She shook her head slowly. “No. That’s not me.”

  “I know it’s not.” He took her face in his hands. “But now Edward knows that, too. Please stay. He knows he can trust you now.” He pressed closer to her.

  “I already got a new job,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

  “We’ll find you another one.”

  “No one’s going to hire me here.”

  “You’ve never run from a fight in your life, remember? We can do this. We can figure this out.”

  “I’ve nowhere to live, I’ve already sent my belongings on . . .”

  “So have your mum send them back. You can stay with me until we find you a place.” He had that look again. That pinched look around his eyes that told her he was searching for words, groping for something to adequately express himself. She held her breath, waiting to see if he’d offer the reassurance that she so desperately needed.

  “Please, Brooke. I’m in love with you, too. I want a life with you, you and Olly both. Please don’t leave now, just when it’s getting so good. It’s only going to get better. I know I’m a bastard, I know that. I can’t promise anything except that I’m determined not to be that way with you. Will you take a chance on me?”

  “I thought you didn’t do feelings talk,” she whispered, her eyes wide. Her mascara must have been running badly by now.

  He rested his forehead against her leg. “I’m learning. I’m trying. It’s really jackrabbit hard.”

  “I see that.” She hesitated, then lifted her hand to lightly scratch his scalp, and his shoulders dropped at the contact. Will you dance with me? To be real with her, he needed a touch of the person’s skin, as if reminding himself that she too was flesh and blood. And that she wasn’t retreating just because he said something from his heart. “Thank you for telling me that.”

  “Just thank you?”

  Oh, screw this. Besides the free meals, I would’ve hated being a restaurant reporter, anyway.

  “No, I didn’t say that.” She felt him tense, holding his breath. “You’re the worst, you know that? Couldn’t you have told me you loved me while I still had a lease, while I still had internet?”

  Saint lifted his head, and his smile was blinding. “I’ll call the internet provider. I’ll find you a place.”

  “You’ll have to. My luck is still the worst in every way.” She smiled at him. “Well, every way except one, perhaps.” She leaned toward him for a kiss when a nasal voice came over the loudspeaker.

  “Attention, all passengers flying to Gardenia,” came a voice over the intercom. “Flight 541 has been cancelled. Please see the agent at the front desk in order to rebook your travel.”

  As angry passengers rushed the poor gate agent, Brooke took the opportunity to kiss her boyfriend as much as she wanted to, confident that no one would even notice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “YOU’VE GOT MY NUMBER?” Brooke asked.

  “Yes,” Charlie confirmed patiently for the third time. Saint felt the man had been very accommodating through all this, agreeing to what made Brooke happy even when he didn’t have to, legally.

  “And you’re not going anywhere, just hanging out here?” she asked.

  “You already asked that, love,” Saint put in gently, tugging her toward the door. “Let’s go.” The three of them had decided it made sense to have Charlie come to Brooke’s apartment for their first solo visit. The couple would go for a walk and give the father and son some time together. But Saint had underestimated Brooke’s freak-out when she actually had to leave her baby alone with his dad.

  “We’ll be back in a little while, all right?” Brooke said over her shoulder to Olly, who looked a little uncertain about this whole idea. That’s not helping. Saint gave the man a glare that communicated all the resources at his disposal to hurt the man if the kid got so much as a paper cut, then he dragged a teary Brooke out of her apartment.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can. He seems like a nice guy. It’ll be fine.”

  “No, it won’t.” She was breathing hard, and he hoped she wouldn’t have a panic attack. Saint rubbed her back through her winter coat. “You thought he was nice enough when he impregnated you . . .”

  “That’s different. And I was young. What did I know? Nothing.”

  “Come on, love. Trust me. He’s his dad. He’s a little green, but he’s been good with him so far. You wanted Olly to get to know him, remember?”

  “I don’t think I ever said that,” she grumped, starting to calm down, wiping her nose on the back of her mitten. He chatted with her about other things as they walked to the train, trying to take her mind off Olly and Charlie. It was entirely selfish; he had his own problems he was trying not to think about. And they were almost there, to the prison gates.

  He’d called Calynda a few times, responded when she initiated contact, but he was still nervous as Jersey. This confrontation had been building for so long . . . With all the practice he was now getting expressing his feelings, though, it just seemed like it was time to try it with her, too. It could hardly make things worse.

  Saint couldn’t let go of Brooke’s hand. He knew he should give Calynda a hug; she’d been in jail, for Woz’s sake. But he needed contact with Brooke as much as his next breath, which was condensing in front of him. He watched as Calynda walked toward them—no purse, no coat, just a paper bag.

  “They stole my stuff again,” she said. “Dirty cops.” Noticing their joined hands, she slowed her steps and lifted an eyebrow. “Who’s this, baby?”

  “Calynda, this is my girlfriend, Brooke.”

  “You don’t have girlfriends.”

  “Except this one.” He cleared his throat. “We need to talk, Calynda. You can’t keep doing this to me. It feels shitty. It feels . . .” His words stalled, and Brooke gave his hand a quick squeeze. “It makes me feel used.”

  Calynda’s eyes filled with tears. Saint didn’t know if it was real emotion or if she was manipulating him, but it didn’t really matter. He knew what he needed to do.

  “So I’m willing to take you to a rehab clinic. But I’m not letting you back into my life until you’re clean.” He cleared his throat again. Why is this so hard? “Brooke and I are getting married soon. If you’re clean, you can come to the wedding and sit with the Makis.” He wasn’t going to put Oliver in the middle of this dumpster fire of a relationship; she could find out about him later. He wouldn’t make the boy a pawn in their stupid game.

  “You got a smoke?” she asked, and he shook his head slowly. “You don’t have to worry about me, baby. I went through detox the hard way on the inside.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t attend classes or counseling about addiction.” He took a step closer to her. “You need those. You need to really work on this, Mum, not just dry out in jail, and then run right out when things get hard and take it up again. You need emotional tools.”

  She snorted, her eyes wary. “What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing. Except that I’m the same way. Chasing a different kind of high, but it’s there.” He looked at Brooke, keeping his eyes on her face, even though he was still talking to Calynda. “And I’ve needed to grow through it, grow into a new set of skin. It’s tougher, even though it’s more tender.”

  Brooke was gazing back at him, and he felt all her support, her strength, seeping into him. It made sense, since his head, hands, and neck were literally wrapped in her knitted love.

  Calynda shook her head, digging around in her pockets and pulling out a package of cigarettes she’d apparently had all along. “You think you know so much,” she said quietly, her tone more bitter than the biting cold that was painting his cheeks red.

  “All I know is I’ve got a lot to learn. You’ve got my number if you change your mind, but I’m not giving you any money but for counseling. So don’t ask. I care about you. I’m not doing you any favors by enabling your addiction.” He turned and pulled Brooke behind him as he strode away from the jail.

  “You’re a poor excuse for a son!” she shouted after him. “How dare you judge me? I knew you’d walk out on me, just like your rotten father! You’re a bad apple after all.”

  The trembling started in his hands, but the cold and Brooke’s firm grasp covered it, made it more bearable.

  “I’m proud of you,” she whispered, and he squeezed her hand. “I’m so proud, I’m bursting. I’m going to kiss away all those nasty things she said.”

  “I’ll let you.”

  Around the corner now, she pulled him to a stop. “Seriously. That’s rubbish. Utter rubbish. You’re a good apple. The best apple I know. My favorite apple, the apple I love.”

  “Stop saying ‘apple,’” he teased as he leaned forward to kiss her. He used as much tongue as he felt he could get away with in public, and he wasn’t sorry when he was rewarded with the needy look in her eyes when he pulled away. “Thank you for coming with me.”

  “Thank you for letting me. It was a welcome distraction.”

  He squeezed her around her shoulders as he turned them back toward the sidewalk.

  “Saint?”

  “Hmm?”

  “We’re getting married soon?”

  Oh shiitake. I said that, didn’t I? He kicked himself internally. He’d been planning to ask her properly; he’d been thinking so much about the right way to do it, dwelling so often on the hard feelings he’d have to say out loud, he forgot that her yes wasn’t a foregone conclusion. Apparently, his embarrassed silence spoke loud enough, because Brooke chuckled.

  “Have you picked a venue? A date?”

  “Of course not. I thought you might like to be involved in the planning.”

  “But not in the decision?”

  “I was getting to that, I just . . . Don’t make me talk about this now, all right? I’ve got things planned, you’re not going to wring a hasty proposal out of me.”

  She laughed again. “No, you’re right. What was I thinking?”

  He was so close to knowing; they had some relative privacy for once, and it would make the lead-up a lot easier, already knowing what she’d say. “Will you, though?” he asked, not stopping, not daring to look at her.

  “Yes,” she said, squeezing his hand, and when he turned toward her, Brooke’s smile warmed him down to his toes. He kissed her quickly, unable to help himself.

  “Let’s go get Ol. Surely Charlie’s sugared him up enough by now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “I HAVE COPIES OF MY recommendations and résumés, my breath is fresh, my heels are high, I’m wearing my power bra, I have Judson’s lucky pen. What am I forgetting?”

  Saint’s eyebrows jumped. “Power bra?”

  Brooke rolled her shoulders and her neck. “Yes. This bra makes me feel like a badass. My girls look amazing in it. Every woman should have one.”

  He kept a straight face. “Is it a certain brand, or . . .”

  Brooke grinned at him. “One is enough, thanks.”

  “Just curious,” he said, holding his hands up in faux innocence. “I know what you’re missing: a kiss for luck.” He moved in, but she shoved him back onto his heels.

  “That didn’t work last time, and you’ll screw up my makeup.”

  Undeterred, he reclaimed the space. “Good, they’ll know you’re taken.”

  She put a hand on his chest. “I can communicate that myself if it comes up.” She looked toward the building, but could still see he was pouting, that sweet lower lip poking out, in her peripheral vision. “Honestly, you’re a worse sport than Olly when you don’t get your way.” She held up a finger. “One kiss.”

  His wolfish grin conveyed his excitement over the minor victory.

  “No, no. I mean it, Captain. One small peck. Do not screw up my look. I mean it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He came in slow, shuffling his whole body forward, sliding one hand behind her neck, caressing her cheek with the knuckles of the other.

  “Just do it already,” she grumped, her nerves getting the better of her.

  “But if I only get one, I want to make sure it’s a good one.” He looked down at her with incredible warmth, his blue eyes sparkling. “Who am I kidding?” he murmured, “you’re gonna knock ’em dead in there. This is more for me, really.” His lips were so close to hers, she could feel his minty breath tickling her face. Even that small bit of him made her heart race.

  “You’re killing me, Captain.”

  “That’s the idea. With every kiss I give you, I’m trying to steal your heart.”

  “You can’t steal something that’s already yours,” she whispered, squeezing his hand, “so I think you can relax. You’re worth sticking around for, trust me.”

  “Relaxing is new for me,” he whispered back. “I’m not used to it . . .” He finally closed the distance between them, and the sheer sweetness of the kiss nearly knocked Brooke off her very high heels. “But I’m getting there. Now get in there, tiger, I don’t want to make you late.”

  She pointed at him, and he pointed back.

  She followed the receptionist back to the conference room, where five other women were waiting. The editor rose and gave her a firm handshake, introducing Brooke to the other department heads as she closed the door.

  “I must say, Ms. Everleigh, it’s not every day that we get a letter of reference from the king, especially considering your history with the royal family.”

  Brooke fought a blush. “Obviously, I was very wrong to accuse him without enough proof . . .”

  She held up a quelling hand. “But I admire your courage. Your willingness to jump into the issue, tackle it head-on. That’s one thing we’re looking for in our reporters. Your writing is crisp, your perspectives are fresh, and you’ve obviously got tenacity.”

  They asked questions—a lot of questions. But they seemed to be working out where she might fit best in the company rather than deciding whether to offer her a job. That suspicion was confirmed when they asked her to step out so that they could briefly confer.

  “We’d like to offer you a position in features. It’ll give you a chance to profile prominent women, people with something to say. A better fit than politics, perhaps.”

  “That’s great,” she breathed, feeling like her chest didn’t have a brick on it for the first time in weeks. “Thank you, I’m thrilled to be working with you. Thank you so much for the opportunity, you won’t regret bringing me on.”

  “I’m sure we won’t.” The editor smiled. “So now that the interview is officially over . . .” The woman leaned closer, lowering her volume. “Who was that we saw you with outside?”

  She was going to kill Saint. It would be a slow, painful death involving several kitchen implements. “That’s my fiancé.”

  “Does he have a brother?”

  “Technically, yes, but if you’re hoping for the same make and model, they’re out of stock.” She glanced at him through the window, and he waved, that crooked smile melting her heart again. “He’s one of a kind.” All the women waved back, then sighed.

  “You’re so lucky.”

  Brooke chuckled. “Yes, I am.”

  EPILOGUE

  THE RECESSIONAL FADED as the doors swung shut behind Saint and Brooke. She’d dragged him into the green room where she’d gotten ready for the wedding, hoping for a brief moment of privacy before they had to go on to the reception. He collapsed onto the fuzzy brown couch, still tired from the bachelor’s party two nights ago.

  “Still think it was a waste of time to learn my name?”

  He grinned and pulled her down onto his lap. “You’ll regret that sass when you’re finally panting my name in a few hours.”

  She tenderly laced her fingers into his hair, and he grabbed her wrists before she could destroy his styling. “But what name shall I use?” she teased, wriggling on his lap. “Surely not ‘Captain’ . . .”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “Saint?”

  “That’d be fine.”

  “Francis?”

  He paused. “Say it again.”

  Brooke stared into his eyes, her china blue depths warming. “Francis.” Then, confirming herself as the sneaky vixen he already knew she was, his wife leaned forward and put her ruby-red lips right next to his ear and said it again on a tortured sigh. “Francis.” His blood heated to boiling instantly. He felt his control lift away from him like a kite caught on a sudden gust of wind, the string whipping through his fingers; he was sure to get rope burn if he tried to stop things now. Brooke squealed as he stood up and carried her to the closet . . . then realized both his hands were on her legs, supporting her. If he put her down, she’d run off for sure.

  “Open the door, Everleigh.”

  “It’s Saint, if you don’t mind, and I will not. You’ll bed me properly our first time, not in a rush next to the disinfectant. I have waited a long time for this. Much longer than you.”

  He growled as he pressed her back against the closet door and pinned her there, crashing his mouth into hers. “Woman, I’ve had your taste in my mouth since you drunkenly attacked me that night. I’ve been good. I’ve waited. But now you’re mine; open the jacking door, Mrs. Saint.”

  “Just a little longer,” she murmured, caressing his jawline. “What’s your record?”

  He adjusted his hold to lift her higher. “Record?”

  She nodded, dropping a languid kiss to his lips. “Number of times in one night.”

  He had to think. Thinking was not so easy with her legs wrapped around him like that. “Four.”

  “Oh, we can break that easily,” she said, giggling.

  “I agree; let’s start now. Open the door.” He jiggled her legs insistently.

  “We’ve got 150 people waiting for us to cut the cake, love, and I can’t wrinkle this dress any more.”

  “You may remove the dress. I’ll wait.”

  “Not happening.”

  He glared at her, and she glared right back. Her resolve was not weakening. “You have a frustratingly indomitable will, woman.”

  She pushed him back a little to see his whole face. “I do when it matters,” she said. “Remember when I told you I wasn’t promising anything? Well, I’ve changed my mind. In fact, I’m promising everything. You’re getting all the care and attention I have to give, sexual or otherwise, my whole heart, whether you want it or not. And my whole heart cannot be communicated in this closet. Because I love you, you donkey.” When she sealed her words with a kiss, Saint’s heart cracked open and glowed like a road flare.

 

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