Give & Take (Redbeard Cove #2)

20. Raphael

Chapter 20

Raphael

I didn’t actually see her looking at me. But I did see the curtains move, about two seconds after I realized I was strutting around naked and had neglected to close my blinds. For a moment I panicked and thought she’d been horrified, closing the blinds in disgust—ouch. But when she’d been so casual in her texts a moment later I knew she’d been trying to play it cool.

I fucking loved it. I wonder how long she’d been looking? How much she’d seen? The thought made me grow hard every time I thought about it.

Interacting with her ex, on the other hand—that pissed me off. I know it’s cliché of me to hate him. I guess half of it isn’t even his fault—he’s her ex. He’s touched her the way I’ve wanted to. He was married to her, for fuck’s sake.

But the posturing is exhausting. I told him as much, when we were loading up the truck.

“You know, I’m not trying to prove anything,” I said as I tossed the last of my boards into the back .

He’d scoffed, but I hadn’t risen to the bait.

“Lana’s an incredible woman. The best mother, to your children. But she’s an individual, too. She gets to make her own choices about her life.”

And honestly, the guy’s not an idiot. After he dumped his load in the truck, I could see him wrestling with what to do in his head. What angle to take. Finally, sagged out a breath and pressed his thumb and forefinger to his temples, and said, “I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s not me you need to apologize to.”

He’d bristled at that, but I held out my hands. He looked away and I knew he knew I was right. “Yeah, well, I would say whatever’s going on between you two”—he held out his hands then—“Not saying it’s anything, just that it wouldn’t be any of my business, except my kids are involved.”

I had to clamp down my molars to prevent myself from saying But are you involved in their lives?

But to his credit, he said, “I can tell they like you. You seem to make everyone happy.”

That part came out kind of stilted, like he was self-aware enough to know of his own failings.

I wouldn’t say we ended it with a Kumbaya, but at least I got a glimpse of the decent enough guy I knew had to be in there if Lana saw fit to marry him.

But fuck him if he pulls any more bullshit on her again.

This week, Lana’s avoiding me. I guess that’s understandable. Every morning she breezes out the door, already ready to go. Every evening, she makes up some excuse for why I need to be immediately ushered out .

We did talk about things. On Monday morning, before I came over, she texted me to tell me the kiss was a mistake. That she shouldn’t have let anything happen between us and please forgive her.

LANA: And that thing, on the porch the other night, with the gloves and the neighbors…that can’t happen either.

Last week, this might have worried me. But now I see it clearly—the only way this will work.

RAPH: The ball is in your court, Sunshine. I promise I won’t try to grab it until you tell me to.

She actually thumbs-upped that one.

I’d say more over text, but I can tell things work better in person with her. Plus, I love the way she turns pink every time I look at her a moment too long. Or she catches me looking at her appreciatively in her running gear.

In some ways, it’s like we’re back where we started. We flirt. She hides her smiles. Only there’s an energy to it that wasn’t there before. A tight, high drone of anticipation.

We’re on a new track now. One that’s uncharted.

One that has me, frankly, more than just interested. In this present moment, I’m all in.

Maybe too far in.

My dissertation has taken a backseat over the past couple of weeks, and I vow I’m going to get back to it. But right now all I can do is focus on the kids during the day, and driving myself fucking wild with this tension every other waking moment. Thankfully, the girls’ have dance class on Thursdays, and I know for a fact Lana comes home while they’re there. Nova told me there are no parents allowed until recital time at the end of the summer, though she’s made me practice all the moves with them anyway.

So I’ve saved up my dirty laundry for tonight.

It’s not a euphemism, I really do have a shit-ton of laundry to do.

When I casually stroll into the house with my basketful of clothes, Lana—perched on the stool at the kitchen island, her laptop open in front of her—startles and snaps her laptop shut. I wish I’d been able to come in quietly, just so I could have another second of seeing her without her seeing me. She was so intently focused on her work, her hair’s messy bun falling out, wisps framing her beautiful face as she typed. Her tongue was clamped just slightly between her teeth.

It was sexy as hell.

She’s wearing this old white t-shirt that falls off her shoulder, and she pulls it up self-consciously now.

I smile innocently, praying for it to slip down again as I slip off my sneakers. “You don’t have to close your browser windows on my account, Sunshine.”

Lana scowls. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

There are papers all over the place. Notes. A book called The Body Dictionary.

She sees me looking as I casually walk in her direction, which luckily, is also the way to the laundry room.

She flips the tome upside down with a slap .

I pause by the island and quirk my head, setting my laundry down on the floor.

I lean on the island a few feet away from her, chin in hands. “Whatcha doin’, Lana?”

“Working, if you must know.”

“What are you working on?”

Her cheeks redden. I can see her debating what to tell me.

She’s flustered, but she’s also embarrassed. So I back off. I stand up, spreading my hands up. “I promise I won’t make any kind of remark about it. Seriously, Lana.”

She hesitates a moment more, picking up a pen and tapping it against the countertop. Then she says, “I’m writing a book.”

My eyebrows lift. This is a delicious new piece of information, though it kind of surprises me. I know she loves reading. She was all giddy the other day, and when I asked Nova about it after she’d left, she said “Mom’s favorite author has a new book coming out or something.”

“You didn’t tell me you’re a writer,” I say.

“Because I’m not. This is just…something I’m doing. It’s a one-time thing.”

With anyone else, I might think they were doubting themselves. But I’m learning that Lana doesn’t do anything without purpose. Except maybe when it comes to me.

“Non-fiction?” I ask.

“No.”

“Fiction!” I slide onto the stool across from her. “You know I’m doing a lit degree, right? This is extremely exciting for me.” I rest my chin in my hands and look at her expectantly. “Tell me everything!”

Lana lets out a laugh. “No.”

I pout.

She opens her laptop. “I’m busy.” But she doesn’t move to put her hands back on the keyboard. She straightens out the papers, setting them in a neat pile.

She thinks I’m going to judge her. I decide to sidestep the writing for a moment.

“What kind of books do you read, Lana?”

She doesn’t look up. “Not Tolstoy.”

“I don’t only read classics. Lots of classics are bullshit, by the way. Sexist. Racist. All the things. They’re products of their time.”

Lana looks at me. “So why are you writing your dissertation on them?”

“I like honing in on things.”

She frowns at my obtuseness.

I lean back in the chair. “Okay, I got really into trying to figure out why people express themselves in ways other than talking. Painting. Singing. Writing. Writing about other people talking. I liked that last one, and now I’m too far gone not to finish.”

She lets out a little laugh. “So, you just casually decided to do an advanced degree because you were…curious?”

“Pretty much.” This is where most people scoff and make some crack about me being charmed. Or lucky. But Lana doesn’t do that. She just looks at me curiously.

I’m surprised, but not really. So far Lana enjoys poking at me, but she has this knack for knowing which parts are more raw. She avoids those.

“Anyway, I read everything,” I continue. I’m really much more interested in her. In fact, I need her to tell me what she’s writing. I’ll die if she doesn’t. I feel like it’s the secret to cracking her open. “My favorites are old spy novels,” I say. “And YA. Oh, and Swedish crime novels.”

The corner of her mouth lifts higher. “Really.” It’s not a question. She sounds like she doesn’t believe me. “So you’re not snobby about genre fiction?”

“Why would I ever judge someone on what they like to read? I mean, unless they’re reading serial killer how-to’s or something, it’s really none of my business. Besides, what’s the point of reading if you’re not enjoying yourself?”

She pinches her lips together, considering.

I lean forward like an eager student. “Sooo?”

Lana rolls her eyes. “Fine. If you must know, I read romance books.” Her chin tilts like she’s waiting for me to give her a hard time about this.

I blink, processing this information. Again she’s surprised me. I would have thought Lana was into more serious lit-fic. Or maybe dark thrillers where men get their throats slit. But discovering Lana reads stories about love? It’s like a whole new dimension of her has opened up. If she reads romance, it means she believes in love, at least theoretically. I think of this softer, more vulnerable version of Lana I’ve only caught glimpses of before, sobbing over a couple finally overcoming their obstacles and figuring out they’re perfect for each other.

“I love romance books,” I say .

At this she scoffs. Then she does that thing again, saying nothing as she sorts through all her millions of thoughts, waiting for the right one to be tried and tested. As she does, she spins her pen through her fingers, which are neat and tidy, just like her. No rings or decoration. Plain, well-filed nails. Functional. Buttoned up. Needing a little playfulness.

“I don’t believe you,” she says finally.

“I’m serious.” I tip my seat back slightly. “I read a lot as a kid, and my mom had lots of those around. I still read them, sometimes.” I’ll read anything really, but that weakens my point.

“Who are your favorite romance authors?”

I list off the five or so I remember reading recently.

Her eyes go wide.

I grin. “I’ll be honest, I mostly read for the smut. And the swoon. They’re educational for me, is what I’m saying. Romance taught me everything I know about what women want.” A few women in my past might have helped too, but I don’t mention that part.

“Is that right? And what is it women want?”

I shrug. “Three-pronged alien dick, obviously.”

Lana chokes.

“Okay, and maybe like, a wealthy duke who looks after a woman’s every need.”

She closes her eyes. I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “Well Raph, I have to hand it to you. You seem to know more about the genre than any other man I’ve met.”

I set the stool back on all fours, resting my forearms on the counter. “Okay, now you tell me your favorite books. I’ll read them this week. I’ll read them tonight. ”

She blinks. Then she rattles off five of them. I pull out my phone, writing them all down.

“Done.”

She laughs, kind of incredulously. Then she chews her lip, her eyes darting to her laptop screen.

“That’s what you’re writing, Lana, isn’t it? A romance book?”

She hesitates only a moment. “Yes.”

“Does it talk about what you like? Because that’s my new favorite book.”

She gapes.

“Sorry.” I give her a sheepish grin. “So you’re writing a book but you don’t want to be a writer. Is it just for fun?”

“It’s to prove I can do it.”

“To yourself?”

“Sort of.”

I tuck my hands under my arms, examining her. “Am I annoying you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

She chews her lip. “No.”

“Good. Because every moment I spend with you the more fascinating you become. And not a word of that is a lie, Lana.”

For a moment, I wonder, not for the first time, if I need to worry about how into this woman I am. But I don’t worry about things as a rule. Except when it comes to her.

I wave off that contradiction and wait for her response.

“Mike always gave me a hard time about reading romance,” she says after a moment. “He made jokes about it to our friends. He only reads literature, naturally. New York Times bestsellers.”

I make a snoring noise, even though I’ve enjoyed quite a few of those myself.

She smiles.

“He kept talking about how the people who write romance don’t put any work into them. How they’re trash. I argued how important they are, to women, primarily.”

Just when I wanted to give good ol’ Mike a chance.

She said women with enough emphasis that even if I didn’t know this already, it’s clear her ex might not have been the most supportive feminist husband and father of two girls he should have been. At the very least, he should have offered moral support to his wife, even if he didn’t get it. Jesus, half-assed dads seem to be a theme in my life. I make a note to make sure I’m reading a particularly smutty-covered romance the next time Mike comes over here. Shirtless.

“Anyway,” Lana continues, “I told him he didn’t know what he was talking about, and he said something like ‘They’re so easy, even you could do it’.”

I actually tense up at that. “The fuck?”

“He just meant I could do it even though I was so busy with everything else. It turned into this whole thing where I needed to show him how hard it was. Then when I actually started writing and he saw how much work I was putting into it, well…he changed the goalposts.”

“How so? ”

“He bet me I’d never finish it.” She sighs, glancing at the strewn papers. “I lost that bet, clearly.”

I scratch my chin. “So you know you could just…not, right?”

“What, you mean quit?”

“Quit’s a dirty word in hustle culture. But sometimes there’s freedom in quitting.”

“So you’d just quit your PhD?”

“If it felt like I was doing it in wisdom and not fear, sure.”

She mulls this over. “So what if I had just quit my law degree?”

“Was it important to you then? Did it bring you joy or pain to think of quitting?”

She looks down. “It was everything to me, at that point in my life.”

“So you didn’t quit.”

She laughs softly. “I just…with the book, it feels like a connection I have to this other part of me I really love. Reading’s done so much for me. It saved me during my divorce, and all those years on my own after. Still, on my own,” she corrects herself, looking quickly at me.

“What is it that you want to do with that love? Ultimately, I mean. Beyond this test of yourself.”

“I want people to know it’s okay to love romance books the way I do,” she says.

She blinks, her eyes filled with surprise. “I didn’t know that until now.”

“So aren’t there other ways to do that?”

“Like work in a bookstore?”

“Sure. Or start your own bookstore. Hold romance book clubs. Maybe for men so they clue in that they’d be doing themselves a favor by reading them.”

She frowns, but says nothing.

Maybe that was too pie-in-the-sky.

“Or don’t. Just do what makes you happy, Lana. And if it really is important to you, finish the book. If you do and need a beta reader, I’m here for it.”

“You?”

I clap a hand to my chest in mock insult. “Why not me?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

Any good humor I have is stripped away, like paint thinner hitting a freshly painted wall.

Lana looks immediately regretful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean that.”

“It’s fine,” I say, straightening up. “I deserve that.” Though I’m not sure I did.

“No, you don’t.” Lana stands up and looks like she’s going to come over here, then stops herself. She presses a hand against her collar, then drops it again. “What I mean is, I don’t share my writing. Ever. Like I said, I’m not actually a writer. I’m a reader. I love books, and I know my writing is nowhere near on par with published books and—” She cuts herself off. “I just don’t open up that easily, Raphael. You’re…I can trust you won’t laugh at me like Mike did. But I can’t just share my deepest, most vulnerable parts with someone who’s just…passing through my life.”

So there it is. It’s not about me being the nanny anymore .

“That’s a bullshit excuse to not open up to someone, Lana.”

“How is it bullshit? Tell me I’m wrong?”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’re not taking off at the end of the summer?”

“Of course I am.”

Something in her face shifts. I can’t quite tell what it is, but I don’t love it.

I stand up. I did actually come in here for a purpose. Picking up my laundry basket, I say, “I just mean you don’t have to limit how much of yourself you show people, you know, on the off chance you might get hurt. What the hell is life for if you’re not experiencing everything you possibly can?”

“Easy for you to say,” she says, her pretty little jaw working. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“And you’re what, halfway in the grave? You’re forty, Lana. Not eighty.”

“I’ll be forty-one in three weeks.”

I hate it when she does this; points out how different we are. How stating her age somehow makes her less desirable to me. “That’s how birthdays usually happen, one after the other.”

The way she’s looking at me, so defiantly, I want to walk right over there and show her just how little I care about our age difference. That I meant what I said to her date that night on the porch. She was beautiful then, she’s beautiful now, she’ll be beautiful until the day I fucking die.

I flex my hands over the handles of my laundry basket, feeling annoyed that I’m holding it. I turn to slide it into the laundry room, just to get it out of my sight. To give me a spare second to make sure I think carefully about what I want to say.

But when I head that way, about to drop it, she says, “Mike used to do that, you know.”

I frown. “Do what?”

“Leave, in the middle of an argument. He’d just get up and walk like a?—”

She doesn’t finish that sentence, because I drop my basket of laundry onto the floor again and walk back to her. I don’t go back to my stool. I go to her side of the island and set my hands on her arm rests, my face close to hers.

Lana’s eyes go wide, her pupils dilating. I hear the hitch in her breathing, see the pulse at her throat. Her tongue darts out of her mouth almost like it did when she was working. Only this time, she’s not working. She’s affected, by my proximity.

Good. She can see how it feels.

“Lana,” I say, my voice low. I wrap my hands over the arms of her chair, bracketing her in place. I take a step forward, into the space between her legs. Through that thin, worn material of her t-shirt, her nipples harden, and I have to bite back a groan.

Luckily, I’m still pissed at what she said.

“Do I look anything like your ex-husband?” I ask her.

Lana’s hands clench in her lap. She doesn’t answer, but I can see the fire in her eyes.

“Do I do anything remotely like him?”

She lets out a huff. “No.”

“He’s your ex and the father of your children. So I won’t use the words I want to for him. But Sunshine, don’t ever compare us again.”

Lana’s chin lifts. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It is,” I say. “For the record, I was going to drop that basket in the laundry room. Then I was going to come back and continue our conversation, eating up all those little glares and snappy words you love throwing at me. Either that or I was going to fuck you right here on this kitchen island.”

She sucks in a breath. “Raph,” she breathes. But her eyelids flutter.

“I’m not going anywhere, Lana.”

“You have a PhD to finish.”

“So I’ll quit.”

She shakes her head. I glide my fingers down the arms of the chair, onto her waist. “I’ll finish it then.”

She feels so fucking good in my hands I have to suppress a groan.

“You have a life to live,” she moans. She’s trying so hard to test me.

I fucking love it. “I’m living it right now,” I say.

Lana’s breathing hard, like she’s running a marathon. “Raph, this is such a bad idea.”

“So stop wanting me so bad.”

She laughs, kind of breathlessly. “Fuck you.”

“Okay.”

She groans, tossing her head back, and I lean over her, pressing my lips to her throat, tasting the soft salt of her skin.

“You really want me , Raph?” Lana whispers. “Of all the women you could have? ”

I laugh softly, without humor, and take her hand.

Lana swallows, her throat bobbing.

I lower her palm to my jeans, pressing her fingers around the hardness there. “What do you think? Do I? I’ve never been this fucking hard before, Sunshine. Never.”

Lana swallows. Her eyes are at half-mast when she looks up at me. “Jesus.”

I told myself I’d wait. But I don’t know if I can when she’s holding me like this. I’m on a razor’s edge of no longer knowing how to possibly resist, not when she feels this good.

I’ve never, ever struggled like this.

“There are a thousand things I’ve dreamed of doing to you,” I tell her as she trails her fingers over the zipper of my jeans, making me grit my teeth.

I kiss the apex of her collarbone, focusing hard on her so I don’t lose it at her touch down low. She’s so perfect here in this little hollow. So delicate, like a piece of china.

“Tell me,” she says.

“I don’t know if you want to hear it,” I say. “I’ll scare you off.” The fire in my body is fucking molten now, touching her while thinking about some of those things.

“Try me.” She pulls me closer, hooking her ankles around my knees.

I let out a low, barely audible groan as she pulls me close enough that my engorged cock brushes between her legs.

Then I say, “No.” My hands still on her ribs, I lift her up, sitting her on the counter .

She sucks in a breath at the rapidity of that movement. “No? You don’t want to do that?”

I give a low laugh. “You know what I want to do with you, Sunshine?” I lower my hands to her thighs, my thumbs making kneading circles on the soft flesh there. It works to keep me focused. “With you, I want a long, hard, lengthy…” I bite my bottom lip, watching her breathe hard. “…Discussion on Tolstoy.”

That ridiculous line does what it’s supposed to, it makes Lana tip her head back and laugh. Hard. My chest fills with the sound, and it’s like a star’s just exploded inside my chest.

I suddenly feel panicky. Because this is not what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to break this tension; to keep things fun the way she wants. She gives me little smiles at my jokes. She sometimes lets out a low, cautious laugh. But that throw-her-head back, nothing held back mirth?

She’s never laughed like that with me. Never that hard, that full. Never shown me her full, unbridled self. It’s like a switch has flipped, and I realize that’s the prize I was waiting for. Just one full glimpse into the woman I know is in there. I can feel this moment being etched into my DNA. I can feel her on a deep, cellular… molecular level.

Lana stops, her expression concerned. “Hey, you okay?”

It takes me a second to answer, in which her brow furrows.

“Obviously.” I reach for her waistband, hooking a finger into a belt loop.

But she’s not fooled. “What’s the matter?”

“Not a thing, Sunshine.” My voice is a croak.

“Raph,” she says. “Don’t go serious on me. I’m the serious one. If you go serious we have a problem.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because this is just fun! Just…fooling around.”

She needs me to agree with her. She’s asking for permission to do what we both want. But I can’t go back from this moment. I can’t be that guy who doesn’t care about anything all that much except meeting interesting people, having deep conversations and just generally soaking up life. All I can picture is caring way too much about this woman in front of me, with all her stitched-together fissures. Exploring every little glimpse of her real self she’s started showing to me, and spending time with my favorite little girls in the world, and now this?

The thoughts playing bumper cars in my brain jam together when Lana’s alarm sounds.

“Shit,” she says, closing her eyes. “I have to pick up the girls.”

“I’ll do it,” I say quickly. I need a moment to think. Away from the source of all my thoughts.

“Raph. You’re off duty.”

“I don’t mind. Plus, I hogged your writing time.”

“I wasn’t exactly an unwilling participant.”

“I think you started it, actually,” I say, trying for humor but not feeling it myself.

Before she can argue again, I grasp her head and pull her in for one last kiss. And this one? It’s soft. Tender. I don’t mean to do it, but without me speaking, it conveys all the things I want to tell her .

Everything around us stops as I pass the message onto her.

I’m not the same man I was before you. You’ve changed my world.

When I break the kiss, both of us pause, our eyes locked together. Lana looks shocked. Maybe I do too.

I should crack a joke. Tell her I wrote the book on fun and yup, that’s what we’re going to do, have fun.

But calling what just happened fun is like calling the Colosseum cute. Calling the stars sweet.

Fun is not the word for this.

“Don’t worry, Sunshine,” is all I manage. “All good things.”

Then I kiss her one last time, brushing my hand over her hair. I throw my laundry in the machine and head out to grab the girls.