Dearly Beloved, page 3
Just when she thought the day couldn’t get any worse. Now, all that was missing was an AK-47 and a rooftop.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Andrew,” Renée said, glaring daggers over her brother’s shoulder, “aren’t you breaking some leash law for your dog?”
“Missed you, too, Renée,” Chris greeted in his sinfully deep bass.
Tingles shot down her spine. A rush of liquid fire pooled between her thighs.
Damn him!
In black cargo shorts, flip-flops, black muscle shirt with a white short-sleeved shirt left unbuttoned over it, he looked hotter than sin. Thank God, dark black tinted Oakley’s hid Windex blue eyes that could turn her into jelly. He looked… disgusting! No, she wouldn’t think of anything, but how gross he looked with tanned, muscular calves, arms, and rock-hard pecs. The man bled charm and game. If looks could kill… he’d be a nuclear weapon. And that irked her to no end. Of course, stupid, shallow, self-centered, dumbass jerks got all the looks—asshole!
She didn’t voice her ire, but she’d been working on her nonverbal communication skills since her session with Dr. Mendoza. She hoped her glacial stare conveyed the message.
It didn’t, or the bastard was slow on the uptake. He broke into a straight, pearly white-toothed, panty-dropping smile. But not her panties, no sirree Bob—nuh-uh—she wouldn’t have it. Nor would she acknowledge the pulsing ache and wetness between her thighs. No, not wetness; it was… dew. Yeah, dew. Her shorts were tight, and it was a hot day. Her panties were firmly in place.
As the thought crossed her mind, his smile grew wider. It was as if he could read her thoughts—jackass!
Yeah, read that!
If eyes were indeed windows to the soul, his spoke volumes. She didn’t have to see him to know they were empty. Full of deception and shallow, like him.
Chris always stood sure of himself: tall and straight with his broad shoulders, large muscular arms crossed over a wide, lickable chest. No! Not lickable, disgusting. His large muscular arms crossed over a wide lick—disgusting chest. Shit!
Standing must make her light-headed. It had to be because Hell would freeze over, thaw, and then freeze over again before she licked his chest. Half the Arizona female population had licked that chest. She’d be damned if she got added to his roster.
Chris’s smile widened, unbothered by her rage. He always acted so unflappable, but she’d be damned if she didn’t rattle him constantly. Nobody could be that sure of themselves; it wasn’t natural. He needed to be knocked down a few pegs.
“Been saving that one for a while?” Chris drawled, deepening his voice. Renée tried to hide her desire, but he saw the flames clear as day in those hypnotic, bourbon-colored eyes, and he knew exactly the effect his voice had on her. He also noticed how her tongue snaked out to glide across her bottom, then top, lip. The way her eyes perused his body. “I’m happy you think about me so much.”
To his utter amazement, Renée’s face lit up. She gifted him with a sexy yet adorable, dimpled smile that nearly knocked him to his knees in front of his best friend, God, and everyone outside. “Oh, Christopher,” she said with a sigh. He tried not to cringe at the use of his government name. “I think about you all the time.”
His heart stuttered.
“Late at night, when I’m sitting alone in my room, I think about you,” Renée admitted. “And all the ways I could kill you without going to jail.” She released an exaggerated breath.
It was his turn to glare. Though it seemed longer, their entire exchange lasted a brief minute, and he’d done well masking his desire with practiced aloofness. He couldn’t hold his annoyance now. For years he’d known, should his genuine feelings for Renée become public knowledge, it would ruin his friendship with Drew. End it altogether.
Although they seemed to have drifted apart, Drew and Renée were super close. Given that there were only three years between them and most of their respective friends, they both had strict rules about dating each other’s friends. Chris was one hundred percent certain those rules were more brutal on Drew’s side with his friends dating his beloved, pain-in-the-ass sister. To date, no one had ever tried to do the unspoken and forbidden: date Renée. And he didn’t plan on doing it either—kinda.
He’d tried to talk himself out of coming with Drew—he did! He wanted to be the good, selfless friend Drew needed, but in the end, he was Chris. And Chris wasn’t known for his patience, but he’d given the ever-mercurial Renée five years to run from their mounting attraction, what they could have, and he could wait no more. He’d stayed with his grandparents in Flagstaff for over a year, so she didn’t tempt him to cross the line before he thought she could handle the type of relationship he expected with her. Age was no longer a factor. Neither of them was seeing anyone. See, he didn’t want to date her. He wanted her.
Completely.
Mind, body, and spirit.
Forever.
Something inside her called to him on a primal, life-altering, heart-capturing level. Chris was tired of living without her, tired of denying, not only himself but her, too, what belonged to the other. He was hers, and she was his. Now he needed to convince her of that.
“Seriously, Christopher,” Renée said, breaking into his planning, “why do you come here? I don’t think we have enough mirrors to feed your insatiable need for your own company.”
Chris gritted his teeth. He hated being called Christopher, and she knew it. He allowed only his elders to get away with it.
Biting back his irritation, he responded, “Not an issue. I brought a couple portable ones and a compact. I’ll be fine. But, thanks for your concern. And, please, call me Chris.”
“I reserve nicknames for my friends, Christopher.” She smirked.
“Chris,” he corrected, narrowing his gaze.
“Chris-to-pher,” she responded, enunciating each syllable.
She enjoyed getting on his nerves. If she wanted to play, he’d play. Though she wasn’t ready for the game he wanted to play. He played dirty. For keeps. Chris trapped her with a hard, penetrating stare.
With the lesser part of his attention, he caught Drew’s groans, but he wasn’t about to back down. He had a feeling no man ever challenged Renée. “Chris.”
“Christoph—”
“Renée Marie Sutton, stop!” a booming voice ordered from somewhere behind the door.
Since Renée still blocked their entrance, he couldn’t see where the voice came from, but he recognized Mr. Sutton.
“Let them in already. I reckon it’s mighty hard to house-sit from outside the house—no matter how appealing that idea is to you, young lady,” Mr. Sutton continued.
With a last glare, Renée let her breath out in a huff, stepped back, and opened the door wide enough for him and Drew to enter.
“Explain to me again why you need Andrew to house-sit?” Renée asked through clenched teeth, shutting and locking the front door. She followed them the short distance to the living room, where Mr. and Mrs. Sutton sat. “Aren’t I a better choice? I mean, I live here. He doesn’t,” she complained, sitting opposite her mother on the stone-colored sectional.
“C’mon, sis,” Drew said, sitting on the arm of the sectional beside Renée. “You know as well as I do you can’t be trusted home alone, no matter how old you are.”
Chris settled in for the show on the comfortable couch near Mrs. Sutton. This was about to get good. Renée bitched and whined with the best of them. Don’t get him wrong, he adored his little firecracker. Especially loved the way her five-two, petite, Coke-bottle frame poured into her tiny navy-blue shorts and white, lace-trimmed, V-neck camisole that showed a healthy portion of her full, milk chocolate breasts. But the girl carried a King Kong-sized chip on her shoulder.
She took everything the wrong way. In her mind, everything was a ploy to do her wrong. An angle to get over on her somehow. However, he supposed the situation would frustrate or insult him if he were her, too.
He didn’t understand why her parents needed Drew to watch the house when she was here either. Nothing made sense about how the Suttons, including Andrew, were suddenly overprotective of Renée in the last few years. They walked on eggshells around her most times and tolerated her little temper tantrums like she was a toddler. They’d always been protective of her, but they’d never been as indulgent as they’d become in the last three years. He’d have to break her out of her bratty behavior.
Renée grimaced at her brother. “What will I do by myself? I’m twenty-four. I’m all growed up now,” she said, mocking a child’s voice.
This was one side of Renée Chris rarely saw. He loved her playful sarcasm. There were more, gentler, layers to her. He knew it. Couldn’t wait to pull back that hard shell to find them all.
Randall Sutton stood, stretched, and then patted Renée on the head. “We’re more worried about what you’ll do to the house, sweetheart, not yourself. And… we might be concerned about our little girl’s safety,” he teased, going over to the mouth of the hall where several black suitcases sat.
“I’ve never been a little girl, Dad,” Renée snapped. “And anyway, I’m more mature than Drew on my worst day.”
Andrew snatched up a maroon throw pillow and bopped his sister in the head with it. “You say that now, but when you see a scorpion or hear a noise in the middle of the night, you’ll be screaming, ‘Drew, help! Drew, did you hear that? Drew, kill it!’” he said, impersonating her voice, then he finished in his regular baritone, “Like a little girl.”
Renée turned a glare on her brother so fierce it should’ve eviscerated him on the spot. Then a quick, playful smile spread her lips.
God, he wanted to be the one she had fun with. He’d never admit it, but he was jealous of his friend. She’d never looked at him that way before. Not playfully, anyway.
Dismissing his surge of irrational jealousy, he tossed his arm around the back of the couch and patted Susan Sutton on the arm. “Hey, Mrs. Sutton, excited about your big trip? Gonna give the resort something to talk about?” He winked.
Andrew and Renée made gagging sounds in unison.
“Hay is for horses, Christopher,” Susan reprimanded, getting to her feet. “And I’d appreciate you not using filthy talk around my poor, innocent babies,” she crooned. A hint of humor laced the last part.
Innocent his ass! He couldn’t say for sure, but he’d be willing to bet with her fiery temper and tight little body. Renée might not be too experienced, but she wasn’t innocent. As for Andrew?
Puh-lease!
Drew’s world was full of pussy. Girls found out he was a P.I., which they equated with danger. Drew needed a catcher’s mitt for all the pussy thrown his way. The guy got more ass than a toilet seat. Shit! He almost got more ass than him. At least, he did until a few months ago.
Susan picked up a black carry-on resting at her feet. “We better get going.”
“Need a ride to the airport?” Drew asked.
“Thanks, sweetie, but no. We’re stopping at one of your father’s friend’s houses. He and his wife are borrowing the truck. He’ll drop us.” She rushed over to Drew and Renée, gave them each a quick squeeze. After a slight hesitation, she turned and gave him a brief one-armed hug. Susan’s strong perfume drowned him, filled his nostrils.
Randall grabbed the suitcases, one under each arm and one in each hand.
“Need help, Dad?” Drew offered, standing.
“Yeah, let us help with that,” Chris chimed in, not wanting to seem like a total ass.
Randall scowled at both younger men. “I’m not that old yet, boys. I can carry my own bags. Besides, wouldn’t want Christopher to break a nail.” He chuckled, turned, and walked toward the front entrance.
“Hilarious!” Chris hollered after Randall Sutton, who might as well be an uncle, considering he’d known him all his life and ribbed him like one.
“I thought so. You kids be good,” he called, heading down the short hall.
“One day, that man’s going to hurt himself, thinking he’s gotta compete with you boys,” Susan groused, following her husband. “Goodbye, my sweethearts. Be careful. Don’t destroy the house. No parties! We have our cell phones for emergencies, and please, look after each other like I would look after you. Understood?” She yelled from down the hall, opening the front door.
In unison, Andrew, Renée, and Chris shouted, “Understood!”
“Damn, twenty-seven years old, and she treats me like I’m fifteen,” Drew complained.
“Andrew David Sutton!” Susan yelled, “I heard that! You’re not too old to put across my knee.”
“Sorry, Mom!” Drew shouted and then asked under his breath, “Exactly what age does hearing go?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Hey, Née, isn’t your brother staying with you?”
Soft-spoken Christina Lee, one of two of Renée’s best friends, asked two weeks after her unwelcome house guests arrived. A sizable green umbrella shaded the three friends from the brutal afternoon sun while sitting at a table outside Starbucks.
Chris had tried to corner her a million different times, a million different ways, every day since he got there. Places to hide were scarce. Pretending to be in the bathroom or sleeping took a toll, especially when it meant going to bed at seven to avoid him. One time, he attempted to follow her into the bathroom, but Drew walked by, and he made some lame excuse and left. She didn’t know what his game was, but she wasn’t playing.
“Oh, yeah… Isn’t he supposed to be babysitting you or something?” her other best friend, Ashley Moore, asked in her I’m-always-up-for-stirring-some-shit-up voice.
Renée regarded her friends through narrowed eyes. The two women couldn’t be more different.
Twenty-three-year-old, five-foot-four Ashley, had an average frame—not too big, not too small, but just right—and a light smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were a beautiful hazel, strawberry blond hair hung in waves to the middle of her back, and she wore her trademark jeans and T-shirt ensemble. Guys referred to Ashley as adorable until she opened her mouth and spit fire. No one ever saw that coming. Ashley believed in living life out loud—literally. The mouthpiece of the group, she spoke her mind all the time and screw the person who didn’t want her opinion. They got it no matter how they felt about it.
Christina was the total opposite. A pretty Asian and petite like her—maybe an inch taller—black-as-night hair hung stick straight to the top of her shoulders, but today, she wore it in a ponytail. Soft brown eyes complemented her gentle nature. Christina screamed girlie girl. On rare occasions, she wore jeans. Still, her usual go-to was what she rocked today: modest pumps, a cute frilly shirt, and a flowing skirt.
Two years ago, Renée and Ashley had encountered a distraught Christina sitting in the food court of Paradise Valley Mall. Ashley, being Ashley, helped herself to a seat at Christina’s table and a nose into her business. They bonded over shitty boyfriends, annoying parents, Jacob Elordi’s abs, and Oreo blizzards. They’d been inseparable ever since.
All their personalities were distinct. Renée was the mama bear of the group, or The Godmother, as some called her. She didn’t let many into her circle, but once she cared about you and you were in—you were in. The only way out was death. Renée protected those she cared for with ferocity, the likes of which the world would never suspect someone of her size capable. She could also go girlie like Christina or casual like Ashley and be comfortable.
She loved her friends and would do anything for them, but she’d cut them off if they screwed her over.
Renée threw a glare at each friend. “I’m not being babysat at all—ass,” she snapped at Ashley after a sip of her caramel macchiato. “He’s staying there because my parents don’t want me to be alone—which I don’t understand. But, yes, he’s there. Along with his annoying friend, meaning I won’t be there as much as possible,” she said, dousing each word in all the aggravation she felt.
Christina wiggled her eyebrows at Ashley, then Renée, from behind brown-tinted Gucci sunglasses. “You mean to tell me you have your brother and one of his many hot friends staying with you?” she asked, propping her elbow on the table to support her chin. “Life is so unfair.”
“Annoying friend?” Ashley asked, brows furrowed behind oversized pink Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. “Which annoying friend?”
Renée lifted her cheap brown Target sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose before replacing them. With her uncanny ability to lose sunglasses, no way in Hell would she waste money on expensive ones. She could buy twelve of the cheap ones for forty dollars. “It’s not a good thing, Chrissy. For one, it’s my brother, so, ew, what do I care? And second, I could never be attracted to his friend. Plus, he can’t attract anyone. He’s too busy admiring himself. He makes me sick.”
Ashley pushed her grande caramel Frappuccino away as if it disgusted her. “Ugh… Chris,” she said, groaning. “Say no more. I hate those types of guys.”
“Me, too.” She sighed in agreement.
Chris was the type of guy a girl had to watch her make-up around—not that he wore make-up. She likened being with Chris to how Prince’s wife must have felt. The guy was an extraordinary musician, a legend. But that poor lady probably had to hide her shoes every night just to keep him from stealing them. So vain!
She hated girlie men, or “metrosexuals,” as they were now called. Being metrosexual wasn’t a bad thing. It just wasn’t her thing. Yes, she used to have a crush on Axel Rose, but that was different. He oozed raw sex appeal; ’80s hairband rockers were manly. Kind of like Chri—shit! What the Hell was she thinking? Scratch that thought.
“Oh, really? You hate those types of guys, too?” Christina asked, pulling Renée out of her stupid ruminations. “Let’s recap, shall we,”—she ticked off each point on her fingers—“white guys aren’t your type. Black guys aren’t your type. Asian guys aren’t your type. No Germans, Russians, Serbians, Croatians, Italians, British, Scottish, Australians, Irish, Native Americans, and no Mexicans. Oh, and let’s not forget, no tall, short, hot, or ugly guys.” She arched a brow. “That rules out all guys. So, what exactly is your type of guy? Do you even have one? Or… are you playing for the home team now?”
