18. Eighteen

Eighteen

Whit had spent the last three days thinking about sex.

This wasn't unusual. He spent a lot of time thinking about sex anyway. Maybe not as much as he had when he'd first hit puberty and all those slowly simmering hormones had finally reached full boil, but the blast of testosterone that had rampaged through his body as a fumbling teenager was still doing its part to keep his mind on the goal. Hell, he'd probably be three days dead before he stopped thinking about sex. But for the better part of a week, the section of his brain that should have been keeping his sex drive at least partially under control had seriously malfunctioned. Nell couldn't walk into a room without him feeling that familiar tightening of his groin, and as a result he was in a constant state of semi-arousal. He was driving himself crazy with it. She was driving him crazy. It was a miracle he could still somewhat pass as a normal human being, since whenever they were alone together, all he could think about was stripping off her clothes and sinking into her, hilt deep, then watching her face as he coaxed out little moans.

It was his own fault. He should never have kissed her. Yeah, he'd been imagining a dozen ways to undress her even before then, but that was nothing in comparison to the explosiveness unleashed by that kiss. Chemistry didn't cover it. Neither did simple attraction. It had been like fusion, like a drug—irresistible and utterly intoxicating. That hot, sweet burn of desire; that frantic, all-consuming need to feel her skin against his. The second it happened, he'd gone into total sensory overload. He'd needed to touch her, to taste her. The more he'd tasted the more he'd wanted, until he'd been ready to throw her down on the trunk of the car and take her right then and there.

Ever since then, he'd been acting completely demented. There was no excuse for it. He hadn't let his libido make decisions for him since he was nineteen years old, but here he was, his entire being awake to the sight of her, his heart giving a swift, obnoxious kick every time she so much as smiled in his direction. Like a kid with a crush, except with a grown man's body and a grown man's lust. She was the one with the crush, dammit! And since she'd asked for hands-off, he'd told himself he would be hands-off. But that didn't mean he couldn't torment her a little. Make her sweat. Make her squirm. He told himself it was another game, that teasing her was just too delicious to pass up.

Except that it could never be a game, not for her; she'd told him that straight up. Her feelings for him, past tense or not, made things complicated. Whit had his own rules, and right now he was breaking them. Worse, tempting her did nothing but leave him frustrated and aroused. He wasn't sure which one of them he was torturing any longer, but he knew it had to stop.

It would be so much simpler if they weren't attracted to each other. Then they could just relax and have fun. And they had been having fun, in spite of the drama with Sawyer and the occasional argument flaring up. Nell was easy to talk to, even if she was pretty clueless about baseball, and she had a quick, infectious laugh that made her whole face light up. Now, instead of getting into silly fights over who had the best deep dish pizza in Chicago or discussing their unexpected mutual love for cheesy horror films, he was going to spend the rest of the week playing board games with his grandfather—because if there was anything less sexy than an eighty-year-old fussing over checkers in his long underwear, Whit had yet to find it.

He had just turned his dad's new Maserati down the road to the farm—Bucky following behind in his pickup—and was trying not to dwell on how depressing the prospect of game-night-with-Grandpa was when Nell's sudden, sharp inhale made him glance toward the house.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Deep shadows blanketed the yard and the small path that led to the porch, but in the glow of the headlights, he could make out the sleek white and blue frame of a Fallen Oaks squad car. And where there was a Fallen Oaks squad car…

He didn't even feel surprised this time. He just felt pissed off.

Three nights ago he'd been caught off guard, a decade of guilt and regret crashing into him with all the force of a freight train. The relentless pull of memory had dragged him into its undertow, and for a moment he'd been seventeen again, back on that dark road, watching helplessly as his friend's life fell to ruins. And he'd let it happen, because deep down he'd known he deserved it. All the bitterness in Sawyer's eyes, all the contempt—Whit had that coming. But neither of them were seventeen now, and there were limits even to penance. He'd tried to reach out to Sawyer again and again in the years since the accident; each time he'd been rebuffed. Eventually he'd stopped trying.

Now he couldn't seem to get rid of him.

The cold knot of fury that had been lodged somewhere inside him for the past twelve years slowly began to unfurl.

"Twice in one day. Lucky us." He threw the Maserati into park.

"Whit—"

"I'll handle it," he said, not waiting for a response as he jerked the seat belt free and thrust himself out of the vehicle. Four long strides brought him to Sawyer, who stood leaning against the squad car, the picture of nonchalance. Whit curled a lip. "I hope you're here to tell me you arrested whoever trashed my car. Otherwise I think this qualifies as stalking."

"We're still looking into that," Sawyer replied smoothly, his voice cool and carefully neutral. He was back in uniform, all business now, afternoon swims and quips about drunk tanks forgotten. Officer Brewster was on what passed for his best behavior; he straightened up and gave brief nods to Nell and Bucky as they approached, without even a hint of his usual sneer. They had Bucky's presence to thank for that, Whit figured. The one O'Rourke whose opinion still mattered to Sawyer.

Still, Whit sincerely doubted the Fallen Oaks boys in blue had done anything about the vandalism except have a good laugh. "Yeah, I'll bet."

"We'll keep you updated if we come up with any leads. Right now, I'm here to speak with Ms. McLean."

"Funny."

"What's this about, Sawyer?" Bucky asked, stepping between them, a too-wide grin plastered on his face.

Nell moved up alongside Whit. "You're here to speak to me ?"

"You're not in any trouble, ma'am," Sawyer answered. "The chief sent me out here as a courtesy."

Whit snorted. "The chief sounds like an idiot."

"Whitney," Bucky warned.

"We've had some complaints over the past couple of days—"

"Complaints? About Nell ?"

"—and we need to follow up."

"Bullshit," said Whit.

"What sort of complaints?" Bucky asked.

"Disorderly conduct, threats of violence, inappropriate behavior on school premises."

The rage that had been building inside Whit expanded. "Since when is making out in a parking lot against the law? And the only person she's ever threatened with violence is me."

"I don't think you're helping," Nell said, laying a hand on his sleeve.

Whit was too angry to listen. He shook her away. "This is between you and me, Sawyer," he snarled. "You want to use me for target practice, that's one thing. But Nell is off-limits."

"You know him better than that," Bucky said quietly.

The edge was back in Sawyer's voice, though he kept his gaze on Nell. "It's our belief the accusations aren't credible. The calls were anonymous and can't be independently verified. The more likely scenario is that someone is trying to cause trouble for you, Ms. McLean. Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you? "

"Uh, I did sort of piss off someone named Petey."

Whit snorted again.

"Pete Henderson? Anyone else?"

"Maybe a couple of other guys Whit went to school with. I didn't get names. But… no one here even knows me. My only connection to this place is Whit."

A smirk slid onto Sawyer's face. "No shortage of grudges there."

Bucky's expression turned grim. "You play nice, Sawyer Brewster, or you can see yourself off my property."

But Whit didn't need anyone defending him—not Bucky, not Nell. Not this time. He took a step toward Sawyer. "You have something to say to me, say it. I've never known a Brewster to pull punches." It was a low blow and he knew it, but he was too angry to care.

Sawyer looked at him with all the disdain in the world. "Sorry, O'Rourke. You're just not worth it."

Walk away, Whit told himself. Just walk away. Let it roll off. But all the rage that had been festering inside him kept him rooted. "What the fuck more do you want from me? Another apology? I'm fucking sorry. I've been fucking sorry for the past twelve years."

"I'm sure you were real broken up about it," Sawyer scoffed. "But hey, whatever it takes to give you an edge, right? Doesn't matter who you screw over in the process. Who needs integrity when you've got a multi-million dollar contract?"

"I won't apologize for my success."

"Yeah, I heard all about your success . How long was that suspension of yours again? Eighty games?"

"Sixty," he shot back. A year ago—a week ago—that taunt might have had teeth. Now it just annoyed him. "That's all you've got? Everyone in the world knows I cheated. I've paid for my fuck-ups. I'm done trying to pay for yours. You're the one who crashed that car, Sawyer. Not me."

"And you shouldn't have been behind the wheel at all with how wasted you were the last time. I'd ask how you kept your license, but I think we both know the answer to that one. "

"You think Dad only cleaned up my messes? Who the hell do you think took care of your medical bills? Or did you really believe the state covered it?" He'd finally rattled him, Whit saw. But he was on a roll now. "I said I was sorry, and I meant it. I'm not doing it anymore. You want to be bitter, you want to blame me, go right ahead. But I'm not your excuse, Sawyer. You really think you'd have made it to the majors? I can tell you right now exactly how it would go. You'd get drafted—ninth round, maybe tenth. High enough to dream you might be a prospect, plus get a nice chunk of money as a signing bonus. Nothing life changing, but enough to hope. Then you'd spend a couple of years in the minors. A season in rookie ball, another two in Low-A. Maybe with a little luck you'd get up to double. Brutal hours, bullshit pay, and eventually you'd burn out. You'd still end up back here, another Brewster with a badge in a town you hate, only this time you wouldn't have me to blame. You think I stole all that from you? I did you a fucking favor."

Whit saw the punch before it came and didn't bother to move out of the way. He braced himself and let the blow land, a clean jab to the left side of his jaw that made his head rock back and a sudden, slight tang of blood well in his mouth—but Sawyer was too angry to stop, and with a low growl he aimed a second punch straight at Whit's gut. Ducking sideways, Whit hooked a foot behind Sawyer's knee and sent him sprawling into the dirt, then stood sneering down at him. Before Sawyer had a chance to recover, he went in for the kill. "There's that daddy's boy I knew was in there," he jeered. "I guess some things do run in the family."

It was the one knife he knew exactly how to twist. But the shame he saw bloom in Sawyer's eyes didn't bring the satisfaction he'd thought it would.

Bucky stepped between them again, jabbing a sharp finger into Whit's chest. "One more word out of you, and you can see yourself off my property."

He didn't need to see the reproach on his grandfather's face or hear the disgust in his voice to tell him he'd fucked up. Again. He couldn't look at Nell. Couldn't look at any of them. "You can both go to hell," he whispered and stalked off toward the barn.

***

The rickety wooden ladder that led to the hayloft had seen better days, and Nell grimaced at the array of cobwebs that had collected between the rungs. Since Whit hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, she had to fumble along the wall, her hip bumping an old snow shovel that had been propped nearby before her fingers landed on a switch. Bingo. A few scattered wall lamps flickered on, giving the barn a warm, dusty glow as she hauled herself noisily up the ladder. She paused when she reached the top, taking it in. With a little work, she thought, the hayloft might be charming and picturesque. It had a homey feel to it, cozy without being cramped, bales neatly stacked on one end while two or three cats lay curled on a pile of flannel blankets at the other, and a single window had been thrown open to let in the stars. But from there it swerved past charming and straight into run-down: holes poked through the walls, at least one of the beams looked to be splintering, and the grimy floor gave it a general air of neglect. Still, it was the perfect hideout. A quiet place to lick your wounds and brood.

Whit was definitely brooding. He was seated on one of the bales of hay, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands loosely clasped between them. His head was bowed, his shoulders hunched. All he needed was a little rain cloud.

"Brought you an ice pack," she said, lifting the bag of frozen peas she'd filched out of Bucky's freezer. "Doubles as dinner, since you've been banished for the night." Not that she thought Bucky had been serious, but he had ordered her to cart out a couple of blankets, so that—in his words— the idiot doesn't freeze to death . She'd left the blankets on the sofa, gambling that Bucky would change his mind and grant parole.

Whit glanced up long enough to aim a blistering glare in her direction. "Keep it. I'm fine. "

She wasn't scared off that easily, and she stepped over a couple of cats to make her way across the loft toward him. "Want to try that again without the macho, tough-guy attitude?"

Now he just looked sulky. "I'll live."

Since he showed no indications of moving, she sank down on the bale beside him and dropped the bag of peas in his lap, along with a thin dishcloth to wrap it in. "You made me get into a freaking ambulance for a bump on the head. You can deal with an ice pack."

"Frozen peas?"

"I thought they'd work better than carrots."

"Grandpa doesn't have an actual ice pack?"

"He sent it home with Sawyer."

"Of course he did. His favorite grandkid." He folded the dishcloth around the bag and touched it gingerly to his jaw. A frustrated sigh huffed out of him. "Go ahead. Tell me I acted like an asshole."

"Twelve years of torturing yourself about something you had no control over? I think you've earned a little pissed off." She wanted to pull him into her arms and had to tuck her hands beneath her legs to keep them from betraying her. "You never told your friends why you really got kicked off the team, did you? You never told them you were covering for someone."

He turned his head away. "I never told you I was covering for someone."

He didn't have to. Her own high school experience might have been the definition of tame, but she'd heard enough sordid tales of out of control jocks and subsequent cover-ups to know drunk driving wasn't considered much of a crime to athletics departments. She also knew that wasn't Whit.

"It wasn't all that hard to figure out. Not once I started thinking about it. I just had to narrow it down a bit. Who would Whitney O'Rourke protect with such devotion even after all this time?"

"And I suppose you think you have an answer."

"Your mother," she said quietly.

She hadn't been entirely certain she was right, not until the sharp look he turned at her. Then she saw it in his eyes, in the slight parting of his lips. She felt a surge of anger for the boy he'd been, losing the thing he cared about most because the adults in his life had failed him.

Apparently she wasn't very good at keeping her thoughts from showing on her face, because Whit's gaze hardened. "That reaction is exactly why I don't tell anyone."

"What reaction?"

"You're judging her."

Judging a woman who hung her own kid out to dry when she was the one who screwed up? Absolutely she was. But clearly Whit was sensitive about it, so she hedged a little. "I don't know her," she said carefully.

"If you want to blame someone for it, blame my dad. It wasn't as simple as whatever you're thinking."

What she was thinking wasn't anything charitable, and she bit her lip to keep herself from answering.

He set the makeshift ice pack down on the hay beside him. "I'm sure it'll shock you to hear my dad screwed around on my mom pretty much constantly. You remember that woman at the bar?"

The sudden change in subject left her a little bewildered. "The one in your lap?"

"She wasn't in my lap, but thank you for making my point for me," he drawled. "When you're a pro athlete, that's what happens—whether you invite it or not. Women are everywhere. Whatever you want, whoever you want, whenever you want. Yours for the asking. Some guys are better at resisting than others. My dad basically scored a negative on that particular test."

Do you resist? s he wanted to ask. But since she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer, she kept her mouth shut.

"Mom wasn't stupid," he continued. He leaned backward on his palms, gazing upward to where glimpses of moonlight spilled in through the holes in the roof. "She knew it was happening, even if she tried to ignore it. But she loved him, and she was naive enough to think she could change him. And when she couldn't… eventually she started drinking."

"How old were you? "

"Twelve, maybe? Thirteen? We didn't notice at first, because she did a decent job of hiding it. It got worse after my dad retired. The worst night"—he sucked in a breath—"the worst night was when she found him in bed with one of her friends. Normally she did her drinking at home, but that night she stopped by a couple of liquor stores, then drove out to the country club and sat in her car waiting for my dad to show up." He paused, glancing toward Nell. "You don't need to hear all of this."

"That was the night you covered for her?"

"It wasn't really intentional," he said. "It just happened. When Dad never showed, Mom gave in and called the house. Rory answered, figured out what was going on, and told her to stay put while we came to get her—which she didn't. It was pure luck we found her before anyone else did. She'd gone off the road and ended up in a ditch about a mile from the club. The whole thing was mostly brush, or it could've been a lot worse. Rory took her home while I stayed to try to get Mom's car back onto the road… pretty stupid, looking back, especially since Mom had spilled beer on me climbing out of it. You can probably figure out the rest. The cops made an untimely appearance, and since I was stuck in a ditch with about a dozen open bottles and reeked of alcohol, they hauled me in. They never actually bothered to test me, so Dad was able to get the charges dropped. Didn't matter to Principal Engel. Remember the friend of Mom's my dad was screwing? Yeah, that was Engel's wife. Good going, Dad. So I got kicked out of sports for the year and Engel got his payback. And before you go all avenging angel—no, it wasn't fair, but it's ancient history."

Not so ancient, given the scene with Sawyer. Tough-guy attitude or not, she'd be surprised if Whit didn't end up with a nice bit of bruising on his jaw.

Whit shrugged. "So that's what happened. I wish I'd left the damn car in the ditch, but I don't regret taking the fall for it. It was the wake-up call my mom needed. She's been sober ever since. She got herself into rehab, found her spine and left my dad, and got her life together."

"At the expense of yours," Nell said softly .

"Weren't you the one pointing out all the billboards with my face plastered on them? I think I'm doing just fine."

"Except for the part where you didn't want to face your hometown so you bribed a woman you hate to play bodyguard."

"Are we back on this again? I don't hate you. Or do you need another demonstration?"

Yes! the completely traitorous part of her answered. The less traitorous part tried to look snotty. "You still hated me when you made the bribe, so it counts."

"You're too hot to hate. By then it was already down to mild irritation." Her heart did an annoyingly predictable flip, but Whit thankfully wasn't paying attention. "Anyway, bribing you was one of the best ideas I've ever had. You've got Dad on his best behavior and I haven't heard a single crack about Meltdown ."

"Your car was still vandalized," she pointed out. "And now your stalker has decided to multitask and come after me ."

"I don't have a stalker. That complaint bullshit is all Sawyer, and I'm going to take care of it."

He was sounding cranky again, but Nell had never yet learned to leave well enough alone. "I think you should tell him about your mother. Both him and James. If you want to mend fences, you need to start there."

"Who says I want to mend fences?"

Your face. Your voice. "I'm not always going to be available to bodyguard. Our contract's up in three days." A fact that depressed her a lot more than she cared to acknowledge.

"Three and a half. Your flight's Sunday morning. And after that, it's adiós, Fallen Oaks ."

"Then do it for yourself. So that you can finally start to forgive yourself."

"I don't need to forgive myself."

"Yes, you do," she murmured. "For a lot of things."

She expected an argument. Or maybe to be told to mind her own business—she certainly deserved that. But Whit didn't speak. He just closed his eyes and tipped himself backward until he lay flat against the hay, like he was too tired to hold himself up any longer. Nell lay down beside him, drawing her knees up and shifting to her side so she could watch the light play across his face. She wanted to trace her fingertips along his skin, to smooth out the wrinkle in his forehead, skim down the slope of his cheek, follow the curve of his lips. He was all angles and edges, like something out of a painting, something sculpted, too perfect to be real. Except that he was real, and he was anything but perfect.

He was so beautiful, she thought. So utterly, achingly beautiful.

Not just his body. His heart. His soul.

She bolted upright again.

The disaster had happened after all. All the warnings she'd given herself… all the ways she'd tried to convince herself there was nothing beneath that dazzling surface of his… all the admonitions and recriminations and guilt—all for nothing. She'd walked right up to the edge of the cliff and, without a backward glance, had thrown herself right over it.

She didn't have a crush on Whit. She was in love with him.

In love with this beautiful, flawed, stubborn man who had a much bigger heart than he'd ever admit. She'd probably been in love with him all along.

And this was all the time she'd ever have.

The question was whether she'd be too much of a coward to do anything about it.

She had no illusions. There was no future ahead of them, even without the complication of Paige. There was no fairy tale waiting for her at the end. Not with Whit. But that didn't mean she was going to be another revolving-door romance to fizzle out and fade away after a couple of months. This was going to be her choice, and she was going to do it on her terms.

Three and a half days. She would allow herself that. Three and a half days to love without guilt. And when it was done, it was done.

Beads of sweat started to prickle between her breasts. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She licked her lips. "About that demonstration… "

His eyes flicked open. "Yeah?"

Panic took over. Instant heat climbed up her face as she did a quick scan of their surroundings. God, what was she thinking? How was she going to do this, smuggle him back into the house and hope they didn't get caught? They were in a hayloft! She might be in love, but she hadn't completely lost her senses. That meant safety first.

On the other hand…

"Let me see your wallet."

Whit sat up again. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"What do you want with my wallet?"

"I'll tell you in a second." If I find what I'm after. If she didn't… well, she hadn't quite worked out what she'd do then. This was a make-it-up-as-you-go seduction, and she had no idea what she was doing.

Whit's lips twitched. "Are you mugging me?"

"Yes. Now hand it over."

He shifted his hips, reached into his back pocket, and handed her the worn leather wallet she'd already known he carried. Biting her lip, she flipped it open and began to search through it. Driver's license, with a criminally good photo; credit cards; a crumpled receipt from a gas station, a few hundred dollar bills—which made her frown, since he really shouldn't carry that much cash around, what if she had been mugging him?—and a note about an upcoming bowling tournament. Nothing else.

Frustrated, she tossed the wallet aside.

"Hey!"

"You're a professional athlete! How can you not have a condom in your wallet?"

"Why are you searching my wallet for condoms?"

She really should have left the seducing to him. She'd been going for cool and casual and instead landed smack in the middle of mortified. "Why do you think?"

The grin that spread across his face stole all the breath from her lungs. "Give me two minutes and hold that thought. "

He vaulted off the hay bale and disappeared down the ladder almost before she could blink. There was a short scuffling noise. Then—

"Just in case," his voice called from below. Nell moved to the edge of the hayloft and peered down just in time to see him vanishing out of the barn. It took her half a second longer to realize he'd removed the ladder.

She fell back onto a pile of hay and laughed.