For You (The 'Burg Series) (33 page)

I couldn’t help it, I smiled. “You act like you’ve never seen cleavage before.”

“Seen it, even seen a hint of yours, baby. But never had you in my bed so I could see it close up.”

He had but just not recently.

“Colt –”

“And touch it.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Nice,” he finished.

His word gave me a curl between my legs.

Still, I said, “You have bad guys to pursue and I have to make you breakfast so you don’t faint from malnutrition while doing it so let me up.”

He grinned at me. “Never fainted in my life, Feb.”

“Well, let’s not start today.”

He didn’t stop grinning when his head bent and he kissed me. It wasn’t brief, a touch of the tongues but deep and thorough and I liked it so much, I lifted my hand and slid it into his hair to lock his mouth to mine.

When he was done with my mouth, he pulled away, his eyes scanned my face and his expression got serious.

“We need to talk, Feb.”

Shit. He was right. Still, I didn’t want to talk, not then, not ever. I was willing to ride this out, see where it went, bear the consequences if it went bad. But I didn’t want to talk about it.

“I’ll make reservations at Costa’s tonight,” he went on.

“Costa’s?” I whispered, forgetting I didn’t want to talk.
 

As I mentioned, I loved Costa’s and hadn’t been there for years, not since Mom and Dad’s 40
^th
Wedding Anniversary.

His grin came back and he said, “Yeah.”

“Morrie took Dee and the kids there last night.”

“I know. Morrie isn’t fucking around in his quest to take the ‘trial’ out of their trial reconciliation.”

“I noticed,” I replied but I was thinking about Colt and me at Costa’s.

You didn’t mess around when you went to Costa’s. Anyone seeing us there would know it was a date or possibly think we were back together. And the last couple of days it seemed even though it was weird that Colt and I were dating. And last night it couldn’t be denied, Colt and I had gotten back together.

And I liked that idea so much I didn’t give a thought to the talk that would happen at Costa’s.

Instead, I thought of something else.

I’d have to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt or sweater or cardigan and I hadn’t worn something other than that in so long I didn’t even know what I owned that I could wear. And I didn’t want to go to my place to find out.

Then it hit me.

Jessie.

Jessie would see me through this latest trauma. Jessie was a master shopper. Mimi could kick the shit out of a catalogue but Jessie knew every mall from here to Chicago like the back of her hand.

“Hello? February? Are you in the room?” Colt called and his face wasn’t serious anymore when I focused on him.

“I need to call Jessie.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Honey, how did Costa’s and us talking bring you to Jessie?”

“I need something to wear.”

His head jerked with surprise then his face grew soft then he kissed me again, rolling into me, his hands moving on me, he was taking this somewhere.

Before it got there, I broke my mouth from his and whispered, “Colt, the door’s open and my parents are on the pull out.”

His neck twisted and he looked at the door before his eyes returned to me. “Got a rule, baby. Jack and Jackie are in the house, you’re in my room, you close the door. Yeah?”

He was being very bossy. Furthermore, you could hear everything in that house. The door could be closed and we could prop a mattress against it and Mom and Dad would be able to hear every word, every sound.

Still, without hesitation I said, “Yeah.”

He rolled again, over me and off the side, his hands firm on me and taking me with him to put me on my feet. Then he turned me around and slapped my ass.

“Make me breakfast,” he ordered and I threw him a look over my shoulder and wished I hadn’t. I’d seen a lot of his body when he wandered around in his shorts but I hadn’t seen it all. I wasn’t wrong that it was great, even better than when he was a young athlete in his prime. Unbelievable.

“Honey, you gonna stare at my cock or you gonna make me breakfast?” Colt asked, I jumped and I could swear I felt my cheeks get warm. I was a forty-two year old woman. What was wrong with me?

“Right,” I mumbled and got the hell out of there.

Dad was standing by the pull out, stretching and wearing his boxers and a wife beater. Mom was up on her ass, her back to the back of the couch, pulling her hair out of her face.

I pressed my lips together when both of their eyes came to me.

“Forgot this feelin’,” Dad noted, “draggin’ your ass in the house after working ‘til the mornin’ hours.”

“Me too,” Mom replied throwing the covers back, “bone tired.”

“You owe us darlin’,” Dad told me.

I was happy to owe Dad. Reggie’s, beer and all that had happened with Colt last night and that morning would be worth whatever he wanted me to pay.

“Well take that times two because you’ll probably need to do it again tonight,” I said back and hit the kitchen.
 

I could have this conversation but I was on a mission. The shower was on in Colt’s master bath and I didn’t know how much time I had. Yesterday, Colt took no time at all getting ready. Today, he didn’t have anything pressing but Colt didn’t strike me as a man who primped. I could have only ten minutes.

“How’s that?” Dad asked.

“Colt and I are going to Costa’s,” I answered.

Again the same, old, stupid February. I should have kept my mouth shut.

“What?” Mom whispered and seeing as I was turning on the broiler of the oven, my head snapped up and around.

Mom was staring at me. Dad was staring down the hall.

I didn’t know what they thought when they came in last night and saw the couch empty but whatever they thought didn’t trouble them. Or maybe they were too tired to worry about it. Most likely they trusted Colt to take care of me.

Now, dawn was rising.

“I’ll explain later. Colt’s gotta get to work and I gotta make his frittata.”

“Frittata?” Mom whispered again and I sucked in breath at another display of my stupidity.

I was famous for my frittatas. When I was away, every time I came home Frittata Morning was always scratched on the schedule. Morrie, particularly, loved my frittatas. They were revered. They were like Christmas morning or a reservation at Costa’s. They were a special occasion even though they were easy to make. Still, they were good even I had to admit that.

“Mom, just… let me concentrate.”

“Sure thing, honey.”

I started the burner under the skillet that had pre-prepared raw, scissored bacon pieces in it, the eggs, chopped mushrooms and minced garlic would go in later. The shredded cheddar cheese I would toss on top before I slid it under the broiler.

I did this at the same time I started the toast. I was multitasking, on a mission, why this was so important to me; I wasn’t going to go there. It just was.

While I was cooking, Mom and Dad were taking turns in the hallway bathroom, Mom making the pull out, Dad pushing it back in, Mom returning the cushions.

I wasn’t wrong, Colt didn’t primp. Mom and Dad weren’t even dressed when he came out, jeans, belt, boots, shirt, hair wet, badge on belt, blazer and shoulder holster in his hand. He threw them on the dining table and hit the kitchen as I was sliding the frittata under the broiler to finish it off.

I wondered how this would play out, me and Colt after our colossal shift having breakfast with Mom and Dad in attendance.

Colt didn’t touch me as he went straight to the coffee and I tried not to be disappointed. Instead, I pulled out plates.

“Feb’s giving us an impromptu Frittata Morning,” Mom announced, hitting the kitchen and the coffeepot too, wearing her Mom nightgown that was cotton and had cap sleeves, little flowers embroidered around the neck. It hit her at her knees and made her look like the Mom she was.

“Yeah?” Colt answered and the far away way he said this made my eyes move from the cutlery drawer to him.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter, one fist wrapped around the handle of a coffee mug, this held up and forgotten. His other hand was out, his fingers poking at my jewelry. Something about him doing this, and the way he was, his neck twisted and bent, his eyes on my jewelry, his mind definitely elsewhere, made me stop and watch.

He pulled my choker free, carefully straightening it so it was flat on the counter top. He picked out my earrings, placing them together by the choker. Next came the rings, which he set in a row. He did this with what seemed like a strange reverence, fascinated by the process, his touch light on my jewelry and I felt it on each piece, as if his fingers were at my knuckles, my ears, my throat. It felt nice.

“Coffee, Jackie, I’m flaggin’,” Dad said as he slid his boxer-clad ass onto one of Colt’s stools.

I pulled myself together and dumped the cutlery by the plates, turning to grab the mountain of buttered toast I’d made and then turning back to place it up on the bar by Dad.

Mom gave Dad his coffee and I pulled the frittata out of the oven then switched it off then grabbed a plate and a spatula to start serving.

“You ever have Feb’s frittata, son?” I heard Dad ask Colt and I didn’t look to see if he was still engrossed in my jewelry.

“Nope,” Colt answered and his voice was no longer far away.

“In for a treat,” Dad muttered and I slid Colt’s piece on a plate, twisted and handed it to him.

“It’s just essentially scrambled eggs,” I said to Dad, not looking at Colt but feeling him take the plate.

“Yeah, scrambled eggs injected with a slice of fuckin’ heaven,” Dad replied.

I went back to serving up frittata and decided to change the subject.

“Dad, can you go by my place after the frittata and pick up my yoga mat?” I asked, still serving and handing Mom a plate which she moved to set in front of Dad.

“Sure thing, darlin’, after my mornin’ constitutional.”

I handed Mom her plate, grabbed my coffee and turned to Dad.

“After frittata, your constitutional, you goin’ over to my pick it up and coming back, me doing yoga and then getting a shower, I’ll be late to open.”

“Don’t miss my constitutional, February,” Dad said and this was true.

“You can have it when you get back,” I told him and this was true too though I doubted he’d go for it as nothing messed with his morning schedule. Not even a daughter who seriously needed the relaxation of yoga.

“Feb –”

“I’ll get it,” Colt said and my eyes went to him, most of his frittata was gone, he had a forkful arrested halfway to his mouth and was looking at Dad. “There may be crime scene tape on the door and it’s best I go in for it.”

I forgot about that.

“Don’t you have work?” I asked.

“Won’t take fifteen minutes,” Colt answered. “I’ll get it, bring it back and then get to work.”

I couldn’t argue with that and didn’t want to. It was nice of him and I was beginning to like the nice things he did for me. I’d been taking care of myself for awhile, keeping myself to myself, I hadn’t had that in a long time.

“Thanks,” I said quietly and looked away.

“Jesus, darlin’, you outdone yourself with this one,” Dad proclaimed, mouth full.

“It’s scrambled eggs, Dad.”

“It’s fuckin’ beautiful, Feb.”

“Whatever,” I whispered, feeling embarrassed. This was, of course, the effect I was going for, for whatever reason, but getting it made me uncomfortable.

“Why aren’t you havin’ any?” Colt asked and my eyes went to him and then skittered over his shoulder.

“I don’t eat before yoga,” I informed him.