: Chapter 27

He pulls away as I try to thread his necktie around his collar. “Don’t bother,” he says. “I’m just going home.”

But I smile, feeling my cheeks warm. I stand on a chair in front of him in just my underwear, and he squeezes my ass with both hands, pulling me in.

“I like it.” I start to tie his tie, which I learned how to do last spring when Clay wore one to the debutante ball. “You in these clothes does to me what me in my underwear is doing to you right now.”

I shift ever so slightly, brushing my thigh against his hardening groin.

He moves in, taking my nipple in his teeth, and my stomach drops so fast I let out a small laugh-gasp. He sucks and kisses, and I close my eyes as my body starts to stir again.

I’m a mess. An exhausted, happy, delirious mess. My hair needs to be combed, and my body needs to be washed. He was inside me more than he was out last night.

And I miss him already.

Clay’s mom once told us that young people—especially young women—fall in love too easily. Too quickly. I thought I loved Milo. Even when he was cruel.

Then I learned. And I kept learning. Every time Macon sat at the table. Stood at the kitchen counter. Walked into a room. Lifted a bottle to his lips. Ran his hand through his hair. Looked at me. Didn’t look at me.

Worked in the garage too long. Didn’t eat his food. Moved around the house at night.

What makes him different from anyone else?

“Krisjen …” he whispers, his hot breath caressing my skin.

And I hold his head in my hands, grazing my lips over his forehead.

That’s what’s different. I always hear him. Even when he says almost nothing.

I’m glad I’m not pregnant. Yet, anyway. I just wanted to see what he would say.

But I want to make sure he loves me, and I want a chance to make certain he wants it. What he said that morning in the bathtub about being worried that he would fail a woman and his children …

I would want to make sure he’s happy about it.

I get back to work, dressing him as his hands roam down my thighs and back up to my waist.

I tighten the tie and fold his collar over. “Garrett Ames sees a boy who doesn’t deserve a seat at the table,” I say, meeting his eyes and steeling my voice. “But you’re a man who’s worked hard to get where he’s at, and … you don’t sit.”

He holds my gaze, and I smooth out every crease and make sure the folds in the lapels of his jacket are cut like knives.

“These clothes show that you know you’re going to take anything you want,” I state. “I mean, it worked with me last night.”

He snorts.

“I like that everyone outside your bedroom sees this,” I say, “and I’m the only one who gets to see what’s under it when you crawl into bed with me at night.”

He rushes to hide the smile consuming him, pulling me close and burying his face in my breasts.

He licks, and I lean into it as he moves up my chest, to my neck. Nerves fire between my thighs, like goddamn lightning. “Just one more time?” I beg.

He growls, digging his fingers into my ass and sucking my neck hard before he pulls away like he’s in pain.

His cock strains against his pants, and I whimper, batting my eyelashes.

He laughs. But then commands me, “Pack up the kids and anything else you need. Understand? My mother’s old art studio is theirs. Until the renovations are completed. Then they can have their own rooms.”

Pack up the kids …

“But my parents …” I retort.

“They know where to find us if they ever want to be parents again.”

I stare at him, some kind of throbbing going on under my skin that’s making me hot and excited and in awe of him. Just like that. Moving three Conroys into his house. He’s a good man.

But then I process exactly what he said. “Wait … Did you say renovations?”

He nods. “The old wing. We’re going to rebuild it. Dex will need a room. So will Iron when he comes home.”

I stare at him.

“You’re going to make me buy more suits, aren’t you?” he gripes, because he can probably see the emotion that I’m feeling at how he’s making plans, holding his head up, planning for the future …

I nod frantically, diving down to his mouth but not kissing him right away. Just hovering and breathing for a few moments before I sink my lips into his.

He’s trying. That’s all I need to hear.

He mumbles in between kisses, “And no fucking taco on our bed, please.”

He accidentally kisses my teeth as I break out in a smile. I bite his lips.

“Might get you a stuffed alligator, though,” he teases. “Because that’s what you are. A little alligator.”

I keep biting, his mouth, his jaw, his neck … “Nom, nom, nom …”

He rumbles with a laugh as he nibbles my breasts and grips my ass again. “Krisjen …”

My skin burns for him. My arms feel empty already.

“Macon …” I groan, arching my back and letting my head fall so he can suck on me. I hold his head to my body. “One more time.”

A screech hits my ears, and I pop my eyes open, seeing my mother standing in my open doorway.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, jumping down from the chair. Macon reluctantly lets me go as I grab my pillow and hold it to my body. Shit.

“Oh my God,” my mom says.

I glance at Macon, but he’s not looking at either of us. Just staring at the ceiling as he straightens his jacket, unfazed.

“Mom …” But I don’t know what to say to her.

Her travel case lies on the floor on its side, her eyes turning angry as she looks between Macon and me. She was supposed to be back days ago. I knew she could show up anytime. I don’t know why I just stopped thinking she would.

She’ll freak out because I’m with a Jaeger. She’d be happy if she found Jerome Watson in here with his hands all over me.

I start to head her off before she can speak. “Mom, I—”

But then I hear Macon’s voice. “Hello, Cara,” he greets my mother.

My gut knots. What?

I look up at him. He knows her?

She bursts into my room, her hair cascading in loose waves because of the one perm she got years back. She usually straightens it, but it’s clear she came from a beach. An island somewhere. She has a tan.

“What have you done?” she yells at Macon. Then she turns to me. “What did he do to you? What did he tell you?”

“What …?”

She shoves his chest. He arches back a little but doesn’t stumble. As if he was expecting it.

“You don’t get to have my daughter!” she bellows. “How dare you! You thought you could have one of us? You thought you could lay your hands on her?”

Her hand flies across his face, and I tense, my brain slowly unraveling what’s happening in front of me.

He rubs his jaw, turning his head back to face her. “I remember you liking my hands on you.”

My stomach drops, and the room tilts in front of me. “What …” I draw in a deep breath, one after another as I remember his words from last night. Her friends, he said.

Macon looks down at me, but I don’t meet his eyes.

He’d said the woman passed him around to her friends. One of them was my mom. Why didn’t he tell me?

“You don’t get to fuck her!” my mother yells.

But I’m shaking my head, even as Macon turns me to face him and covers my ears with his hands. He holds me close as she shrieks.

“How dare you!”

Her words are muffled, but I can still hear her. I squeeze my eyes shut.

She hurt him. She preyed on him.

Why didn’t he tell me?

I hug the pillow. What are the odds that he happens to fall for the daughter of the woman who coerced him into sex?

I stop breathing for a second. What are the odds I just happen to go to bed with the same guy?

I look up at him. “How long have you known who I was?”

His jaw flexes.

I pull away from his hands over my ears. “How long?”

“He targeted you!” my mother says.

Macon holds my eyes, shaking his head slowly.

“Because he hates us,” she goes on. “Because he likes playing with our women like we’re his toys.”

“There was nothing I liked about you,” he hisses at her.

He moves back in, grabbing my face and holding my forehead to his. “Get in my car,” he whispers. “Don’t get dressed. Bring nothing. Just get in the car.”

“She’s not going anywhere—”

He yanks away from me and walks into my mother, forcing her to back up. “I don’t want to hear your voice. Speak again and you’ll regret it.”

She sucks in short, shallow breaths, visibly shaken.

And for the first in a long time, I’m reminded of his reputation.

People are afraid of him for a reason. Maybe not back when she paid a young man who desperately needed the money, but life didn’t make him a monster. People like her did.

My mother backs away and takes out her phone. “I’m calling the police.”

She runs from the room.

But he stays.

I search his eyes. “How long have you known who I was?” I ask him.

He stares down at me, and when he squares his shoulders, I know. “I’ve always known who you were.”

My mind floods with every moment I was in his house, at his table, working his restaurant, bringing him meals, throwing myself at him that night in the garage … He knew I was her daughter.

“You sent Army after me to offer me a job that night,” I say, remembering what Trace said. “Were you going to use me?”

“If I were going to use you, I had a lot of opportunities,” he says. “I could’ve let you make that video with my brothers.”

He takes my face again.

“I sent Army after you that night because I liked you,” he whispers. “Because I wanted more of you. Because I’d never seen a woman be so soft with herself and touch herself like that. Because I didn’t want you to be where I couldn’t see you every day.”

My lip trembles. Why didn’t he tell me? Was he ever going to?

I don’t realize a tear has spilled until he wipes it away with his thumb. “I wanted you close, because when you cried, I could feel it and knew this place was going to kill you, too, and for the first time in a long time, I was protective. I wanted you in the Bay where I could keep you safe.”

I believe him. It sounds like him. And Macon is not someone who ever feels the need to lie.

But I believe everyone. That’s my problem. I assume everyone is good and honest with pure intentions, and I can’t remember a single time when that’s worked out for me. I’m naïve and stupid, and I don’t have a lick of street smarts like Clay or Liv. Or like Aracely.

I still think unicorns just might exist, and Macon would set a Christmas tree on fire.

He shakes his head, seeing it in my eyes. “Don’t do this. Don’t.”

“How many times?”

He blinks hard. “Krisjen, please.”

“How many?” I bark.

I need to know how many times they were alone together. Did he have her in the shower? Where did she touch him? Did he kiss her?

Tight-lipped, he replies. “A few.”

“A few like three, or a few like ten?”

He drops his eyes. “A few like I blocked it out.”

I laugh bitterly, backing away. “She must’ve liked it.”

He must’ve been doing enough right that she kept coming back. Why didn’t he tell me? He knows everyone I’ve slept with. He knew before we did anything. I don’t need his list, but I should’ve known about my fucking mother!

He inches toward me, but I back up, tearing my heart apart with that one step.

I love him.

But I’m confused. I need to think.

“Krisjen, I was a kid,” he pleads, “with an unbelievable weight on my shoulders. I never wanted to think about it again! And years later, there you were. In my house. All the time. With your bare feet and your pretty smile. Your music, your candles, your happy little fucking heart, and I never imagined this would happen!”

I drop the pillow, covering my face with my hands. Images assault me of them in bed together. They must’ve had conversation. Foreplay. A few laughs. Some part of him had to enjoy it, right?

Oh God. The tears stream. I can’t think about anything else. They’re all I see. I’m always going to see them in my head. I’m gonna be sick.

“You should’ve told me,” I sob. “You should’ve …”

“What?” he growls. “I should’ve what?!”

I startle, dropping my hands and looking at him through teary eyes.

“Should’ve stayed away from you?” he yells, advancing on me. “Should’ve let you go? Is that what I was supposed to do?” And he sweeps his arm across my desk, sending all my shit to the floor. “Just fucking let you go?!”

I breathe hard as my pencils and pens roll over my chair and onto the floor.

He grabs me, snaking an arm around my waist, the other hand holding my face. He kisses me hard, stealing my breath, but he releases me before I start fighting him.

He stares into my eyes. “Your mother is just jealous that you never had to pay me,” he says in a low voice, filled with disdain. “It was quite my pleasure, actually.”

And he throws me off, wiping me off his mouth and taking out a bill from his pocket.

He backs away, leaving it on the corner of my desk before he walks out the door. “I’ll let Dallas know he’s up.”