“Ha. Nobody stuck around long enough to earn uncle status. Anyway, this particular friend had a huge house and big backyard complete with pool, spa, sports court—the works. He also had a big Doberman. I think it usually had the run of the yard, but since we were there he put it in the fenced area around the pool. My mom told me play in the yard until she came back.”
“She left a four year old unsupervised?” It wasn’t really a question. They’d never talked about it before, but even on the night they met, he’d understood Denise hadn’t suddenly checked out as a mom when Lauralie turned sixteen. Still, hearing such a bald-faced example of neglect triggered protective instincts over twenty years too late to do her any good.
Lauralie stared at the ceiling, but her lips twisted into a tight smile. “I learned to look out for myself at an early age.”
He gently tapped her scarred ankle. “But?”
“But, I was kicking this little soccer ball around the yard, and I kicked it too hard. It sailed over the fence surrounding the pool, bounced a few times, and rolled to a stop about a foot short of the gate. The dog was at the other end of the enclosure, and it stood when I approached the gate, but it didn’t make any sounds. The ball was right there. I figured I could stick my foot through the posts and use my foot to roll it closer, then reach in and grab it. As soon as tried, I found myself playing tug-a-war against a snarling Doberman latched onto my ankle. I screamed bloody murder, and between that and the dog growling, Denise and Uncle Bob came running. Lucky for me, the dog let go as soon as it got the command. Lucky for Denise, Uncle Bob was loaded, and forked over a wad of cash to forget the whole unfortunate incident ever happened.”
Hot, useless rage burned through him, but he held it in check because it wouldn’t do her any good now. He couldn’t stop himself from brushing his thumb over the marks. “Have you heard from her since New Year’s?”
“Nope.”
“Jailbait?” He waited until her eyes flicked his way. “Tell me if she contacts you.”
“The odds are low.”
“I didn’t ask for the odds. I asked you to tell me if she contacts you.”
She rolled over and settled her chin on her folded arms. He interpreted the move easily enough. She wanted this conversation to be over.
“Okay.”
“Thank you.” Tight muscles in his gut relaxed a measure. He couldn’t protect her when she’d been a kid, but he could protect her now. He kissed his way up her body.
“No more scars,” he murmured when he reached the nape of her neck.
“No. I learned to guard myself better.”
Correction. No more visible scars. Hers were the kind most people couldn’t see. And he had to be careful with them. He moved to the head of the bed, and pulled her into his arms. She let him gather her close.
Looking to change the topic to something less heavy, he asked, “Why baking?”
She moved her head to where his chest met his shoulder, and snuggled into the hollow. “I like the smell of goodies fresh out of the oven. Who doesn’t?”
“Um. My mom? I can honestly say we didn’t have that smell in our house very often growing up.”
Her fingertips drew lazy swirls over his chest. “Me neither, actually. Denise’s cooking skills extended to cereal, canned soup, and frozen dinners. She wasn’t going to bake a cake for my birthday, or make cupcakes for the school fundraiser.”
Somehow the conversational road led back to the place he’d been trying to steer them out of. Before he could try again, she went on.
“The first time I ever had a home-cooked anything was at Chelsea’s sixth birthday party. Denise dropped me off way early because she had plans, and I remember walking into the house and smelling something amazing. If happiness had a scent, it was coming from Chelsea’s kitchen. Her mom was baking her cake—chocolate, with chocolate frosting. I sat in their kitchen with my little mouth watering, thinking life would be awesome if I could smell that smell every day.” Her hand stilled on his chest. “I did, for awhile, and it was awesome.”
He threaded his fingers through hers and kissed her temple. “You will again, soon.”
“We’ll see.” Doubt clouded the words. “The insurance company is still doing their investigation. Chelsea’s bonus looks iffy.”
“You know I’m loaded, right?”
“We’ve been over this. I’m not taking any money from you other than what comes as part of our deal. Besides, investing in a bakery would be awkward for you.”
“Why is that?”
“Babycakes doesn’t suit the Best Life brand.”
“I’m not part of the Best Life brand. I never have been. I’m my own man, Jailbait.”
She patted his hand. “Booker, you’re part of the brand just by breathing.”