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“And you’re not?”
In low-slung blue jeans, aged to perfection, and an army-green Henley that hugs him just right, Mick packs a danger all his own. If we had more time, I’d strip him down—with my teeth—and lick him all over.
His lips twitch, equally aware of his effect on me. “Before I forget my promise, I’ll go make us some coffee for the road.”
I spritz on perfume, add moisturizing hair gel to help tame my curls, and run the mascara brush through my lashes. Satisfied, I stare at my head-to-shoulder reflection and decide to forego the blusher. It’s as if the joy I’m feeling is shining out of me and making my olive skin glow.
When I join Mick in the kitchen, he pockets his cell phone and hands me a stainless-steel travel mug. “Light on the milk and three sweeteners.”
I take a cautious sip of the steaming coffee through the lid opening and smile in appreciation. “Mmm. No wonder I adore you.”
“I’ll keep giving you reasons, beauty.”
“Beauty?”
“Mm-hmm. You’re my beauty. That’s the way I see you. Not just because of the way you look, but because of everything you are.”
Aw…how can I not love him?
He brushes his fingers over my cheek. Mick is such a physically strong and powerful man, yet he can touch me with such gentleness.
I lean into his caress, smitten with him. “We should go,” I eventually say, torn between having to break the moment and excitement to see my family. “I really don’t want to be late.”
“I know.” He kisses me—a sweet press to my lips before he pulls back and reaches for his baseball cap and dark shades on the counter.
I’d been too absorbed in him to notice them a moment ago. For the past two days, it has been just us, secluded in our safe haven, absent the threat of media attention. But now I’m reminded of how our first date at the Lemon Lounge ended. Reporters unexpectedly showed up, and Mick had Stiles—a bodyguard of sorts—drive Jordyn and me home, to protect me from his fame.
I’d blocked it from my thoughts for the weekend, wanting nothing more than to shut that part of our world out while locking ourselves in. But seeing him lower the brim and slide on the opaque shades to disguise his identity hits my happy bubble with a needle-sharp prick.
The world I wish to avoid could be waiting outside my door.
ChapterTwo
Micah
When I first met Dee,I was a hormonal fourteen-year-old.
I thought she had sexy hair. It reminded me of those lost-on-a-desert-island movies where the girl is found in two swatches of a tiger print bikini and her hair is all wild and untamed. I wanted to reach out and touch the long sable-brown curls that curtained her face. I wanted to see if they felt as soft and springy as they looked.
Next, I wondered about the body that she hid behind baggy jeans and a sweatshirt several sizes too big. She wasn’t straight or skinny, that much I could tell. When her nervous fingers tugged the bulky material at her chest, I tracked the movement to the hint of plump, round breasts. I wanted to touch those too.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, on so many levels. Papa T had already given Victor and me a stern man-to-man talk about our responsibilities as her brothers. Nothing about my reaction to Dee was screaming brotherly.
As I stood there in the living room among my surrogate family—that lives next door—welcoming the newest member, I knew I had to drag my head out of the gutter. And fast. But my brain wouldn’t cooperate.
Dee tucked a cluster of curls behind her ear, giving me a glimpse of honey smooth skin and a full, pink mouth. I thought her bottom liplooked like a ripe, juicy strawberry and the upper indented like a pretty bow. I thought:I want to kiss her badly.
As wrong as my thoughts were, they continued on that lusty, narrow track until Mama T introduced us. Dee looked up at me with these big eyes, more golden than brown. I’d never seen eyes that rare and luminous or more beautiful. It was like being swallowed by the sun.
In an instant, everything inside me warmed. Shifted. I couldn’t call the unprecedented feelinglove. I was just a kid. But there was a quiet sadness about her that tugged on my protective strings. I understood something of her grief, having lost my mother too. And yet I sensed there was something inherently more drawing me to her. Some connection I hadn’t known I was searching desperately for, that might explain why this girl had such an immediate and profound effect on me.
Later that night, I huddled inside my closet with a flashlight. I couldn’t risk having my old man catch me in the forbidden act. I stayed there and wrote until the wee hours. It wouldn’t be the only time that Dee would inspire my writing.
The story came alive with every word I penned on paper about a demon son born to the dark side who encounters an angel that changes his world. He knows he has no right to claim her, but unable to resist the beauty and light she possesses, he marks her heart.
In real life, our differences weren’t mythical, yet no less divisive.
I couldn’t betray the Torreses. Dee was off limits. She was Papa T’s foster daughter, sunshine and innocence. And I was Malcolm Peters’ son, dark and damaged.
