Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ROWAN

Kennedy Littlefield looks positively touchable tonight, dressed in her Ralph’s shirt and a pair of shorts so small you’d almost need a microscope to find them, not that I’m complaining. Her hair is down around her face, her blue eyes soft and sweet, untouched by makeup. Some women I know would have shrieked to have a man show up when they were in their pajamas, but her face is clean for bed, and she doesn’t seem fazed. Of course, why would she be? She’s even more gorgeous in the moments when she steps down from her pedestal. I’ve noticed it before now, on a few stolen occasions—her dress unzipped down her luscious back, her head tipped up to look at the tree at Ralph’s, her hair captured in that knit cap.

Don’t think like that, you dumbass.

I’m not here to ogle Kennedy…except, if that’s not why I’m here, why am I here?

I’m not totally sure, to be honest. Other than I told her I’d come. Of course, I could have just as easily pulled Harry aside after he came home, passed on what little news I had, and that could have been that. It’s just…I wanted to comfort her in person. After all, what happened today was no normal clusterfuck. A woman like Kennedy has probably been shielded from the world. It’s likely the first time she’s watched a man keel over. Hell, I’m a part-time fireman, and I’ve only seen it happen once. Most of our calls are for kitchen fires, smoke, or kittens caught in trees.

I watch as she pulls the bottle of scotch from the drawer. I expect her to take out some crystal goblets—I guess my grandmother or one of the producers pulled some sort of partnership with a crystal company, because it’s everywhere in this house—but she just sits on a floor pillow beneath the big picture window and nods for me to do the same. I shrug and follow suit.

This whole room is ridiculous, not that I expected anything different. Each of the Labelle’s suites has a theme, and this one is a princess room. There are little crystal slippers, a ceramic horse-drawn carriage, and other expensive dust-collectors arranged on top of those short bookcases that line the room, along with every other available surface. It’s strangely appropriate yet inappropriate, because Kennedy is most definitely a grown woman.

I watch, my mouth dry, as she opens the bottle and takes a swig. Blood channels to my dick at the sight, and I plop another pillow onto my lap because I don’t want to scare her off.

When she holds the bottle out to me, I hesitate, and her eyes widen. “Oh, sorry. Did you want a glass? We can get glasses.”

“No,” I say, my tone harsher than intended. Part of me is desperate for that bottle—for the comfort of what’s inside of it and also the pleasure of putting my lips where hers have been. If I can’t kiss her or slide those little shorts off her hips, at least I can do that. I take a slug of the scotch, then make a face. “What the fuck is this?”

She laughs so hard a snort escapes her, which makes me laugh.

“I…think…Jonah’s family makes it,” she says through more gales of laughter. “I didn’t think it was very good either, but I don’t know what scotch is supposed to taste like.”

“Not like this,” I say, shaking the bottle, but then I shrug and take another sip. It doesn’t improve upon acquaintance. I cringe. “Nope. It’s worse the second time around.”

“You’re right, but I do like the burn,” she says, reaching for the bottle. When our fingers brush, another pulse of attraction works through me. I tell myself it’s just because it’s been too long since I’ve had a woman. I almost believe it, but then she asks, “What’s in the bag?”

“Contraband,” I say, smiling at her. “It’s for you.” My smile fades, though, because I don’t like what it implies that I brought this to her. That’s the kind of thing a putz would do—a man who’s let himself be Cupid’s bitch. It’s definitely not a smart action for a man who would very much like to no longer be known as Cupid, please and thank you.

“Oh?” she asks, setting the bottle down and reaching for the bag. I hand it over and watch as she pulls the little fake tree out of the bag. When she looks at me, there are tears in her eyes.

Shit, I didn’t want her to cry.

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask, straightening.

“No.” She lifts a hand to straighten one of the branches, which went askew in the bag. There are little ornaments that came on it, plus battery-operated lights. “You did something exactly right.” She flicks the lights on, then looks up at me, the soft glow playing over her features. “Thank you, Rowan. Thank you. I can’t believe you did this for me after the day you’ve had.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. Even more so when she sets it on the ground and leans forward to hug me. Her soft cheek and long, silky hair brush against me, but she’s leaning back again all too soon. For a second, I’m speechless, then I mumble, “I saw they were selling them over at Wheeler’s Market, and it’s on the way.”

“Well, it’s a big deal to me,” she says. “I love it.”

Her eyes are shiny, and I’m afraid she’s going to cry. I’m no good at comforting crying women. It flusters me. It brings out my incompetence. So I blurt, “You’ll have to hide it.”

She smiles, looking back down at the tree and fiddling with one of the wire branches. “I like the idea of having a contraband tree.”

“A contraband tree and crappy scotch,” I say. “You’re a rebel, aren’t you?”

She grins at me with shining eyes. “Maybe I am.”

I’m tempted to ask her to rebel with me.

I’m tempted to tell her that I needed a way to forget tonight, and something led me to her.

Instead, I grab the shitty scotch from where she put it on the floor and take another pull from the bottle.

“Maybe you should help me rebel,” she says, and I nearly spit the mouthful of scotch out. “Why don’t we play Truth or Dare?”

I nearly choke. “What are we, two girls at a sleepover?” I ask, lifting my brows.

“No, we’re a man and a woman at a possible sleepover,” she says, making a gesture to match mine.

Fuck, I’m glad I grabbed that pillow.

“You know I can’t stay over here, Kennedy,” I say, trying to sound firm. It’s obvious that we’ve both felt the draw between us, but that doesn’t mean I need to listen to it.

“Sure, but it’s only just after ten. No one’s going to come check on me until morning.”

The thought of staying here until morning, of sneaking around with the princess of the show while the male contestants are off bickering and in-fighting pleases me more than it should. So does the thought of spending more time in her company, of watching this other side of her unfold.

I think again of Zach, and of what he’d do to me if he knew I have a boner for his sister.

“Your brother and I are kind of friendly, you know,” I blurt.

“I’m a big girl, Rowan,” she says with a sassiness that makes my blood boil. “I’m perfectly capable of playing Truth or Dare with another adult.”

I don’t actually want to leave. I certainly don’t want to talk to anyone in my family or to Jay. I’ve called the hospital to check on him, and they said he’s been sleeping a lot but that there’s nothing to currently concern them. The news about his wife is shitty, for certain, but it doesn’t make me feel more inclined to run back to the hospital. Maybe that means I’m a coward. If it does, so be it.

Ivy has bought a plane ticket, or so I gather from the texts she’s sent, and she’ll be in town tomorrow. I still haven’t spoken with Bryn, Holly, or Willow. I’m guessing my phone is blowing up with messages from them by now, but I don’t feel compelled to check. That probably means I’m an asshole in addition to being a coward. I did give my sisters the information they need, including where Jay is being kept, and I assured them that both he and I are okay.

I haven’t told them about his secret. I’m not sure I’ll tell anyone. Except I feel it beating into me like it’s a hammer thumping my head.

“Okay,” I say, through a scratchy throat. “But you go first, Princess.”

“Shouldn’t we spin the bottle to see who goes first?” she asks, looking up at me playfully with those big blue eyes.

“Let’s not mix genres,” I say, moving the pillow in my lap because it’s pretty damn uncomfortable at this point.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Truth.”

“Which of the guys in the house is the front-runner?”

Maybe I want to know who my competition is. I don’t know. I probably should have asked her some other shit, like what she’d like me to do to her, because if this Truth or Dare bullshit isn’t an invitation, then I’ve completely lost my touch with women.

If Kennedy’s annoyed by my presumptuousness, it doesn’t show. “I don’t know,” she answers. “I’m not vibing with any of them, to be honest. So I’ll probably just go with whoever Harry and your grandmother think would be the best choice for the show.” She makes a disgusted face. “Even if it’s Jonah.”

Her answer pleases me more than it should, especially since I have a natural horror for the idea of letting my grandmother do anything.

Kennedy cocks her head, studying me. “There’s someone else who’s caught my interest.”

My pulse thrums faster. My dick twitches. “I don’t know how to break it to you, but Oliver’s gay.”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

I do. But I’m less certain of why she’s calling it out in the open. Isn’t it as obvious to her as it is to me that anything between us would be a non-starter? She lives in Chicago; I hate big cities. She’s from a rich, cultured family; I’m a handyman and part-time fireman with a high school degree. Then, the kicker—she’s the star of a reality TV show in which my grandmother has set her up with several eligible bachelors.

This is not the stuff a long-lasting relationship is made of.

But maybe that’s not what Princess is asking for…

If she wants a different kind of fun, the kind that comes with no strings, I’m more than interested…

I open my mouth to say something, but she thrusts the bottle of shitty scotch into my hand. “Your turn,” she says.

“What if I don’t want anymore?”

“Then you’re wise. I meant your turn for Truth or Dare.” She swallows, and my gaze tracks her long neck. The shirt covers too damn much.

Is she going to dare me take it off? To kiss me?

I want both of those things to happen, but not because of a damn dare.

So I swallow and say, “Truth.”

Is it my imagination, or did her face fall?

Definitely not my imagination. Still, I can tell she’s thinking hard, really pouring herself into it, like this is an exam she’s determined to pass. “What’s your favorite hobby?” she finally asks.

“Other than cutting down Christmas trees?” I smile. “I’m a handyman because I like to tinker. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve liked building things.”

“What’s your favorite thing to build?”

“I build car models and give them working motors.”

“I’d like to see one of those,” she says, and I think she actually means it.

“Truth or dare,” I ask, peering at her. Wondering if she’ll go for the dare this time. Wondering what I’ll ask her to do if she does.

“Truth.”

A smile flashes across my face. “What’s your Christmas wish, Princess?” I’m not sure why I’m asking, other than that there’s something sweet about the way she loves Christmas—the honest and deep joy she takes in it.

She tips her head up a little, giving me a better look at her pink lips, then says, “When I was a kid, I always wished Santa would bring me a puppy. I must have written him two dozen letters about it, like that kid in A Christmas Story , but of course he never brought one. My mother thinks dogs are dirty, and my dad thinks there’s no point to domesticated animals that aren’t eaten.”

A dry laugh pulls out of me. “Brutal but not without logic. We didn’t have pets either. My mother and grandmother didn’t want to have to clean up after us, let alone anyone else.”

“Brutal,” she repeats, her mouth tipping slightly into a smile. “Did you want one?”

“When I was little,” I say, leaning my head back against the shelves. “I used to like Tintin, running around and getting into adventures by himself. He always had that dog.”

“I can imagine you like that,” she says, “rampaging through Highland Hills with a dog. You know, that’s how I knew that there was no Santa Claus,” she adds with a touch of sadness. “Because my puppy never came.”

“Do you have a dog now?” I ask, wondering about her life in Chicago. Is she different there? If we’d met there, would there still have been this strange energy arcing between us?

“I don’t,” she says in a small voice. “I guess I don’t really trust myself. My parents weren’t any good at taking care of us. What if I’m just like them?”

I feel a surge of anger, not at her, but at the assholes who made her question herself. I haven’t known her long, but it doesn’t take a long acquaintance with Kennedy Littlefield to recognize that she’s a nurturer—the kind of person who’d find an injured walking stick insect and try to nurse it back to health.

“They shouldn’t have made you feel that way,” I say. “You’d do great with a dog sidekick. I can see it now.” I nudge her arm, wanting the excuse to touch her. “Here, help me form the picture. You’d want—”

“A bulldog,” she says, laughing at my expression of surprise. “What? I always thought all the extra folds of skin were cute. They look like little aliens. But cute aliens.”

I can’t help laughing. I’m surprised I’m even capable of laughter after the bullshit day I’ve had, but being with her makes me feel lighter. “Okay, you want a cute alien. I’m getting a really good picture of you now.” My laughter dries up at the look of longing on her face. “You should get that dog, Princess.”

“Maybe I will,” she says, smiling. “I’ve always liked the thought of having one around. It can get so lonely, living by myself. I love the thought

of having a little dog to curl up with when I’m watching movies or reading books.”

I wouldn’t mind curling up with her, although it would be stupid to say so.

“Maybe you should ask Santa for a puppy.”

“Maybe I will,” she says. Her expression serious, she adds, “It would be nice if he could act quickly on it, because this house would feel a whole lot less creepy if I had a little friend to keep me company.”

“You think it’s creepy?” I ask, leaning toward her. I can’t help myself, it’s as if she’s a warm fire in the hearth.

“Absolutely. What would you call it?”

“Self-indulgent and silly. Ugly. Overly large. But not scary.”

She laughs. “I guess it’s all those things, although I’ll be honest, my parents’ house isn’t much smaller.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t imagine it is.” It’s a good reminder of how different our lives are, of how unlikely we would be as any sort of pairing, even for a night of fun. Still, when she looks at me with a pointed challenge in her eyes and says, “Your turn” again, I find myself saying, “Dare.”

Her smile is radiant, and I feel like a god for being the one who brought it out in her—a real smile. The ones she flashes for the cameras are proper and pretty, but they don’t transform her whole face—her whole being—the way this one does. “I was hoping you would say that.”

My blood pumps faster, hotter as I wait for her to choose what she wants me to do—hopefully to her.

So her next words surprise me.

“Did you know there’s a basement pool?”

“Yes,” I say. While I’ve studied the blueprints for this place, trying to think of the best ways to sabotage the show without potentially hurting someone or causing the kind of damage that can’t be fixed, I already knew that bit of information.

“It’s in a heated room,” she says, grinning. “What do you say to a swim?”

I’d rather stay in here, with her, but she seems so excited by the idea, just like she was about my damn Christmas tree, that I don’t want to say no. “I don’t have a suit with me.”

She gives me a look, then blushes and says, “You could wear your clothes, but it wouldn’t be much of a dare if you did. From my understanding, dares usually include the kind of thing a person wouldn’t normally do.” She licks her lips. “Like skinny dipping.”

I’ve done plenty of skinny dipping in my day, back when we were kids and used to drive out to Waller Creek together to party, but I can tell she hasn’t. From the way she’s talking, I’ll bet she hasn’t played many games of Truth or Dare either. Beneath the excitement this stirs, because I absolutely want to see this woman naked, I feel a little sting of resentment. I suspect she’s using me the way pretty, polished girls have used me before—as their little bit of blue-collar fun before they dive back into their lives. But if I’m going to be used, it might as well be by someone like Kennedy.

“As you wish,” I say. Something about Kennedy makes me feel like the farm boy in The Princess Bride , maybe because she’s so obviously out of my league. “You got towels?”

“In my en suite,” she says, her voice breathy, like she can’t quite believe what she just said but also doesn’t want to take it back. “I’d better hide the Christmas tree before we go.”

I have to laugh at that. “Princess, if we’re found in the pool together, your Christmas display will be the least of your problems. Especially if we’re skinny dipping.”

“You have a point.” She looks conflicted, though, like she can’t stand the thought of the little tree getting confiscated.

I smile at her. “I’ll hide it. Get the towels.”

When she slips into the bathroom, I tuck the tree into her closet, behind her long, silky gowns. I’ll see her wearing them, I suppose, but from afar. She’ll probably have one of them on the first time she kisses Marcus or Colton. Jonah or Jeff, Quinn or Ray. I’ve unwillingly watched dating shows—blame having four sisters—and I know how this works. At least a few of them will kiss her before it’s over, a thought that makes me want to beat their faces in the way Cole’s brother did to Meatball the other night.

Kennedy’s not mine, though. Not for longer than one night, so I don’t have any damn right to get pissed about that.

Kennedy comes out with the towels and flinches a little at the sight of me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say harshly.

“You look pissed off.”

“I always look pissed off.”

“Not always,” she says, surprising me by balancing the towels in one arm and reaching out to touch my face. Her fingers trace the line between my eyebrows. “You’ve laughed at least a few times today.” Then she blanches. “I mean. Obviously not after what happened with Jay, but…”

“I’m not upset,” I say, capturing her hand and holding it. I like the feeling of it in mine. “I’m enough of an adult to know people are perfectly capable of smiling and laughing when something awful is happening in their lives. It doesn’t make you an asshole to find good things where you can and enjoy them. There’s always a seed of something good, even in a shit bagel.”

She smiles at this. “Leave it to you to start with something profound and end with a shit bagel.”

I’m tempted to tell her she doesn’t know me well enough to make pronouncements like that, but she has a point. Besides, I don’t want to argue with her. I want to be good to her—to show her that maybe tonight can be a bright spot for both of us.

I want to believe it can be enough.

“Let’s go,” I say. She takes a step toward the door, but I stop her with our still entwined hands. “Follow me, Princess. I know which way to go so we don’t get followed.”