Authors: Tracy Madison
By the time we turned into the driveway of Alice’s bungalow-style house, Scot’s shoulders were tense and he kept tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. Verda was out the door the
second the ignition turned off. She stuck her head into the backseat long enough to say, “You two should take a minute to be alone before coming in. Everyone will understand.”
Scot drew in a long, slow breath and angled himself toward me. “Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea, but you’re here now, so you should be prepared.”
“I know how to eat dinner, Scot. I even know which fork to use when.”
“Well, that’s good, because I probably don’t.” There went his thumb again: tap, tap, tap. “The thing is, you’re going to have to converse with my family.”
“You think I’m incapable of conducting myself properly in polite company?” I inhaled a mouthful of air to combat my irritation. “Trust me. I’ll be on my
best
behavior.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, a jerky motion that struck me as nervous. What did
he
have to be nervous about? “I’m not all that worried about you,” he admitted in a tight voice. “My family is nosy. They’re going to ask a lot of questions.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I know how to handle nosy. I’ve had plenty of practice with nosy. I’ll be fine, Scot.” I undid my seat belt and reached for the door handle.
His hand enfolded my other wrist in a gentle grip. “Wait, Julia. See . . . they’re not only nosy. They’re—” He coughed, as if something scratchy was stuck in his throat. “Unique. And loud. They’re often loud. Not my dad so much, but the rest of them . . .”
Wow. Anxiety pooled in his body language, in the cadence of his speech. This guy was seriously stressed about my meeting his family. But why? Out of nowhere, an irrational urge to comfort him came to life. “Listen. It will be fine. I grew up going to one social function after another, and I’ve met about every type of person there is. And hey, you’ve brought dates
home before. Right? If they managed your family, I’m sure I can. Stop worrying.”
The following silence was deafening. Scot returned to tapping his thumb on the steering wheel. My heart fluttered like a thousand and one butterflies trapped in a cage.
An impossible thought flared up, but I couldn’t be right. Could I? “You
have
brought women home before. Haven’t you?”
Shifting, he unbuckled his seat belt. “A few. But not for a while.”
“Exactly how long is a while?”
He responded in a low growl of nearly incomprehensible syllables.
Oh. My. God. “
Ten
years?” I blinked. “You haven’t brought a girl home to meet your folks for ten years?”
The thumb tapping commenced again. “I keep my private life private.”
“Still . . . that’s a long time. Hasn’t your family been curious about the women you’ve dated?” My parents wouldn’t let more than a month go by without being properly introduced to any man in my life. Which was a damn good reason for not dating. “Haven’t you—?”
“Leslie. She . . . we’d set up a brunch thing,” Scot said, expertly avoiding looking in my direction. “We had to cancel. But you know how that story ends.”
Oh. God. I wanted, for maybe the first time ever, to shake Leslie. Had she not known what a big deal it was for Scot to want to introduce her to his parents, his sisters, Verda? “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “That must have been tough to explain.”
“Yeah, well, the past is history. But they”—he aimed his vision toward the front of the house—“are going to be very curious about you.”
“It will be okay. I’ll be courteous.” My earlier plan took an immediate nosedive out the window. Now that I understood the root of Scot’s nervousness, and how the simple act of meeting me would set up a whole host of familial expectations, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—do anything to increase them. “Seriously. I’ll smile, answer when questioned, and make polite conversation. But I won’t add fuel to the fire.”
“Thank you.” The thinnest layer of surprised gratitude nuanced his otherwise-gruff baritone. It seemed he didn’t know me as well as he’d thought. I hoped he’d caught on to that little fact.
“You’re welcome,” I murmured, somehow finding this quiet moment so much more uncomfortable than the fireworks of last night. The man sitting next to me was an enigma. Big, tough,
fierce
on the outside, but those traits were only the frame of who he was, not the entire picture. Not even close. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see the rest of him.
It was at that second that something soft and warm and
gushy
opened inside of me. A person of a romantic, poetic disposition might have described the sensation as a flower unfurling its petals toward the sun. Or maybe the slow drip of a melting icicle. But for me, practical-to-the-core Julia Collins, I didn’t know what to make of it.
Scot resituated himself and leaned in close. Really close. So close that the scent of him, that same clean, earthy,
intoxicating
fragrance that lingered on his jacket coated the air and invaded my space. My breathing hitched. I had the wild notion that his lips were going to keep coming closer until they touched mine. My chin tilted up on its own accord. Okay, impossible, but I swear that was how it seemed.
But instead of his mouth meeting mine, his hand grazed along the side of my head. His fingers stroked my hair, his
thumb on my cheek. My heart picked up speed, galloping away in my chest like a racehorse bent on winning the Kentucky Derby.
“Wh-What are you doing?” My voice held a quality I hadn’t heard before—not without having a cold or a hangover. It was husky, throaty, and very unlike me. Scot’s fingers fished around at the back of my head, his touches now feeling more like an examination than an act of seduction. “What are you doing?” I repeated.
His breath tickled my ear. “Your hair. Why do you insist on scraping it away from your face?”
“It—it’s easier to manage.”
He found the clip and gave it a good, hard tug. It unclasped and my hair fell down to my shoulders in a loose, messy pile. “That’s better. You have beautiful hair. You shouldn’t work so hard to hide it.”
I hid it for a reason. My hair was thick and unmanageable and left to its own devices tended to increase in volume throughout the day. Knowing I probably looked as if I’d just crawled out of bed, I smoothed the sides down. Well, I attempted to. But all of that didn’t stop the softness, the unfurling, the freaking melting from continuing to take place. Scot Raymond had just said something nice. To me.
“Okay. Well . . . um . . . thank you.”
Realizing he’d actually given me—the icy, cunning witch of the west—a compliment, he yanked his body back to his seat. His gaze slid to the side of me. “We better get in there. They’re all staring out the window now.”
“What?” I swiveled my neck so fast my vision swam. But he was right. A bunch of faces were pressed against the glass of what I assumed was the living-room window. “Wow. Maybe I haven’t dealt with this level of nosiness before.”
“I warned you.” Scot tucked his keys into the pocket of his jeans. “Let’s go.”
With a nod, I stepped from the SUV and pulled my spine ramrod straight. I hadn’t lied. I’d attended more social functions by the age often than most people did in their entire lifetimes. There was no reason why a simple dinner shouldn’t be a piece of cake.
But when Scot and I ambled up the stone walkway, I have to admit that I sort of felt like I was traipsing off the edge of a diving board. Or maybe the plank on a pirate’s ship. Regardless, the destination was the same: lots and lots of water. And I hadn’t brought my life preserver.
We entered a small, empty, wood-floored foyer. Grateful that his family, even if they were nosy, was allowing us to come to them and hadn’t greeted us at the door, I shrugged off my coat. Scot hung it in the closet and proceeded to tug his toffee-and-cream-hued sweater over his head. Apparently he only had one jacket, which was currently flung over the back of my couch. And nope, I hadn’t touched or sniffed it again.
His movement caused the shirt he wore beneath the sweater—a dark brown, long-sleeved button-down—to drift up at his waist. His stomach, while not quite washboard defined, was flat, firm, and sexy as all get-out. And he had a darling set of freckles that greatly resembled a smiley face beside his belly button—an inny, by the way. My tongue seemed to expand three sizes, resulting in a sudden inability to swallow.
Why? Why did
this
man have to turn me on? In my line of work, I met a lot of eligible bachelors. Many of them were excellent examples of the XY combination of chromosomes. Handsome. Hot. Heck, some of these guys had even hit on me. But no. I had to hunger for Scot. Looking at him,
smelling
him, made me ache for his touch—for his kiss.
“See something you like, Julia?” Scot asked, observing my fixation but acting with boyish charm and innocence. My ass.
I wrinkled my nose in pretend distaste. “Actually, Scot, I noticed those moles next to your belly button. You might want to get them examined by a dermatologist. You never know when those things can go wrong.”
“Maybe you’d like to check them out later.” He wrapped his arm around my waist and drew me to him. “I’m game if you are.”
My cheeks burned at the teasing insinuation, at the nearness of his body. Flattening my palms on his chest, I shoved myself backward. “Not likely. Maybe they’re not moles. They could be a rash. Have you had any questionable sleepovers lately? You might be contagious.”
Deep laughter barreled out of his chest, but he stared intently at my face. The fire in my cheeks spread to my neck and continued to mosey on downward to my . . . er . . . womanly areas.
“Why, Julia. I had no idea you were the blushing sort,” he said. “Or are you feverish? Coming down with something?”
“It’s hot in here. Isn’t your family waiting for us?” ‘Cause at that instant, I wanted a ton of people around. For safety reasons.
“Yup.” But he didn’t move, just continued his intense appraisal. “They’ll be out here in a minute.”
“Then we should go to them.”
Too late. “What are you two doing out here for so long?” Verda asked, leading the pack of wolves right to us. “We aren’t interrupting anything, are we?”
“Uh-uh. Scot and I were just about to join you.” I tried to find my inner Mary Tyler Moore again, but she’d apparently flown the coop. I couldn’t say I blamed her. “Sorry for the delay. We . . . ah . . . were talking.”
“Scot, aren’t you going to introduce us?” This question came from a woman whom I pegged as Scot’s mother. He had her coloring, and I put her at an age that would make it unlikely she was his sister. “I raised you better than that,” she chided.
Aha! I was right.
“Julia, this is my mother, Isobel.” Scot then nodded toward
the blond, blue-eyed man standing next to her. “And this is my dad, Marty.”
He introduced his sister Elizabeth and her husband Nate. Then came his other sister, Alice, her husband Ethan, and their one-year-old daughter, Rose. What was with this family and that flower, anyway? Alice and Elizabeth had Scot’s coloring, the same dark hair and eyes. But where Alice was tall and on the angular side, Elizabeth was closer to my height, with a curvier figure. Oh, and the sisters were pale, where Scot’s skin held the slightest kiss of bronze.
The two husbands, Ethan and Nate, were equally handsome, but in different ways. Ethan reminded me of a young Pierce Brosnan, but with a strong Irish lilt. Nate was more the guy next door. Easygoing and relaxed but strong. Protective. I wasn’t surprised to learn he was a cop. Then, I met Scot’s cousin, Chloe.
Ah. Verda’s silent partner at Magical Matchups, Chloe radiated a vibrancy that went beyond her vivid red hair. I wanted to hate her on sight because she was freaking tiny, a mix of Thumbelina and Lucille Ball. Her fiancé, Ben, was also in attendance, a blond bombshell of a man who had a body that must have taken some serious man-hours at the gym to achieve.
Finally, I was introduced to the last two men standing: Scot’s younger brother, Joe—who looked just like his father, without the receding hairline—and Verda’s live-in beau, Vinny. He had the elegant, refined appearance of an old-fashioned gentleman. Gray hair and mustache, bright eyes that defied his age, and a quiet demeanor I appreciated.
“Wow,” I said. “It’s very nice to meet you all, but I might forget a name or two.”
“You’ll figure us out soon enough.” Elizabeth smiled. “We’re all pretty harmless.”
This, for whatever reason, caused every man to burst out in laughter. The women, all but Isobel and myself, followed suit. Even Rose giggled. Huh. Curiouser and curiouser.
Centering my attention on Alice and Ethan, I said, “Thank you for allowing me to join in at the last minute. I . . . It was rather a sudden decision.”
“Any friend of Scot’s is welcome in our home,” Ethan said warmly. His hand grazed his wife’s shoulder in a barely perceptible squeeze. “We’re happy to have you.”
Alice nodded but didn’t echo her husband’s statement. She held her daughter on her hip, so maybe that was why. I didn’t think so, though. Not with the chilly breeze that blew from her to me.
I cleared my throat. “Is there anything I can help with?”
My offer paled Alice’s complexion a good two shades. I tensed, ready for her refusal, but it was Verda who chimed in. “Don’t be silly, Julia! You are our guest. Why don’t you and Scot relax in the living room? I’ll help Alice finish up in the kitchen.”
Rose grabbed a chunk of Alice’s hair and tugged. “Down!” she demanded. “Down now.”
Alice shifted the child from her arms to Ethan’s. He, in one of those strange spousal telepathy things, nodded and proceeded to whisk their daughter to another part of the house. A scant few seconds later, Vinny, Isobel, Marty, Joe, Nate, and Ben followed. Whew. Talk about a huge amount of relief! Fewer people eased the tight knot of stress in my shoulders.
Fastening her gaze on me, Alice tried to pull off a smile, but her eyes remained cool. She answered my question for herself. “Thank you, Julia. But between Grandma, Chloe, and Elizabeth, there are already too many cooks in the kitchen.”