Best Worst Mistake (8 page)

Right?

“Fire get sorted out?” Wilder asked abruptly, wiping his mouth.

“Fire?” Grandma’s fork clattered next to the pumpkin pie.

“Yes,” Sawyer said, speaking carefully. “One of the volunteer firemen was nearby, saw the flames
early and called it in. House is pretty damn well destroyed. They had to put lots of wet stuff on the red stuff. Looks like it started in the garage, which is strange because it was empty. The owners hadn’t moved in yet. Must have been electrical.”

Wilder frowned, eyes narrowed. “But it’s a new house, right?”

“Yep.” Sawyer nodded. “Just finished the permitting process. Electrician is going
to have a lot to answer for.”

“Nothing was recovered?” Wilder pressed.

“Only part of a dirty old sock.” Sawyer shrugged. “Probably left by one of the builders.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well,” Grandma interjected with uncharacteristic shakiness.

“That’s right,” Edie said. “And I just want to say how happy I am to spend this Thanksgiving with all of you. I’ve dreamt of having
a holiday like this for a long time. I am so thankful you are making my dreams come true.” She wiped her bright shining eyes and turned to beam at Archer.

“Aw, hell,” Archer said softly. “I’m thankful for each of those freckles.”

“Get a room, you two,” Kit hollered from the sink. “I’m thankful for the game tonight. Enough of all this hugging and kissing.”

“We like hugs and kisses,”
Atticus piped up. “I’m thankful for my puppy, Orion. And for my mom. And Sawyer.”

“Oh, honey, me too.” Annie pressed a hand over her heart.

“I’m thankful for both of you,” Sawyer said, rumpling Atticus’s hair with one hand while tightening his grip on Annie’s hand with the other. “My life is better with you in it.”

“What about you, Grandma?” Atticus asked. “What are you thankful for?”

“Well . . . I’m, let’s see now . . .” She fiddled with her dessert plate.

“How about having your three handsome and most favorite grandsons back together under one roof?” Archer’s smile was easy but his eyes seemed to ask for something.

“Yes,” she muttered. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“What about you, Wilder?” Quinn asked right when it looked like conversation would
resume. How was it that they were all so frightened of him? It was as if they hosted a wild bear in the corner and no one wanted to poke it with a stick.

His head snapped up and he stared at her impassively. “Books. I’m thankful for books.”

“Good answer.” She smiled. “I hope from now on you come down each week and place your order with me directly.”

“What’s that all about? You’ve been
reading, brother?” Sawyer asked curiously, glancing between them.

“Yep.” Wilder’s one word answer hung across the table for a moment.

“He’s one of the most well-read people I’ve come across,” Quinn said.

Kit burst out laughing at the sink. “Now that’s a surprise.”

“Why?” Quinn asked.

“You weren’t exactly valedictorian material in school, were you, cuz?”

“Nope.” Wilder
responded, not looking at anyone.

“What sort of material were you?” Quinn asked, determined to keep him engaged in the conversation. “Athlete?”

“That was Sawyer.” Wilder’s lips turned into an uneven smile.

“Oh. It must have been all that charm. Prom King for sure.”

Archer covered up a laugh with a mock cough.

“That would have been Archer,” Wilder said tightly.

“What was
your skill then?” she asked.

“Suspensions,” Grandma snapped. “He was gifted in getting kicked out of school.”

“Kicked out of school.” Atticus’s eyes grew wide. “By the principal? For what?”

“Being bad.” Wilder tipped an invisible hat at Quinn. “For being a real bad guy.”

Chapter Eight

I
T
WAS
QUIET
on the drive home. The truck lights shined over high packed snowbanks and an empty road. Kit listened to talk radio and Quinn was acutely aware of Wilder’s silent presence in the backseat. Why did he have such a rift with his lovely family? Despite being in the center of a warm and affectionate crowd, he’d looked alone all through dinner and then during
the football game. And no one seemed to know how to bridge the gulf. The loneliness that surrounded him made her throat tighten.

“Don’t forget to go by Wilder’s place first.” She cleared her throat as Kit turned onto Main Street.

“Yep, got the memo.” Kit shot her a quick sideways glance. “Not a problem.”

She looked out the window at the closed storefronts. “It’s nice living in such
a small place. While my truck is getting fixed I can walk everywhere. That would never happen in L.A.”

Kit coughed into his fist. “You like your place?”

“It’s a cute rental, bright and cheerful. Looks like the flowerbeds will be amazing come spring. I think the owner is traveling overseas.”

“Yeah. Marigold.” Kit said the name like it cost him something. “Goldie is off gallivanting
around the world. Finding herself or something, probably doing yoga in India as we speak.”

“I’d love to go to Europe someday. Her adventures sound great.”

“Peachy keen,” he muttered, turning down the narrow steep grade of Castle Lane while Wilder said nothing at all.

Kit parked the truck in front of the cabin and Quinn jumped out, grateful to escape the sudden awkward silence. She’d
put her foot in it with Kit but wasn’t sure what “it” was. She waited for Wilder to emerge and followed him toward the porch. Even though they walked a foot apart, their shadows merged in the high beams. There was a quiet jingle as he dug his keychain out of his coat pocket.

She kicked the snow off her boots. “I had a nice time tonight.”

He froze, holding the door open. “I did too, surprisingly.”

She stepped into the dark, narrow hall. He flicked the overhead light on and she turned, gasping, not expecting to find him near enough that she could make an in-depth study on why his irises were such a perfect green.

“What are you lookin’ at?” he asked hoarsely.

“I think your eyes are the same shade as my ring.” He flinched when she set her palm against his scruffy cheek, comparing.
“Yep. A near perfect match.” This nervous inner jumpy feeling was going to give her a stomachache. “My birth stone is a peridot. I was born at the end of August. Virgo alert, sorry.”

His thick brows knit. “What’s that mean?”

“Apparently I should be a clean-freak perfectionist.” She shrugged. “Except I’m an outlier because
ew
sums up my feelings on the subject of chores. I hate doing dishes
and forget about folding laundry. But then again I do like to color code and alphabetize my bookshelves and arrange my comic collection by year so maybe there’s something to it after all.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a chair. “Didn’t peg you for a comic fan.”

He wasn’t cute or charming, just bluntly honest. After all those bullshit years in Hollywood, it was refreshing
to speak plainly. “I wouldn’t say I’m your average fan, more like a champion of the underdog. See, my collection consists solely of failed superheroes.”

He was silent. If he breathed she couldn’t see the physical evidence.

“Everyone loves Batman, Spider-Man, Superman, The Avengers. But what about Ashtray, who kills villains with second-hand smoke?”

He dipped his chin, peering at
her. “Ashtray?”

Her cheeks flushed. The only way to end this conversation was to cease talking but the brakes were off. “There’s also Echo Boy, the skilled mime, and the Incredible Spork, and don’t forget Captain Canada. He fought for truth and justice, but also socialized medicine and—”

There was a sound of a truck engine starting, wheels backing up.

They both exchanged surprised
glances.

“Where the hell is he going?” Wilder’s thick hand-knit wool sweater made a scratching sound as he slid past her down jacket. He yanked open the door and the cold air was welcome relief against her hot cheeks. “Kit’s gone.”

“Oh no.” She hugged herself. “I wasn’t taking too long, was I? I know I have a tendency to talk a lot but—”

He shut the door, keeping his hand pressed
against the wood. “My guess? This was a con job between him and my brother.”

“I’m not following.”

Wilder turned, pushing a hand through his hair. “He and Archer probably got it into their thick heads to play matchmaker. It’s exactly the kind of stunt they’d pull.”

She straightened her glasses. “You think Kit purposefully left me to . . .”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Force us to spend
the night together.”

A zap of electricity coursed through the valley between her breasts. There wasn’t room in this tight space to think or inhale or do anything but stand here with this crazy desire to reach out and splay her hands across his broad chest, clutch his sweater and drag him closer.

Apparently she wasn’t as into funny wisecracking hipsters as big brooding alphas. For years
she’d been doing it all wrong.

“I’ll call Sawyer and he’ll come fetch you.” He made a low frustrated grumble deep in his throat. “I hate being so fucking useless.”

“Stop that right now,” she said quickly. “First, I don’t want Sawyer to drive all the way out here—his cabin is miles away. Second, you are far from fucking useless.”

“I can’t drive.”

“Neither can I tonight and I’m
not unusable.” His gaze shot to her face and she had to work for her next breath. “But walking in the dark is a little scary. Do you mind if we build up the fire, make tea and figure out what to do?”

“You think I’d let you set foot outside by yourself tonight? But I don’t have tea, Trouble.” His eyes gleamed and, God help her, she liked it. She was like a rabbit prancing under a hungry wolf’s
snout with a placard that read, “Eat me! I’m delicious!”

She exhaled lightly. “Well, you have a pot that can boil water, right? My purse just so happens to contain my backup tea stash.” She sensed his question before he had a chance to ask. “Never know when a girl might need a quick cup of Egyptian licorice or peppermint or chamomile—but you seem like you might be a rooibos type of guy—”

His mouth covered hers. There wasn’t a warning. The rest of her babble hummed into his mouth, turning into a soft sigh. Oh, thank the lord, he felt it too then, this inexplicable connection between them.

“I should push you away, but can’t seem to get close enough.” He had her up against the wall, bracing his weight against either side of her head and she grabbed two handfuls of sweater
and the thick wool felt as thick, masculine, and sexy as she hoped. As for the muscles beneath it . . . oh . . .

Oh yeah.

He slid his tongue against hers again with a husky moan. “This is a bad idea.”

“Stopping would be a worse one.” She broke the kiss to fasten her lips to the side of his powerful neck between thick cords of tendon, his stubble rough on her lips. He tasted like soap,
salt, and man. His pulse increased when she reached to tangle her fingers in the bristly waves dusting his collar.

“What the fuck are we doing?” His fingers found her jacket’s zipper, grinding it open.

“What feels good?” She arched her back. “I want to forget everything for a night, don’t you?”

“I need more, that okay?”

“Yes. More.” She pressed her hips closer. “Good idea.”

His big hands slipped under the hem of her shirt, unapologetic and forthright, the warm calloused pads of his fingers rough against her cool stomach, as if his body temperature ran a few degrees higher than normal.

He took his time, exhibiting absolute control while all she could do was hang on for dear life, her face buried in his neck, writhing while his hands moved over her ribs, one at
a time, as if climbing a ladder. She wanted to be against him in bed, to take his hand and slide it where her nipples were peaked, aching to be rolled between his thumb and forefinger. She wanted it rough and fast and urgent. But then, as much as it made her twist and moan, it was nice for him to take his time.

He was there soon enough, at the base of her bra, tracing the outline to her underwire,
teasing the satin.

She bucked a little, urging him on. She needed to be in this moment, jam-pack every second with life. Tomorrow she took the test and soon her world might spin off its axis. Everyone had a clock, but hers might be ticking faster.

She took his face between her hands and his jaw flexed against her palms. “You are being too careful. If we do this, I don’t want to think.
I want to feel.” This was a night to forget fear, to live without regret, to let go, be in the moment.

He didn’t answer.

“Wilder. Please, I want it rough.” To heck with being coy or flirtatious. She desperately needed this man to take her.

He leaned close, his hands sliding to the top of her bra, over the soft swell of sensitive flesh. “And you think that’s what I am?” His whisper
was a challenge, spreading a tantalizing heat through the shell of her ear, a heat that ignited another flame, lower and brighter between her legs.

“I want to find out.” She shifted her weight, the seam of her jeans pressing through the thin lace of her panties, not quite relief, but a subtle caress.

He reached her bra straps, holding her steady with an authoritative grasp. In the shadows
he looked enormous. He sucked her lobe with just enough pressure to make her eyes roll back in her head.

“Then we do it my way.” His voice was strained. “Get on my bed. Now.”

One of her least favorite parts about her Hollywood job was being bossed around. Told what to do as if she were some sort of robot that lived only to serve at her master’s pleasure. It wasn’t her thing.

Apparently
unless she wanted the order.

Unless she craved the order.

There was a scrape of wood on the floorboards. The cane. She had forgotten his injury. His leg. Even his scarred hands. All she knew was the core of the man awoke something in her, primal, wild as his name.

Tomorrow the world could burn. Tonight was theirs.

She slid free, feeling him release her with tangible regret. Walking
to the bedroom, she climbed on the mattress, running her hand up a bedpost. Soon she’d run her hand up him and the idea of his shaft against her palm made her clamp her knees together—the anticipation almost too intense to bear.

He took his time approaching. When he was close enough, he set the cane against the wall and limped closer, covering her hand on the post for a moment before reaching
out to grab her wrist. There was a sense he marked his territory, staked his claim before reaching down to shove open his jeans.

“Want you to kneel.”

Goose bumps broke out along the base of her spine. This was happening fast, but that’s what she wanted, right? What she asked for. Rough anonymous sex. Or mostly anonymous. Except for the fact she had just spent the night with his whole family.
That she knew the intimate details of his bookshelf. That she’d slept in his bed last night and could still remember the scent on the pillowcase. Clouds must have moved because moonlight appeared—suddenly she could see a little more, she could see . . . him.

He froze as if sensing her hesitancy.

It was like her body split into two, one part urging, “Go on, hurry up and do it already,”
while the other took a step backward, whispering, “Hang on, what if there is more going on here? More than sex, more than tonight?”

The two opposing parts broke into a furious wrestling match, clawing, gnawing, biting, and generally rattling her brain loose.

“Something changed,” he said gently.

She flinched. “I’m not sure if I’m a one-night-stand sort of person after all.” The “do
it” part of her brain shook a fist, howling, “Good God, woman, we’d be getting pleasured by a hot-as-hell badass if it wasn’t for you and your meddling morals.”

She pressed her knees to her chest, setting her chin down at the place they met. “I’m sorry.” Her heart pounded in her ears. “I’m not sure what I want to do here.”

“No.” He fixed himself, zipping his pants with a wince. “I should
be the one to apologize. It’s been . . . a while. Guess I got carried away.”

Her gaze jerked to his. “No, really, I pushed.”

“I started it.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Are we having some sort of guilt-off competition?”

He grunted, not without a trace of humor. “It’s a specialty of mine.”

“Well, consider yourself up against a grand master,” she said with a rueful laugh.
“I will meet your apology with a shirt-wrenching, teeth-gnashing plea for forgiveness.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who lives with a lot of regret.”

“Really, that’s your impression of me?”

He ran a hand up her arm in a light, gentle touch. “A bright spark. Beautiful. Happy. Confident.”

Maybe she picked the wrong job in Hollywood. “Smoke and mirrors.”

“Hrumph.
Maybe I should borrow a little for myself.”

“Would you do something for me?” She inched closer.

“What’s that?”

She patted the side of the bed. “Come here. Be next to me. We don’t have to sleep together to sleep together. Maybe I’m not ready to go whole hog, but what about cuddling?”

“Cuddling?” His breath sounded labored.

“Don’t be so dismissive.”

“I’m not, it’s just that
. . . no one has ever asked me to before. I don’t exactly have a reputation as the warm and cuddly type.”

“Or no one’s ever bothered to look close enough.”

He froze before sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking from his weight.

“There we go, that’s a start,” she said encouragingly.

“Now what?”

“Now we both lie back on your pillows, get under the blankets.”

“What about shoes?”

“Right. Shoes. Very practical. Glad one of us handles the details. See? This is what makes me a terrible Virgo.”