I’m in the living room talking with Austin when Mark shows up at my house. He knocks twice, then bursts through the door with fire in his eyes.
“Are you okay? Where is he? Where’s Libby? Are you hurt or—”
“I’m fine.” I’m still shaking, but I’m okay. More than okay, now that Mark’s here. My chest floods with warmth at the sight of this giant of a man looking so shaken over—me?
It’s clear he’s not buying it that I’m fine. He scrapes a hand over his beard and turns to Austin. “Is she really all right? Did he hurt her or—”
“No.” Austin shakes his head. “Not physically. She’s had quite a scare. I’ll let her tell you about it.”
I already gave him the broad strokes on the phone. How I got home from dropping Libby at a sleepover and walked into the guest room to find a man rifling through my file cabinet.
I left out the part about going in there in the first place so I could sniff the pillowcase Mark slept on. He doesn’t need to know I’m a creepy loser who’s hooked on the scent of his soap.
I also left out the details of how terrified I was when the intruder turned to face me. Blue eyes. That’s what I remember. He wore a ski mask that hid the rest of his features, but not the shock in those icy blue eyes. He wasn’t expecting me home so soon, and certainly didn’t expect to be caught with his hand in my file cabinet.
“What are you doing?” That’s all I got out before he pushed past me and ran for the door, flinging it open like the house was wired to explode. He left it gaping open in the wind, tires screeching in his wake.
Thank God Libby wasn’t here.
And thank God Mark is here. I’ve never been so grateful to see anyone in my life.
“You’re not staying alone tonight.” He looks at Austin. “Back me up on this.”
Austin looks at me, hesitating. “I agree it’s not a good idea for you to stay here alone, but we could—”
“I’m staying.” Mark folds his arms over his chest. “Or we’re going to my place. Take your pick.”
I should be annoyed by the whole commanding, alpha-male thing he’s doing, but mostly I’m relieved. “I could drive to Prineville and stay with my mom,” I point out before remembering that won’t work. “Except Libby’s getting dropped off here early in the morning, and anyway, I don’t want the house unattended if that guy comes back.”
Not that I have much to steal, but still. My skin crawls at the thought of a stranger prowling my home, touching my things, while I’m off sleeping in a lumpy twin bed at my mother’s house.
“Guest room’s still free?” Mark asks.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He nods at Austin. “I’ll stay. I won’t let her out of my sight.”
I don’t ask how he plans to do that if he’s sleeping in the guest room, but I’m too rattled to ask questions. I want to hurl myself against Mark’s chest like a big, fat baby and let him wrap those tree trunk arms around me ‘til I stop shaking.
“But you have your guys’ night with your brothers,” I protest. “I don’t want to interrupt that.”
“They insisted,” he says. “A woman in distress trumps bro time. It’s in the rule book.”
“How did you even get here?”
“James dropped me off,” he says. “And Bree’s rabbit sitting.”
And Mark made sure I got my car back this afternoon, so he really has thought of everything. I bite my lip and look at Austin. “Is it okay if I check the file cabinet to see if anything’s missing?”
He nods. “We already checked for prints. Got a couple latents we’ll run through the system. You’re pretty sure he had gloves?”
“One glove,” I remember as a flash of memory shakes loose in my brain. “He must have taken the other off to flip through papers in my files.”
Austin nods and makes a note on a little pad in his hand. “We’ll see what turns up when we run the prints. Go ahead and check to see if anything’s out of place.”
I nod and turn away to shuffle slowly down the hall. My legs are shakier than I thought, and I stop halfway to grip the closet doorframe and keep my bearings.
I’m standing there just out of sight when Mark’s voice rumbles low in the living room. “You checked on this Charlie guy who hit her?” he asks. “The one who’s in jail?”
There’s a long pause before Austin responds. He’s a by-the-rules kind of cop, and I’m sure there are privacy regulations about this.
“I was sitting right next to her when she told you about it,” Mark reminds him. “The last time you were here.”
Austin clears his throat. “I told her this right before you got here,” Austin says slowly. “He’s out.”
“What?”
“Out of prison,” he says. “It was almost a year ago. He was doing time in Idaho for fraud, so it never even came up on our radar.”
Mark curses low under his breath. “So, he’s out there just roaming around?”
“It would appear so.” Austin’s voice is low, and I wonder if he knows I’m lingering here in the hallway listening. He doesn’t miss much. “What’s she told you about him?” he asks.
“Enough to know he’s a fucking asshole.” The words are a deadly-sounding growl. “And not the only asshole she dated.” He pauses. “Not you.”
Austin laughs out loud, which covers the sound of my own soft snicker. “Thanks,” he says. “And that answers that question.”
“You mean whether I knew you two dated?”
“Yeah.” Another long pause, and I wonder if I should stop eavesdropping. This is a man to man kinda thing, not my business. But it is about me, and besides, I’m pretty sure Mark eavesdropped on girls’ night Friday, so this makes us even.
I press my hand against the wall and strain to hear their lowered voices.
“We weren’t serious,” Austin says quietly. “I’m sure she told you that, but I wanted you to know—brother to brother—things aren’t going to be weird if you’re dating.”
“Dating.” Mark repeats the word like it’s a foreign language. “Shit. That’s not—I’m not—we aren’t—”
Austin’s laugh is louder this time. “Don’t bother,” he says. “You know I’m trained to spot when people are telling the truth and when they’re full of shit. It’s written all over your face that you’re nuts about her.”
Is it? I can’t see Mark’s face, but his voice sounds softer than normal. Uncertain, which is something I’ve never heard from him. “It’s complicated,” he says. “My mom, she was a single mom, too. It’s confusing as hell for a kid to have new ‘uncles’ jumping in and out of their lives, you know?”
“Chelsea’s not like that,” Austin says. “Not even close.”
“I know,” he says. “I mean, I could have guessed. All the more reason not to fuck that up for her, right?”
Austin doesn’t answer right away. When he does, he’s so quiet I can barely hear him. “Maybe you should let her be the judge of that.”
“Maybe.” Mark sounds utterly unconvinced, and I don’t blame him. Why on earth would he trust my judgement when I’ve made it clear I don’t trust it myself? I flat-out told him I’ve got a track record of making bad choices with men. Hardly an enticement for him to be next in line.
There’s some more murmuring, but I can’t make out the words. I’ve already been gone too long, so I duck into the guest room and make a beeline for the file cabinet. Yanking open the top drawer, I survey the contents.
Credit card statements. Health insurance info. Records from the small business loan that helped get Dew Drop Cupcakes off the ground. Nothing seems to be missing, though it’s possible the guy snapped photos of things. Is that all he was after?
No, wait—
I pull out the folder, an unobtrusive one marked “Libby keepsakes.” Wasn’t this in the bottom drawer before?
I can’t be sure, but I clutch the file to my chest and make my way back down the hall. Mark and Austin are still talking, and they both look up when I enter.
“What did you find?” Austin asks.
“I’m not sure.” I lay the file folder on the coffee table and flip it open. “I can’t be positive, but I’m almost sure this was put back in the wrong drawer.”
Austin frowns and looks down at the image on top of the file. It’s Libby’s baby picture, a photo of her curled against my chest in the hospital with her tiny pink fingers clutching a fistful of my hair. Beneath that, the edge of her birth certificate peeks out, one edge crinkled.
He looks back at me. “May I take a look?”
“Of course.”
I sit down on the sofa and watch him shuffle through the contents. Mark hovers protectively beside me, frowning down at the folder. “You thinking identity theft?” he asks as Austin pauses on the birth certificate. “Someone looking for social security numbers or something?”
“Not sure.” Austin keeps flipping, past the little card onto which I’ve taped a curl of hair from Libby’s first haircut.
The sight of it makes my heart clench. “I always meant to make a baby book for her,” I say softly. “That’s what most of this is for.”
A wave of guilt washes through me, and I wonder if I made a mistake keeping Libby to myself. Thinking I could do it alone as a single mother. Maybe—
“Can you tell if anything’s missing?” Austin looks up at me.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.” A forced-sounding laugh moves through my chest. “I’m not even positive I didn’t move the folder myself. Maybe when I was reorganizing last month. It’s not like I look through it all that much.”
Even as I say it, I know it’s not true. I’m almost a hundred percent certain I never moved that folder. Why would I?
The quizzical look I get from Mark is a good indication he’s thinking the same thing. He doesn’t say anything, though. Neither does Austin.
When Austin finally stops shuffling through the folder, he looks up at me. “You’re sure you didn’t recognize the guy?” he asks. “His build, his eyes, maybe his clothing?”
“Positive.” That much is true.
Austin closes the folder. “I’ll ask you this again in case something’s jogged your memory,” he says slowly. “Can you think of any reason someone would mess with you or Libby?”
This is my chance. My opportunity to say something. To give words to the tiny sliver of doubt wedged in the back of my brain.
Instead, I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” I hesitate. “You said you haven’t been able to track down Charlie? Charles Crawford, I mean.”
Austin looks at me moment. “Correct. His last known address is in Idaho.”
Mark scowls and lowers himself to the seat next to me on the couch. His massive thigh bumps against mine, and I lean into it, needing his solid heat.
“Has he tried to contact you?” Mark asks.
“No.” I shake my head again. “Not for years.” I bite my lip. “He did send me a letter, though.”
“When?” Austin asks.
“Two years ago?” I shake my head. “He was still in prison. Maybe three years.”
“What did it say?”
“That he missed me.” I shiver at the memory, hugging my arms around myself. “How did he put it? That he was ‘sorry things didn’t work out.’”
“Instead of ‘sorry I fucking hit you?’” Mark’s voice is a snarl again.
“Right.” I glance at Austin, but he’s got his impassive cop face on. “Anyway, there was some stuff about wanting to get back together. I didn’t think much of that at the time. But he suggested this date idea, this plan to take Libby and me to the High Desert Museum.”
Austin studies me. He’s a good cop, so it doesn’t take him long to put the pieces together. “He went to prison four years ago,” he says. “Libby’s almost seven.”
“Exactly,” I say. “So how did he know about her?”
Austin stands up and flips the folder closed. “Do you mind if I take this with me?”
“Be my guest,” I tell him. “I’ll get it back, right?”
“Right.” He moves toward the door, and I stand up to accompany him, but my legs don’t want to work. I stand there like an idiot with my knees quivering and my hands still shaking. Have they ever stopped?
Behind me, Mark shifts so his leg braces mine. I wonder if he knows he’s lending me his strength.
At the door, Austin turns back to us. “Keep everything locked,” he says. “If you decide to stay here tonight, I’ll have a patrol car swing by a few times.”
“Thank you.” I shove my hands in my back pockets, feeling silly and scared. “Tell Bree I said hi.”
“Will do.”
As soon as he’s gone, I feel myself wilt a little, but I fight to keep my spine stiff. “You don’t have to babysit me,” I tell Mark. “I can go to my mom’s place, seriously.”
“Do you want to go to your mom’s place?”
I bite my lip. I have to be honest. “Not really. I’ll just have to listen to her lecture me about living alone, about getting pregnant in the first place.”
God, I sound pathetic. I clamp my mouth shut to stop the flow of words, but Mark doesn’t look like he’s judging.
“And you’d rather be here than at my place?”
I hesitate, then nod. “If Libby got scared or sick and needed to come home early, I’d want to be here. And if the guy really was planning to come back, he’d think twice if he saw my car in the driveway.”
And the six-five mountain man in my guest room.
I don’t say that part out loud, but maybe Mark knows it.
“Then we’ll stay here,” he says. “I’ll stay here. With you.”
This is where I’m supposed to argue, right? I should stamp my foot and cross my arms and insist I’m a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man to protect her.
I wonder if Mark sees this monologue scrolling on the teleprompter in my brain, because he reaches down and takes my hand. “Hey.” His voice is a low murmur as he laces his fingers through mine. “It’s okay to let someone else watch your back. You do everything else yourself. Let me help, Chelss.”
That undoes me. The softness of his voice, the strength in his fingers, the truth in his words. Even the way he says my name—all of it dissolves something in the center of my chest.
I don’t realize the tears are coming until I feel one slip down my cheek. My whole body starts to shake, and I wonder if it’s the shock wearing off.
Mark looks rattled for a second, and I wonder if he’s one of those guys who can’t handle a woman crying. But then he pulls me into his arms and somehow guides me to the couch. He settles down next to me so I’m practically on his lap, and the solid, flannel-covered heat soothes me almost instantly.
He doesn’t say anything, that’s the crazy thing. Just strokes one big hand down my hair over and over, holding me tight against his chest until the shaking stops. He must feel it the same instant I do, because he loosens his hold on me. I look up into those warm brown eyes and take a deep breath.
“Thank you.”
He nods but keeps his arm around me. “You want tea or Kleenex or something?”
I shake my head. “Just this. You holding me a little while longer if that’s okay?”
“Of course.”
I take a shaky breath and look down at a frayed spot on the knee of my jeans. “I just keep thinking ‘what if Libby had been here?’ And what kind of mother am I if maybe I did something that brought this into her life?”
Mark jerks back like I’ve stuck my finger up his nose. “Are you fucking nuts?”
Well that’s one way to comfort a woman.
“No, I just—”
“Chelsea, listen.” He shakes his head with such incredulousness that I almost feel bad for questioning my own mom instinct. “You’re a fucking amazing mom, and I say that as a guy raised by one of the greats.”
“Oh.” Okay, that is actually comforting.
He’s quiet a while, but I sense he’s not ending the conversation. That he’s thinking about how to say something. “You know what’s great about you?”
I have no idea. “Um—”
“The way you just know what’s the right age for Libby to date or get her ears pierced or watch certain movies.”
I laugh, taken aback that he’s chosen to focus on that of all things. “I might be kidding a little with some of it. She’ll probably have her first kiss before thirty.”
“But that’s what I mean—your instincts, they’re superhuman.”
I stare at him, not sure what to make of this compliment. It might be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me, and he doesn’t even know the truth. That I spend half my time as a mom doubting myself, wondering if I’m doing it right. I struggle to find my voice. “I don’t know about that.”
“What’s the right age for a kid to make her own bed?”
I blink. “Four. Depends on the kid, but for one like Libby, four or five.”
“How about pouring milk instead of having a grownup do it?”
“Somewhere between five and six.” He noticed that? That I let Libby do it herself, even though she didn’t get it perfect, because it matters to her that I trust her with grownup tasks.
“How about Santa?”
I look up. “You mean learning he’s not real?”
“Santa’s not real?” His voice is so deadpan that I’m startled for a second. The flicker in his eyes gives him away.
“Of course, Santa’s real,” I tell him. “The tooth fairy, too. But around age ten or eleven, it’s time to have a talk about how grownups have played that role for generations, and now that she’s becoming a grownup, she’s let in on the secret and can help perpetuate the magic.”
Mark smiles, and I feel like a kid who’s gotten a test answer right. I’m honestly just winging it with some of this, but knowing I have the answers—even imperfect ones—is making me less shaky.
And turned on.
I’ll be honest, the way Mark’s holding me right now is making me feel less like a mom and more like a flesh and blood woman. A flesh and blood woman pressed up against a rock-hard, solid, sexy as hell man.
“Right age to learn about the birds and the bees?”
I jump at his voice and answer without thinking. “Young,” I say. “Four or five for the broad strokes of how babies are made, but it’s an evolving conversation. Especially when they’re teenagers or young adults.”
“Right,” he says. “I guess ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’ mean something different when there’s a chance you’ll see real ones instead of cartoon pictures in a book.”
Holy shit.
Okay, I have this theory.
Men who get weird about using real, anatomical names for body parts stand a good chance of being closed-off and prudish in bed. Same goes for shock-value words like “cock” and “pussy” and “fuck.” If saying it out loud makes a guy squirmy, he’ll probably be squeamish about doing it.
But a guy who rattles off words for body parts without flinching? That’s a man who knows how to use those parts.
Not that I’ve lab-tested this with thousands of subjects, but I’ve experimented. Let’s just say my theory is batting a thousand.
“You okay?” Mark asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“You stopped breathing for a second.”
“Oh.”
I glance down and see my hand has somehow found its way to his thigh. I decide to leave it there and lift my eyes to his again.
“I—um—was thinking,” I tell him. “Curious how old you were the first time you—”
I trail off there. It’s not that I’m hung up on words like “sex” and “virginity.” It’s just that we’re inching into uncharted territory. Are we friends who’ve kissed a couple times, or something more intimate? Have we earned the right to ask prying questions, or is that crossing a line?
Mark shifts on the sofa, and my hand slips a few more inches up his thigh. I stare at it, aware that my fingers are lying there scant inches from the fly of his jeans.
I clear my throat and try my question again. “How old were you when you, um—”
“Found out about Santa Claus?”
His tone is deadpan, but when I look up, he’s smiling. With his arm around my shoulders, he leans down and brushes the gentlest kiss on my forehead. “Seventeen,” he says.
“Oh.”
“Assuming Santa is a code word for having sex?”
“Um—”
“Because seventeen’s a fucked-up age to still believe in a bearded fat man forcing his ass down the chimney to bring presents.”
“Right.” I giggle unexpectedly. “I was eighteen.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was—good, actually.”
I hold my breath again, waiting. Is that a threat to his masculinity? Am I supposed to pretend I’ve had only lousy sex because I’m waiting for someone like Mark Bracelyn to sweep me off my feet and show me the key to multiple orgasms?
“I’m glad.” Mark brushes his lips across my forehead again, and I swear I could have one of those orgasms right now. “I like knowing you’ve had good stuff mixed in there with the not-good stuff.”
My heart.
God, it feels like it’s going to bust right through my rib cage.
That’s not the only body part throbbing at the moment, but I order myself to hold it together. To keep this conversation going.
“Dating,” he says softly.
“What?” I look up at him again, and there’s definite heat in his eyes.
I can’t help it. I slip my hand up his thigh just a fraction of an inch. Not enough that I’m grazing his fly, but enough to watch his eyes flash.
“What’s the right age for dating?” he asks.
“Sixteen.” I’m just throwing that out there, positive we’re no longer talking about my daughter. “That’s alone in a car with a boy, but group dates are okay a few years before that.”
“How about things that happen on dates?” His voice is huskier than it was a few minutes ago, and I shift my hand another fraction of an inch.
“Such as?” My voice sounds funny, too, breathy and a little flirty.
“Hand holding.”
“Hand holding is nice.”
“Hmm.” He reaches for my hand, the one that’s not grazing his junk. Lifting it to his mouth, he plants a soft kiss across my knuckles. He releases it and lets his palm come to rest on my shoulder. “How about touching?”
I lick my lips and remind myself to keep breathing. “Touching where?”
I shift my hand another half-inch and watch his eyes flash.
“Breasts.” His hand glides to mine and I gasp. His fingers curl possessively around it, thumb skimming my nipple. The moan slips out as I press myself into his palm.
“Yes, please.” I move my hand a good three inches this time, no longer pretending I’m not going for his button fly.
Mark curses under his breath as my knuckles graze the hard length of him. Good Lord, he could pound nails with this thing.
“Chelsea.” He says my name on a strangled groan, and I look up to see his eyes are troubled.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not having sex with you.”
“Wh—why not?” I try my best to keep the disappointment from my voice, but I fail miserably.
“Because you’ve had one helluva scare tonight,” he says. “And I don’t want you to regret anything.”
“I swear I won’t.”
He smiles and shifts his hand to my other breast. The squeeze is rougher this time, and I know we’re not stopping. That’s not what he’s telling me.
“There will come a time when I slide hard and deep inside you,” he murmurs. “Any way you want it. You said something about liking it from behind?”
Jesus Christ, I’m drowning. Drowning in my own desire. I can’t see straight. Can’t hear over the buzzing of lust in my brain. I can’t speak. All I can do is nod.
“But not tonight,” he says.
I want to throw myself on the floor and scream like a toddler. I’m so keyed up that I swear I could come by crossing my legs. But that’s not what I want. I want Mark. I need his touch, so desperately I can’t sit still.
Maybe he sees it in my eyes. Or maybe he’s as worked up as I am. Looking into his eyes, I’m startled by the wildness there. He’s as hungry as I am, and he’s not hiding it.
“I need to taste you,” he says. “Please, Chelsea.”
I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about cupcake samples.
I can’t breathe. Is he seriously begging to go down on me? I’m nodding before my brain processes the words, and that’s all it takes. Mark scoops me into his arms and picks me off the couch. His legs don’t even wobble, and I feel like I’m made of air as he carries me toward the front door.
“Where are we going?” I breathe.
“Deadbolt.” He takes one hand off my ass and flips the lock, keeping me cradled in his arms the whole time. Then he moves across the living room and down the hall.
“Which room?”
“Left,” I pant. “End of the hall.”
My bedroom door is half open, and he kicks it wide with his boot. Then he’s tossing me back on the bed, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that leaves me clawing at his back. His beard is soft and rough at the same time, as he kisses his way down my throat, across my collar bones.
Somehow, I get my hands on the hem of his shirt. He hesitates at first, like he’s not sure he wants me taking it off. Then he relents.
“God,” he growls as he helps me drag it off over his head. I rake my hands down his chest, which is springy with soft, cinnamon-colored hair. My gaze snags on a scar—a big one—just below his left shoulder. Before I can ask about it, he’s tugging off my shirt.
“Chelsea.” He says my name like a prayer as he tosses my shirt aside and lays me back on the bed to kiss his way down my torso.
Threading my fingers into his hair, I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensory explosion. My whole torso is a sheet of nerve endings, and he devours them all. Tongue, teeth, lips, beard—he uses everything to tease me to the brink of delirium. He’s making love to me with his face, and he hasn’t even gotten my pants off.
That happens next as he angles up and grips my waistband with both hands. He meets my eyes and I nod, and that’s it. There’s no need for words. He slides the leggings down my thighs and over my knees, and then I’m naked.
“Jesus Christ.” His voice comes out strangled as he parts my thighs and looks at me. Looks at me like he’s staring into a magical abyss or something. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
I don’t have a chance to make some self-conscious wisecrack. He’s on me in an instant, claiming me with his mouth. He devours me like he’s starving, lapping at my swollen folds and moaning.
That feels good, too. The vibrations, the brush of his beard, the swirl of his tongue. I had no idea not having sex could feel this good.
He’s got one hand cupping my hips but brings the other between my thighs. One long finger slips inside me, then slides back. I cry out, it feels so fucking good.
“Mark.” I grip his head, afraid he’ll take it as a cry of distress and stop. I don’t want him to stop. I never want this to stop.
He takes his cue from the rising of my hips and keeps working his magic. There’s thrusting and licking and swirling and sucking and somewhere in the middle of that I break apart.
“Oh, God!”
I scream like it’s the first time I’ve felt this, and maybe it is. I’ve never come this hard before, and it’s like a tidal wave of pleasure hitting me all at once. I clutch Mark’s shoulders and throw my head back, riding the shockwaves until I’m breathless.
He waits until I go still to plant a kiss on my inner thigh. Then he slides up my body and pulls me against him. His bare chest is warm and the hair there is so soft. I run my fingers through it, still eager to touch him.
“Rest,” he murmurs, turning me so my spine is cradled against his chest.
I can feel his erection pressing against my tailbone, and part of me aches to finish what we’ve started.
“Relax, Chelsea,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
He does, so I let my body go slack in his arms.
The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep is Mark brushing soft kisses down my earlobe.