He didn’t move and his stare held the intensity of the midday sun.
“I’ll get this straightened out. Don’t let her chase you out of here.”
“I’m not afraid of Goody-Two-Shoes Garvey.” His breath smelled like root beer.
She took a few steps further beneath the shade under the overhang. “Then why leave?”
“Because I don’t need this shit.”
“So maybe you shouldn’t have started it.”
He gave her a wanna-rephrase-that look.
She swallowed. Folded her arms. Lifted her chin. “Don’t deny you set her up to think the worst of you.”
He folded his own arms and rocked back on his heels.
“I’m serious,” she said, warming to the topic. She hadn’t come here intending to attack him, but she suddenly saw this less as Mrs. Garvey’s fault and more as his. “Why say anything at all to her? Why do you keep dropping these I’m-no-good bombs? Is it part of your don’t-mess-with-me act? Or do you freak out when you start feeling connected to people and have to make them push you away?”
“Gosh, Dr. Phil, let me think about it. No.” He walked into the house and folded the lawn chair he sat in to watch TV.
Mercedes stepped in and stayed where she blocked the door, not letting him exit to load it in the back of his truck. “So explain it to me. If you’re not afraid—”
“I don’t want to be that man, all right?”
“You’re not that man. You didn’t do it. I knew that before I spoke to the Deputy.”
“But people think I could be. No matter what I do, or where I go, or how I try to improve myself, people see through to the weedy trash I am. People like Garvey are right about me. The fact I can’t resist throwing that shit in her face proves it.” He threw the chair. It thumped against the wall with a crack and a protest of metal, tearing a hole in the drywall with its armrest.
His rage scared her, but not because she felt threatened. No, it was the self-loathing beneath it that shook her to the core. It spoke of incredible pain and she didn’t know how to reach through that and she really needed to.
“I like the man you are,” she said softly.
“Don’t patronize me,” he muttered and moved to collect the chair, examining the damage he’d done and swearing flatly. His shoulders slumped.
“I’m not patronizing. I would be a complete basket case right now if you weren’t here, coaching me through how to take care of the kids, making me laugh, putting things into perspective.”
“Yeah, for a good time, call.”
“Stop doing that.” She closed her hands into fists and charged near enough to grab his arm and swing him around to face her. “Accept a damned compliment, would you? You’re thoughtful and forthright and I like you. I don’t want you to leave.”
He looked away, profile flinching. “Yeah, that would screw things up for you with the kids if I take Zack, wouldn’t it?”
She touched the side of his face, forcing him to look at her, to see this had nothing to do with his son and everything to do with him. “Don’t be an idiot.”
A muscle pulsed in his jaw, like he was fighting within himself. He lowered his head, stole one kiss, started to pull back.
She drew him back down, kissing him. Telegraphing that this was all about him. She pushed her fingers into his hair and opened her mouth under his and urged him to kiss her the way she knew he could.
His breath hissed in and he gathered her up, shifting to set her on the counter, sending dishes rattling into the sink.
She didn’t look and neither did he, both of them too caught up in the deep, deep kiss. Both of them running hands over every place they could reach. God, he felt good. His touch felt needy, shaping her back and hips and thighs and his body felt better, his flesh dense and strong under warm satin skin.
When he pulled the elastic of her summer dress top aside, exposing her breast, she let him, turned on by the way he drew back to watch his hand shape her pale, freckled flesh. He lightly pinched her nipple, then rubbed his thumb over and around it.
“I want to fuck you so bad. So hard. It’s all I think about,” he said in a rasp before ducking to suck her nipple and causing her to nearly levitate.
“Me too.” She pinched her knees into his waist, wanting him closer. Wanting him there.
Her heart felt like it was going to explode from her chest. She got her hand under the armhole of his shirt, dragged with her other hand to lift the bottom of his T-shirt so she could touch his chest.
He jerked upright, threw off his shirt, and pulled her close for a fresh kiss, her damp nipple pressing into his hot chest, the skin on skin contact so delicious she squirmed.
She gave him her tongue in an erotic curling tease, wanting his and sucking when he gave it to her.
He growled. His hand went up the inside of her thigh, fingers delving under the leg of her shorts. He made another noise of masculine pleasure when the backs of his fingers met damp cotton. Under they went, sliding in her slick folds, parting and—
Her hips jerked as he found her clit.
He dropped his arm around her hips, holding her still for his caress, nipping at her mouth as he circled and teased. “Like it?” he asked between kisses. “Wanna come?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, spreading her legs further, wanting so bad to take this to the bedroom so they could fuck each other blind, but the dancing tingles he was producing were so beguiling. She tipped her head back, gasping for breath. “That feels so good.”
“I never thought I’d get here. I want to watch you come, but I want to go slow, make it last.”
“L.C., I’m dying,” she moaned, clasping his head and bringing his mouth to hers, painting her tongue across his lips and sucking his bottom lip as he kept up that slow stroke that was holding her in a state of insane pleasure.
“Then I want to eat you,” he whispered against her panting lips. “I want to lick you like this, so you keep getting wetter and wetter.”
She was clenching on nothing, so aroused she couldn’t think anything, but Yes. Here. Now.
A bicycle bell sounded.
Shoving him back a step, she dropped off the counter and headed into the bathroom, frantically trying to straighten her top. Closing the door, she flushed the empty toilet then ran cold water and splashed it on her face.
In the kitchen, she heard L.C. rattling the dishes, running water. The sliding door opened. Zack asked where she was.
“Bathroom,” he replied, adding, “We’re staying.”
While she buried her glittering eyes in her cold, wet hands.
Chapter 14
The next morning, Mercedes wiped her damp palm on her hip before knocking on Mrs. Garvey’s door.
She really didn’t have time for a showdown. L.C. thought she could be in the Fairmont duplex within the week and she had a mountain of packing, not to mention the accompanying scrubbing, paperwork, and utility changeovers. L.C. seemed willing to write off the unpleasantness with the senior, claiming he didn’t give a damn what Edith Garvey thought or said about him.
Amazing what one kiss could do.
Well, more than a kiss, but recalling exactly what they’d done was reserved for private moments when she could handle the build up that hadn’t released. Dear God, that man.
Mercedes shook off dirty fantasies and focused. She wasn’t about to ignore what Mrs. Garvey had done. It was...well, it was wrong.
Behind the door, there was the sound of a television being turned down, soft footsteps, then Mrs. Garvey opened the door. “Mercedes,” she said with surprise.
“Hello, Mrs. Garvey. Could I speak with you for a moment?”
Mrs. Garvey blinked and stopped widening the door. She glanced hesitantly beyond Mercedes.
“Ayjia is at the Maxwells. Their granddaughter is visiting. And Dayton is playing catch with the Fogartys. I’d like to speak to you about L.C., actually.”
Mrs. Garvey’s brows jumped and her mouth pursed. She opened the door and stood back.
Mercedes entered, noting Mrs. Garvey’s organized start on packing: neatly labeled boxes of uniform sizes. Nothing like the heaping liquor store boxes Mercedes was filling willy-nilly.
Mrs. Garvey had her priceless antique mantel clock flat on a stack of open newspaper. The face was cracked, but that only increased the conversation value of the piece since the damage had occurred when Mrs. Garvey’s mother had lived in London during World War II.
“L.C. thinks the duplex will be ready by the end of the week. You should be starting your own move into the apartment downstairs by Sunday,” Mercedes said.
“Then I’ll have to get used to things being back to front,” Mrs. Garvey said, referring to the mirror-image layout of Mercedes’s apartment compared to this one. “And my afternoons won’t be as peaceful.”
When the kids hit the water with Zack, Mercedes assumed she meant. She bit back a ‘why move then’ comment, but Mrs. Garvey was still her employer and Mercedes wanted to keep this civil and professional.
“Would you like tea?” Mrs. Garvey wrapped her hands around the kettle.
“No, thank you. Ayjia expects me. I just wanted to give you these documents. They prove L.C. had nothing to do with the fire.” Mercedes set the copies on the corner of Mrs. Garvey’s counter. “He deserves an apology, Mrs. Garvey.”