Free Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men) by Eden Connor Page B

for that? Me. My fault. My fault. God, Sarah, I’m so sorry. Some days, it was all Eric could do to look his nephew in the eye.
    He pulled the drawer free and dumped the film boxes on the kitchen table. Back on the porch, he flipped the latch on the second trunk and slid the two sides open. The projector rested in the hat box in the bottom of the hanging section. The camera nestled behind the fake drawer front that opened to make a writing desk. He snorted, lifting the heavy projector. Too bad he didn’t need a boat anchor. The De Marcos held on to everything—except their women.
    He parked the machines beside the reels and grabbed the central vacuum hose and a rag. By the time he had the old trunks cleaned off, he thought he could handle his morning cup of coffee.
    His stomach was steady, until he slid the rubber band off the paper and the page fell open. He studied John Carpenter’s photo through narrowed eyes. Gritting his teeth, Eric filled a mug and strode to the couch. Slamming down the paper and cup, he looked up. The lights were still on in the loft.
    Come on down, Amy. I need to see your smile.
    Carpenter had been front page news nearly every day since his stunning confession. This morning’s article was another speculating on the sentence the prick might get. Scanning the same tired conclusion—five years—Eric’s stomach lurched, nearly making him spill his coffee. He’s not gonna get five years. He’s just not. Calm down.
    He had two full hours to kill before he had to leave for work. He’d check the classifieds for an all-terrain vehicle. Jonah had been begging for one. Lila wasn’t enamored of the idea, but Eric thought she was being too protective. He and his siblings had grown up ripping and running through the orchards on dirt bikes, four-wheelers, anything with a motor. Despite a few cuts and bruises, they’d lived to tell the tale. Maybe he’d just build Jonah a go-cart.
    Maybe not. The last thing he wanted was to cause a problem between his brother and his woman. Maybe Lila would chill out after the baby came. Moving Amy in was sure to set her off, anyway. No sense in starting the De Marco family version of World War Three.
    He’d done that once already and was in no hurry for a repeat performance.
    An hour went by without sight of Amy, though his gaze wandered often to the loft. The sudden sound of running water made him snap the paper open. A tear of roughly an inch appeared down the center fold of the newsprint, making him snarl again.
    The fine print blurred. His mind’s eye saw the spray from the shower running over Amy's skin. The image was all too easy to conjure after last night. His brain sketched her hands, rubbing soap across her breasts and down her thighs. Then the image changed, and his hands were doing the rubbing.
    Thinking about what he was missing, he glared at the undisturbed fabric over his cock. Useless motherfucker.
    * * * *
    A my felt like an idiot for setting her alarm for such an ungodly hour. Not only did she owe Eric an apology for waking him, she hadn’t written more than four paragraphs on her paper, for hoping he’d come upstairs and offer her a better wake-up call. Glancing across the bed, she tried to peer through the window, but all she could see was her reflection. He’d gone out and returned, but she didn’t hear any movement now. He must’ve gone back to bed.
    Shoving her textbooks out of the way, she tugged her shirt over her head. She’d put in some more work on her paper at the library before her first class.
    Her gaze roamed the varnished boards overhead and her thoughts turned back to Eric. She had zero experience with casual sex. She only knew the rules to this game in theory. They were roommates-with-benefits, meaning this would be different than living with Drew. Now that she’d figured out the obvious, she couldn’t expect to stay here for free. She had to pay something for rent.
    He couldn’t mean the orgasm thing. That was just... talk.