Free Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) by Lauren Gilley Page B

grinning.
                  Her stomach flipped over. Her palms tingled. Baby . Yeah, what sorts of things? she wanted to ask him. Tell me. Better yet, show me.
                  “Wouldn’t that be very…non-outlaw of you?” she asked in a teasing voice.
                  “Nah.” He adopted that proud, cocky tone she remembered from all the way back in high school. “We outlaws like to be in charge of that kinda shit.”
                  “I see.”
                  He softened a bit, growing more serious. “I also told Jesse to stay the hell away from Erin.”
                  The words filled her with warmth. “Thank you.”
                  “Who the hell knows if he’ll listen, but he was about ten seconds from pissing himself, so he might.”
                  “Here’s hoping.”
                  Cue the silence. But it wasn’t awkward, it simply was , a full beat of warm, unsaid things between them. Sam wanted to tell him thank you again, and it seemed like he wanted to say something, too, but she didn’t allow herself to romanticize about it.
                  “Well…” He fiddled with his helmet strap. “I better run. I’m supposed to have dinner with Ava and Mercy.”
                  “Tell them I said hello.”
                  “I will.”
                  It took every ounce of self-control not to hug him. She settled for smiling and waving him off instead. A poor substitute, but after all, wasn’t that her romantic destiny?
     
    ~*~
     
    He was pulling into the Lécuyers’ driveway when he finally pinned down the sensation that had stayed with him since leaving Sam. Warmth. She made him feel warm, and what an alien thing that was, in his history with females. They made him hot, made him restless, made him horny and frustrated – but they didn’t leave him warm. Didn’t make him feel like when Maggie had kissed his forehead as a boy and handed him a cookie straight out of the oven. Sam made him feel like that…and also ravenous and in desperate need to push her shirt up and see what color her bra was. 
                  Shit.
                  The little white house Mercy had bought for his bride looked tidy and fresh these days, yellow mums bursting out of pots on the porch, brilliant as the last light of day winked out of existence. The windows glowed with lamplight, a welcoming spill of butter across the sidewalk, the lawn.
                  He sat on his silent bike a moment, remembering why he’d come, drawing together the words he wanted to use. He thought about his sister bringing him food, forcing his meds on him, raking her nails through his hair like a good little mother after his accident. Mercy helping him shower, helping him walk. They loved him, truly. And he would entrust his dark secret to them and listen to whatever they told him.
                  He went to the back door, because that’s where they always expected him, and Mercy opened it before he could knock. It should have been incongruous, the big man holding the little baby, but it never was. Cal was passed out cold against his father’s chest, all fat baby face and hands, held securely in one arm.
                  “Brother,” Mercy greeted, ushering him in.
                  “Is that Aidan?” Ava called from beyond the mud room, in the kitchen.
                  “Yeah, and I brought you something,” he said, stepping into the warm, steam-filled room where his once-inept little sister was bustling around with pots and pans and spoons. When she paused to turn to him, he offered the brown-bagged bottle of wine he’d tucked in his saddle bag. “Chardonnay, like you like,” he said, and she gave him a quick hug, a peck on the cheek, and moved off. The wine disappeared from his hand, though