23
Stanton
B
rent and I make record time driving back to DC—I pushed my Porsche to the limit and she did not let me down. I refused to stop overnight, so one of us slept in the passenger seat while the other drove. For two men over six feet, sleeping in a Porsche is not conducive to happy fucking dreams, but Brent didn’t complain. He knew it was killing me to be so far away and he put “Ride of the Valkyries” on repeat to help lighten the mood.
I park in front of his townhouse and jog down the block to Sofia’s. As I get closer, I see boxes on her stoop and furniture stationed at her curb. My heart starts to hammer in my chest. Is she moving?
I knock hard on her front door, impatience pushing on my back. The door opens . . . and a giant looks back at me. Literally. Six-five, wide chest, arms like a professional wrestler, and a menacing scowl.
“What do you want?”
And I feel like a ten-year-old kid. “Is Sofia home?”
“Who wants to know?” From shoes to head, his eyes appraise me.
Hazel eyes
. Eyes I’m intimately familiar with.
I point my finger. “You’re the brother—the one she said could kick my ass. The doctor.” He doesn’t nod, but he also doesn’t say I’m wrong.
“I’m . . . your sister and I are . . .” I refuse to call her my friend, ’cause she’s much more than that. So for the first time in my life, I stutter—like a goddamn idiot. “I’m her . . . we’re . . . she told me all about you.”
He crosses his arms, and they grow even larger. “She hasn’t said a word about you.”
Before I can respond, another guy comes to the door—this one more normal size, a little bit shorter than me. He has thick, short brown hair, a friendly smile, and teasing brown eyes—just like Sofia described him.
“Victor, come on, the couch isn’t going to move itself,” he says to Gigantor. Then he notices me. “Hey.”
I hold my hand out, eager to introduce myself to Sofia’s closest brother. “Stanton Shaw. You’re Tomás?”
He shakes my hand and his smile broadens. “That’s right. How are you doing, Stanton? Come on in, Sofia’s told me about you.”
Gigantor steps aside as I walk in. “Why didn’t she tell
me
all about him?”
Tomás gives his brother a look that I’ve seen on my own brothers’ faces. “’Cause you can’t keep a secret—none of us tell you anything.” Then he smacks me on the back and asks, “Have you come to grovel?”
I chuckle, maybe just a bit nervously. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I know my sister.”
“What does he have to grovel for?” Gigantor asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” Tomás tells him. “As long as he’s here.”
Then we walk into the living room—stepping around boxes and furniture. Looks like the tornado hit here instead of Mississippi.
“Sofia felt the place needed a makeover,” Tomás explains. “She gets like that when she’s stressed. So she rallied the troops and here we are.”
In the kitchen I see another dark-haired guy wearing round John Lennon glasses—Lucas, brother number two, I’m guessing. Near the couch is an older but still solidly built man with salt-and-pepper hair.
Sofia’s father.
I walk up to him and hold out my hand. “Hello, Mr. Santos, I’m Stanton Shaw. It’s an honor to meet you.” I pause, trying to think of the right words. “I think your daughter’s an amazing woman, sir.”
He pins me with his stare for a few moments. Then he grins and shakes my hand. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Shaw.”
All heads turn to the woman coming down the stairs. She’s smaller than I’d imagined Sofia’s mother to be, with shoulder-length dark hair and lovely, familiar features. Her eyes settle on me, filled with recognition—and animosity. And I know Tomás isn’t the only member of her family Sofia poured her heart out to.
I approach her, holding out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Santos, I’m—”
She glances at my hand with disdain and cuts me off—in Portuguese.
“
Você é um homem estúpido que machucou a minha filha. Se eu tivesse meu caminho, eles nunca iria encontrar o seu corpo
.
”
It would seem I’m a stupid man, and if she had her way they’d never find my body.
Nice.
I shake my head.
“
Estou aqui para fazer isso direito. Sofia significa . . . tudo para mim.”
I’m here to make it right. Because Sofia means everything to me.
At least, I hope that’s what I said.
Her eyes flash with surprise.
“Sofia’s been teaching me Portuguese,” I explain with a shrug. “I’m a fast learner.”
A reluctant smile tugs at Mrs. Santos’s lips and her head tilts with begrudging approval. Then she steps aside. “She’s upstairs, in the bedroom, painting.”
I nod. “Thank you, ma’am.”
• • •
I step softly through the open doorway. Her back is to me as she stares at fresh paint on the wall. I take the opportunity to soak her in, like a plant that hasn’t seen the sun in a year. Her hair is pulled up, tiny wisps brushing the sweet-tasting skin below her ear. I take in her delicate shoulders under a red T-shirt, black yoga pants, the elegant curve of her spine that leads down to the luscious swell of her ass—also sweet tasting.
“What do you think, Mamãe?” she asks without turning, her head tilted. “I’m not sure about the yellow; it’s duller than it looked on the swatch.”
“I think it looks like dried dog piss, if you want the truth.”
She whips around, eyes wide like she’s seeing a ghost. “Stanton!” After a moment, she blinks, trying to rein in her surprise. To act casual. “When did you get home?”
But casual can kiss my ass.
“I haven’t been home. I dropped Brent off and came straight here. To you.” Now I eat up the view from the front—those lips, her amazing breasts that I want to rest my head on, the green speckles in her eyes, like precious gems.
I lift my chin toward the paint cans. “What’s that about?”
She looks between me and the cans, nervously. “Redecorating—it felt like I needed a new start.”
I move forward, needing to be closer. And I’ve held back about as much as I’m capable of. “Christ I’ve missed you, Soph. The last two days have felt like forever.”
Her gaze drops to the floor. “I’m sorry I left like I did, but I needed to—”
“No.” I stalk the rest of the way across the room. “You had your chance to talk. You rested your case—now it’s my turn.” I kick a folding chair toward her, and there’s a definite warning in my voice. “So sit down and listen up.”
Her eyes widen, and for a second I think she’s going to argue. But then she does as she’s told.
I stand in front of her. “It started at the softball game, with Amsterdam staring at your ass.”
“Stanton, I told you—”
“Quiet,” I snap, pressing a finger against her now-closed lips. “When I wanted to rip his eyeballs out for lookin’ at your ass, that was the first time it felt like . . . more. It wasn’t my place to tell him not to look at you—but I wanted it to be.”
I push a hand through my hair, trying to explain so she’ll understand. “That’s the real reason why I asked you to come with me—even though I didn’t see it at the time. Because I didn’t want to be away from you—didn’t want to risk losin’ you to someone else. And when I saw you there, in my home—with the people who mean the most to me . . . it got more intense. Wantin’ you, needin’ you, feelin’ so fuckin’ grateful to have you. But it was all screwed up—mixed up with Jenny gettin’ married, feelin’ like I needed to do somethin’ to keep from losin’ her.”
She’s leaning forward, hanging on every word, her eyes breaking my heart—filled with hope and fear. “When I got it sorted out in my head, when I finally had the balls to admit to myself how much you meant to me . . . it was already too late. I didn’t know if there was a chance you felt the same way. I didn’t know how to tell you without it lookin’ like you were just the rebound. And I never wanted you to feel that way—not for a minute.
“Jenny will always be my friend, the mother of the little girl who owns my heart, the first girl I loved.” Then my voice goes scratchy, strangled with emotion. “But you, Sofia . . . I swear, if you let me . . . you will be the last.”
There are tears in her beautiful eyes, rolling down her cheeks. I crouch down in front of her, running my hand over her shoulder, holding the back of her neck. “And I’m so fuckin’ pissed off at you. I want to sit down on that bed, strip you down, and spank your ass till it’s as red as that wall downstairs.”
She hiccups. “P . . . pissed at me? Why?”
“Because you let me hurt you. You never said anythin’. When I think about how it must’ve been for you . . . like a thousand paper cuts.”
I hold her face, brush her tears away with my thumb, because I can’t not touch her a second longer.
She blinks up at me, swallowing a breath. “That was one hell of a closing argument, Stanton.”
I gaze into her eyes. “It’s what I do. So . . . what’s the verdict?”
She runs her fingers through my hair, her expression tender and soft. “The verdict is . . . no.”
I knew it. Never doubted my powers of persuasion for a second. I was sure if I just had the chance to explain, she’d . . . wait.
What?
I lean back. “What the hell do you mean,
no
? You can’t say no!” Moisture breaks out on my brow and my heart protests in my chest.
She shrugs. “I just did.”
My hands tighten reflexively around her jaw. “What the fuck, Soph? Two days ago, you told me you were in love with me! You don’t fall out of love with someone in two goddamn days!”
“Exactly,” she says in a small voice.
“I don’t under—”
“I’ve watched you pine over another woman for the last week. For months, I’ve heard you talk about Jenny this and Jenny that. And now that she’s unavailable, you suddenly realize I’m the one you love?”
“I haven’t been in love with Jenny for a very long time, Soph. I just didn’t know it until now.” I swallow hard. “You don’t . . . you don’t believe me?”
She touches my face, tracing my jaw, watching her fingers’ path with rapt attention. “I want to. I want to believe you so bad.” Then she withdraws her touch. “But . . . I can’t be your rebound. I won’t. That would break me, Stanton. A week ago, I was okay with having any part
of you I could—but I’m not okay with that anymore. I want
all
of you. For real. And forever.”
I lean closer, looking into her eyes. “Darlin’, you have me. By the heart, by the balls, and any other way you want.”
A smile tugs at her lips as she gazes boldly back at me. “Prove it.”
Teeth scrape my bottom lip as I consider all the glorious ways I can demonstrate what she means to me—over and over again. There’s laughter in my voice when I ask, “Is that a challenge?”
Color rises in her cheeks and the air between us shifts. Growing more intense, more heated—not just with attraction, but with the promise of something deeper. A future. Together.
“Yes.”
I pull her closer, and brush my lips against hers, a feather light touch. And I swear to her, “Okay. Then we’ll start over, from the beginnin’. The way we should’ve started. No friends with benefits. I’m goin’ to do it right—take you out to gorgeous places, keep you in for whole weekends. I want you to get dressed up for me so I can take my time undressing you. I want to memorize every inch of your body and hear every thought in your mind. And then you won’t have any doubt that the only woman I want, the only woman I love—is you.”
Sofia leans in, her cheek, her nose skimming my own. Her voice is slightly breathless as she wonders, “So . . . that was you asking me out, right?”
“Definitely.”
And then her eyes are sparkling. “I’d like to make it clear that I’m totally open to sex on the first date.”
I chuckle. “I was really, really, hopin’ you’d say that.”
Then I press my lips to hers. Her mouth opens, welcoming, her sweet tongue meeting me halfway. I feel her hands gripping my shirt, sliding over my shoulders, up my neck, cupping my jaw. I pull her flush against me, holding her, letting her know with every brush of my
fingers, every whispered word that I never want to let go. And I feel the same in her—relief, joy with each sigh, every soft promise. Sofia and I have kissed hundreds of times—but not like this. It’s different. Better.
It’s fucking perfect.
• • •
Most stories finish at the end. But not this one.
This one finishes with a whole new beginning.
Epilogue
Stanton
September
W
e recline on a blanket on the grass at the Washington Mall, in a semisecluded little spot set back from the crowd. The sky is pitch black, but the lights from the city are too bright to make out a single star. Sofia leans back against my chest and my hands wander over her lazily, skimming up her sides, covered by a light pink mini-dress, and down her bare arms. The September air is warm, with a nice breeze. A contented sigh escapes her smiling lips, and I take a sip from the plastic cup of bourbon I’ve been nursing all night. I press a soft kiss against her temple as Elton John taps out the final piano notes of his latest song.
Events like this—a fall music festival—are free, first come, first serve. Even though Sofia was all quivery that Elton John would be playing, we didn’t kill ourselves trying to get front-row spots. She was content to just sit back and relax after a hellishly long week at the office. To enjoy the music . . . and each other.
But as the familiar melody of “Your Song” pours out from the
speakers, I place my mouth against her ear, my breath raising goose bumps along her supple skin.
“Dance with me,” I whisper.
She arches her back to gaze at me, her eyes all soft and languid—the same way they are when I crawl up her body after bringing her to heaven with my mouth.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually starting to like dancing.”
I kiss the tip of her nose. “No. I’ll never be a fan.” I rise, taking her with me, keeping her close within the circle of my arms. “But I’ll always dance with you. Anytime, anywhere. Besides—this is your song.”
It’s a surprise I planned; a gift for her. I’m pretty sure it’ll blow her mind, and I’m looking forward to her blowing other things in return when she’s expressing her gratitude all night long.
Elton’s perfectly timed announcement comes over the microphone. “We have a dedication, ladies and gentlemen. This is going out to Sofia, with love from Stanton.” And then he starts to sing.
Her eyes go as round as quarters and she slumps against me just a bit from the shock. “Oh my God! I can’t believe you did that—how did you do that?”
I shrug. “I know people, who know people, who know a few of Elton’s people. I called in favors.”
She lifts up on her toes and kisses me hard—making me think this was the best damn idea I’ve ever had. Against my lips, she tells me, “I love you.”
As she rests her head against my chest I whisper, “I love you too.”
“I have the best boyfriend ever.”
My chest rumbles with a chuckle. “Yes, you do.”
How wonderful life is, while you’re in the world.
And then we dance.
• • •
November
“Push!”
“I
am
pushing. It’s tight.”
“Harder.”
“If I do it any harder, I’m gonna fucking break something.”
“Just shove it in.”
“I’m trying,” I grunt.
“Is anyone else getting turned on by this conversation?” Jake’s detached voice floats over from the other side of the heavy-ass desk I’m currently jamming through the doorway.
With a shout, we get it through, then settle it gently in front of the window—like Sofia and I agreed. This way we can enjoy the natural sunlight while I’m fucking her on it.
“I’m too damn tired to get turned on,” I gripe, wiping the sweat off my forehead.
Then Sofia walks into the room, and my eyes naturally fall to the magnificent way her snug black turtleneck highlights her tits. “Never mind—not too tired after all.”
“This looks great in here!” she squeals with a smile. “This is the last of it.”
Sofia asked me to move in with her last week. I’d practically been living here since midsummer anyway. But the idea that it’d be official—that’d we’d wake up together every morning and come home here together every night—is awesome. Her place is bigger than my apartment, and already furnished, so most of my furniture is staying behind with Jake. Except for Presley’s bedroom set, which is now set up in the townhouse’s third bedroom, the only item I insisted on bringing is my desk. So instead of a guest room, the second bedroom is now converted into a home office for both of us.
Sofia enjoys this oversized oak desk as much as I do. Especially for the extra space it allows while working at it, and like I said—for the fucking.
Brent walks in holding champagne glasses and Sofia pops the cork on the bottle in her hands. We fill the glasses, pass them around, and I propose a toast.
“My momma always used to say home is where the heart is. But I never really understood how right that was—until now.” I gaze at Sofia. “You’re my heart, so wherever you are, I’m home.”
She plants a kiss on my lips.
“Okay, now I’m really turned on,” Jake comments. Then to Brent he says, “You ready to head out? Hit the bars?”
“I was born ready,” Brent retorts. Then he asks us, “Are you guys coming?”
With her arms around my waist, Sofia tells him, “I plan to shortly—and if history is any indication, more than once.” Then she’s kissing me again.
“Ewww,” Brent says. “You guys are gross.”
We walk them down to the front door. “But seriously,” Brent asks, “you’re not coming out?”
I smack his back. “Can’t—I have a lot of work to do.”
We say our thanks and good-byes, and I lock the door behind them.
Sofia looks up at me. “Do you still have work on the Penderson case?”
I chuckle. “No, Soph, I wasn’t talking about that kind of work.”
She smirks. “Then what kind of work
were
you speaking of?”
I scoop her up into my arms. “Christening every room in this house. It’s gonna be a lot of hard, sweaty work.”
• • •
February
It had been a bad fucking day. The bad started with a squirrelly client who was dicking me around about a prior out-of-state conviction for assault, then progressed into the notification of an appeal that didn’t go my way. To top it off, an arctic blast had decided to descend upon DC, making it colder than a witch’s tit outside—the kind of frigid that made it feel like needles are pricking your face every time the wind blew.
The only good part about the day was that it was almost over. And I was able to find a parking spot outside the courthouse, the steps of which I’m currently walking. After I pass through security, feeling starts to return to my fingertips as I slip into the courtroom and take a seat in the back. I take a deep breath—and watch her. Asking the final questions of her cross-examination, stalking back to the defense table, her black heels clicking on the floor. All eyes are on Sofia—not just because her ass looks phenomenal in the tight black pencil skirt—but because of her presence. Her posture, the tone of her voice —she commands the room and the attention of every person in it.
The frustration of the day ebbs away, replaced with a calm peace and swelling pride—because that amazing, fascinating, capable woman is mine.
After court is adjourned, I approach her from behind as she slides folders into her briefcase. I wrap an arm around her waist and place a brief kiss behind her ear. She tenses for a split second before relaxing into my embrace. Because without turning around, she knows it’s me.
“Nice job.”
She smiles over her shoulder at me. “Thanks. What are you doing here? I thought I was meeting you at home.”
“It’s cold outside—I didn’t want you walking.”
Then I pull the bouquet of roses out from behind my back. Her
hazel eyes turn liquid and her perfect lips stretch into a wider smile. “What are these for?” She brings the flowers to her nose and inhales.
I kiss her forehead. “They’re just because I can.”
• • •
The lights glow softly through the windows, turning the townhouse into a beacon of warmth and comfort and home. Sherman vies for our attention as soon as we step through the door, his wagging tail and lapping tongue telling us he’s been a good boy and Sofia’s shoes have survived unmolested—at least for today. She pours me a bourbon and a glass of wine for herself, as I take the steaks that have been marinating in my special sauce out of the fridge. We talk about the events of the day, plans for tomorrow, and everything in between as I step out onto the balcony to fire up the charcoal. Because even though it’s winter, even though it’s not Sunday and not Mississippi—Sofia loves my grillin’.
Later, after the dishes are washed and dried, the news plays softly on the television as I step out of the bathroom freshly showered, a towel around my waist. Sofia reclines on the bed, one leg bent, her laptop resting on her stomach, clad only in a lacy pink tank top and matching panties. Her eyes rake over me, devouring every toned muscle—then she closes the laptop with a snap.
And I drop the towel.
I climb on the bed like a predator, my intentions as naked as my ass. She squeaks when I lean over her, cold droplets from my hair dripping on her collarbone.
“You’re wet,” she breathes in a husky whisper.
I lick my bottom lip and skim my hand across her soft skin, down between her legs, where she’s already slick and wanting from watching me.
“So are you.”
I take my time and make slow, easy love to her, that ever-present
passion simmering just below the surface. Then, after, it’s rough and loud—she’ll have bruises on her hips tomorrow and I’ll have scratches down my back. We fall asleep above the covers, our heated flesh more than enough to keep us warm.
The day may have been shitty . . . but the night was as fucking perfect as you can get.
• • •
May, Sunshine, Mississippi
Jenny’s truck pulls up the drive of my parents’ place, and as soon as the tires stop, Presley bursts out of the passenger side. “Hey, Daddy! Hey, Sofia!”
She hugs us both long and sweet.
“You look like you’ve grown three inches since I saw you last.” That was over spring break, when she stayed with us in DC.
With her arm over my daughter’s shoulders, Sofia looks down at her and asks, “You want to go horseback riding?”
Presley nods, and I just grin, teasing. “Someone thinks she’s quite the equestrian.”
Sofia twists her middle and pointer finger together and adorably insists, “Blackjack and I are like this. We have a whole mental thing going on—he understands me.”
I’m still laughing as I jog to the truck to help Jenny out. “Hey.” I kiss her cheek and give her a hug. Or, as close to a hug as I can, considering the size of her stomach. “Damn, Jenny, you’re gigantic.”
She frowns. “Why don’t you go to hell and die, Stanton? What kinda thing is that to say to a pregnant woman?”
“A truthful kinda thing. I don’t remember you bein’ so big with Presley. You sure there’s not two in there?”
She rubs her eight-months-pregnant belly. “No, just the one. One’s enough—and I’m gettin’ drugs this time.”
I chuckle. “Not if Nurse Lynn’s there, you’re not.”
Sofia hugs Jenny in greeting. “We would’ve come to your house to pick her up.”
Jenny waves her hand. “Nah, it’s good for me to get out. I’ve been nestin’—the floors are so slippery clean, JD said he’s gonna put up hazard tape.”
We catch up for a few minutes, then Jenny leaves and we head to the stable. Presley walks in front of us, and I hold Sofia’s hand as she walks beside me.
“So . . . you ever think about that?”
“About what?”
I jerk my head in the direction Jenny just left.
“A baby?”
“A baby,” I say.
“You and me?”
“Well . . . I’d be pretty pissed if it was you and someone else.”
She laughs. “Stanton, I’m trying to make partner.”
“I know.”
“And you’re trying to make partner.”
“True.” We walk silently. Then I lean closer to her, guessing, “So that’s a yes, then?”
She grins. “Yes . . . I’ll think about it.”
I give her her favorite lopsided grin. “Good.”
Sofia holds up a finger. “But not now.”
“No.”
“Make sure your sperm is aware of that. It has a history of going rogue.”
I nod. “I’ll send the sperm a memo and CC your ovaries.”
She nods. “But soon.”
“Soon is good.”
I swing our joined hands. “We should probably get married first.”
Sofia stops, staring at me. “Are you asking?”
I turn, cupping her jaw, tracing her beautiful lips. “Darlin’, when I ask, you won’t be wonderin’ if I’m askin’.” Then I kiss her sweetly. “But it’ll be soon.”
She smiles, big and blinding. “Soon is good.”