Julianne tried to pretend she wasn’t disappointed he hadn’t kissed her. “Wh-what do you mean, again?” She stammered, her eyes still closed.
His breath was warm on her neck. Hot, actually. “That night, on Sea Island, you started it then, too. Remember?”
Her eyes were wide now. “I . . .” To finish the statement would be to let him know she did remember. And she wouldn’t, couldn’t give him that leverage over her. But she hadn’t started it. He had. Julianne recalled it vividly. Too vividly. She felt his eyes watching her.
“I don’t remember,” she lied again as she squeezed her eyes shut.
He was silent for a moment, his lips still within striking distance. “Too bad,” he finally said as the thumb anchoring her to the wall began to make lazy circles on her hip. “Because it was incredible.”
Heat pooled between her legs as she relived in vibrant color behind closed eyelids exactly how incredible that night had been.
“You were . . . very passionate,” Will taunted. “I can’t believe you don’t remember wrapping your legs around me. Wrapping your fingers around me. And that tongue, very wicked.”
She bit her lip to stifle a moan. His tongue had been wicked, too. Julianne wasn’t sure if she should pray for the earth to open up and swallow her or a repeat performance.
“It really is too bad,” he breathed before abruptly pulling away and opening the door. “Because that’s the only time it’s gonna happen for us, Princess.”
He strode out of the powder room as Julianne struggled to breathe, the wall propping her weak limbs up. She swiped a tear off her face, and her shiny wedding band glistened with the moisture. Carly was right: Julianne was punishing herself. Three months sharing a house with Will and not being able to act on her desire for him wouldn’t just be punishment, it would be torture.
Eight
Annabeth Connelly stole into Hank Osbourne’s study and quietly blew her nose. She needed a few minutes to compose herself. As if the shock of finding out she was a grandmother hadn’t been enough, the scene she’d just inadvertently overheard when she’d tried to use the powder room a few minutes ago had scattered her already frazzled nerves. Despite her son’s claims to the contrary, there was more to his marriage to Julianne Marchione than providing a blanket of legitimacy for their son. There was passion. Rousing passion, judging from the sound of it.
“Fake marriage, my ass,” she muttered. Will and Julianne were a ticking time bomb, and Annabeth wasn’t sure she wanted to be around when they exploded. What must it be like to be so attracted to another person? Annabeth sat down on the leather sofa, releasing a heavy sigh. She’d never know the answer to that. Her experiment in the free love her flower children parents preached about had landed her pregnant and alone at sixteen. She’d been paying the price ever since. Passion just wasn’t part of the picture for a single mom struggling to raise a son and herself at the same time. Not for Annabeth, anyway.
“Um, can I get you something? Or someone?”
Annabeth shot to her feet and turned toward the darkened corner of the study. A teenage girl dressed in a kitschy peasant dress and cowboy boots emerged from the shadows. Feathers dangled from her pink hair as the bangle bracelets lining her arms jingled merrily with each step. Another teen appeared beside her, a tall boy, dressed in baggy jeans hanging low enough to give Annabeth, and everyone else, a view of the plaid boxers he wore beneath them. His face was hidden beneath a baseball cap and a hoodie advertising some clothing store, which he’d pulled up over his head to give him that thug look kids seemed to think was cool. Annabeth found it unnerving as she backed toward the door.
“Oh, please, don’t leave on our account. We didn’t mean to startle you. My dad would kill me if he thought we’d run you out of here.” A pained expression crossed over the girl’s face.
“Your dad?” Annabeth asked. She tried to recall what she knew about Hank Osbourne. Apparently he was just as mysterious as the Wizard of Oz he was nicknamed after, because she couldn’t remember if the man was even married. Most likely, he was since he was a successful, handsome man. It was hard to imagine him not being snatched up by some woman.
“Um, yeah. I’m Sophie. Sophie Osbourne. I live here. Well, not all the time. Mostly I live in Philadelphia with my mom. And Kevin, my stepfather. And the twins, Mark and Matt. They’re eight.”
Annabeth relaxed a little as Sophie talked, the girl’s earnestness taking the edge off her sudden appearance. She still wasn’t sure about the tall boy, though. “What about him? Does he live here, too?”