ADAM SIGHED AS he turned the key in the lock of his temporary home, opened the front door and stepped inside. Immediately, a delicious scent had his stomach rumbling. Closing the door behind him, he paused, momentarily closing his eyes and inhaling the aroma that contained more than notes of food—was that gravy and chicken? Anyway, the scents also held a warm welcome that soothed the nerves that had been pulled tight all the way here from the renovation site.
Due to the production schedule for Vintage Renovation, a night crew continued to work on construction after filming ended for the day. Usually, Adam didn’t have to be there, but because of issues with one of the bathrooms, he’d stayed late tonight to oversee installation of a claw-foot porcelain bathtub. It’d been a little after eight when he’d left, and he’d been tired as he’d walked up to the house. But now, standing inside the small foyer, the aroma of home-cooked food permeating the air, weariness eased out of his body along with any lingering tension.
Not by any means was he one of those men who expected his food, slippers and silence waiting on him when he arrived home from work. Even when he was married, more often than not, he’d helped with dinner and the house chores, though Jennifer stayed at home. And he hadn’t minded. Hell, caring for their daughter had been a more important job than his. Since the divorce, 90 percent of the day-to-day care of the home and Justine had been on him. Except for those times Addie had stepped in, the bulk of childcare, chores, shopping, dinner was his responsibility. And he didn’t mind.
Still... This was...nice.
To have help was a relief and a weight lifted that he hadn’t realized he’d needed—or wanted.
Removing his wallet, he dropped it on the small table in the entryway and headed toward the living room where the canned laughter from the television echoed along with Justine’s chatter and Flo’s melodic voice. Like a magnet, the sounds drew him, and he decided not to dwell on the anticipation that rose within him as he neared the room. While he was at it, he’d ignore the bloom of warmth that smacked too close to satisfaction. And maybe delight.
Walking into the living room, he paused for a second, taking in the unexpectedly sweet picture before him.
Flo sat on the couch, and Justine perched on a stack of pillows between her knees. His daughter giggled at the sitcom playing—looked like one of the Disney Channel shows she loved—as Flo braided her hair. That bloom of warmth mushroomed until it threatened to cave in his chest. Since Jennifer left, his go-to hairstyle was variations of ponytails; they were easy and about all his limited repertoire could manage even with the help of several YouTube videos. He’d held his own, but he knew his little girl missed this with her mother. In Justine’s bedroom, after her bath... That had been Jennifer and Jussy’s time while her mom brushed and styled her hair and they chattered away. He should know. He’d stood outside the door often enough, smiling and listening to the two people he loved most in the world.
He shook his head, dislodging the memory, and moved farther into the room as Justine turned her head and noticed him. A wide grin broke across her face, and his heart gave that familiar leap it gave whenever he saw his daughter.
“Daddy!” she greeted at her usual outside voice volume.
Flo looked up from her task. Her smile wasn’t as big as Justine’s, but it still ignited a low burn deep in his gut for very different reasons.
“Hi, Adam.”
“Hey.” He dipped his chin. “Thank you for bringing her home and staying so late. I won’t make a habit of this.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s no problem at all. We’ve had a full and fun day.”
“Yeah, we had fun, Daddy,” Justine chimed in. “We went to Flo’s ’tography studio. I saw her mom and sister in the dollhouse. She let me help cook dinner and Flo’s doing my hair like hers,” she finished, running out of breath.
“I hope it’s okay,” Flo quietly said. “She asked me if I could do her hair like mine. I explained mine took years to grow, so I did the closest I could for her with some two-strand twists.”
“I understood nothing about what you just said,” he dryly admitted. “But what you’re doing is much prettier than my ponytails. So thank you.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome. I’ll show you and Jussy how to tie her hair up at night and they should last a couple of weeks.”
“Then you’ll do it again?” Justine asked, twisting around and dislodging Flo’s hands from her hair. “I want my hair to be long like yours.”
“Yours is already long, sweetie.” Flo slipped a twist over Justine’s shoulder, and it brushed her collarbone. “You have such beautiful, thick hair. And it’s like yours, not mine. That makes it extra special and pretty.”
Justine beamed up at her, and Flo returned the smile. Watching the two of them, the little girl so enamored with the woman, a knot of emotion twisted around his throat.
And that scared the shit out of him.
Gently turning Justine back around, Flo resumed twisting his daughter’s hair and shot him a look.
“We already ate, but I left a plate for you in the microwave,” she informed him.
“Thank you,” he said again.
He had the feeling those two words would become a habit with her. It was funny how life worked. He’d gone to that dive bar over a month ago, looking for a drink or two and a couple hours to relax before heading back to the house for the night. A one-night stand with a gorgeous woman hadn’t been his plan. Having that same gorgeous woman show up at his job and then slowly become a part of his and his daughter’s daily lives... No, it was almost surreal.
And it unnerved him that if he could press Rewind on these past weeks and have the choice of going forward, of going to that bar and meeting Flo, he wouldn’t change one moment.
Unnerved him... Hell, it terrified him. Had him reeling.
Hadn’t he learned anything from being with a woman who didn’t have family, commitment and stability as her priorities? Didn’t he and Justine still bear the scars, still endure the repercussions?
Flo was young—over a decade younger than him—and was just coming into her own in her career. When they’d met, she’d just returned from a weeks-long trip abroad. As a parent, he couldn’t just up and leave. He had more than himself to consider. Flo wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility; she didn’t want that kind of responsibility. Not right now.
At twenty-four, she didn’t have enough life experience under her belt, and it would be the height of selfishness to expect her to sacrifice what most people had at her age to take on an instant family. Babysitting was one thing; parenting was another. And in the long run, it would be Justine who was hurt.
And you.
He shoved that ridiculous thought aside. He was too old to confuse lust with anything deeper, more permanent. The time had come and gone when his dick did his thinking for him.
Yet, as he retrieved his dinner plate, heated it and brought it back to the living room to sit with Flo and Justine, a calm settled over him. A peace. He’d missed this. Missed the simplicity of evenings with laughter, easy conversation. Of family.
No, Flo wasn’t his and Justine’s family, but maybe he could allow himself to pretend just for a little while. What was the harm in it if he kept it to himself and understood it was just...pretend?
No harm.
As he leaned against the back of the couch, cold beer bottle in hand, listening to Flo and Justine as she helped the little girl get ready for bed—Justine begged him to let Flo do the nightly duty—he let himself believe just a little bit longer.
Just for tonight.
“For my own information,” Flo said, entering the living room and sinking down on the other end of the sofa, “how many bedtime stories do you usually read her?”
“One. But she can sometimes weasel two out of me,” he admitted.
Flo narrowed her eyes. “She said you read her four stories.”
He snorted. “Tell me you didn’t fall for that.”
Wrinkling her nose, she leaned forward and nabbed his beer. She took a deep sip, and it had his cock twitching. The sight of those full, sensual lips covering the opening of the bottle where his own mouth had just been... Did she taste him and the alcohol?
He fought not to shift on the couch cushion and betray the heat pumping through his veins. Why that should be so hot, he couldn’t even begin to explain. But fuck if it wasn’t.
“No, I didn’t fall for it,” she said, lowering the bottle. Thank God. “I read three.”
He barked out a laugh. “Sucker.”
Sighing, she offered his drink back to him. “Don’t I know it. She got me.”
His fingers grazed hers as he took the bottle, and he stiffened, unable to prevent the reaction. Her gaze dropped to where they touched before lifting to him. In her eyes, he glimpsed apprehension, a hint of confusion and, damn, heat. So much heat.
Flo Dennison was dangerous.
To his resolve. To his best intentions. To his—
“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said, shifting his attention to the television and the baseball game that played on the screen. Lifting his bottle, he downed a long, desperate sip, and only when he was certain he had his face under control did he look at her again. He reached deep for the casual humor they’d shared and grasped it like a drowning man about to go under. “She’s a pro, and well, you’re—” he arched an eyebrow “—an amateur.”
She scowled. “I would take offense to that if it wasn’t true. So I can’t.”
Chuckling, he leaned forward and set the nearly empty beer bottle on the coffee table.
“Thanks again for tonight. For staying late with her, cooking dinner, doing her hair, bedtime...” He loosed a puff of breath. “You went over and beyond what you signed up for in helping me out.”
“I didn’t mind—don’t mind. Honestly,” she said, waving off his words. “I had fun with her today. I know I’ve told you this before, but she’s a wonderful little girl. Funny. Well behaved. Curious. And so damn smart.” She shook her head, smiling. “You’re doing an amazing job with her, Adam.”
“Yeah, you’ve said it before, but I’m not too proud to admit that it feels good hearing it. I...worry if I’m giving her enough. Enough time, attention, of what she needs. Like you doing her hair, for example.” He flipped his hands, staring down at his palms. “My skills and catalog of styles are very limited. They begin and end at ponytails.” Another chuckle, but this one rueful and full of the things he couldn’t say.
Like, how he tried to compensate for Jennifer’s being absent. But in some areas, he just made do, and Justine was the one shortchanged.
“I think you should cut yourself some slack,” Flo murmured. “Even in households where both parents are present, every day, everything isn’t perfect. My sister-in-law grew up in a home with a mother and a father, and because of circumstances there, felt emotionally neglected and unloved. They’re okay now, but it required healing and a slow rebuilding of their relationship years after the fact. Jussy might be a child of divorced parents, but she’s not being raised in an environment that’s devoid of love, encouragement and acceptance. I’m not saying not having her mother here doesn’t affect her. But I am saying she wouldn’t be such a confident, inquisitive child if she wasn’t secure in your love and knew it’s her safety net.”
He had to glance away from the sincerity gleaming in those beautiful eyes. From the lips that spoke assurances that soothed his heart and hardened his cock.
God, he could use another beer. He picked up the bottle again, just giving his hands something to hold so they wouldn’t grab her.
“That’s one of my main worries,” he confessed in a low, hoarse voice that rubbed like grit over his throat. “Are we—my ex-wife and I—fucking her up? Because of our selfishness...because we couldn’t get it together...are we messing this up for her? What kind of father am I when I can’t protect my baby from hurt? A hurt we’re responsible for.”
“I’m sorry, why didn’t you tell me you were bitten by a radioactive spider? That seems like something that should have been disclosed before I offered to babysit for you.”
He stared at her, equal parts perplexed and irritated. Then he noted her small smile, and though the puzzlement remained, the irritation faded.
“I never claimed to be Spider-Man or any superhero.”
“You sure?” She tilted her head. “Because the way you were talking about protecting her from everything that could hurt her, I wasn’t sure. Of course, I’ve never been a parent, but even I know that’s an impossibility. You can do your absolute best, and you’ll still never be able to keep her from all harm. And thank goodness, right? I’m no masochist, but it’s the hurts, the disappointments and the failures that shape us as much as the joys, victories and wonderful times in our lives. She’ll never know she’s capable of being strong or independent if she doesn’t experience one right alongside the other.
“You’re not perfect. You won’t always be there to shield or defend her. But then again, she’d never grow in her own power and voice if you were.” She snagged his beer, tipped it to her mouth and disappeared the little bit left in there. Lowering it, she rubbed a thumb over her bottom lip and pointed the bottle at him. “And whether you can fashion the perfect ponytail has nothing to do with how much she loves you or measures your love for her. Believe me. While I might not be a parent, I was in her place before, and I’m speaking from experience.”
So many things crowded toward the base of his throat, shoving and vying to be the first to escape.
Thank you for that.
Are you sure?
I need you.
That last one he couldn’t afford to loose. It revealed too much. Because as much as he longed to deny it, he didn’t only need her in the physical sense.
So he said nothing, except... “Another beer?”
Understanding flickered in her eyes, but she didn’t call him on his sudden shift in subject.
“No, thanks,” she said.
With a nod, he rose, went to the kitchen and returned moments later with a fresh bottle, the cap twisted off. He briefly considered moving to the adjacent armchair, but at the last moment, changed his mind. That veered too close to cowardice. And while he considered it self-preservation, he feared how revealing it would appear to Flo.
“You mentioned speaking from experience. What do you mean?” he asked.
He just wanted to hear her speak. Wanted to know more about her. And not just in the capacity of his daughter’s temporary nanny. He wanted—needed—to learn more about the woman, the artist. He was damn near voracious for more.
Flo rubbed her fingertips over her thigh, head bowed. After a moment, she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze, and he gripped his bottle tighter, the cold condensation grounding him. Reminding him that he couldn’t reach for her, touch her.
She smiled, but something lingered in her eyes. And it was that something he wanted to both decipher and erase.
“I’ve told you a little about my family. We’re blended, with four of us being adopted. And I was the first Black child—and a Black girl at that. I always roll my eyes a little when people say really nice-sounding but misinformed things like, ‘Color doesn’t matter. Children are children.’” She huffed out a small chuckle. “As if we’re not individuals. As if our cultures, ethnic makeups and history don’t contribute to our identities, how we see ourselves, how we stand in this world. And that doesn’t just somehow start when we hit adulthood. It begins when we’re children.”
She fell silent for a moment, her expression clouded. But then she blinked, her eyes focusing back on him.
“One of my earliest memories is of Moe brushing and styling Leo’s and Sinead’s hair. She would sit them between her legs or on her lap, get the brush and comb, and they’d talk and laugh while she put their hair up in soft, silky ponytails or let it hang all long and straight down their backs. And then there was me. Moe tried. I’ll give her that. But because she had no experience with Black hair, mine started to shed then break off from washing it every day like my sisters. My hair was thick, coarse, so very different from Leo’s and Sinead’s. She usually went with a ball or puff. But Moe being Moe, she understood how important a girl’s hair is to her. Especially a Black girl’s hair. So she started making appointments at the local Black-owned hair salon as well as having Ms. Eva, a friend of the family, come in to braid my hair when we couldn’t make it to the shop.”
Adam nodded, understanding everything Flo said. Justine was only five. And though Adam made it a point to instill in her that being kind, considerate and unselfish were more important than being pretty, he still understood his little girl needed to hear she was just that—pretty. She needed to feel confident about her appearance, and that included her hair. Especially her hair. Because for the Black culture, it represented identity, creativity, expression...freedom.
And yet, he also empathized with Flo’s adopted mother because he was that parent of a Black girl with no idea what to do with her hair. Afraid he would damage not just it, but her self-esteem. Being a parent wasn’t easy. Matter of fact, it was the hardest damn job ever created.
And the best.
“It sounds like your Moe understood one of her children had different needs and did everything in her power to make sure you were good,” he said.
“Oh, definitely.” She nodded her head. “Moe didn’t rely on others. She learned how to do some things, too. And, as an adult looking back, it only makes me appreciate and love her more. But four-, five-year-old me? All I knew back then was my mother couldn’t do my hair like my sisters’. They had that special bond with her, that quality time that I didn’t. They didn’t need strangers to take care of them. It made me feel different. I already looked different from the rest of my family, and this small thing—which wasn’t so small, really—solidified that feeling. So when Jussy asked me to do her hair, I didn’t hesitate. It’s about more than the hair and feeling pretty. It’s about that time, that attention and affirmation.”
“She misses it,” Adam murmured. “I know she misses it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with asking for help or accepting it,” she quietly said. “It’s not a weakness or a commentary on you as a parent.” A smile curved her lips. “One of the things I realized when I was older? Moe could’ve easily rejected any help for her child who was a different race than her. Could’ve ignored that she didn’t have certain knowledge when it came to aspects of my care. But she didn’t. Her reaching out and ensuring she and I had another community of friends that included people—women—who looked like me, who could talk to me about being a Black girl and later a Black woman in this world, was another display of her deep love for me. And that’s one thing that wasn’t in short supply in our home. Love. And it’s the same with Justine. There’s no need to feel guilt over what you can’t give her. Not when what you are giving her far outweighs it. Stop keeping a running tally of the losses and celebrate the wins.”
He remained silent, letting her words sink in, allowing them to fall into his heart and hopefully take root and grow.
Huffing out a short laugh, he lifted the beer to his lips again, downing a sip. “You’re too young to be so wise,” he said, lowering the bottle.
Arching an eyebrow, she snorted. “That didn’t sound condescending at all.” She paused, tilted her head, then quietly said, “Did you need that reminder of how old I am for me or for you?”
“Both of us.”
The answer broke free of him before he could censor it. And as it sat between them, it seemed to echo in the space, the meaning behind it both a revelation and a warning.
“Why do you need it? The reminder?” she pressed, and damn, why didn’t she just leave it alone?
Why didn’t he?
If he used the intelligence he’d been blessed with, he wouldn’t answer her question; he’d deflect and dodge like a pro ball player. But from the moment he’d met this woman, he’d played with his boundaries, flirted with self-preservation. She threatened them all.
And this moment wasn’t any different.
“Do you really need me to answer that?” He rubbed a hand down his beard. When she didn’t reply, he met her steady gaze without flinching. “I need that reminder so I’ll remember the real-life repercussions of making the wrong decision.”
“And I’m the wrong decision?”
She didn’t sound offended, just...curious.
“For me? For Jussy? Yes, you are.”
Unfortunately, it was debatable whether that knowledge would be enough for him to maintain his distance. To keep his hands all the way to himself.
That, she didn’t have to know.
If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he might’ve missed the nearly imperceptible flinch. But he studied her like a final exam loomed in his future and he planned on acing the test. He almost rescinded the words, or at least softened them. In the end, though, he remained quiet. Because as blunt and maybe hurtful as he’d been, it was still the unvarnished truth.
“I’m not your wife,” she finally said, her voice low, but like a shout in his ears. “And last time I checked, Jesus went to the cross for someone else’s sins. I’m not Him or your ex-wife. I don’t want to pay for anyone’s crimes but my own.”
Damn, she had a way with words.
“Jennifer was only five years younger than me,” he said. “We met when she was finishing up her Masters at the University of Chicago and I had already been with my old architectural firm for four years. Jennifer didn’t have much of a childhood or young adulthood, for that matter. She’d grown up with a single mother who worked two jobs, and as the oldest child, much of the parenting of her two youngest siblings fell on her. And even when she left for college, she didn’t live in the dorms, but remained living at home in that role, caring for her brother and sister.”
“I can only imagine the weight of that responsibility on her at such a young age. Even though she was helping her mother, that would’ve still been a lot,” Flo murmured.
“From what she told me, Jenn loved her sister and brother—and her mom. But because she’d been pushed into a role she didn’t ask for, she became estranged from her mother. And her siblings were so used to viewing her as the gatekeeper and disciplinarian rather than just their older sister, their relationship was forever changed, too. The beginning of our relationship was—” he waved the beer bottle in front of him as if it were a wand capable of conjuring the explanation he sought “—freedom, in a way. Because by the time we met, her siblings were older, and she’d just moved into an apartment of her own. But that sense of freedom didn’t last long.”
Lifting his beer once more, he sipped the alcohol and glanced over the couch back toward the hall. Justine should be asleep by now, but he was always cautious when talking about her mother. He didn’t want to badmouth his ex, his child’s mother, poisoning Justine’s mind against her.
“She became pregnant with Justine,” Flo said, drawing his attention back to her. Surprise rippled through him, and she shrugged a shoulder. “I can add. Or subtract.”
He nodded. “Yeah, she became pregnant. And we got married.”
“Would you have, if the circumstances had been different?”
How many times had he asked himself that same question? Thousands. Tens of thousands over the years. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t know. Maybe. In time, eventually.” Obviously, even after the number of times he’d posed this question to himself, he still didn’t know the answer. “Doesn’t matter now. We made our choices, and we have to live with them. And maybe I would’ve done some things differently, but having Justine isn’t one of them.”
“Of course not,” Flo whispered.
“For a while, we were good. But by the time Jussy turned two, I could see Jennifer getting restless. It was little things at first. We would argue over the smallest topics. She claimed to be bored, and then she said more pointed things, like she’d already been a parent, that this wasn’t the life she’d imagined for herself. Long lunches with friends would turn into nights out. And then she occasionally stayed out all night. Said she’d gotten tipsy and slept over at a friend’s house.”
“She cheated on you?” Flo frowned, shifting and tucking her foot underneath a thigh.
Her voice held a note of disbelief, and in spite of the subject, a ghost of humor flickered inside him. She actually sounded offended on his behalf.
“No, she didn’t,” he said, but then amended, “Well, I don’t think so because I never did have proof of any infidelity. Your wife stays out all night, yeah, that’s the first place your mind goes. But I don’t know. And by the time we separated and then divorced, I didn’t care. Because maybe we could’ve worked past that issue. But feeling too tied down, needing the space to discover who she was and live the life she never had the opportunity to experience because of her childhood? That we couldn’t get over. Because Justine deserves more than a part-time parent who calls off work more than she shows up. I understood Jenn’s needs—that’s why I didn’t fight her on the divorce—but not being there for our daughter?” He shook his head. “That I’ll never understand.”
A thick silence descended between them. It was weighted with emotion, words said and unsaid. And underneath, the simmering tension that never fully dissipated whenever they were within breathing distance of each other. Even as he relayed the biggest failure in his life, his cock pulsed with need.
And wasn’t that the fucked-up part of it all? Why he’d issued that warning? Because no matter that he knew she had yet to experience more of life, he wanted her. Wanted her so badly he could still taste her, feel her hands stroke over his skin...feel the tight, silken clasp of her sex.
“I’m sorry, Adam. I’ve never been married so I’ve never suffered the pain and grief of a divorce. I can only imagine it’s like a form of death. Not just the marriage and relationship, but a dream, too. That idea of what your future looked like for you and Jussy,” she said, and in those pretty brown eyes, he glimpsed sympathy, not pity. His chest loosened a fraction. “But again, I’m not your wife,” she added, as if plucking his thoughts right out of his head. “And it isn’t fair to paint me with her brush. You don’t know enough about me to assume that just because I’m younger I don’t know my own mind.”
“That’s not how I see you,” he countered. At this point he should shut down this conversation—a conversation he’d initiated—before it verged into territory neither one of them was ready to trek. So yes, he should shut up. But the hurt shimmering underneath the matter-of-fact tone of her voice wouldn’t allow it. “There’s nothing indecisive about you. On the contrary, Flo. You’re driven, ambitious, focused. You’re just twenty-four and you already have your own business. You’re gifted and not just good at your job. It’s your passion. Which is why you’d spend two weeks in another country pursuing that passion and learning from others to improve your craft. While you love your studio, there’s a fire inside you, an almost restless need that won’t permit you to be satisfied with just taking pictures for holidays, christenings and graduations. You want more. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”
But it was that more that made him nervous. Made him want to erect a hedge of protection around Justine’s heart. Because one woman who needed more had already walked away from her. From them. He couldn’t allow Flo to be another one.
He couldn’t let himself forget the potential cost of becoming involved with Flo, of falling for her. The price would be too high, and it wouldn’t only be him paying it.
“Then why does it still sound like an indictment?” she murmured.
“Not an indictment, just the truth,” he returned in that same low voice. “You should want all of that. You should live it, experience it. That’s your right, and nothing, or no one, should hold you back from it. That’s all I’m saying, Flo.”
A beat of silence pounded between them, and he expected her to look away from him, to change the subject. To let it go. But this was Flo. And maybe, eventually, he would learn to stop underestimating her. Apparently, tonight wasn’t it.
“And you would hold me back from it?” she pressed, exposing his explanation to the light of truth.
A truth he could choose to either back away from or confront head-on.
“You’ve told me about your family, but I haven’t been honest about mine,” he said. This was...odd for him. He didn’t talk about his past, his father. Hell, he didn’t even like thinking about the old man, much less discussing him. Part of him felt like the man was part Candyman. Say his name too many times, and he just might show up. Best to keep Maurice Reed out his mouth. Silently sighing, he scrubbed a hand over his head. “My parents divorced when I was seven. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. My father kicked my mother out of our house when I was seven. According to him, my mother cheated on him and forfeited her rights to our family. That’s who he was—is—the kind of man who would use his child as a pawn to hurt someone else. He was domineering, cold, what we would call verbally abusive now. And selfish. I don’t know what he had on my mother to keep her away from me, but he kept his promise that day she left. He told her she’d never see me again, and she didn’t.”
But had his mother tried harder to go up against his father and sued for custody? Even today, thirty years later, he didn’t have the answer to that. He couldn’t trust the truth to come out of Maurice Reed’s mouth if it was pried with the jaws of life. And his mother...
“I’m so sorry, Adam,” Flo whispered.
He shrugged a shoulder and, It is what it is hovered on his tongue. But at the last moment, he didn’t say it. Because if the delusion of his parents’ marriage and the subsequent absence of his mother wasn’t that big of a deal, he wouldn’t still dream about it. Wouldn’t still nurse an emotional wound that affected the man and parent he’d become.
Wouldn’t still have fear trickling in his veins at even the thought of a relationship.
He nodded. “I didn’t have my mother, but I had several mother figures—several stepmothers. See, my father had a thing for relationships, for falling in ‘love.’ Except he had no idea how to stay in love. Inevitably, the nitpicking would start. ‘Why does this house look like this?’ ‘Is it too much to ask to have dinner on the table when I get home?’ ‘What kind of woman can’t control her kid?’ Then the name-calling. Bitch. Lazy ass. Whore. Then the threats. ‘You think I can’t find another woman? Fix your shit or you’re out of here.’”
Though Adam repeated the vitriol he’d heard so often throughout his childhood, his father’s voice rattled in his head like angry ghosts.
“None of my father’s relationships lasted past the five-year mark. My mother was probably the exception. It seemed like he was incapable of being in a healthy union, and that bled over to me. Yes, I always had a roof over my head, clothes on my back. And never did I go to bed hungry. But he was a bully with exacting and unobtainable standards. God help anyone who didn’t meet them. That’s the thing, though—no one ever could. All I saw growing up was this toxic cycle, and though it takes two to make a relationship successful, my father was the common denominator. And when I left for college, I never returned home to stay. I visited because my sister remained with him and whatever girlfriend or wife he had at the time. She was only eleven when I went to school, and I tried to protect her as best as I could from the chaos in our house. But some things...” He shook his head. “Some things you can’t outrun, you just have to outlive. Like your past. Like generational scars.”
“Generational scars or curses—they don’t define us or set us on a path like some divining rod. One can be healed and the other broken. Is that what you’re trying to tell me, Adam?” she asked. “That you’re destined to be your father? Because that’s bullshit, as you once so eloquently put it to me. We’re not our parents or their parents, and so on down the line. We take our history, glean from it the information we need to stay the course or change it. Every day we wake up, we have the opportunity to choose to be different, to behave different. We are not prisoners to our family tree or DNA.”
Logically, he agreed with her. Things like being a bad, selfish partner didn’t pass down through genetics like eye color or body frame.
But he also knew that nurture and nature were just two sides of the same coin. He’d strived all his life to be as unlike his father as possible—levelheaded, not jealous, open-minded—but none of that seemed to matter. He’d still run off his partner. He’d still failed at marriage and keeping his wife happy and contented—at keeping his family together.
No matter what he told himself in the light of day, he couldn’t escape the shadows of his heart.
“You’re not a bad bet, Adam,” she softly added.
“I’m not a safe one, either.”
She stared at him, then slowly stood from the couch. And straddled his lap.
Surprise whipped through him and he blinked, unmoving. Well, most of him was unmoving. As she settled on top of him, pressing her hot center over his cock, it stirred, thickened. Neither it nor he had forgotten the sweet oblivion they’d found inside her, the tight, wet clasp of her. After all, how did a person possibly not remember the single most erotic experience of his life?
And here she was, sitting on top of him, only a couple layers of clothes preventing him from sliding inside her again.
“Flo,” he murmured, his hands rising to cradle her hips.
He should lift her up and off. Place much needed space between them. But instead, his fingers tightened their grip, holding her to him.
“Sometimes safe is overrated,” she whispered, sliding her hands up his chest to hook behind his neck.
The softness of her touch, the sensuality of it, burned away the reasons why this was such a bad idea, and they drifted away like steam. And when she lowered her head, he didn’t evade her. No, he tipped his head back and met her halfway. Their mouths barely connected before he thrust his tongue between her lips, greedy for the taste of her that had been haunting him for... God, it seemed like forever.
Or maybe he was just that addicted to her.
He shoved that too-dangerous thought aside, and dove deeper into her mouth, sucked her tongue harder, groaned louder. Drowning himself in the flavor and scent—the feel of her under his palms—distracting himself from the very real fear trickling into his veins.
The thing about addiction?
It wasn’t just physical. The mind, the brain, cried out for that next hit just as much as the body.
Everything in him craved Flo’s taste, the feel of her smooth, soft skin under his palms. The thrill of that sleek body and those subtle curves moving against him. The sweet oblivion found in burying himself inside her.
Yeah, addiction was a hazardous pitfall.
And yet, he stroked a hand up her slim back and tunneled his fingers through her hair, gripping the locs to hold her head still as he took her mouth harder, with a need that made him less gentle. But she didn’t seem to mind. No, if the jerking of her hips and stroking of her sex over his cock were any indications, she didn’t mind at all. Good. Because with this hunger roaring through him, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down.
In just a matter of weeks, he’d become insatiable for her.
And though that sent another streak of unease racing through him, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop himself from plunging repeatedly between her lips for another lick, another suck. Couldn’t stop grinding against her with every rock of her hips. Couldn’t stop from lifting his other hand to cup a firm breast, pinch the beaded tip.
Just. Couldn’t. Stop.
She arched into his touch, one of her hands lowering to cover his. But not to remove it; she squeezed his fingers, silently encouraging him to handle her harder. He plumped the flesh, molding and tweaking the tip through her shirt. He raked his teeth and lips down the elegant line of her throat, nipping the sensitive base. A shiver rippled through her, vibrating against him, through him. The reaction tossed kindling on an already roaring flame, and he drew her skin between his teeth, sucking on it, hoping like hell he bruised her. He’d reverted to a teenage boy who wanted to leave his mark so any and everyone could see he’d had the pleasure, the honor of touching her, kissing her. That for even this short amount of time, she was his to brand.
Yeah. Teenage boy and caveman.
Fisting her locs again, he tugged her head back up and pressed a hard kiss to the corner of her mouth.
“Look at me, queen,” he ordered, his voice sounding rough, ragged to his own ears.
She lifted her lashes, and in her eyes, he glimpsed the lust swamping him in greedy, potent waves. It was intoxicating, and the surge of power that pulsed inside him damn near eclipsed the pleasure. This beautiful, gifted woman granted him the permission to put his mouth and hands on her, and he caused those gorgeous eyes to go dark. He caused her to tremble. He was the reason those slim, toned thighs quivered around his legs. He vacillated between awe and hunger.
“Show me where you need me.” Splaying his fingers wide between her breasts, he waited, the pounding of her heart under his palm echoing the beat in his own chest. “What do you want from me?”
He was courting danger, poking it like a relentless child; he acknowledged this. But could he stop? No. They were too far past the time for caution. At least that was what his throbbing pulse and aching dick told him.
Not breaking their visual connection, Flo circled his wrist and pulled his hand away—then slid it down her torso, over her abdomen and navel, not stopping until his fingertips grazed her zipper.
“Here?” He traced the metallic teeth, his touch light. A breath shuddered out from between her lips. “Or...here.” Without preamble, he cupped her sex, grinding the heel of his palm over her clit.
Her soft cry was a thing of beauty, and he instantly wanted more of it. In that second it became his mission in life to hear it over and over.
“Tell me, queen,” he insisted, pressing his fingers against the seam of her jeans, right up against the entrance to her body. “Here?”
“Yes, Adam.” She gasped, fisting the front of his shirt. “Yes.”
The need saturating her voice had him jerking open the button at the top of her jeans, hauling the zipper down, and he thrust his hand between her body and denim. Groans escaped both of them as he slid his fingers through drenched, soft flesh. The side of his finger skimmed that nub at the top of her mound, and her hips jerked, punching forward. He didn’t stop until his fingers pressed to the mouth of her sex.
Cupping her ass, he urged her up to her knees, granting him more access.
“Fuck,” he growled as he sank inside her, those slick muscled walls closing around him. Liquid heat coated his skin, and he couldn’t stop himself from dragging his hand free and lifting it to his mouth, sucking all that wet from his fingers. Her flavor exploded on his tongue—a delicious blend of sweet and tart—and his stomach damn near cramped with the greed for more. “How the hell do you taste this good, baby?”
She stared down at him, her brown eyes almost black with lust. Cradling his face between her hands, she lowered her head and crushed her mouth to his. Savoring herself on his tongue? The thought sent another spiral of heat twisting through him.
Uttering a harsh curse against her lips, he dove back inside her jeans, agitating her clit with firm, tight circles. Her hips worked against his fingers, imploring, demanding, in a sensual dance. Flo whimpered into his mouth, and that coaxed a growl from him. An insatiable need to be inside her pounded within him, hardening his cock. All it would take was one brush over his length, and he would blow. That was how on edge she had him.
“Adam,” she panted, “please.”
Tightening his grip on her ass, he held her restless movement still and plunged his fingers back into her tight, hot channel. He withdrew until only the tips remained then buried them back inside. Over and over, he fucked her, drawing a fierce satisfaction from every cry, every tremble of her body, every spasm of her sex. Her nails scratched his scalp, and that bite rippled down his spine, adding another layer to the lust tearing through him.
“C’mon, queen.” He thrust harder into her, twisting his wrist and stroking high and deep. “Give it to me. Let go,” he demanded, grinding the heel of his palm against the top of her sex.
He didn’t know if it was his command, the press of hand against her clit or that final stroke of his fingers or a combination of all three—not that it mattered. He only knew the damn near bruising grip of her flesh, the milking embrace and her muted, throaty scream that he swallowed. He continued to work her body, fighting the squeeze and clasp of her channel to give her every measure of the orgasm.
She jerked her mouth from his and buried her face against his throat. And as the last shudder left her, she sagged against him. Reluctantly slipping his fingers free of her body, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her until their breathing evened out. His dick railed at him, demanding it enjoy the same erotic embrace his fingers had enjoyed. Lust still streamed through his veins, hot and alive, and God, he wanted inside her.
Moments later, she leaned back, meeting his gaze. Though she’d just come, her brown eyes glittered with the same desire that had its claws dug into him. Something unspoken but loud as a shout passed between them. Cupping her ass in both his hands, he rose from the couch, and she wrapped her arms and legs around his neck and waist. He strode around the end of the sofa, heading toward the hallway, anticipation and lust propelling him—
His cell phone vibrated on the coffee table, and the buzz of it halted him midstride. He frowned, fighting through the lust that clouded his mind. Who the hell would be calling at nine o’clock? Giving his head a small shake, he moved forward again...and it rang again. And then again.
Shit.
“You should get that,” Flo murmured, loosening her arms, and he took the hint, slowly lowering her to the floor. His arms momentarily tightened around her, loath to release her, but she briefly squeezed the back of his neck. “It could be important. Especially if someone’s calling late at night.”
Frustrated—and more than a little irritated at the interruption—he swallowed the growl that rumbled up his chest. Flo was right, but the throbbing in his cock couldn’t give a damn at this second. But it could be Adele trying to contact him about something back at home. Maybe...their father. What if he’d had another health scare?
Disquiet tripped down his spine as he turned around and retraced his steps to the couch and the table in front of it. Were he and his father close? No. Not like a dad and son should be. But if something happened to him...
He bent down and reached for his phone, expecting to see his sister’s name on the screen. When he spotted his ex-wife’s instead, his fingers hovered above the cell then curled into a fist.
The hell?
Unease transformed into anger, and it swirled behind his ribs. Why would Jennifer be calling now? What could she possibly want?
Bullshit, a voice in his head supplied.
And even as he jabbed the screen, answering the phone, he silently agreed. But he couldn’t afford not to at least find out the purpose behind this call. On the off chance it was an emergency.
She’s Justine’s mother. She’s Justine’s mother.
He repeated the mantra to himself as he lifted the cell to his ear.
“Jenn,” he said, and yeah, his tone sounded abrupt and sharp, but with need still simmering under his skin, it would require an act of God to make him sound friendlier.
“Hey, Adam,” his ex chirped as if it were nine in the morning rather than in the evening. “How’re you doing?”
“Jenn,” he repeated her name through clenched teeth. Inhaling a deep breath, he deliberately relaxed his jaw and tried again. “It’s a little late to be calling. Is everything okay?”
“You’re such a worrier. I see some things never change.” Her light laughter echoed in his ear, and he scrubbed his fingers through his hair, stopping short of fisting it. “Everything’s fine. I’m just calling to talk to my daughter. Can you put Jussy on the phone?”
“Are you kidding me?” he bit out. The last of the lust that had been humming in his veins dissipated under his anger. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose and paused. Regardless of the example he’d had growing up, he’d never purposefully disrespect a woman—especially the mother of his child. But goddamn, Jennifer tested him. He exhaled, dropped his arm and sightlessly stared ahead at the far wall. “Jenn,” he said, attempting to inject calm into his voice. “Do you realize what time it is? After nine. Jussy is in bed, asleep.”
A pause, then a soft gasp. “Oh God, I didn’t even realize. It’s just six here,” Jennifer replied with a slight groan. “I don’t—Hold on a second.” In the background, he caught the muffled sounds of laughter, and wait...was that the splash of water? Jennifer shouted to someone, telling them she would be right there. Was she at a party? A damn pool party? He swallowed the bitter words that rappelled up his throat and clambered onto his tongue. By sheer force of will, he didn’t let the words loose. “Sorry about that,” Jennifer said with a soft chuckle. “I completely forgot about the time zone difference. But can I talk to Jussy anyway? I’m sure she’d love to talk to me.”
“She is asleep, Jenn. Has been for a while now. Her bedtime is at eight like it’s always been. I’m not going to wake her up.”
“What? Adam, are you serious?” she demanded, incredulity coloring her tone. Moments later the noise in the background faded, and he assumed she must’ve moved to a different room or area. “I’m calling to speak with my daughter. You have no right to keep me from her.”
“Jennifer,” he ground out, and now he couldn’t keep his anger and frustration from seeping into his words. “Don’t pull that BS with me.” A hand settled on his upper arm, giving his biceps a gentle squeeze. He jerked his chin down and met Flo’s gaze. The concern and warmth there calmed him, centered him. And later, he would probably be terrified about that, but now he just clung to the life raft she tossed him.
Closing his eyes again, he shook his head and dragged in a cleansing breath. “I would never keep you from Jussy—I never have. You are free to talk to her or see her whenever you want. But she’s been asleep for going on an hour now. I will not go in there and disturb her. This isn’t about you. It’s about her. After that five-minute call, you’ll return to your party or whatever the hell you’re doing, but it will be me who has to settle a cranky and tired child and hope she gets back to sleep before ten. No, I won’t do it,” he firmly said. “Set an alarm, write it down. If talking to your daughter is a priority, then you’ll do whatever it takes to call and talk to her when she’s awake, no matter the time difference.”
“There you go again,” she snapped. “I don’t need you to tell me how to mother my child. You’re so self-righteous. So fucking perfect, aren’t you?”
Shaking off Flo’s hand, he stalked forward, across the living room, heading for the front door. He didn’t stop until he yanked it open and moved out onto the porch. The chilled spring air teased his skin, but he didn’t heed it. His only goal? Take this conversation as far from Justine’s hearing as possible. Didn’t matter that she was asleep. He couldn’t chance her waking up and possibly overhearing her parents arguing. All too well he remembered how the sound of raised voices and the anger thrumming through those voices scared him. He refused to do that to Justine.
“You’ve never made a mistake, have you? Oh no, not Saint Adam,” Jennifer continued her diatribe. “You’re not going to let me forget that you’re there every day, the perfect parent. That doesn’t make you her only parent, Adam. I love her and she loves me, and the only one you’re hurting right now is Jus—”
“Don’t. You. Dare.” Adam curled his fingers around the porch railing, rocking on the balls of his feet as if her accusation was a physical blow. “Don’t you dare lecture me on hurting Justine. My sole concern is her, her feelings, her well-being. Even though I’ve been forced to have conversations with her about why her mom was supposed to visit but didn’t show. Why she was supposed to phone and didn’t. I’ve made excuses for you time and time again, Jenn, and you won’t even make the effort to call while she’s awake. Forget coming to see her for your scheduled days and holidays. Forget paying child support. Forget all of that. A. Phone. Call. I’m not hurting our daughter. I’m here. I’m present. But you can’t say the same, and I won’t let you try and make me feel guilty for being her only plugged-in parent. One of us has to be.”
Silence crackled on the April night and hummed across their connection. As his harsh words echoed on the evening air, the urge to apologize rose up from his gut, crowding into his chest.
Dammit.
Not only did he want to protect Justine, but he hated hurting Jennifer. She’d been his wife, his partner; he’d loved her once. And though she’d made choices—continued to make selfish choices—that had broken their family and confused their daughter, he still desired to shield her.
Savior complex. Jennifer had lobbed that at him during one of their many arguments when they were married. And maybe she was right. But she certainly wouldn’t say that tonight.
And he couldn’t bring himself to take back his words.
“Screw you, Adam,” she quietly said and hung up.
He lowered the phone and stared at the screen, a heaviness taking up residence in his gut. Frustration, anger, sadness—they all mingled and eddied, until he couldn’t separate one emotion from the other.
After sliding the cell into his back pocket, he gripped the railing with both hands and leaned all his weight on them, his head bowed.
There are none so blind as those who will not see.
A small part of him would always love Jennifer, simply because of the years they’d shared, the family they created. And because she wasn’t a bad person. Self-absorbed maybe, but not bad. Yet, when would she take the me, me, me! blinders off and see that she was hurting Justine? It aggravated and saddened him that he couldn’t make Jennifer see. He felt helpless.
He felt like he was failing all of them.
The front door opened behind him, but he didn’t turn around at the sound or at the soft tread of footfalls on the porch. He didn’t look up when Flo came to stand beside him, and her body heat reached out to him despite the space separating them.
“Do you need me to stay?” she asked on a near whisper.
Yes. Please don’t go.
The answer immediately leaped into his head, and it boomed like an internal megaphone. And the desperation, the need that rose within him... He might’ve swayed under that need if he hadn’t been clutching the railing like it was his last lifeline.
And it was the power of that hunger to beg her to stay that had a layer of ice coating his chest, numbing him.
“No,” he said, voice flat. “Thank you, but you should go. I’ll see you in the morning.”
For a long moment she didn’t move. He still stared down at the railing, not looking at her. He couldn’t; he was too afraid that if he glimpsed sympathy or, worse, remnants of their shared desire in her eyes, he would sink to his knees, wrap his arms around her and plead with her to come to his bed and not let him be alone tonight.
“Okay, Adam.” She paused. “Good night.”
“Good night, Flo.”
She moved away from him, and though he told himself not to give in, he couldn’t stop from lifting his head and watching her descend the porch steps and stride down the walkway to her car. Couldn’t prevent himself from visually tracing the slim, proud line of her back.
He waited until she climbed into her car and drove away. And only then did he return inside his house.
Alone.