Give & Take (Redbeard Cove #2)

19. Lana

Chapter 19

Lana

“ Y ou sure you don’t want me to fix that swing?” Mike asks. It’s not the first time.

It’s Sunday night. Twenty hours since the kiss that broke the swing.

Not that I’m counting.

Mortification makes my stomach do a one-two punch. “No,” I say, a little snappily. I clink a dinner dish into the rack a little too hard. “The porch ceiling’s got rot,” I say, “so the swing’s staying down.” I would have said thanks for the offer, but I already told him this over dinner. Having Mike around, even in these short spurts where we play nice for the sake of the children, is so deeply draining.

Throw my absolute foolish, out-of-my-mind moment last night with my nanny into the mix and I kind of want to scream. Half at myself, half at Mike.

Still, every time I replay that kiss in my mind, my insides feel like warmed up syrup that comes too fast out of the bottle. Heat rises up my chest so fast I wonder if I’m actually having a hot flash. I hope to God it’s too early for that. That would just make things eight thousand times worse.

And things are already bad.

Luckily, my superpower is remaining cool as a cucumber under any and all pressure. It really helps when dealing with drunken assholes at work. And ex-husbands.

“Thank you again for the offer, Mike,” I say. “But what I could really use is someone to haul the swing and all those rotten boards away. Since you’re here.”

I don’t feel hopeful. And Mike immediately looks regretful. His eyes dart to the stairs as Nova yells something upstairs and Aurora yells right back. They’re supposed to be getting ready for bed, but they’ve been bickering since Mike brought them home for dinner. They’re both in the middle of giant sugar crashes that started the moment they walked in the door.

Mike clears his throat. “I just meant I could help get the hook back up in the ceiling.”

It won’t go in the ceiling, Mike. The boards are rotted. I’ve only told you that ten times in the past hour!

I keep all that inside, instead fishing around for the dishwasher detergent. “Fine.”

“Why don’t you ask Rick?”

“Rick?”

“Yeah. Your nanny looked more than capable of carrying a heavy load.” He smirks.

Fuck it. I break my cool. “His name is Raph. And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Geez, Lan, I was just kidding. ”

I bite my cheek so hard I taste blood. It’s not difficult; the inside of my cheek is swollen thanks to me biting it in the fall the other night. “Shit,” I mumble, reaching for a paper towel.

“Are you okay?” Mike asks my back. It’s in that tone, of course, that doesn’t actually mean he cares.

“I’m fine.” I grip the edge of the sink.

At this point, I’m trying hard not to freak out like I did last night.

Last night, after we fell, I sent Raphael away with words I don’t even remember. They couldn’t have been very kind. He’s been gone all day again, so I haven’t had the chance to check in. To say I’m sorry for whatever I said to him. To tell him last night was a huge mistake and can’t ever happen again.

Today he’s been at Mac and Shelby’s, doing some kind of manual labor for them. Not that I’m bitter about it and want him back here, instead.

He’s texted me though, about a thousand times. Checking to see if I’m okay, if the girls are okay. Reminding me about a hundred times not to go near the swing. I’ll take care of it as soon as I’m back.

“Ok” was the only text I’d sent back. I couldn’t deal with anything else. I’m terrible. I would freak out if he did that to me.

When I look back at Mike, his expression’s slightly puzzled. I let too much time pass after his bad joke. He didn’t actually think anything was going on between me and Raphael, of course. Who would? I’m old. I look good for my age. But now he might be considering it. Fuck me.

“Mike, I’m serious about hauling away the swing,” I say as I lean over the sink, dabbing my mouth. “It would be a big help.”

“I don’t think it’ll fit.”

Mike’s got a big gas-guzzling SUV. It’ll fit. As much as I said I’d never let him bother me again, the old stab of let-down that was a constant in our marriage reappears, blazing sharp.

“Then say goodbye to the girls and go!” I snap.

He looks shocked. “Geez, okay.”

The minute he’s up the stairs, I rinse my mouth from the tap and spit into the sink. It’s very satisfying. And the water’s only tinged a little pink.

When I shut the faucet off though, I hear noise out on the porch.

My stomach knots. I wipe my hands on a towel and head to the front door. Just as I suspected, when I open the door, there’s Raphael in worn jeans, a t-shirt, and gloves, a load of rotten boards on his shoulder as he jogs down the stairs.

“You’re back,” I say, my voice as wooden as the boards he’s holding.

His back’s to me, but he looks over his shoulder as he rounds the corner, grinning. “Hey Sunshine.”

And just like that, I don’t want to tell him all the things I planned on telling him. I want him to look me in the eyes and tell me everything’s going to be alright. I want him to call me Sunshine as he flips me over in bed, kissing me everywhere like he did last night.

Telling me all the things he’s going to do to me.

I pinch my eyes shut to clear the image from my mind .

“Raph, you don’t have to do this,” I say over the railing.

“What are you talking about? I broke the damn swing. Even if I didn’t, I told you I’d take care of this.”

God, the absolute balm of a man telling me he’ll take care of something…and then actually doing it. I can actually feel the weight coming off my shoulders.

He tosses the boards into the back of a giant truck. Mac’s truck, already filled with junk from the day’s work.

“It’s late,” I say.

Raph rubs sweat off his forehead with his shoulder as he jogs back up the stairs. “I have to work tomorrow. Don’t want to upset the boss.”

When he reaches the top though, he doesn’t go straight for the pile of junk that used to be my porch ceiling.

It happens so fast I don’t register what he’s doing until his gloved hands are on my hips, pulling me to him; his lips on my neck, his chest hard against mine. “I missed you,” he says in my ear.

Fireworks shoot through my body. “Raph!” I gasp, shocked. But also alarmed at the electric sensation of his breath on my skin. His teeth sink into my shoulder, just hard enough my stomach ripples in hot pleasure.

Mike , I try to say. The neighbors. Mrs. Brown came out in her bathrobe last night at the sound of the crash, a frying pan in her hand, armed and dangerous.

“Raph,” I breathe, my nipples so tight they could cut glass, my legs wobbly.

But as quickly as he came, he’s gone, striding to the pile as if he didn’t even stop .

I back up, leaning against the doorframe for support, my breathing shallow. I brush the hair from my face. I’m sweating, my nipples aching, stomach melting—hell, my whole physiology changed in the 0.03 seconds he held onto me.

Then I nearly fall through it as the door swings open behind me.

Mike’s there, stepping out of my way as I nearly fall.

Instead of catching me.

But I’m too freaked out to think about that. Did he see what just happened? He’d have a clear view through the living room window. Maybe.

“What’d I tell you?” Mike says, a slightly smarmy grin on his face as he peers over the railing at Raph tossing the boards in the truck with a loud clatter. “That’s what you’ve got help for.”

Relief courses through me. He didn’t see anything. But just as quick it turns to anger.

“Don’t be a dick, Mike.”

“It’s all good,” Raph says from down below. He bounds up the stairs, his energy and fitness level putting Mike to shame.

His biceps flex as he lifts another load from the seemingly endless pile. He’s gorgeous in the pink light of early evening, his sweat a glow on his forehead, his hair mussed and sticking to his temples.

I hope Mike sees all of it.

Mike frowns as Raph sets the boards on his shoulder.

“Nice to see you again, buddy,” Raph says as he passes Mike. Then he’s gone again, thundering down the stairs .

Mike’s frown deepens. “Buddy?”

I give Mike my first genuine smile of the night. It was the perfect word to use on him—this close to patronizing, but cloaked in what could be considered simple bro-talk. “Something wrong with that, Mike? Isn’t that what you call your barista? Your tennis coach?”

Mike glares at me. “You paying him for this?”

“Should I?”

Mike huffs. Then he rolls up his sleeves and stalks over to the mess of boards. And to my utter shock and amazement, my ex-husband pitches in.

Later that night, long after the kids are asleep and Mike is gone, I lie in bed tossing and turning. I know I still need to talk to Raph. I keep telling myself it can wait, that it’s ten at night.

But I can see the light from his suite through my window. He’s awake.

Finally I toss my blankets back and get out of bed. Not to talk to him; to close the damn curtains, which are a foot or so apart.

But when I get there, I pause.

His blinds are wide open. Like pulled up and out of the frame so I have a picture-window view into his space. He’s not there, thank God, but I can see his whole studio apartment. The kitchen, with a container of what looks like half-eaten Chinese food on the counter, a beer bottle next to it. I can picture him inhaling his food tonight, his body aching in that full-body way you get when you’re working all day.

Or does he even get tired? I’ve seen him chase the girls for hours and not break a sweat.

Across the space, to the right, is his bed. It’s made, but in a rumpled kind of way; the duvet thrown on, pillows not quite neatly stacked.

It’s hot out tonight; all I’m wearing is an oversized t-shirt. Still, I feel my skin prickle with heat staring at the place he sleeps.

I knew, of course. This is my house. I cursed the layout a thousand times over when I was considering hiring him, specifically the windows facing each other.

But since then, I’ve touched myself knowing how close he is. I’ve imagined what he’d look like in that bed, working himself over me, that chain dangling over me.

I’m still standing staring at his bed, my hands on either curtain next to me, when Raph walks into the room, wearing nothing but a towel tied around his waist.

I suck in a breath, backing up and snapping the curtains closed.

Once, when I was a teenager, some friends of mine and I bought a Playgirl magazine as a joke, and we all took turns keeping it at our houses. I read that thing cover to cover. I still have the dirty short story memorized. I can still picture the man pressed up against the shower wall.

I have the same burning feeling of naughtiness in my chest now as I did flipping through that magazine with my back against my door late at night.

I press my forehead against the seam of the curtains, my heart clapping against my ribs .

Back away, Lana. Get back into bed.

But I’m so very weak. Because God help me, but I open the curtains again. I do it more than a few inches, to the way it was, because I am not going to be that perverted woman peering through a crack in the drapes, absolutely violating Raph’s privacy. I won’t be a peeping…Tina.

But the moment I look over there, I see Raph, putting away the food. Setting the bottle in the recycling box. Stretching as he walks across the kitchen, making the towel slip low enough I can see where the trail of dark hair on his stomach widens again into a part I’m absolutely not meant to see.

I scrunch my eyes shut, backing away.

I’ll just open my eyes and shut the curtains again.

I open my eyes, realizing a moment too late I should have reversed the order of these actions.

Because now Raphael’s standing at the side of the bed, his towel no longer on his body.

The man is fully naked as he flops backward onto the bed.

And I do mean flop.

I swallow, my mouth dry. My first thought is holy shit. If that’s him soft…

My second thought is just Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

I zing the curtains shut, sucking in an audible gasp as my stomach drops right through my body, splattering on the floor.

He didn’t see me, did he? I’m in the dark. I’m a couple of feet back from the gap.

Not far enough .

I take a step back, then another. Then I dive bomb onto my bed, burying my face under a pillow.

I’m moving rooms. That’s all there is to it. I don’t need to use this room anyway, I’ll just sleep downstairs on the couch, forever, until?—

Bzzz

My phone buzzes. I whip the pillow off my head and stare at it. Its glow lights up the room for a moment before plunging me back into darkness.

I have a sick feeling in my stomach. Very sick. I crawl across the bed, wanting and not wanting to know who just texted me.

With a trembling hand, I pull it up.

RAPH: I was thinking about doing the repair work after you get home tomorrow night. There’ll be some banging, otherwise I’d do it in the morning. I’ve got supplies in the truck. That okay?

I let out a long, shaky breath.

He didn’t see me.

Then, the feeling of being an absolute pervert floods me. It seems to be a familiar theme where Raph is involved. Shame, heavy in my chest.

My fingers move to type out I JUST SAW YOU NAKED .

Instead, I type:

LANA: Sounds good.

LANA: See you tomorrow .

I cringe, throwing the phone sideways before I can do more damage.

My phone buzzes.

I grab it.

RAPH: You sound nervous, Lana.

I pick up the phone.

LANA: Why would I be nervous?

RAPH: I don’t know, Lana. Why would you be?

My heart thunders.

LANA: I have to go to sleep now.

RAPH: Oh. Are you in your bedroom?

Panic wraps itself around my chest. Was that sarcasm? He knows. Or is he just flirting?

My phone practically shakes in my hand I’m gripping it so tightly.

Finally I can’t take it anymore.

LANA: WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS

RAPH: Goodnight, Sunshine. Better rest those peepers.

I throw the phone across the room.