21. Twenty-One

Twenty-One

It was strange, Whit thought as he gazed across the snowy darkness at his father, but he wasn't even angry.

He knew he should be angry. After everything Skip had just said, everything he'd failed to say during the past four years, Whit should be on anger overload by now. Maybe not run off to Vegas with his father's worst enemy levels of enraged, but at least enough to make a pointed exit like Allie had.

Instead he just felt numb.

Of course his dad had another kid. Hell, he might have twenty. Screw enough women and there was bound to be an accident sooner or later, no matter how careful you were. And Skip O'Rourke wasn't exactly famed for being careful. He probably had a slew of paternity suits discreetly hidden by his legion of lawyers. The only real shock was that it had taken this long for any of them to realize it.

Maybe they just hadn't wanted to.

He listened wordlessly as his dad filled in the details. Three months ago, Skip had received a letter from Maggie's father—the man who raised her—informing him of Maggie's existence. A deathbed confession, apparently, or close enough; he'd died of cancer not long after. Skip had been skeptical, but had been spooked enough to employ a firm to independently verify the man's claims. The report they'd given him mid-September had confirmed his paternity. Maggie was Skip's biological daughter, the result of a one night stand with a woman he couldn't even remember.

The least surprising thing he'd said all night, Whit thought wryly.

Maggie's mother had passed away when she was a child, and her dad hadn't told her the truth before his death. He'd left that particular task to Skip. His first job as her father: letting her know she'd been lied to her entire life.

Skip had hired her as his assistant instead.

"I was getting around to telling her," Skip said now. "I wanted us—all of us—to have a chance to get to know each other first. Then Allie found out, and Maggie overheard, and…" He sighed, lifting a hand to rub his forehead. "It went about as well as I expected. Maggie drove off and told me not to contact her again. She's heading home tomorrow, if she hasn't already left."

"Hence your little pity party."

"It's not a damn pity party."

"You're outside, in the snow, whacking baseballs after dark. What else do you want to call it?" Not to mention planning to torpedo the reputation he'd spent decades building. Whit had a feeling Skip's decision to do the Garwood interview was less about coming clean and more about some twisted form of penance.

Skip's eyes narrowed. "That's all you're gonna say?"

"No. Your plan sucked. Come on, Dad. Hiring her?"

He rubbed his forehead again. "I know."

"And I guess I know why Rory's pissed." He didn't know Maggie's birthday, but she was close enough in age to Rory for him to draw his own conclusions: Skip hadn't just spent the entirety of his marriage cheating on his wife with every groupie that crossed his path, he'd knocked up two women at the same time. And after having recently been cheated on herself, Whit didn't blame Rory for going nuclear. He just wished she'd told him about it. "Does Mom know?"

"Your mom doesn't have anything to do with this."

The mantra of cheating spouses everywhere. "Maybe not now. Back then she sure as hell did."

"Back then I was young and stupid. It's not like I planned this. "

"Of course not. Women just fell into your lap and you were powerless to resist."

"Close enough," Skip muttered. "You know what it's like."

Exactly what he had told Nell: Whatever you want, whoever you want, whenever you want. Except you still had to be the one to say yes. "Why settle for leftovers at home when you're being treated to the all-you-can-eat buffet, right?"

Skip's voice was grim. "I wouldn't put it like that."

"Not in those words, at least," Whit retorted. He'd been in enough locker rooms to know that that was the sanitized version. It was a philosophy shared by more than one of the guys he'd played with over the years, and somehow they were always surprised when the "leftovers" served them with divorce papers. "And I do know what it's like, Dad—but I've still managed to go through life thinking with something other than my dick."

"You didn't wind up married with a kid on the way by the time you were twenty-one," Skip snapped.

"So it's my fault you screwed around."

"Stop putting words in my mouth. That's not what I said."

"Close enough," Whit echoed. He was finding his anger now and, as it turned out, he had rage to spare. "Did you know one of your girlfriends tried to come on to me? I was sixteen. You'd gotten tired of her, so I guess she decided to move in on the younger model. I said I wasn't interested in my dad's sloppy seconds and told her to get lost."

"You should've told me. I'd have taken care of it."

"And said what? Hey, Dad, one of your side pieces just offered to blow me?"

"You want me to say I was an asshole? I was an asshole. I was a shit husband and a shit father, and now I'm trying to make up for it."

"Mark it on the calendar. Skip O'Rourke admits he fucked up."

"You done yet?"

"Not even close." But when he opened his mouth to fire off another sharp retort, the words seemed to evaporate. His throat felt thick.

He glanced at the wire basket near his feet where the half dozen or so remaining baseballs had collected a light dusting of snow. Crouching, he reached a hand inside, letting his fingertips graze the leathery surfaces. Then he stood again and faced his father, ball in hand. "Pick up your bat."

Skip's eyebrows lifted. "What, so you can bean me? I don't think so."

"I'm not gonna be tossing fastballs at your head," Whit shot back. He moved away, rolling his shoulders to loosen up. He wasn't about to do any serious throwing, especially since he wouldn't have much of a warm-up, but he could still strike out his dad without risking high and inside.

At least he was pretty sure he could.

"How's this," he offered, "I'll show off my knuckleball."

Even in the low light he could see his dad's grimace. "So you're definitely gonna bean me."

"I thought you enjoyed life on the edge."

"I also like my nose where it is."

"If I see any blood, I'll call you an ambulance."

He went through an abbreviated warm-up while his dad put his batting gloves back on, took a couple of quick practice swings, and tapped the bat twice against his feet. The old, familiar routine. Whit closed his eyes and drew in air, searching for that calming focus he used to center himself before games. He hoped his dad was right and the housekeeper was busy fussing over Nell, because if she happened to be watching out the window, she'd probably think they'd both gone nuts.

Which, well, maybe they had.

His first pitch broke to the left, whizzing just past the reach of Skip's bat before vanishing somewhere near the treeline.

Skip adjusted his gloves again and glared. "The fuck was that? That was like a mile outside."

"You swung at it." He plucked another ball from the basket and tossed it back and forth in his hands. "So how did Rory find out?"

"Hell if I know. She said she won't reveal her sources, whatever that means." Skip paused, lowering his bat. "Look, what I said before—it wasn't how it sounded. I don't want you to think you weren't wanted. Your mom and I got married because we were in love, not because we had to."

"Yeah. And look where that got you."

"Because I was a dumb fuck who didn't know how good he had it."

"You mean you are a dumb fuck."

His dad scowled. "Just throw the damn ball."

The second pitch was even further outside, but Skip managed to catch a piece of it, just enough to send the ball spiking into the grass at his feet. He glanced at it in disgust, then back at Whit. "You wanna try something in the same hemisphere as the plate next time?"

"I found my spot. Not my fault you forgot how to hit." He pulled another ball from the basket. "Did you tell Grandpa?"

"You think I wanted him lecturing me every day for the past three months?" Skip tapped his bat to the ground again and took a moment to brush the snow from his jersey before moving back into his stance. His eyebrows drew together. "Dad's on his way over. Figured there's no sense keeping it quiet any longer. A lot's going to change after tomorrow."

More than he knew, Whit thought. And Maggie was the least of it. As soon as Garwood published his interview, Skip's reputation would be shattered. No more legend. No more legacy. Instead of being known as one of the all-time greats, he would become exactly what his son was: just another doper. Another lying, cheating O'Rourke.

"You planning to toss that thing, or are we just gonna stand here all night?" Skip hollered toward him.

Whit's stomach twisted. He glanced down at the ball in his hand, tracing the seams with his thumb. "You know, for the first ten years of my life, I wanted to be just like you," he murmured. He felt the sudden catch in his throat, fought it down. "Every day since, I've done whatever I could to be anything but."

Skip grunted. "You should've picked a different career, then."

"I've never cheated on a woman."

"Congratu-fuckin-lations."

"Back when I hit free agency—any team you'd played for made me an offer? I turned it down flat. "

"Now that's just stupid."

"Maybe," Whit agreed. "Since it turns out we're not so different after all." He swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the ball. "Giving that interview isn't going to fix anything, Dad."

Skip's gaze flicked away. "It's not about fixing things. It's about doing what's right."

"Bullshit. You could've done what was right twenty years ago. Or four years ago."

"Me coming clean four years ago would've only made things worse for you."

"And what do you think it's going to do now? You think the media will pass up the opportunity to gloat about the father and son dopers?"

"So it's not my reputation you're worried about, it's yours."

"It's all of it," Whit retorted. He could imagine the headlines already. The scathing rebukes and phony laments about scandals ruining baseball. There was nothing the sports world loved more than a fall from grace, and Skip had a long way down. "Have you actually thought this through? Like, even a little? You know what's going to happen, right?"

"I'm prepared for the fallout."

"I seriously doubt that." He flipped the baseball back and forth between his hands and shot a look toward his dad. "Here's how this is gonna go. I strike you out, you don't do the Garwood interview. There's no winning that one, Dad. For anyone. Besides—there's only one fuck-up allowed in this family, and I'm it."

Across the distance, he saw Skip's jaw clench. "The interview is already scheduled."

"So cancel it. Or talk to him about the stadium you've been trying to build for a decade. Isn't that the reason you flew him out here in the first place?"

Skip shook his head. "I'll keep you out of it as much as I can, but it's time for the truth to come out."

"All that does is punish the thousands of kids who grew up worshiping you." He didn't even know why it was so important to him, he just knew that it was. He'd been one of those kids, and the child he'd been couldn't bear the thought of what he was about to lose.

"I've been out of the game a long time. If they worshiped me, they aren't kids anymore."

"Do it for me, then," Whit said. "Because I'm asking you."

"I've made up my mind, Whitney."

"Then you'd better hit the ball."

Whit knew the moment the ball left his grip that his command was off. Half a second late on his release; not enough spin. The baseball hurtled through the falling snow toward Skip, dead center over the imaginary plate.

Skip swung.

The crack of the bat against the ball was all the answer Whit needed. He didn't turn to watch it fly. "I guess that's that."

Skip let his arms drop to his sides. The bat slid into the grass beside him. "Come on, kid, you weren't even trying with that pitch. I can throw better than that."

Whit closed his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. What had he expected? That for once in his life, his dad would actually listen to him? That he'd put someone else's wants above his own? Skip O'Rourke wasn't built like that. He never had been.

"You might want to stock up on baseballs," Whit said, nudging the basket with the tip of his boot. "Something tells me you're gonna be throwing a lot more pity parties."

Shaking the snow from his hair, he turned and headed for the house.

***

Whit had booked a room at a lakeside bed and breakfast for the night, a cozy, rustic lodge nestled by pines and situated a couple of miles out of town. He'd never stayed there before, but the proprietor was an old friend of Bucky's, the reviews were glowing, and Whit thought Nell might enjoy the prospect of a secluded hideaway before all the mayhem of the upcoming festivities. According to the website, their room came with its own wood fireplace and private balcony that looked out over the water, and in the cooler months, the kitchen served round-the-clock hot chocolate. The place even had a cutesy address, Snowsugar Road, currently earning its name with the soft, silvery glaze that glittered along the pavement.

Whit drove right past it.

They could spend the night at the farm, he thought as he pulled onto the highway. Bucky had arrived at Skip's with a six-pack and a promise to crash on the couch if he broke into the liquor cabinet—pretty much guaranteed—which meant Whit and Nell would have his place to themselves. The turnoff was only a couple of exits ahead, a long, winding gravel road whose twists and bumps Whit still knew by heart.

He drove past that, too.

"You want to talk about it?" Nell asked. She must have sensed how close he'd been to unraveling earlier, because she hadn't asked any questions when he'd stalked into his father's house, tight-jawed and tense. She'd just taken one look at his face and followed him back out to the car. Now she sat quietly beside him, fidgeting with her seat belt and sending him concerned looks whenever he glanced in her direction.

Whit kept his eyes on the road. "Nope."

"Okay. Do you want to tell me where we're going?"

"What would you do if I said Chicago?"

Her sharp inhale told him she'd misunderstood. "You're taking me to the airport?"

"Us. I'm taking us to the airport."

"You want to come with me to Chicago?" She stopped fidgeting and twisted around to face him. " Now ?"

"I need to get out of here for a while."

"But… you can't come with me. That wasn't our deal."

"The deal is stupid. I have an empty apartment and three months of freedom ahead of me, and I say we spend that time as naked as possible, as soon as possible. "

"I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me what's going on."

"If your plan is to jump out of a moving car, I have to say, I wouldn't recommend it."

"You know what I meant," she gritted out. "What is the matter with you?"

A question he'd been asking himself for a good twenty minutes, and unfortunately, he couldn't just stay on the highway until he sorted it out. They weren't even headed in the right direction if he planned to make for the airport. At this rate, they'd probably end up in Canada.

With a sigh, Whit slowed the Maserati and guided it onto the turnoff for a county park that butted up against one of the region's smaller lakes—a wide, grassy area with an arrangement of barbecue grills and picnic tables, flanked by a couple of wooden gazebos. If he wanted secluded, this fit the bill. In the summer months, the place would have been packed from sunup to sundown, filled with kids hauling inflatable rafts and harried parents slathering their impatient offspring with sunscreen. Now the lot adjoining the park was open but empty, the asphalt littered with discarded beer cans and forgotten toys rapidly disappearing beneath the snow. The glare of the headlights skimmed off a battered sign that declared no lifeguard was on duty. After a quick glance confirmed the park was deserted, Whit pulled the Maserati into a space near one of the picnic tables and killed the engine.

Childhood memory flickered: late August heat beating down across his bare shoulders, the giddy shrieks of his sisters splashing at the nearby beach. The crackle of his mother's ancient radio spitting out game scores.

"I think I'd better take these," Nell murmured, reaching across him to pull the keys from the ignition. Before he could protest, they vanished into one of her jacket pockets. "Now… want to tell me why you're running away?"

"I'm not running away."

"This is the third time this week you've kidnapped me. I'm not getting in another car with you unless I'm the one driving. "

"I'm not running away," he repeated stubbornly. "I just don't want to deal with my dad for a while."

"Well, you'd better not have brought us out here for a swim," she joked, tugging her jacket tighter.

Whit reached into the backseat for his own jacket and tossed it to her. "Bundle up. We're going for a walk." He shoved the driver door open and climbed out, heading toward the park with long, slow strides.

He hadn't thought about this place in years. Longer, probably. Over a decade had passed since he'd even set foot there, but every inch of it was familiar—proof, he supposed, that some things didn't change. Maybe someone had slapped a fresh coat of paint on the gazebos, but the tables were still scattered in the same haphazard layout, the same creaky water pump still jutted up near the hiking trail, and the ancient metal grills still smelled of old charcoal and burned food. Strange how comforting that was. He paused, glancing back at Nell. He'd intended to make for the beach, maybe stand on the shore for a while, watch the snowfall vanish along the water's surface, clear his head a little. Instead, he came to a halt near one of the picnic tables and perched on the edge, his legs stretched out, his palms flat against the cool wooden surface. Wordless, Nell slid up beside him and tucked her hand over his.

Frightening how comforting that was.

"We used to come here when I was a kid," he said, resisting the urge to turn his hand and twine his fingers with hers. "End of summer, right when school started. Mom would round us up on the weekends, drive us out here, listen to Dad's games on the radio while we ran around like maniacs and threw ourselves into the lake. Then we'd go for ice cream. That was supposed to be our consolation prize—swimming and ice cream."

Nell's voice was soft. "That must have been hard on you."

He hitched a shoulder. "At least he was around part of the time. I figure that's better than what you got."

"Maybe." Her thumb stroked the back of his hand idly. "Maybe not. I never really knew my father well enough to miss him. He'd show up and disappear again so quickly, I was never sure what to expect from him. I looked forward to his birthday cards mostly. At least until I was old enough to realize it was my mom who was actually sending them."

"Sounds like she was a good mom."

"The best."

The smile in her tone made him turn toward her. She would make a good mother, he thought. The idea had popped into his head out of nowhere, but now that it was there, he couldn't shake it. He could just picture her, the wind in her hair, eyes brimming with laughter as she waited at the bottom of a slide, a couple of adoring, adorable mini-Nells tugging at her, complete with sticky fingers and apple cheeks. He imagined she was like that in her classroom: patient, playful, as capable of holding her own with a passel of second graders as she was with a bunch of rowdy, aging ballplayers. Kind but firm—and ready to do battle with anyone or anything that threatened her kids.

She was watching him now with that same quiet patience, her eyes dark pools, her lashes tipped with snow. Her freckles weren't visible in the low light, but he knew they were there. He wanted to trace them with his fingertips, one by one.

How had he ever thought she wasn't beautiful? The look of tenderness on her face made him feel like he'd been punched in the gut.

"What?" she asked.

He wanted to tell her that—that she was beautiful in a way that made his heart stop and his throat close up, in a way that made him want to wake up beside her every morning and just lie there, watching her sleep. He wanted to tell her he'd been an idiot to think anything between them could ever be casual, and that he would be seven kinds of stupid to let her walk out of his life two days from now.

But she deserved more than that, she deserved a man who could give her more than that, and it would be better for both of them to leave some things unsaid.

He pulled his hand from hers, raking his fingers through his snow-damp hair. With a ragged exhale, he turned his gaze toward the lake. He supposed he should at least explain to her why he'd been acting completely unhinged .

"Maggie is my sister," he said softly. The words came out easier than expected, but his voice stuttered on the last syllable, and he paused a moment, took in a breath. "My half-sister. Dad got another woman pregnant while he was married to my mom. That's what we were arguing about. Part of it, anyway." As for the rest of it… Nell would find that mess out in a couple of days, along with everyone else on the planet. "Dad didn't even know until a couple of months ago, if you can believe that."

The way she was biting down on her lip told him she could.

"You don't seem surprised," he said.

"It fits better than her being your dad's girlfriend." She laid her fingertips on his arm, the lightest of touches. "Are you all right? Sorry—stupid question."

Whit shrugged. "I'll adjust."

"Does Maggie know?"

"She does now. Apparently it didn't go well."

"I guess that explains what's going on with your sisters. Your other sisters."

"Yeah. Remind me to thank Rory for keeping that little secret."

"I imagine it's a lot to process."

Especially for Allie, he thought. She was the baby of the family, and he and Rory had done their best to shield her from the chaos of their parents' marriage. As a result, she'd never realized the extent of Skip's infidelity. Pranks aside, she'd always been a daddy's girl. Rory, however… "She could've found a better way than running off to Vegas."

"I was talking about you," Nell said.

Of course she was. That big heart of hers couldn't bear to see anyone hurt. And right now, all her worry was focused on him—he could see it in the way her eyebrows had drawn together, that delicate wrinkle forming between them. He reached toward her, smoothing the wrinkle away with his thumb. "I'm sorry for freaking out on you."

"I'd say that's a normal reaction to finding out you have another sibling." One corner of her mouth tilted up teasingly. "Maybe not the kidnapping part. "

He was too raw to rehash his entire conversation with his father, but he gave Nell the basics—how his dad had first learned about Maggie, Skip's asinine decision to hire her rather than simply tell the truth. "Obviously, that backfired," Whit said, working to keep the bitter edge from his tone. Overhead, the snow had drifted into flurries, and a spill of moonlight broke through the cloud cover to gleam on the lake. Whit let his hands drop to his sides, fingers tightening. "Dad says he's trying. That's the really screwed up part about this whole thing—I actually believe him." His mouth gave a wry twist.

Nell's voice was gentle. "What are you going to do?"

"Me? I'm not going to do anything. Maggie's leaving town. She wants nothing to do with us, and good for her. The last thing anyone needs is Skip for a dad."

"I don't know about that." She touched his sleeve again. "You turned out pretty well."

"Yeah, fuckin' fantastic."

"Except for being way too hard on yourself," she added.

He grinned.

"What?"

"You said hard-on."

Nell rolled her eyes. "Plus having the approximate maturity of an eight-year-old. Too bad for you, I deal with actual eight-year-olds. I'm familiar with diversionary tactics." She turned toward him, and he could tell by the stubborn set to her jaw he wasn't going to wiggle out of this one easily. The wrinkle he'd smoothed away was back with a vengeance. "All right, Whitney O'Rourke, sit yourself down. We need to have a little chat."

"I am sitting down."

"Then stay that way, and listen up. I have some news for you, Whit. You're not perfect. But guess what? Nobody is. You're a good man. You don't have to punish yourself forever just because you've made mistakes." She took his hand. "Repeat after me: I'm a good man ."

He leered at her instead. "You don't have to sweet talk me, baby. Just say the word, and I'll drop my pants. "

"I'm being serious. I'm not trying to fix you. Or rescue you. I just want…" She let his hand fall, shook her head. "What I said to you in the bar that night—you know I didn't mean it, right?"

His skeptical look said it all. He assumed it did, anyway, because Nell flushed.

"Okay, maybe I meant it at that exact moment," she amended, "but I didn't really mean it. And I'm sorry I said it."

"You didn't say anything I didn't deserve." When she started to protest, he held up a hand. "At least at that exact moment."

Hell, he'd probably deserved worse.

He wasn't proud of it. The instant he'd seen her at Gills, he'd completely short-circuited. His mind had shut off, sheer instinct taking over; like a cornered animal, that instinct had been to lash out. He'd spent four long years trying to put the past behind him, and suddenly there she'd been, a specter from the darkest days of his career. A vivid reminder of his myriad sins.

And now here she was, absolving him.

He didn't know if that was irony or fate, but either way, it was high time he absolved her, too.

"You're wrong," he told her. "I'm not punishing myself for my mistakes, I'm owning them. All of them." He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb following the curve of the helix and tracing a slow path downward. "It's your turn to listen. Not a word until I'm done, okay?"

She nodded against his hand.

"I've been trying to figure out what was going through my head when Paige called me last week. I was joking, yeah, but I guess some part of me wanted a little petty revenge." He let out a rueful laugh. "I definitely never thought she'd actually send you—or that you'd agree to it."

"Sister pact. I was bound by sacred oath."

Whit smirked. "Or maybe you just wanted to see me again."

Another eye roll. "That was absolutely not it."

"Remember what I said about not talking?" He pressed his fingers over her lips, keeping his gaze steady on hers, and drew in a slow breath. This was the hardest part, but he had to get through it. He owed her that. "For a while, I hated you. Seriously hated you. That video of yours haunted me. You haunted me. Everything went out of control so quickly—my injury… the scandal… It felt like my entire life was unraveling, and it was a hell of a lot easier to blame you than to admit I'd fucked up. And I did fuck up. Massively. I knew exactly what I was doing. That was my mistake, Nell. Not yours. You have nothing to apologize for. You never did."

And as for himself… he was through with apologizing. Whatever happened with his father's interview, Whit had done his penance and paid his dues. If the media wanted to paint him as the Bad Boy of Baseball, that was their problem, not his.

Nell's lips curved. "Hated, huh?"

"Past tense," he said hastily. To emphasize his point, he slanted another leer toward her. " Very past tense."

She laughed. "You can get to work on convincing me of that part in a moment, but first…" She reached up and unclasped his lucky silver chain from where it lay around her neck, eased it out from her jacket, and placed it gently in his hand, closing his fingers around it. "Here. This thing is making me nervous. I don't want to suffer the wrath of the baseball gods if I lose it."

Whit blinked down at it. "Why do I feel like I just got dumped?"

"I can't dump you. We're not dating."

"I sense a but ."

She glanced away. Too quickly. "I didn't mean what I said in the bar…"

"Yeah, you said that already."

"…But I meant it when I said you can't come to Chicago with me."

"Right. Because of our deal."

"No. Not because of our deal." She lifted her gaze to his, held it. Something hot and unspoken passed between them. "Whit…"

Panic seized him. He didn't know what she was going to say, but he knew he couldn't let her say it. He curled his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him, crushing his mouth against hers .

It was a hungry, hurried kiss. Nothing tender or gentle about it. Pure physical need, desperate almost, like this would be the last kiss, the only kiss, and they had to make it count. She gave him everything and he took it, greedily, even when she bit down on his lip hard enough to make him wince. He held her there until they were both gasping, and when they finally came up for air, he kept his hand in her hair, breathed against her cheek. "Two nights left, huh?"

"Give or take."

"Then I guess we'd better stop wasting them."

***

They spent the night at the farm. The B&B would be a waste, they agreed—too little time, too much hassle. The farm was closer, and sitting empty anyway.

Neither of them wanted to say it, but something between them had altered. They'd tumbled into bed with wordless urgency, tearing at each other's clothes before they'd made it halfway across the room. Afterward, instead of lying curled against his chest, Nell had slipped out of bed and into the shower, and Whit hadn't offered to join her. He'd drifted off to sleep before she returned, and when he woke the next morning, she was already in the kitchen, brewing coffee. But the urgency hadn't left them, and this time they only made it as far as the living room wall. With her legs locked around him, both of them panting, he moved against her hard enough to make the wall shake. His mouth found the delicate flesh along her collarbone. His fingers dug into her hips. He wanted to leave his mark on her, imprint his body upon hers, so that weeks from now, years from now, she'd remember that hot, sweet ache that only he had been able to satisfy. It was irrational, it was unreasonable, and he didn't care. Dimly he heard the sound of a crash, but he was too lost in Nell's moans to do anything but keep going, keep pushing them both closer and closer to the brink, and then over it, until they just stood there, bodies quivering and spent, glistening with sweat .

When he came back to himself, it was to the guilty realization that they'd wreaked havoc on more than just each other. Not only were there a couple of knickknacks on the floor—along with his shirt and the panties he had literally ripped off her—but one of his grandfather's puzzles had slipped from the wall. It lay on the carpet, frame askew, a long, damning crack running the length of the glass.

Whit stared down at it, rubbing his nose sheepishly. "My grandpa is going to kill me."

Nell looked a little unsteady as she bent to retrieve her underwear. "Maybe he won't notice?"

Whit snorted and padded back into the kitchen to search Bucky's tool drawer for glue.

Bucky had texted to say he wouldn't make it back to the farm before noon, which gave them plenty of time to put the house back in order—provided they could keep their hands off each other—but barely twenty minutes had passed before the faint chime of the doorbell sounded. Nell poked her head out from the bedroom, where she'd been packing the rest of her clothing into the small canvas carry-on she'd brought from Chicago.

"Are you expecting someone?" she asked.

"It's probably Allie." Whit hadn't returned his sister's call the night before, and her patience at the best of times was thin bordering on nonexistent. No doubt she'd decided to take matters into her own hands, which meant he had another thrilling conversation about his father's infidelity ahead of him. With a sigh, Whit hopped up from the table where he'd been engaged in a futile attempt at puzzle repair and headed for the entrance. He reached the door with a couple of loping strides and yanked it open.

But the woman who stood scowling on the porch, arms folded, mouth a red slash of disapproval, wasn't his sister.

Her words came out in a teeth-clenched hiss. "Hello, Whitney."

Whit swallowed a curse and plastered a smile on his face. "Paige."