he’d done, the awful things he’d said. Making her want to second-guess her decisions about…well…
everything
.
And the sight of him with Franklin…
Dear
Lord…
She opened her mouth without having the first clue what she planned to say—because she sure as heckfire couldn’t tell him any of
that.
But she was saved,
thank
you, baby Jesus
, from having to say anything at all when Becky Reichert, Vanessa Cordero, and a dark-haired woman she didn’t recognize pushed through the back door.
“Sorry about the lollipop,” Becky said as Shell lifted a hand to her temple. Sure enough, ten minutes in Jake’s company, and she was on the fast track to Migraine-ville.
Why had she let Frank talk her into this again?
Because
you’re a pushover when it comes to your brother, that’s why. And you were under the mistaken impression that this might actually be good for you.
She’d very much like to find whoever “they” were and kick them straight in the groin.
Raking in a deep breath, she tried to shake away the tension in her shoulders and neck as she turned toward her brother’s fiancée.
Becky held a platter stacked high with baked potatoes and a bowl of salad just about big enough to bathe in. Vanessa and the dark-haired woman were each loaded down with French bread, plates of bratwurst condiments, and what looked to be pecan pies.
It appeared they intended to feed an army.
“It was the only thing I could think to use to distract him from going upstairs,” Becky explained as Michelle set her chardonnay aside and jumped from her chair to help with the food.
“No worries,” she was quick to assure her future sister-in-law, who didn’t look the
least
bit shaky to her, by the way. In fact, she’d go so far as to say Becky Reichert looked incredibly calm. No wonder Frank had fallen head over heels. The woman obviously had nerves of steel—a characteristic her balls-to-the-wall covert operative brother no doubt found completely irresistible. “It’s not like it’ll ruin his dinner or anything. He takes after his Uncle Frank in the appetite department.”
A brief look of abject horror flashed across Becky’s pretty face as she turned to survey the cornucopia of food now straining the supports of the weathered picnic table. “Oh, great,” she grumbled. “We probably didn’t make enough.”
“We’ll manage.” Michelle laughed, glad for the distraction Becky provided so she could take a few moments to gather herself.
But that proved to be easier said than done.
Because the whole situation, what’d happened between her and Jake, what’d happened to Steven after they’d just started to build their life together, what was
still
happening to Franklin every day, growing up without a father, was so unbelievably unfair that sometimes she had the urge to rip her hair out by its roots and scream at the top of her lungs.
And it was that last one that bothered her most. Because she remembered what it was like as a child to watch her friends crawl all over some dependable-looking guy—a guy who tickled and laughed and taught them to ride their bikes—and feel a dark, aching hole in her heart, knowing that’d never be her.
She’d tried so hard to ensure Franklin didn’t experience that same throbbing void, but Fate, that unbelievably unfair witch, had stepped in and robbed her and her son of the future they deserved.
And she couldn’t help but lay a good portion of the blame for how everything had turned out at Jake’s big feet…
“I, uh, I used to call you Chesty McGivesItUp,” Becky said in a quiet undertone.
Okay, and
that
managed to rip Michelle way from her unsettling thoughts. “Huh?”
“When I thought you were Frank’s lov—”
“Gross,” she held up a hand. “I don’t even want you to finish that sentence.”
Her brother had laughingly informed her that, before she’d gone and blown her cover, the Knights had suffered under the impression that all his furtive trips up to Lincoln Park to visit her had, instead, been booty-calls to a secret lover—which was as hysterical as it was ludicrous. Especially considering that most times Frank had been re-grouting her tub or changing one of Franklin’s dirty diapers. A far,
far
cry from satin sheets and soft whispers…
“Yeah, I know, right?” Becky made a face. “But, I, uh, figured I better tell you in case any of the guys bring it up.”
She laughed; she couldn’t help it. “Chesty McGivesItUp, huh?” Becky winced and nodded. “I think I like that. Boss Knight. Snake Sommers. Rock Babineaux. And Chesty McGivesItUp Carter. Has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? I always wanted a cool handle. Thanks.”
“You’re nuts,” Becky declared with a snort, then glanced over at Frank, her dark eyes instantly softening. “It must run in the family.”
“Oh, it does,” Michelle assured her.
She opened her mouth to tell Becky how happy she was that her brother had finally met his match, when he suddenly looped his good arm around her waist and called over his shoulder, “Snake, get over here. I wanna introduce you and Shell to Becky’s best friend, Eve.” He flicked a finger toward the slim, dark-haired woman who was busy setting the table. She turned at the sound of her name. “Eve, this is my beautiful and talented sister, Michelle Carter. And that sticky little creature over there terrorizing Peanut…” Michelle glanced over to see her son petting the biggest, ugliest cat ever born. The thing appeared to be part American Shorthair and part It’s-Anybody’s-Guess. It was ten pounds overweight—at least—covered in scars, and apparently a victim of some sort of skin affliction if its patchy fur was anything to go by. “…is her son, Franklin. And this,” he jerked his chin toward Jake, “is Jake Sommers.”
“Good to meet you,” Eve said, timidly shaking Michelle’s hand before turning her attention toward Jake. “Mr. Sommers, it’s a pleasure.”
Michelle rolled her eyes when Jake flashed those lady-killer dimples of his at poor, ill-equipped Eve. “Call me Jake or Snake,” he said, widening his dimple-inducing grin. “You say Mr. Sommers, and I start feeling my age.”
And
another
one
bites
the
dust.
Wonderboy just couldn’t help himself, could he? Just like her father, if you put him in front of a beautiful woman, he naturally started oozing charm like a cedar oozes sap.
Not wanting to inadvertently get caught up in his sticky trap, she turned and wandered over to Franklin and the tormented tomcat he was now petting in the
wrong
direction. On the way, she studiously closed her ears to whatever charming bologna Jake might think to sling Eve’s way.