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He had a bad feeling she’d nailed it. To compensate he bared his teeth in a snarl. “I guess you’d have been, ‘Hey, toss some more bacon on the griddle for me.’”
“She was making breakfast. That’s nice.”
“Nice? You think it’s nice?”
“Yeah, I do. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
With a nod, Avery went back to stowing groceries. “Let me ask you something. Do you think your mother should be alone for the rest of her life?”
“She’s not alone.”
“Owen.” She turned her head, gave him a quiet look.
“I don’t know. No. No. It’s just that I never thought about it—her—that way.”
“Now that you are, do you think she’s entitled to have someone in her life?”
“I . . . yeah. I guess.”
“Have you got a problem with my father?”
“You know I don’t. Willy B . . . he’s the best.”
“He’s the best,” Avery agreed. “So you’re not pleased your mother’s with the best?”
“I . . .” He fumbled to a stop. “If you’re going to be all rational and mature . . .”
“Sorry. In this case I must. They’re good friends, longtime, good friends. So, they’ll be good for each other.” Smiling, she folded her market bags. “I tried to fix him up a couple times. It never worked out. I didn’t like knowing he didn’t have anyone. My mother did such a number on him.”
On both of you, Owen thought.
“Mom told me they’d been . . .” He rolled his hands in the air again. “A couple years.”
“A couple years?” Shaking her head again, she poured another round of whiskey. “Willy B, you’re so deep. Who knew? I didn’t have a clue. How could I have not had a clue?”
“None of us did. I started thinking you knew, and you hadn’t told me.”
“I would’ve told you, unless they’d asked me not to.”
“I get that.” He picked up the whiskey, stared into it.
“What did my father say when you dropped in?”
“That he’d better go put some pants on.”
She snorted out a laugh, then tossed her head back, let a rolling one loose. Owen found himself grinning.
“It’s a little easier to see the humor in it now.”
“Did you make that face?” She repeated her interpretation of shock and horror. “And kind of stutter? ‘Mom! What! You!’”
He tried for a cool stare as she had, indeed, nailed it. “I might have had a momentary moment.”
“A momentary moment.”
“At least I didn’t punch your dad. Ryder wanted to when I told him and Beckett.”
Avery lifted a shoulder. “That’s Ry’s default, but he wouldn’t punch Dad. Ry’s fine with punching assholes or bullies, but he loves Willy B.”
“He loves me, too, but he’s punched me before.”
“Well, Owen, sometimes you’re an asshole.”
She smiled when she said it, sweetly, then tapped her glass to his. “To our parents.”
“Okay.” He sipped the whiskey. “Strange day,” he said with a sigh. “You’re not pissed at me anymore.”
“I wasn’t pissed at you. Very much. And now I’ve figured out you’ve got an issue with sex.”
“What?” A close relative of Avery’s shock-and-horror look passed over his face. “I do not. Why?”
“See.” She lifted a finger off her glass to point at him. “I even say the word and you’re all flustered. Issues.”
“I don’t have issues with sex. I believe in sex. I like sex. I like lots of sex.”
“Strange. You kiss me and go into immediate brain freeze. You see our parents kissing and hit the panic button.”
“No. Yes. Maybe. Damn it, that has nothing to do with issues. Any normal person would have a—”
“Momentary moment.”
Smart-ass, he thought. She’d always been one. “A reaction to seeing his mother laying a hot one on a longtime family friend. And you and me? You know that wasn’t expected.”
“Actually, it doesn’t seem that unexpected to me. But then, I don’t have sexual issues.”
“I don’t have sexual issues.”
“Hmm.” She sipped, strolled over to the window. “Oh, it’s snowing now. Pretty. God! I have to finish my Christmas shopping. You’d better go before it starts to stick.”
“Just wait a minute.”
She glanced back. “For what?”
“Damn it, Avery, you can’t just say something like that then say go home.”
“Just voicing an opinion.” When he stepped around the counter, she took the glass from his hand. “You shouldn’t have any more. I know you handle it well, but still. Whiskey, driving, and snow, not a good mix.”
He repeated, with all the patience and potency he could muster, “I don’t have sexual issues.”
“Are we still on that? All right, my mistake. You’re sexual issue–free.”
“Don’t placate me.”
“Jesus, Owen, what do you want from me?” Her eyes fired like lasers when he gripped her elbows, hauled her to her toes. “Watch it,” she warned.
“Now we’re expecting it,” he told her, and gave her a quick yank.
She knew where his buttons were and how to push them—and could admit she’d done so. She didn’t mind irritating him into kissing her. She wanted an encore, one way or the other, to see how both of them reacted.
“Okay.” Deliberately she linked her hands behind his head. “Now we’re expecting it.” She moved in first, before he could overthink and pull back.
Not an explosion this time, she thought, but more of a long, slow fall that picked up velocity. His hands dropped from her elbows to her hips, then molded her body inch by inch on their way up her sides. As the intensity built, he shifted her until he’d trapped her between his body and the counter.
She’d manipulated him—he knew it, but didn’t much care. The tang of whiskey on her tongue, the hint of lemon in her hair, the hot pulse of her body against his all tangled his senses into a slippery knot of need.
He skimmed the heels of his hands along the sides of her breasts, glided his fingers over them—felt her pulse kick lightly against his palms.
Felt her breath quicken as the kiss deepened.
Easing back, he struggled for equilibrium while she stared at him with drowsy blue eyes.
“Sexual issues, my ass.”
Humor warmed her face an instant before she laughed. “I stand corrected.”
“So . . . what now?”
On a sigh, she laid her hands on his cheeks, held them there briefly. “Owen,” she murmured, then slid to the side and away.
“Owen, what?”
“What now?” She picked up her glass of scotch again. Hell, she wasn’t driving anywhere. “We rip each other’s clothes off and go to bed. If I’m any judge, we have really exceptional sex. But since you ask, you’re already thinking what-if and what then in addition to what now—t
aking that rational and mature route. So you go home, and consider the what-ifs and what thens until you figure it out.”
“The what-ifs and thens matter, Avery.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”
“You matter. You and me—you and all of us—matter.”
“I know. The fact that you’re thinking about that instead of ripping my clothes off is part of what makes you Owen, and part of the reason I’d have let you rip my clothes off.”
Now he had new pictures in his brain, and found he didn’t much want to hike on that rational and mature route. “You’re a confusing woman, Avery.”
“Not really. It’s just I can appreciate you considering what matters and still be sorry you didn’t wait to consider until after that exceptional sex.”
“I love you.”
“Oh God, I know.” She turned away, as casually as possible, terrified the tears would come, terrified they’d show. “I love you, too.”
“I know what to do about that, what to think about that. I don’t know what to do about, what to think about wanting you like this. Wanting you, a lot.”
She took a careful breath, turned back, and smiled. “That helps, a lot. It’s an adjustment. You never thought about me that way.”
“I wouldn’t say never.”
“Really.” Steadier, she studied him over the rim of her glass. “Is that so?”
“Well, hell, Avery, of course I thought about it, occasionally. You’re gorgeous.”
