Luke Page 7

  The fact that Killian and I are back here, in this place with all of its shitty memories, is some kind of fucked up, I think. At least Bud isn't trying to reminisce, make small talk about the past, rose-colored memories or some bullshit. He's happy just leaving us alone.

  "I don't know," I say, glancing at Killian. "Got a job up at the Mayburn orchard."

  "In the bar, I mean," Bud says, giving me an odd look. "I'm heading into the back office for a bit, got some paperwork to do. If you need a refill, you know where the beer is. You boys yell if anyone else comes in."

  "Sure, Bud," Killian says with a laugh that sounds more like a cough. The bar is empty except for the two of us and a regular slumped down in the dimly lit back corner, his feet propped up on another chair and his cowboy hat pulled halfway down over his forehead, shielding his eyes. I'm not sure if he's passed out or asleep or if he's a permanent fixture of the bar. He could very well be dead.

  Killian and I drink in silence until I finally speak. "The job at the Mayburn orchard is a temporary thing," I say. I'm not sure why I feel the need to tell him this. "Foreman position. The fucking chick running the place is lucky she didn't burn down half her orchard."

  Killian nods and takes another pull on his beer. "I knew this was a story involving a chick," he says, finally turning toward me. His expression is serious, but there's the familiar twinkle in his eyes he gets when he gives me shit, just like he always has. Killian and I are two years apart, and were always closer to each other than we were to Elias and Silas.

  Silas and Elias always had some kind of weird ESP shit going on, even when they were kids, whatever the hell kind of simpatico twins inevitably seem to have. They were always on the same wavelength. Killian, on the other hand, used to give me a ration of shit nearly all the time, smacking me across the back of the head for doing something stupid, but taking up for me when kids at school acted like assholes.

  Or when our father came home drunk and mean. Killian was the one who took the brunt of his rage as the oldest, always stepping in to protect us. I don't know how bad that fucked him up, but I can imagine. He never talks about it.

  "It's not about a chick," I say, but the thought of Autumn makes my cock stir, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

  "Sure it's not," Killian says, laughing. "Shit, I'm your big brother. You think I don't know how you lose your damn mind over pussy? There's definitely a girl involved. I'm just surprised that you're sticking around here, that's all."

  "There's no pussy involved," I protest. "I want to find out what the hell happened with mom, that's all."

  Killian shrugs. "What the fuck do you think happened with her? Pills and booze."

  "Mom hardly ever drank, Killian," I say. "You know that. With how much of an alcoholic dad was? She hated the stuff. Besides, you were the one who said there was no way she killed herself.”

  "People change, Luke," he says. "And maybe I’m just playing devil’s advocate. How long has it been since you've been back here? You don't know that she didn't start drinking. Who knows what the hell happened?"

  "It doesn't make sense," I protest. "Anyway, why would she kill herself after the asshole died? After all that time with him, suffering living with him – she just goes and offs herself once she's free? Come on, Killian, even you know that doesn't make a lick of sense."

  Killian turns toward me now, his dark eyes flashing. "You go poking around in shit like that, Luke, you may not like the answers you find to those kinds of questions."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Killian's tone pisses me off – some kind of cross between a warning and a big brotherly lecture. I'm not a kid, the way Killian seems to perpetually think of me.

  Killian takes another pull on his beer and then exhales heavily. "It means that you should stop poking around in this kind of bullshit. What if you find that it really was a suicide?"

  "So what?" I ask, shrugging. "Then we know. She killed herself, and that's all there is to it."

  "And if it's a suicide, it means that our mother killed herself because she couldn't live without the asshole," Killian says. "It means that all that time, all those years she was with him, all those years he kicked the shit out of us as kids, she didn't leave him. That she wanted to be with him. That's what it's going to mean if you find out that she committed suicide. Do you really want to find out the answer to that question?"

  "She was weak, Killian," I say. "That never really was a question. I'm not doubting that."

  "But if she offed herself over that asshole, then it's more than just she was weak. Do you fucking get that? It means she loved him the whole time. Do you feel what I'm saying?"

  "I get it," I say. "I just don't think that's what happened."

  Killian rolls his eyes. "You think someone killed her?" he asks. "Why?"

  "I don't know why. That's what I want to know."

  Killian shakes his head. "Shit, Luke, you never could settle for doing what anyone told you to do, without asking 'why' a thousand damn times."

  "Remember in sixth grade when Ms. Hasley kicked me out of class for arguing with her about the field trip?"

  "Fuck," Killian says, laughing under his breath. "Of course I do. I was the one who had to pick your damn ass up from school and take you home. You would have gotten your ass beat too if I hadn't covered for you. At least Ms. Hasley didn't send a note home."

  "She knew what the asshole would have done if he'd have found out."

  "I reckon so," Killian says. He drains the rest of his bottle and stares ahead for a long time, silent. "So you really think something's going on?"

  "I don't know," I tell him. The honest truth is that I have no fucking clue. But my gut says something's not right with her death. And if something's off with hers, it has to do with the asshole's death too, since he didn't die that long before her. They have to be connected. But I definitely don't tell Killian that part of things. "Maybe. Maybe it's nothing."

  "Yeah, well, I've got to go back out to the rig this week," Killian says. Killian is a roughneck, has been working on oil rigs since he turned eighteen. Just like the rest of us, he got the hell out of West Bend as soon as he could.

  I've passed through West Bend before, come through the area to snowboard, or on a smokejumper contract. But this trip is different. This is the longest I've stayed in West Bend since I left.

  I tell myself that fact is entirely about my mother's unexpected death and not at all to do with the smokin' hot redhead who owns the orchard.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Autumn

  Yanking the cidery door open, I walk inside, grateful for the rush of warm air when I enter the building. I push a rogue strand of hair away from my face and tuck it back into my ponytail. "Damn, Mary," I call. "It's starting to get chilly out there in the mornings."

  The sound of her laughter reverberates through the front room of the distillery, and the door to the back room swings open as she walks through the doorway, Luke trailing behind her.

  "Autumn," Mary says. "Luke was just telling me the funniest story about –"

  "Yes," I interrupt, my tone harsher than I intend it to be. I swallow hard, hoping I sound more business-like than jealous. Because I'm totally not jealous, and have no reason to be, I remind myself. "I didn't realize you were in the cidery today, Mr. Saint."

  Luke shouldn't be in the cidery. He should be outside in the orchard, overseeing the workers. Or repairing a fence or something. Like the last time – standing in the sun, sweat glistening off his shirtless chest…

  On second thought, it's good that Luke Saint is in here. Fully clothed and not doing manual labor.

  "I was looking for you, actually, Ms. Mayburn," Luke says, emphasizing my name. My face flushes warm at the way my name rolls off his tongue, slow and warm. Intimate.

  I tell myself that the way it sounds is all in my imagination, not intentional on his part, merely an inappropriate fantasy of mine.

  But when my eyes meet his, even standing here on the other side o
f the room, it doesn't dilute the sensation. In fact, arousal practically floods my body, the intensity of his gaze causing heat to flow through my body.

  Mary stands beside Luke, awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to another as she looks back and forth from me to him. Clearing her throat, she gestures toward the door. "You know, I actually had something to get outside," she says, before she scurries past us and out the door.

  I'm suddenly embarrassed by Mary's obvious discomfort, as if it somehow makes whatever attraction between Luke and I that I swear is only in my head suddenly real. Now I'm the one shifting my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  "She ran out of here quickly," Luke says, the sides of his mouth curled up in a knowing smile.

  "I don't know why," I say, my tone imperious. But my voice falters, and I tell myself to stop acting like a silly schoolgirl with a stupid little crush. The sight of a cute guy should not be enough to make me lose my mind. It's never been a problem with a guy before, and there's no reason for it to be now. "She should have stayed to listen to the story you were telling her."

  Now I sound like a jealous girlfriend.

  But Luke just saunters toward me with the kind of cocky confidence that guys like him always have, their egos propped up by women hanging on every word they say because they're that kind of gorgeous. I tell myself I'm not one of those girls. Yet, when he reaches me, I find myself closing my eyes, inhaling deeply, some kind of reflex, I can't quite control.

  God, he smells good.

  "I was looking for you," he says.

  "Well, I'm glad you found someone to amuse you in the meantime," I say. Damn it. I don't even think before I open my mouth, and I sound possessive, filled with pettiness.

  "Jealous, Red?" Luke asks.

  "Not in the least," I lie.

  "It's kind of cute," he says, suddenly closer than he was a minute ago, his proximity so intimate that it takes my breath away.

  "Cute," I repeat stupidly. It's like my brain can't process what he's saying, because I'm too focused on watching his lips move as he speaks. Except him speaking isn't exactly what I'm thinking about when I look at those lips.

  I picture those lips against my skin, moving down my abdomen, and farther…

  "Adorable, actually," he says, looking down at me, his voice low.

  "Adorable. Like a puppy." People don’t see me as cute. Men don't see me as cute. Or adorable, which seems exponentially cuter than cute. Competent. Capable. Bitchy, even. That's how men see me.

  "That's not exactly what I was thinking," he says, his voice soft.

  "Oh?" I ask, barely choking out the word. "What were you thinking?" My voice cracks mid-syllable, and I swallow hard. My body feels wired, goose bumps dotting my skin even though Luke hasn't even touched me, every inch of me tingling with the anticipation of his touch.

  And then he does it. He touches me.

  He reaches out and slides his hand to the nape of my neck, pulling me against him in one swift movement, before I can even react. A small moan escapes my lips before he covers my mouth with his, and I can't do anything except melt into him. He kisses me, full and hard, his tongue finding mine like a long-lost lover.

  Most first kisses are awkward, at least the ones I've had. They're tentative, hesitating, two people who don't know each other, finding each other.

  Not this kiss. This kiss isn't the least little bit awkward. It's familiar, as if Luke's lips were always meant to be pressed against mine.

  That thought shakes me to my core. I pull away from Luke, touching my fingers to my lips, the lips he just kissed. "I – " I struggle to get the word out, me who's never been at a loss for words. "I – I'm sorry."

  The corners of Luke's mouth turn up. "I'm not," he says.

  I need some distance between us. I need space. Being near him, touching him, breaking in his scent, looking into his eyes… it all has the effect of making me dizzy, unable to think clearly. I need to be level-headed. Mature. I'm not someone who loses herself in a kiss, a look, a touch. I'm a businesswoman. A mother. "I – that – shouldn't have happened," I say.

  "You're so full of shit," he says, and the language catches me off guard.

  "What?" I bristle at his tone. "I'm your boss. I'm ol –"

  The door opens, and Mary walks back inside, looking hesitatingly back and forth between us. "I just needed – "

  I clear my throat again. "No worries, Mary," I say. "I'm actually on my way back up to the house." I don't hesitate before turning around and walking back to the house, my lips still throbbing from Luke's kiss.

  Luke is behind me on the way back to the house. I know he is, but I walk faster, as if by ignoring him he will disappear. I don't know what to say to him. I'm mortified that I lost control, embarrassed that I let myself kiss him. I should have remained professional. I shouldn't be fantasizing about how his hands would feel roaming my body.

  There are a lot of shouldn'ts with Luke. Everything about him is one giant should not.

  I pause, my hand on the doorknob, while Luke stands behind me, not daring to turn around and look at him. If I do, if I see the way he looks at me, the hunger in his eyes, my resolve will be completely and utterly washed away.

  So I don't turn around.

  I stand there, with my hand on the doorknob, not turning it because I'm torn between desire and being appropriate.

  If there's one thing in my life I've always been, it's appropriate. I studied hard, got good grades, went to the right schools. I married the right man, the one who looked good on paper, the one I thought would be an asset to my father's company. So what if the chemistry was non-existent, I told myself. It was something that would develop over time.

  Except that I got absolutely everything wrong with Edward. He was the wrong man in every way.

  "Why are you running, Red?" Luke asks. His voice rumbles low under his breath.

  I don't turn around. Instead, I lie. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm going into my house because I have work to do. No one's running anywhere."

  When he steps closer to me, the air changes between us, causing goose bumps to flit over my skin, up my arms and shoulders, across my back. "Why are you lying, Red?" he asks. "Are you really going to tell me you felt nothing back there?"

  "It was just a kiss, Luke," I whisper. "One that shouldn't have happened at all."

  "Just a kiss," he says softly. His breath wafts over the back of my neck, and I close my eyes. I want him to touch me. I want to feel the weight of his hands on my shoulders, sliding down my arms, over my breasts, to my waist. And lower.

  "Yes." The word comes out, more like a gasp. "It was just a kiss. That's all."

  "That's why you can't turn around and look at me right now, Red. Because that kiss was no big deal."

  My hand is on the doorknob, and I stare at it, trying desperately to communicate the message to my muscles that my brain seems intent on not sending. Open the damn door, let yourself into the house, and shut him out. Go back to burying yourself in work, to being a mother and nothing more.

  But my hand doesn't move. Instead, Luke's hand covers mine, his lips on my ear. "That's why you're standing here with your hand on the door, not moving," he whispers. "Because you didn't feel a damn thing when I kissed you."

  "Luke," I begin to protest, but the sensation of his breath on my neck makes me practically writhe with anticipation. Heat pools between my legs, and I want to give in. I want to do something wild and reckless and uncharacteristically out of control.

  "Where's Olivia?" Luke asks softly.

  "Toddler music class," I say. "She goes to class with Greta, and then they go to the park."

  "Toddler music class," Luke says, his hand unmoving. His lips brush the side of my neck, and I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning. It's been so long since I've been with anyone, and Luke's touch feels so good it's almost painful. "That's a real thing?"

  "It's a real thing," I say, barely able to focus. "I mean, they basically
run around and listen to kids' songs and…" My voice trails off. I know I'm babbling, the most nervous I've been in years, more nervous than any business meeting has ever made me. Why does Luke make me so nervous?

  "Open the door," Luke whispers, his voice low. "Now."

  "I'm not sure we should – "