Zach
Abby drives me to my house in a smallish SUV that glides effortlessly into traffic. We don’t say much as we go, except for me giving the occasional direction.
“Nice neighborhood,” she remarks as we pull off the busy streets into a quiet road lined with large trees. “Old Phoenix. I like it.”
“I restored the house,” I say, trying to sound offhand. “I like old places.”
“Me too.” Abby takes in the bungalows set back from the road, some of them large and breathtaking, others tiny and cute. “I live in a generic apartment complex that resembles all the other generic apartment complexes in this town. Always have.”
“Not a lot of choice, is there? Trust me, I’ve lived in them too.”
She pulls into the driveway of my Craftsman style bungalow and gazes at it in admiration. It’s dark, so not much of it shows beyond the porch light, but the silhouette is obvious.
“Come in,” I say rashly. “I’ll give you a tour.”
Abby presses her lips together. She’s going to say no, that she has to get home, and it’s a long drive. Just when I’m about to let her off the hook, she shoves the gear into Park and kills the engine.
“Okay. I’d love to see it.”
I am out of the car so fast, I create a breeze. I’m around the SUV, opening the door and ushering Abby to her feet before she can climb down herself. She’s amused with me.
I’m proud of my little house. I worked my ass off on it for years. It had been partly restored by the previous owner, but he’d given up and moved back east when the central Arizona summer got too much for him. I grew up here and know how to keep cool in the middle of a summer afternoon—you find somewhere seriously air conditioned, or submerge yourself in a swimming pool, or sleep. You go outside only early in the morning and at night and stay the hell out of the heat the rest of the day.
The front door of my house opens to a wide hall, with rooms placed around it. A staircase leads up to one bedroom and bathroom, both of which I built from scratch. It used to be an empty attic up there.
I give Abby the tour, which doesn’t take long. “Living room, dining, kitchen, sun room. Guest room. I was going to make this a workroom for me, but Mom insisted I have space in case one of my brothers needs to crash. Which they do, Austin in particular. And here we have the back porch.”
“This is gorgeous.” Abby steps onto the wide porch with deep eaves. The back yard contains a sparkling pool in a bricked-out area, and shrubs against the walls that separate me from my neighbors.
“I’m not really into gardening,” I say quickly, in case she starts praising my pruning skills. “I have guys who take care of the plants.”
“It’s so nice.” Abby sounds admiring. “Homey.”
I shrug. “I fix up houses for other people. I figured I’d do this one, and sell it if I didn’t care about living in it myself. But I decided to stay.”
“I can see why.” She drags in a breath, the air fragrant with roses in pots along the walkways. Roses bloom like a riot in April around here. By June they’ll be cringing down to whimper in the heat.
“I like it.” My words belie the days and weeks of sanding, sawing, hammering, drilling, and cursing. When I say I fixed up the house myself, I mean with my own two hands. I didn’t hire a team and stand back and watch.
Abby turns around, resting her hands behind her on the square railing. She’s relaxed, giving me a half smile, her breasts pushed toward me. She looks perfect on this porch, framed in moonlight. This house is a snapshot of the past married to the beauty of the present, like Abby herself.
And when did I start writing poetry? “I have this bottle of Glenfiddich I’ve been saving …” I hear myself say.
Abby comes out of her sexy pose and raises her hands. “Remember what happened last time we drank Scotch. And then wine.”
“I’m remembering it.” My smile pulls at my face. “Not regretting it.”
Abby studies me a second, then lowers her arms. “I’m not regretting it either,” she says softly.
My heart starts beating hard, and the heat that hasn’t left me since I got out of her bed ramps up. I take her hand.
“Tour’s not done yet.”
She wraps her fingers around mine, the glow in her eyes spinning fire through my body. I guide her inside and then to the stairs. I installed these, though I did order them custom built—polished wood, wide steps, Craftsman bannister. Not a big staircase, but it brings us to my bedroom.
I’m glad I’d made my bed this morning, though for me that’s shaking the sheets and mismatched blankets straight. Abby doesn’t glance at the bed, but at the three windows that give out over the porch roof to a decent view.
“Look at the lights.” She wanders to a window, and I decide not to snap on the overhead. Through a break in the trees behind the neighbor’s roof, we can see the lights of Phoenix stretching south until they run into the dark wall of South Mountain. Red lights blink lazily on top of that, warning planes away from the microwave and radio towers.
I move behind her, sliding my arms around her waist. She doesn’t throw me off or step away, she relaxes into me. I nuzzle her neck, inhaling her beautiful scent.
Abby lets out a sigh, as though she’s perfectly content in my arms.
I’m content too … and more than a little hungry for her. The nuzzling becomes kisses, and tiny nips. Abby lets out a soft moan and turns in my arms, seeking my lips with hers.
We enjoy a long, tongue-tangling, scorching kiss. When we’re done, she’s crushed against me, my hands under her jacket, looking for the zipper on her dress.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” she whispers. “All day yesterday too.”
“You disappeared on me.” I kiss her cheek. “Checked out. Gone.”
Her skin flushes beneath my lips. “I thought you wouldn’t want to see me. You know … after.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t I?” I growl and gently bite her chin. “I’d just made love to the most beautiful woman in the universe. Of course I wanted to see you.”
She gives me a sly glance. “Didn’t notice you calling me.”
I could say I didn’t have her phone number, but that was a lie, thanks to Brooke.
“I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me,” I counter. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the universe, remember? I’m … Zach.”
“The very hot Zach McLaughlin?” She lifts her arms and twines them around me. “I saw all the women looking at you in the restaurant tonight. Wanting to tackle me and take my place.”
I knew she had to be joking. “Nah, they were looking at Austin. He attracts attention.”
“Bull.” Abby slides against me, and my thoughts scatter. “This was after Austin left. But it doesn’t matter. We’re here now.”
“True.” I kiss her again. “Here. Now.”
That’s all that matters.
Our clothes start coming off. I find the zipper and the dress loosens. I help her pull off the jacket, and the top of the sleeveless dress slides down her arms, revealing a black lacy bra.
Her hands are busy unbuckling my belt, unzipping my pants. I suck in a breath as her fingers find my cock, which is plenty stiff.
“Oh, man.” I let out the breath, which sounds hoarse. “I don’t think I can stand up for this.”
Before she can speak, I sweep her off her feet and into my arms, heading for the bed.
Sounds easy, right? In the movies, the hero lifts the heroine like its nothing and runs with her somewhere. I saw one dude run all the way up the stairs with his lady.
In reality, it’s hard to catch my balance without bouncing her, and as soon as she lets go of me, my pants fall. I trip over them, but thankfully the bed is nearby, and we land safely on it. Abby’s laughing at me once again.
I kick out of my pants and shoes, and roll over to her. She’s on her side, tugging at the hem of my shirt. It’s a polo shirt, which I wear to look professional for clients. I drag it off over my head then the T-shirt beneath it.
Her turn. I unhook her bra, which drops off. Not waiting, I cup her breasts then lower my head and close my lips over her nipple.
Abby arches into my mouth, and I feast on the velvet softness of her. Her fingers rest again on my cock, stroking it through my underwear, sending fires through my body.
I need her. I’ve been thinking about her since I woke up yesterday morning, and the time between hasn’t dampened my wanting. I’m dying for her.
I push her into the mattress, continuing to suckle her. She skims her fingertips up and down my cock, which jerks, ready to be inside her.
I need to get rid of the underwear. I release her, grab the elastic, and wrestle the stupid boxer briefs down my legs. The band twangs, and the briefs go flying somewhere across the room. I’m glad the window’s shut, or they might have taken off into the neighbor’s yard. Or landed in the pool. Or the neighbor’s pool.
I scramble off the bed and into the bathroom, pawing through the drawers in search of condoms. I should have one or two left over from the past. They haven’t expired yet, so I grab one and dash into the bedroom.
Abby’s underwear is gone by the time I make it to her again. Probably neatly folded beside the bed. I rip open the condom packet, the wrapper flying to join my underwear.
She helps me put on the condom. This fans the flames, and I can barely breathe.
I come down on Abby, sliding one hand beneath her supple body to lift her hips to me. I position myself and slide inside her.
There. Damn.
We fit so well, like a key in the right lock. I stop and stare down at her, deep into brown eyes that hold the answer to happiness.
I’m so glad I found you again, Abby.
A soft noise comes from my throat, and Abby smiles at me.
I groan and start to love her. Slowly at first, then faster, faster, as we both catch the rhythm and move together.
Outside, a mockingbird starts to sing, its many calls following one after the other. The guy is pouring his heart out, trying to attract lady mockingbirds to his side.
Inside, all is quiet, except for Abby and me. She’s not shy about her cries of joy, telling me exactly how good she feels and how much she loves what we’re doing.
I respond, less coherently. I’m burning—she’s quenching my thirst. My body floods with icy excitement, like I’m soaring over the top of a mountain, every beat of my heart better than the last. I reach the peak and yell as I start coming down the other side.
I drive into her, and Abby holds me the whole time. She’s yelling too, telling me I’m amazing, and hot, and other flattering things.
I kiss her but the two of us are too frenzied to make it romantic. I fall onto her, my hips moving, my heart full.
Abby catches me and brings me safely in for a landing. And then we’re both breathless, laughing, kissing, touching, stroking. Happy. Loving.
This night is perfect.
Abby
I let out a groan—not one of passion—and press a hand to my rat’s nest of hair. “I should go.”
It’s late. Very late. I’m in Zach McLaughlin’s bed, and we’ve made love maybe four times, each of them better than the last. So good, I’ve lost count.
Zach’s pillow cradles my head, and he lies next to me on his side, lazily brushing a hand across my abdomen.
“Why should you?” Zach caresses my breast with the backs of his fingers.
“I have to work in the morning.” I say it with sorrow.
“So do I.” Zach’s smile undoes something inside me.
“It’s a long drive home.”
“I know.” Zach’s strokes become warmer. “Like hell I want you to drive across a big dangerous city alone at night. Stay here. Stay safe.”
Until daybreak, when traffic clogs every artery in this town. It will be an arduous crawl back to the East Valley. Not looking forward to that.
On the other hand, Zach’s bed is comfortable, and he’s in it with me. I yawn, pressing my fingers to my mouth.
“I might be able to stay a little longer.”
“Good.” He says it like a purr, and kisses my shoulder. “Stay as long as you like.”
My heart trips. I suddenly yearn for his wish to extend past this night, that he wants me in this wonderful house with him for the rest of our lives.
He can’t really mean that. He meant until morning, until after breakfast, when we’d go our separate ways. This will be another one-night-stand. Can you have more than one with the same person in three days?
I force myself to not ask questions. I have Zach for the right now. I draw my finger along his cheek, brushing his lips. He leans down and kisses me, and we get lost again, in the night and the moment.
When I wake once more, daylight pours through the window and Zach is gone.
I lie still for a time, waiting for feeling to return to my body, thoughts to my head. Then I sit up in a hurry.
Sunshine fills the room, windows in three directions letting it in. Sunlight gleams on the white-painted paneled walls, the simple wooden furniture, the hardwood floor scattered with throw rugs.
My clothes are in a neat pile on top of the dresser. Did Zach do that? Or does he have a maid I now have to be embarrassed in front of?
I smell coffee. Heavenly coffee. And the smell of bacon frying.
I could sit here and debate, or I could get up and have some coffee and breakfast.
I slide out of bed and snatch up my underwear. The dresser contains photos, which I see once I move my dress. Zach has pictures of his family here, some of them at a desert lake on a boat. One with his dad and mom, then the four brothers together: Ryan, Zach, Ben, Austin. They’re laughing and goofing, Austin with one hand raised.
The photo captures their personalities well. Ryan, chin lifted. He’s the oldest brother and has to keep these guys in line. Ben, with his shy smile. Austin, daring anyone to get in his way. And Zach …
Zach is smiling, indulgent of his brothers, warmth in his eyes. He’s happy with his family, with his life, with his choices. A rare thing to see.
I’m not settled with anything. Searching—for what, I don’t know. I have good friends, a mom I love with all my being, a decent job, and prospects for another. I know I’m selfish for feeling empty, but the desolation in my heart as I contemplate returning to my own life smacks me. I want to cry.
I stop the tears by pulling on my clothes, zipping into the bathroom to wash my face and to try to pat my hair into place.
I finally go downstairs, following my nose to the kitchen. It’s a large room, as kitchens are in old houses, instead of a galley attached to a dining area or family room. A table stands here, real plates set out, and silverware.
There’s no maid in sight, just Zach with a spatula. He shoves a cup of coffee under my nose, which I take, and I gulp coffee gratefully.
“Breakfast?” he asks. “I did bacon and eggs. I hope that’s okay with you.”
“It is. But I really don’t have time …”
“Everyone has time for breakfast. It’s still early. We expended a lot of energy last night.” Zach laughs and kisses me on the cheek, comfortable with us.
I decide to enjoy letting a hot man fix me breakfast. Zach tells me to grab whatever I want, so I root in the refrigerator for butter for the toast, salsa for the eggs. He’s well stocked.
“Does your mom go shopping for you?” I ask.
“Hey, men can know about food. My mom never was much of a cook—she’s obsessed with accounting and numbers. She’s like Ben—can be absorbed in her job until she doesn’t realize the sun is down. My dad does the cooking, and my brothers and I figured it out when we moved into our own places.”
As he speaks, he serves me up scrambled eggs and crisp bacon, toast finished to perfection—not too dry, not too limp and cold.
Zach sits next to me as I shovel it all in, worrying about the time. Zach eats with more restraint. He’s a great cook, of breakfast anyway, and I force myself to slow down and savor it.
“I’ll cook dinner for you some night,” Zach says, fingers resting on his coffee mug.
My heart flutters. “Do you do gourmet stuff like Crepes Suzette? Whatever those are.”
“Nope. My cooking is pretty plain. Steak and potatoes. Burgers. I can put together a decent salad when I want to. And I make a mean soup of leftovers.”
“Sounds awesome. I don’t cook much, sorry.”
Zach shrugs. “Why sorry? The old days when you had to cook because you were a girl are gone. At least they are in my family.”
I relax. “My family too. My mom and I perfected the art of take-out. We know how to get what we want from almost any restaurant in town any time.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I love that.”
We talk about our favorite restaurants, which new ones we like, and the great ones we were sad to see go. You can tell a native of Phoenix, because we refer to places by what used to be there instead of what’s there now. New is not necessarily better, but it’s not rejected either.
After a while, I let out a heavy sigh. “I really should go. I’m going to be late.”
Zach is resigned. “I guess you should. If I’m late, I get reamed out by my mom. That’s the problem with a family business—everything is personal.”
“Sounds nice,” I say with longing.
Zach watches me a moment. “I might call you. No—I will call you. Today. If you don’t want me to, or you think it’s too soon, all you have to do is let it go to voicemail. I’ll figure it out.”
My heart hammers, joy flooding out my worries. “I’ll pick up.” I grimace. “As long as I’m not in the bathroom. I’m not a toilet talker.”
“Whew!” Zach dramatically wipes his forehead. “Neither am I. Last thing I want to hear when I’m pouring out my heart is a toilet flushing.”
We start laughing and can’t stop. I get up and so does he, and we hang on each other, gone in hysteria.
Zach walks me to my car. A few neighbors are out, picking up newspapers or getting into cars for work. They wave to Zach, and he waves back, unembarrassed about emerging with a woman who has obviously spent the night.
He even kisses me in front of everyone. “Have a great day, Abby.”
I know I will, because he’s said so.
I finally make myself get into the car. “Wait—how will you get to work?” Zach’s truck is nowhere in sight.
“I called Austin when I got up. He’ll swing by.”
He says it with confidence, knowing his brothers have his back at every turn.
Zach leans down and kisses me through the open window. Then he pats the top of my car and waves me off.
I drive down the road, wanting to sing. I turn on the radio, find something I can sing with, and start wailing. I turn off onto Central, heading south with everyone else in Phoenix.
The crawl to my house takes forever, as I knew it would, but I cease caring. I sing, I smile at people hunched in their cars with road rage in their eyes, wave cars to go ahead of me when they’re stuck, and generally enjoy the commute.
At home I jump through a shower and dress. I could have showered at Zach’s and driven straight to work, but arriving in the clothes I wore yesterday would have embarrassed the hell out of me.
My shift starts at 8:30, and I make it, miracle of miracles, at 8:40.
“Warren!” Mr. Beale yells down the cubicle alley the minute I scuttle into mine. “My office. Now!”