“You’re home! I love it when you come home—I missed you today.”
Logan holds her tight, searching her face.
“You’re feeling better?”
Ellie’s pregnant again. It’s early still so they’re not sharing the news wide, but Logan mentioned the sickness has been especially tough on her this time around.
Ellie nods. “Much better. I put Finn down late for his nap, so he should sleep for about another hour. I think we should enjoy every minute of me feeling better while we can.”
That’s all Lo needs to hear. He kisses Ellie sweet and desperate and starts walking toward the house with her still clasped around him. He moves his mouth to her earlobe, making her giggle—and that’s when she notices me.
“Oh, hey, Tommy.”
“Hey, Ellie.”
Logan doesn’t stop walking towards the steps—or sucking on his wife’s neck like a starving vampire.
Ellie taps his shoulder.
“Logan, Tommy’s here.”
“He’s leaving.”
“We’re being rude,” she whispers like I can’t hear.
“He doesn’t care,” Lo insists.
They make it up the steps to the porch.
“We should at least invite him in for tea.”
“He doesn’t want fuckin’ tea, Elle.”
“Well, now that you mention it,” I say cheerfully, “a spot of tea would really . . .”
Logan turns back over his shoulder, glaring hard enough to punch me in the face with the force of his eyes alone.
I laugh—and stop fucking with him.
“On second thought, I’m going to swing by Katy’s for a pint—the rest of the lads are probably already there.”
A group of us meets up at Katy’s weekly to let loose and get stupid. Before Finn came along, Ellie and Logan were included in that group, but these days they prefer to hibernate in the comfort of their own home.
“You two kids have fun.”
Just before they disappear into the house, Ellie waves over Logan’s shoulder. “’Bye, Tommy.”
I wave back. “’Bye, Ellie.”
And the door slams shut behind them.
* * *
Katy’s Pub is a rough-and-tumble gem of a place, situated smack dab in the middle of a bad part of town. It’s not dangerous exactly—at least not for me—but they get a special discount on the wooden tables and chairs from the local supplier to replace the ones that tend to get smashed when a brawl springs up.
Tonight, the place is packed and I’m greeted like a returning hero when I walk through the door. Most of the boys and Bea are already in the back at a table full of half-empty beer mugs. A few hours later, when those mugs have been drained and refilled a few times over, the good time—and the stupidity—are full steam ahead.
Harry is messing around with the karaoke machine, Walter is arm wrestling with some tatted-up bloke a few tables over, and behind me Gordon’s rapidly getting indecent with some girl up against the wall. I lean back in my chair, twirling the toothpick in my mouth—watching Gus and Owen alternate standing in front of the dartboard, flinging darts at each other’s heads. They’re not wagering money—it’s just about balls, bravery and bragging rights.
In my opinion, mixing men, alcohol and pointy objects is asking for trouble. And like the Bible says—ask and you shall receive.
“All right, let’s piss off with the darts, that’s schoolyard stuff,” I tell them, setting my chair down on all four legs. “Time to separate the men from the boys.”
Then I slip an eight-inch, double-blade knife from my ankle-strap and lay it on the table.
Gus nods, and Owen grins. “Wicked.”
Across the table, Bea swallows a mouthful of beer.
“This isn’t going to end well.”
“It’s important to be responsible,” I explain. “Start with your hand on the board first—then work your way up to your heads.”
As the boys move to set up, I give Bea a wink. “Don’t worry—they keep a first aid kit up behind the bar for just such occasions.”
“Why do you I have the feeling you know that from personal experience?” she asks.
Before I can answer, a path clears in the crowd from our table to the door.
And the toothpick falls out of my mouth.
Because Abby Haddock just walked into Katy’s Pub.
And she looks fucking fantastic.
Her flaming hair has a tousled, bed-mussed wave to it, a dark green dress with a teasing slit at the cleavage hugs her in all the right places and a camel wool coat, open in front, is draped across her shoulders. On her feet—stilettos—high-heeled and shiny, accentuating the sculpted shape of her endless legs.
She’s all polished perfection and sexy class—good enough to eat from top to bottom and back again. And of all the things I’ve fantasized doing to her, eating her is at the very top of the list.
Abby’s head swivels—searching—until her eyes land on me as I approach. And I don’t think she even realizes how she’s looking at me—avidly, openly needy—soaking me in like a randy little sponge. Her gaze grazes my arms, pausing at the center of my chest beneath my cream, cable-knit sweater, then coasting downward, lingering at my waist before settling in for an unmistakably long stare in the direction of my cock.