She slid her hand down my stomach and beneath the sheet, where I was getting hard again. She broke the kiss as she stroked me. “I bet I can think of something you haven’t had in seven years,” she said softly.
My voice was choked. “That isn’t necessary.”
“I think it is.” She kissed her way down my chest, my stomach. Lower.
She was right, of course. Seven years.
We fixed that.
She told me it tasted better than ice cream.
Twenty-Seven
Tessa
* * *
Four days later I was the Millwood Market, rolling my cart down the produce aisle. I had mooched enough of Andrew’s food; I figured it was time to chip in for some groceries. The least I could do was feed him.
It was hot out, though the brutal heat wave was gone. The sky was blinding blue, the wind summer-perfect. It was the kind of day that people took off work to go to beaches or parks, the kind of day to lounge in the shade before firing up the barbecue. I was wearing roomy cargo pants, a white tee, and flip-flops, my sunglasses pushed to the top of my head as I shopped. I paused my cart by the dairy case, stared blankly at a display of cheese, and realized I was happier than I could ever remember being in my life.
Seriously, I was so happy my feet felt like they were barely touching the floor. The past few days with Andrew had done that.
It wasn’t just the sex—though, to be fair, the sex was amazing. Andrew had a brochure with twenty-six suggested positions in it, and we spent our nights experimenting with as many of them as possible. Some of them worked better than others, but it was always slow and hot and perfect. I’d never been with a man so focused on giving me pleasure, on getting it right, on making every time better than the last. It turned out I didn’t need elaborate acrobatics or Fifty Shades of Grey. I just needed him. Only him.
But it honestly wasn’t just the sex. Instead of sleeping afterward we usually talked, sometimes for hours, curled up and relaxed in the dark together. By day, we hung out, fully clothed, trading jokes and keeping each other company. Andrew was hard at work on the Lightning Man comics, and he had his appointments. Yesterday I’d met his psychotherapist, a fiftyish man named Dr. Costas who was very dignified and serious, though the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkled warmly when he greeted Andrew, as if he liked him a lot. The crinkling crow’s feet meant I approved of Dr. Costas, and I left them alone to do their session.
I was busy; I had lawyers’ meetings about my inheritance and errands to run. I had to pick up my check for the modeling gig and my one and only paycheck from Miller’s. I had started packing up some of the things in my grandmother’s house to donate or sell. I was starting to think of the house as mine, pondering how I might make it look if I stayed there.
Because it looked like I was going to stay there, at least for the foreseeable future. I had no desire to leave Millwood, no wish to live anywhere except across the street from Andrew Mason. I’d picked up information for applying to nursing school. If they accepted me, I was going to do it, which would keep me here for at least the next few years.
For the first time in my life, things felt settled. They felt good. I didn’t know where Andrew and I were going, but at the moment I sure as hell liked it. But I spent a lot of time at his house, eating the food from his kitchen. So here I was today, balancing that out.
I put fruit in my cart, and nuts and Greek yogurt. Andrew was a healthy eater, which was why he had such a hot body. He also worked out in his workout room every day, and I approved of the resulting muscles. Yum.
I turned the corner to the cereal aisle, and someone blocked my way. I looked up. It was a man—a handsome, pretty much gorgeous, man. He had tousled dark hair, stubble, and muscles for days under his dark gray tee. His low-slung jeans hid what was obviously a perfect body. His Converse sneakers were practically disintegrating. I looked back up to his face and saw that he was scowling at me.
I’d never seen this man before, but I recognized him as clearly as if I’d met him dozens of times. It was in the cheekbones, the eyes, and definitely in the scowl. This could be no one else but—
“Nick Mason?” I said.
He crossed his arms over his chest, which did interesting things to his biceps. He had a wedding ring on his left hand. There was no doubt that Nick Mason was objectively a very attractive man, though the entire package did nothing for me physically. Which was curious, because Nick’s brother pressed every single one of my sex buttons.
“You’re Tessa Hartigan,” he said. His voice was different than Andrew’s, deeper and more growly. Andrew’s face was a little thinner than Nick’s, more mature from what he’d been through. Nick didn’t move out of my way. Instead he looked me up and down, his gaze disapproving. I felt like he’d caught me coming off a stripper stage wearing a thong instead of grocery shopping on a summer afternoon in my most comfortable clothes.
I bristled at that look, the way it assessed and dismissed me. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you,” I said, meeting his gaze head-on, “but something tells me you disagree.”
His expression went hard. “You’re fucking right I disagree,” he said. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. You need to get out of Andrew’s life. Now.”
Twenty-Eight
Tessa
* * *
No. Oh, hell no. I might be stupidly happy and made soft by great sex, but I was still the toughest girl in Millwood, and I had no time for Mason brother intimidation tactics. “Thanks for the advice,” I said drily to Nick. “Now get out of my way.”
He didn’t budge. “I don’t think you’re listening.”