Chapter 6

Things hadn't gotten any better as the day progressed. My car reeked of coffee and my chest still bore the signs of that earlier spill.

When I got home after the whole debacle with that menace of a cat and stripped out of my ruined suit, throwing four grand right into the garbage—literally—the skin on my chest and abdomen had been an angry, mottled red and felt like the top three layers had been melted right off, thanks to that piping hot coffee I hadn't gotten to enjoy. I'd spent the rest of the morning feeling like my skin was on fire.

It had faded as the hours passed, and thank Christ there were no blisters, but my chest was still flushed a bright pink and sensitive to the touch, which was only irritated further by the seatbelt I had strapped over me as I made the drive from my place to my father's.

I would have rather tied a cinderblock to my nuts than attend a family dinner, but the recent struggle to tell my father no when he made a request was getting harder and harder to do. I'd moved here to be closer to him, after all, and as much as I would have preferred to do that on my terms, I knew it didn't work that way.

He still lived in the same red brick ranch-style house I'd been raised in for the first thirteen years of my life. With three modest-sized bedrooms and two bathrooms, it wasn't anything spectacular, but opening the front door, I was slapped right in the face with memories I'd shoved to the darker recesses of my mind. I hadn't thought about this house very much over the years, but I knew, without a doubt, if I was blindfolded and sent off on my own, I would still know every step of the place like the back of my hand.

I cleared my throat and shook my head to clear out the strange melancholy trying to grip hold of my throat, making it difficult to swallow.

"Hello?" I called out as I wiped my shoes on the doormat that read Bless This Mess before stepping across the threshold. I would have knocked, but the instant I raised my hand to do so, I recalled my father's booming voice always calling out "It's open" any time someone would stop by, a regular enough occurrence. In Pembrooke, you didn't need to lock your doors and, at least at Hershel Cavanaugh's house, everyone was welcome.

Just like it had been when I lived here, the walls of the entryway were covered in a collage of family photos in mismatched frames that had no particular order or theme. Hershel and Millicent's wedding photo stood out as the largest among all the rest, surrounded on all sides by pictures of me and my half-sister, Leighton, from infancy and beyond. Of course, there were more of her, seeing as she'd been around a lot longer, but I wasn't sure if it was my father or his wife who had made an effort to keep images of me in the mix.

Visitation never happened once I'd been pulled from my dad's home. According to Estelle, the back and forth was too much of an inconvenience. What with my private school, tutoring schedules, and all the extra-curricular activities she'd forced on me to ensure I remained out of her hair until I was needed, I never really had any free time to come back for holidays or summer vacations. Still, my high school and college graduation photos were hung with care among the rest of the family.

There were even a few images I knew had to have been printed out of magazines or online articles from interviews. And at the sight of them, that knot in my throat tried desperately to grow larger before I managed to swallow it down.

"Anyone home?" I called out, hoping the croak in my voice wasn't obvious to anyone but me. I heard noise coming from the direction of the kitchen at the back of the house, and a moment later, my dad and Millicent rounded the corner.

"There he is."

I had seen my father a few times since making the move back to Pembrooke, but the sight of him now still managed to catch me off guard. I got my height and most of my features from him, except for my hair color. Mine was a dark brown that bordered on black; his was much lighter. My broad shoulders and wide chest came from him as well, so to see him looking so thin he was damn near gaunt was like a sharp elbow to the solar plexus.

Growing up, I thought of my father as this larger-than-life character. He seemed powerful enough to handle anything. Thanks to the cancer treatments, that strength was gone. His skin was paler without that sunny bronze that came from working outdoors. His cheeks were sunken, dark purple half-moons colored the hollows beneath his eyes, and his once-strong shoulders were slumped. I knew he was going to be all right; he'd assured me of that when he first called to tell me he was sick. This cancer wasn't going to be a death sentence, but that poison they were pumping through him in order to kill it off was causing damage, and I hated seeing him in such a state.

Thoughts began to loop through my mind. I should have tried harder to have a relationship. I should have been a better son. If only I wasn't such a cold, heartless bastard.

The one thing that hadn't changed, though, was his smile. He'd always smiled like whatever brought it on was the best thing to ever happen to him, which was how he was looking at me. His blue eyes that matched my own were full of life and happiness at the sight of me.

"My boy," he crowed, throwing his arms open and waiting for me to walk into them for one of his signature back-slapping hugs. "Damn good to see you, son. Damn good."

I blinked away the sudden and unexpected burn from the backs of my eyes and lifted an arm to return his embrace with a much less enthusiastic pat. On top of the fact he felt much frailer than I recalled, I wasn't much of a hugger and stood tall after only a couple seconds, taking a step back to break the connection.

"Good to be here," I said, my flat tone revealing that statement to be a lie. Truth was, I would have rather been at home using these few hours to get more work done. It was never ending, after all.

I caught a look on Hershel's face when he pulled back, a puckered brow of confusion. "You smell like coffee, son. Is that... a new cologne or something?"

For the second time today, I had to beat back the desire to smirk. "Um, no. Had a spill in my car earlier, and the smell is still lingering," I answered as my mind darted back to that morning, to that stupid, suit-destroying cat—but mostly, to its radiant mahogany-haired owner.

I couldn't put my finger on what the hell had happened after she finally managed to pry that rabid animal's claws out of my shoulders, but that first sight of her twisted my stomach up like a sailor's rope and made my blood feel like a soda can that had just been shaken up. She was gorgeous, no two ways about it. Knock-you-on-your-ass-and-steal-your-ability-to-think gorgeous. Her features had been feminine and delicate, from her full, pink cupid's-bow lips to the slightly upturned tip of her nose. The very picture of sweetness as she blinked those wide, innocent eyes up at me, and something roared to life inside me at the very first smile she graced me with. This wild, possessive desire to take all that sweet and filthy it up.

She was tall for a woman, and one of my very first thoughts was how I wanted to feel those long legs of hers wrapped around my head, her thighs squeezing so tight around my ears they blocked out all sound as I feasted on her sensitive pink flesh. I wondered what I'd find if I slid her panties down her legs. Would there be a tiny patch of curls the same russet brown as her hair, or would her skin be bare and glistening?

The intensity of those thoughts had slammed into me like a freight train, throwing me off balance, so I'd reacted the same way I always did when I thought my control was slipping—or worse, being stripped away from me. I lashed out.

Like the asshole I truly was.

But instead of getting emotional, she'd gotten pissed. It was impossible to miss. It was in her deep gray eyes, like thunderheads swirling and churning with a building storm. I knew right then and there I needed to get the hell away from her, because whatever had drawn me in from that very first glimpse only got stronger, stirring deep inside me and sending all the blood in my head straight to my dick.

This wasn't just any woman. She was the kind you took home to your parents. The kind you uprooted your entire life for. She was the kind of woman who could derail a man's carefully crafted world.

No fucking thanks. That had happened to me enough for two lifetimes. Never again.

Millicent came up next, shaking me from my thoughts of the stunning beauty with the dickhead cat. She may have been a tiny thing, but her embrace was even tighter than Hershel's.

I hadn't been sure what to expect when she and Hershel had started dating a couple years after my mother took off, but she'd never been anything but kind to me. Even after they had Leighton, I was never made to feel like the odd man out. That was part of the reason being forced to leave had been so jarring. I'd gone from being a member of a family unit to nearly complete isolation. I'd hated it at first, until I eventually came to appreciate being alone. That had become my normal. Now, as much as I remembered about my time here, I couldn't help but be a little unsettled. It was like stepping into a skin that didn't fit quite right because it belonged to a different person.

"Oh, look at you," she cooed, taking a step back to cup my cheek in her hand. "Even more handsome than I remember. So good to have you home."

I barely had time to brace against the impact of that word. Home.This place might have been that for me at one time, but it didn't feel like that anymore. Just like with my mother's house, this place felt more like a temporary stopover than my home. I wasn't sure I'd felt at home anywhere since I was thirteen. Even the big house on the mountain or the penthouse in Denver lacked that feeling. They were only the places where I caught a few hours of sleep between working.

"This is just a simple family dinner, son," my father said. "There was no need to dress up."

I looked down at the suit I'd put on after discarding my ruined one. "I didn't," I stated plainly.

They both blinked at me, and I didn't miss the look they shared before clearing their expressions and pasting the smiles back on their faces.

"Well, we're glad to have you back either way," Millicent shared. "Come on in. I've got potato salad in the fridge, some ranch-style beans, and your father's been smoking a brisket all day. Smells like heaven."

I followed them through the house to the kitchen, feeling like a stranger in the place I once called home. "Thank you for having me," I said stiffly, lifting the bottle of wine I'd picked up on the way here. "I wasn't sure what you drank, Millicent. I hope this is sufficient." I tried to make up for my lack of knowledge by purchasing the most expensive bottle the corner market had in its very limited stock.

A tug of discomfort tightened my chest at the realization that I didn't even know what my own stepmother preferred to drink. Shame crept up, and with it, my need to shut down grew deeper. It was going to be a miracle if I didn't come out of my skin by the end of the evening.

"Please, just Millie," she insisted, taking one of my hands in both of hers affectionately. "No need to be so formal. We're family, after all."

If only it were that easy.