“Because, Lucy Genevieve, we’re family now.” He laughs hysterically, as though this is all some big joke. And maybe it is, to him. Caleb Whitman takes nothing seriously.
I’d do well to remember that.
Chapter 6
Lucy
It’smid-December and we’re all at Finley’s, an upscale restaurant in downtown Annapolis—Dad, Kristy, Whit, and me. I just flew in from Wisconsin yesterday, and I’ll be home for three weeks. Well, not exactly home… Dad owns a condo, but he decided that moving in with Kristy made more sense since her house is bigger and closer to the hospital. She redecorated a room for me, and it’s lovely. I can’t afford to be too sentimental—I’m away at college, so it really doesn’t matter what address my bedroom is in. As long as it’s comfy, I’m fine.
“Oh, Lucy, thank you so much,” Kristy says as she lifts the lid on the package I wrapped carefully. “What a perfect gift! I love being pampered, and I look forward to spending the day with you.”
I beam at her praise. I’m a born people-pleaser, and her appreciation tugs at the long-buried part of me that longs for a mother’s love.
“It was Whit’s idea,” the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. Damn me for never being able to lie, even by omission. “I wasn’t quite sure what to get you, and he suggested a day at the spa for both of us.”
Kristy turns her smile in her son’s direction. The affection between them is palpable; they’re a team. My dad and I are, too, I guess, but it’s not quite the same. It’s more like my dad and I are partners on the group project that is my life.
The server brings more wine and assures us our meals will be out soon. My dad sees a colleague from work, and after quick introductions, I excuse myself to the ladies’ room. I just need a minute, which is silly. I’m happy for my dad. He deserves to find love, and I don’t think there’s a nicer person on the East Coast than Kristy Whitman—make that Kristy Whitman-Alvarez.
She’s sweet and kind and attentive—everything my mother isn’t. Well, everything my mother wasn’t while I was growing up. I haven’t seen her in eight years, so I guess it’s possible she’s changed.
But I doubt it.
After washing my hands, I look in the mirror. Wide brown eyes stare back at me, the only feature I share with my mom. I blink back the tidal wave of emotion that threatens to spill, then I dig through my clutch and freshen up my face.
There. All put back together.
Pushing the heavy wooden door open, I head back out to the dining room, but instead I run smack-dab into Whit’s chest. Taking a step back, I try to collect myself, but he steadies me with his hands on my hips, and for a moment, I lose focus.
“I feel like we’ve been here before, Luce,” he says, his voice a bit gravelly.
What I want is to lean into him, to feel his hands as they move around my body and settle at the base of my spine. To breathe him in.
But of course, I don’t do any of that. It’s not prudent, not practical. It’s certainly not advisable. Just because he happens to look like a walking advertisement for sex in a suit that fits as though it was sewn on him is no reason for me to lose my head. Besides, we’re related now. We can’t hug or touch. I shake my head, as if to clear it, and then look at him, reminding myself of all the reasons that an attraction to Caleb Whitman is out of the question. “I told you not to call me Luce.”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even smile. His eyes are trained on my lips, and I can’t help but part them in response.
“Fuck me, Luce, but I love getting you worked up. It’s so damn easy,” he says, his voice low and sinful in my ear.
He’s so close that I can almost taste the scent of him—clean soap and a hint of cedarwood. My skin aches for contact with his, even though I know it’s wrong. He bends his head, inching closer toward me, and damn my traitorous body, but I’m powerless against this attraction.
At the sound of someone, a restaurant patron clearing their throat, I jump back, nearly throwing myself into the wall at my back.
“Careful there, Luce. You’re gonna hurt yourself,” his voice is still rough, but the sexy smokiness is gone. I don’t even scold him for shortening my name. By now, I’m convinced that he’s doing it just to piss me off.
“Go,” I whisper-hiss.
“Go where?”
Oh my God. Must I explain everything? “Go to...wherever the hell you were going when I ran into you.” I make the little shoo-ing motion with my hands.
“I was looking for you,” he says plainly, and his words nearly break past the barriers I’ve erected. How amazing would it be to hear those words for real? To hear them from a lover, from someone who can’t imagine their world without me in it?
But that’s not Whit. It can’t be. We’re related now.
“What? Why? Go. Go back to the table with our parents.” My whisper is harsh, but doesn’t he get it? What if someone saw us standing like this in a dark, quiet hallway? Rumors would spread like wildfire.
Even so, my attraction to Whit is a palpable thing. But I’ll only have to ignore our scorching chemistry for what? The rest of my life? Easy peasy.
