the corner stone-top table.
She looks confused. “Robbie and Rachel didn’t keep any alcohol in the house.”
“I had it in my car.”
A smile tickles her lips. “Wow. Wine, a fire—you’re like seduction on wheels. Do you keep candles in the trunk?”
“I just figured you might enjoy a drink, maybe a little conversation.”
I get the feeling Chelsea hasn’t had a conversation with an adult in a long time.
“I’ll enjoy that more than I can say.” She sighs. “I’ll go grab the glasses.” Chelsea walks toward the door that leads into the kitchen but stops before exiting. Looking over her shoulder back at me, her reddish hair glowing like gold in the firelight, she raises an eyebrow. “So . . . you’re not trying to seduce me?”
I meet her gaze head-on. And wink. “I didn’t say that.”
“Good to know.”
Then she turns back around with a flip of her hair and walks into the kitchen with an extra swivel of that fine ass.
• • •
Later, I add another log to the fire and we’re both working our way through glass number two. Chelsea’s long legs are tucked snugly beneath her; one hand holds her glass and the other elbow is propped against the back of the couch, her head resting in her hand. The position exposes the smooth expanse of her neck, and I’m fascinated by the pulse that thrums beneath her skin. It makes me feel like a vampire—I want to put my mouth right there, I want to taste her and feel that spot throbbing against my tongue.
I asked her about what she was getting her master’s in, and the fucking crazy thing is, I’m actually interested in what’s coming out of her mouth—not just fantasizing about what I’d like to put in there.
“I’m an art history major.”
I snort. “So you paid thousands of dollars in tuition to look at pretty pictures?”
“No, Mr. Cynical. There’s so much more to it than that. Art tells us about culture, what was important to the people of that time. The things they valued, the things they hated or feared—their image of what was beautiful.”
I frown. “You sound like a philosopher.”
She frowns back. “And you sound like you don’t respect philosophy very much.”
“All philosophical questions can be answered with one concise statement.”
Chelsea refills her glass. “Which is?”
“ ‘Who gives a fuck?’ ”
She laughs, and it’s an amazing sound.
“Do you do . . . art . . . yourself, or just study other people’s work?”
Her cheeks blush. “I sketch, actually.”
My eyes are immediately drawn to the framed pencil sketch to the right of the fireplace. It’s an incredibly realistic likeness of young Riley, holding twin babies on her lap. I noticed it when I first walked in—you can practically hear the childish, smiling voice.
“Is that one of yours?” I point.
Chelsea nods, still shy.
“You’re good.” I don’t give compliments lightly.
Later, later—she talks about her brother.
“Robbie was fifteen years older than me. I was my parents’ midlife-crisis child. My dad had a heart attack when I was about Riley’s age. My mom passed a year later when I was in high school.” She sips her wine, a mischievous shine in her eye. “I was kind of a wild child after that.”
I raise my glass. “Weren’t we all?” I drink the Merlot. “So, you lived with your brother after your parents passed away?”
She nods. “Not here though. We were in a smaller place off Cherry Tree. It was just Riley and the boys then—and me, Robbie, and Rachel.”
“You and the kids kind of grew up together, then?”
“Yeah. Rachel was like a big sister and a second mother all rolled into one. She was incredible.” And there’s a mournful note in her voice.
Then she blinks, brightens. “She was the one who really pushed me to travel. Study abroad. I spent a semester in Rome, summers in Paris . . .” Her eyes drop from mine self-consciously. “God, I sound so spoiled. Poor little rich girl, right?”
I shake my head. “No. There’s a difference between privileged and spoiled.”
And Chelsea McQuaid doesn’t have a spoiled bone in her body. She knows she’s fortunate, and she appreciates every blessing.
“I’d love to take the kids to Europe one day. To show them how big the world really is.”
I chuckle, thinking of a Liam Neeson movie. If some idiot criminal tried taking one of the McQuaid kids, it’d be an hour, tops, before he’d be begging to send them back.
We continue talking, drinking—I lose time admiring the way her skin glows in the firelight. And before I know it, it’s almost four in the goddamn morning. Chelsea sets her empty glass on the coffee table and yawns.
“I should get going,” I say, even though I don’t want to. “I’ve kept you up past your bedtime. When does the human alarm clock usually rise?”
“Ronan wakes up around six. But . . .” Her eyes trail over my face, down my chest and lower. “But this was worth losing sleep over. Thank you for the wine—the conversation. I had a really great time, Jake.”
She has no idea the kind of great time I’m capable of giving her.
But not tonight.
“Me too.” I stand up and Chelsea walks me to the foyer.
Beside the door, we stand facing each other. And there’s a pull—like a fucking magnet—dragging me closer. “Chelsea . . . ,” I whisper—with no idea what I’m about to say.
I just like the taste of her name on my lips.
My heart hammers . . . and I lean forward . . . she raises her face and closes her eyes and—
“Aunt Chelsea!”
The blond pixie’s voice washes over us from upstairs, like a cold shower.
Goddamn it.
“I had a bad dream! Will you lay down with me?”
Chelsea steps back with a resigned groan, and I feel her pain. Literally.
“I’ll be right up, Rosaleen.” She shrugs at me apologetically. “Duty calls.”
I rub my lips together, making a frustrated smacking sound. “Yeah.”
She puts her hand on my chest; it’s warm and electrifying. “Thank you again. I really owe you now. Multiples.”
And I just can’t resist. “That’s my line.”
Chelsea giggles. “Good night, Jake.”
“Bye.”
I walk out the door and head home.
9
On Sunday, during breakfast at Sofia and Stanton’s place, there’s an expected visitor. “Hey, Sunshine,” I greet her, walking into the dining room.
“Hey, Jake!” Presley Shaw wraps her arms around my waist.
Presley’s almost thirteen now, and in the year or so since I last saw her—when Brent and I visited Mississippi for her mother’s wedding—she’s lost some of the cute baby roundness in her face, moving one step closer to a full-fledged golden-haired southern beauty.
Her teen years will be fun. Stanton’s gonna lose his fucking mind—and probably his hair.
We sit down to eat and he asks, “Remember that band manager I represented last year? The DWI.”
There are nods all around.
“Turns out he works with One Direction now, and they’re in town. He sent me four front-row seats to the concert tomorrow. Sofia and I were gonna take Presley.”
“Who’s One Direction?” I inquire, but don’t actually care.
Presley’s eyes bug out. “Who’s One Direction? What, y’all live under a rock?” She holds up the magazine she’s been flipping through and flashes me a picture of four punks in skinny jeans. “This is One Direction. I’m so excited!” she squeals. “The concert is gonna be so on point.”
My eyebrows rise to Stanton. “Have fun with that, buddy.”
Stanton chews a cheese ball, his green eyes alight with humor. “Soph and I were talkin’—we thought instead of tossing the fourth ticket, it might be nice if you came with
me and Presley instead. You and that Riley girl.”
“Are you nuts?” I ask, because—obviously.
“Please, Jake?” Sunshine begs. “It’ll be so much fun havin’ a girl my own age there with me.” She turns to her father. “No offense, but you and Sofia just don’t get it.”
Stanton shrugs. “No offense taken. I still know I’m the cool daddy.”
Presley puts her hand on his arm. “I love you, Daddy, but whatever you think cool is? It’s not that.”
Stanton gives her a mock frown.
And her bright blue eyes plead with me. “Come on, Jake. I bet you’ll like them. Their music is amazin’—better than the Beatles.”
I fear for today’s youth.
“It might be good for her,” Stanton says, pressing me. Because I told him all about Riley’s Friday-night misadventures with Jägermeister.
I sigh, already knowing I’m going to regret this.
But I pick up my phone to call Chelsea anyway.
• • •