Forbidden Fling (Wildwood Book 1) (11 page)

“A Hart and a Hayes? That’s a tall order.”

She was right, which was ridiculous. This was California in the twenty-first century, not Kentucky in the 1800s.

“I want you to know that my father doesn’t have any say in how I do my job or how I run the planning department. He can ask for anything he wants, even demand anything he wants, but that doesn’t mean he gets it. I follow the laws. So if he wants something that goes against those laws, or even bends them, he’s SOL. I’m my own person, and I take a lot of pride in doing my job right.”

Her lips kicked up, and those stormy eyes of hers sparked with humor.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re adorable when you’re being all ethical.”

He lifted one brow. “Why am I sure that’s not a compliment?”

She lifted one shoulder. “Maybe your conscience is whispering to you.”

He smirked. “Truce?” he asked, offering his hand.

“Why would I believe you want an honest truce?”

He heaved a frustrated sigh and picked up her hand, pressing it to his, fingertip to palm—not at all the handshake he’d offered, but a far more intimate connection. “Because I’m not my father. And you can’t deny there’s something between us. Something . . . intense.”

Ethan threaded their fingers. And when he met her gaze, he found her watching him. Assessing.

“No ulterior motive,” he said. “I’ve just been dying to touch you.”

Something flickered in her eyes. A flash of something soft and gentle, but it vanished in an instant. “Don’t you have better things to do with your night?”

“I can honestly say there’s nothing I’d rather be doing than touching you.”

“Don’t you have other women you can touch?”

“Maybe. But you are the only woman I
want
to touch.”

“You certainly like playing with fire.” Her smile curved a little deeper. “Definitely a change from that once-upon-a-time Boy Scout.”

“We all change.”

Her gaze lowered to his mouth. “Some do. Some don’t.” Pulling her hand from his, she tucked her box under her arm and wandered around the bar. “I’m sure you have beer to brew.”

“There’s always beer to brew.”

When she just smiled, he leaned his forearms on the wood and looked around the space. She’d swept and mopped the old floor, moved the tables, piled chairs in one corner, and wiped the grime from the windowpanes.

His joy at seeing Delaney took a hit from the fear she may have decided to actually renovate. “You’ve cleaned up. Have you made any decisions? Since you’ve been back, I haven’t seen anything come across my desk with your name on it.”

“That doesn’t sound like the beginnings of a truce.”

“Just making conversation.”

She flicked a look at him that said she knew different, then refocused on the contents of her little box. “I’m meeting with a friend tomorrow. We’re going to see if salvage is feasible.”

Fuck.
That stabbed his little bubble of hope. “Who’s the friend? How will he know if salvage is feasible? And why are you asking someone else when you could just ask me? I could go over every inch of this place with you if you really needed someone to tell you what it would take to renovate.”

Delaney laughed, the sound soft and tired. “Right, because that went so well the first time.”

Dammit.
He’d really screwed himself. “You blindsided me. Now that I know you’re serious, I’d approach it differently.”

“Thanks but no thanks. I’ll know all I need to know after I talk with my guy. And you’ll know everything you need to know when it’s time for you to know.”

My guy.
Ethan didn’t like the sound of that—for a variety of different reasons he didn’t want to think about. But he hadn’t come here to fight. Besides, the possibility of meeting the application deadline for a building permit with all the required paperwork plummeted with every day that passed. She sat on the floor, cross-legged, the box on her lap, and started rummaging again.

“Got something good in there?”

“Just the stuff my dad left. He lost our family home to foreclosure about five years before he died and moved in here, upstairs. I found a bunch of old family stuff down here under the bar.”

Ethan rounded the bar, pausing beside her. “Can I sit?”

She looked up at him, incredulous. “Seriously? You’re going to sit on the dirty floor of a bar while I go through old boxes?”

“Call me quirky.”

“I’ve got better words to describe you, but sit if you want.”

He sat, rested his back against the walls, left his knees up, and rested his forearms there. “What other words?”

“Frustrating. Maddening. Confusing.”

“Not as bad as they could be. Not as good as I’d hoped. And suspiciously similar to the way I’d describe you.” When she only smiled, Ethan decided it was a good time to shoot for more insight into this frustrating, maddening, confusing woman. “So, why’d you quit Pacific Coast’s Finest?”

Delaney’s hands stopped shuffling, and her gaze cut toward him, sharp and defensive. “Why?”

“Yeah, why?”

“No, why do you want to know?”

“Again, this is that thing called conversation.” When she returned her attention to the box, he said, “The success of their operation has fascinated me, and I’ve heard they’re an amazing company to work for. Makes me curious why you quit.”

“Let’s stick with alternate topics of conversation.”

That only made him want to know more. But judging by the frown carving Vs in Delaney’s forehead, Ethan knew she wasn’t open to negotiation.

She’d filled one hand with old, yellowed papers—receipts, business cards, notes—and started digging in the box with her other. A square slipped from the mountain of papers between her fingers—a photograph—and Ethan swept it up.

“What have we got here?” He squinted at the faded, grainy photo and immediately recognized a much younger Delaney. “Oh, man,” he laughed. “This is priceless.”

“What?” She turned to see what he had, then grabbed for the picture from one of her high school proms. But Ethan pulled it out of reach, taking in her outfit, her hair, the guy posing stiffly beside her. “Ethan, give it to me. That should have been burned.”

“Wow, that’s some dress.” He held it at arm’s length on his left and blocked Delaney’s reach with his right arm, whistling through his teeth. “And that hair. How long did it take you to get it to stay like that? But the makeup—that’s got to be the kicker. I bet it weighed more than that slip of a dress. I bet you were one of those girls who left their house in one thing, then changed into something else once you were out.”

“Ethan.” She rolled to her knees, pressed a hand to his shoulder, and lunged across him, reaching for the photo, half-amused, half-pissed. “Give it back.”

Oh, no.
She wasn’t getting it back. Not as long as she was giving him full-body contact trying to reach it. “Who’s the guy? He sure wasn’t from our school. And he looks way too old for a prom.”

He turned his head to meet her eyes and found her right there, within easy kissable range. But he wasn’t going to push his luck. He really wanted time with her. Time to just hang and get to know her. And if he kissed her, he was pretty sure she would kick him out on his ass.

She stopped struggling and rested her flat belly against his slanted thighs, rocking with the quick rise and fall of her breaths.

“Isn’t there an age max on proms?” Ethan teased.

“Shut up.” She dug her fingers into his side—a ticklish spot she’d found during their night together—and he jumped.

“Uh-uh,” he warned. “Remember what happened last time you started that.”

Her eyes flicked to his and held. Ethan could swear he saw the memory passing through her gaze, leaving a trail of heat. Her fingers curled into fists, the way they had when he’d pinned her arms over her head the last time she’d tickled him. But then he’d been inside her, filling her, and he’d looked into her eyes as he’d driven his cock home over and over and over. Full, long, deep, and hard. Until she’d climaxed three different times. Until her fingernails had dug five half-moons into each palm. Until he’d been dripping sweat. When he’d finally let himself come, Ethan had climaxed in a wild rush of animalistic intensity that blasted through every last cell. The mere memory had him hard. And by the way her lids grew heavy, he knew she was thinking the exact same thing. He barely resisted asking her if she was wet.

Ethan forced his brain to the present and back to the subject of her old prom date. “Did they put him through the metal detector before they let him into the dance?”

Delaney laughed and pushed away. “You ass.”

He caught her around the waist before she got too far, eased one leg wide, then trapped her between his thighs with her back to his chest. Wrapping his arms around her, he held the photo out for both of them to see. “They did, didn’t they?”

She cast a half glance over her shoulder. “What’s your point?”

Ethan laughed. He laughed long and deep, and it felt so good. Felt even better when she started laughing with him. And even better when she leaned back against him, sliding her hands over his arms.

Another photo slipped from the papers, and Ethan leaned forward to scoop it up before she could.

“Stop,” she said, snatching it from his fingers. “That’s my naked baby picture. Those are sacred.”

Grinning, he rested his chin on her shoulder and turned his head to press his face to her cheek and neck, breathing her in—musk and floral and some exotic spice. “That’s all right,” he murmured against her skin, then kissed her neck. “I like the adult naked version much better.”

Delaney leaned her head against his. “We talked about this. Professional distance, remember?”

“No.” He lifted his head and tightened both arms around her waist, dragging her even closer. “You talked. It wasn’t a discussion. What else have you got in there?”

She thumbed through more photos, and Ethan turned his head enough to press his mouth and nose to her hair, breathing in the soft scent of her shampoo.

“These are some serious throwbacks.” Delaney paused on an image of the three sisters around Halloween.

“This must be Avery.” He pointed toward the brunette of the family. “What is she supposed to be? A teacher or something?”

Delaney grinned, and the sight zinged his heart. “A librarian. And not just any librarian, she was Mrs. Baxter, our—”

“
School
librarian,” he finished, chuckling. “Man I haven’t thought of her in forever. That’s funny. And Chloe . . .” He tapped the image, indicating the little blonde. “Some kind of archeologist?”

“Indiana Jones. She was always the explorer.”

He scrutinized Delaney’s sweatshirt and jeans. “What about you? Did you put yours on later?”

“I didn’t have time to work out a costume for myself. By the time I had Chloe and Avery set, their homework done, lunches made for the next day.” She shrugged. “There wasn’t time. I just walked them around town and hung on the sidewalk with the parents.”

She didn’t sound sad or angry or even melancholy, as if a ten-year-old giving up her Halloween so her younger sisters could enjoy it was normal.

He ran his hands over her waist and belly. “I guess this was after your mom left.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t all bad—Avery and Chloe shared their candy with me.”

“Was your dad at the bar?”

She shook her head. “Passed out drunk on the couch.”

“And Phoebe?”

“She hadn’t come yet.”

His gaze turned back to the picture of the three young girls, innocence personified, left unsupervised and uncared for. “Then who took the picture?”

“Me. I used the timer.” She darted a shy, sidelong smile at him. “Before my mom left, she was always taking pictures. I remember thinking she’d eventually come back, and she’d be sad at all the great times she missed. I wanted to have pictures of us so she didn’t feel left out while she was gone.” Delaney shook her head. “So ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous at all. Your mom is the one who lost out big-time on this deal.”

She turned her head and met his gaze steadily. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Just . . . coming by. Being here.”

Ethan’s chest burned with pleasure. He lifted a hand and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Thanks for sharing those pictures with me.”

A flicker of a smile passed over her lips. “You’re a pretty special guy.”

His stomach flipped, then folded. “How do you figure?”

“I know how hard it is to come out of a fucked-up family with any sense of compassion or kindness or sense of self. And I may have only really known you for a short time, but I’ve been working with guys my whole life. So I know a good guy—a really decent guy—when I meet one. And I certainly know all about your family, so I’m impressed that you came out of it so great.”

“Thank you again.” Ethan lowered his gaze and watched as he let his fingers slide down her cheek again. “I can’t explain how much I needed to hear that tonight.”

“You don’t have to. I know I’m dredging up all sorts of hurt and hard feelings. And I know you’ll be catching shit from your family for being involved, even if it’s because you have to be.” She covered his hand with hers, pressed it against her cheek, and closed her eyes. “I know it may not seem like it, but I am sorry about that. I wish . . .” She sighed, opened her eyes, and smiled at him, releasing his hand. “Well, we all wish a lot of things, right?”

He dropped his hand to her thigh. “You wish what?”

She shrugged and continued looking through the photos. “I wish I could go back in time and make different decisions. Wish people didn’t hold grudges. Wish I could walk away from this—”

When she stopped suddenly, Ethan glanced down at the picture in her hand. It was a Hart family selfie of sorts with all five of them huddled around a patch of cement decorated with handprints, the kids all holding up their cement-stained hands, big grins splitting their faces.

“Oh, man,” Ethan said. “That’s great.”

“Would have been great, if we could have stayed like that.”

The hurt in her voice touched a lonely place deep inside Ethan, the place that had formed after his family had turned on him. “Did everything fall apart because of your dad’s drinking?”