And warmth blooms in my chest and down my arms—making my fingertips tingle. With the rightness of it all. What did Waldo say about relationships? Satisfaction. Having her in my house, wearing my clothes—it’s so much more than satisfying. It’s fucking joyous. Exuberantly fulfilling in a way I can’t possibly describe.
I still want to live my life free—but I want to live it free with her.
Kennedy must feel me watching, because she peeks up. “Everything okay?”
I nod, slowly smiling. “Yeah—everything’s perfect.”
I kiss the top of her head as I walk past, heading up the steps to take a shower. When I walk out of the bathroom with the towel around my waist, I hear voices coming from downstairs. One definitely Kennedy’s, the other too deep to be Harrison. Still dripping, I walk down the stairs—and listen.
“. . . you know his family. But you need to understand that we’re his family too. Don’t fuck with his head.”
That’s Jake—talking to Kennedy in my living room. There’s no hint of a threat in his voice; he’d cut his tongue out before he’d ever threaten a woman. But he has this way of putting things that makes the simplest sentence sound like a warning.
“You think I could do that, Mr. Becker? Fuck with Brent’s head?” Kennedy sounds almost surprised.
“Watching the way he’s turned himself inside out over you the last few weeks—absolutely.”
There’s a pause, and I imagine the look on her face, her stance—the way her eyes probably narrow, her arms cross, and her hips cock—like when she’s in court, sizing up her adversary. “You’re very protective of him, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Jake says simply and without hesitation.
And then Kennedy sounds defensive. Maybe even . . . offended—on my behalf. “Why? He doesn’t need it. He takes care of himself just fine. If you think patronizing him is helping—”
Jake’s deep, rumbling laugh cuts her off. “I have no doubt that Brent is fully capable of handling his own shit. It’s not about that.”
“Then what’s it about?”
Now Jake pauses. And I know he’s analyzing the angles, choosing his words to efficiently convey his position. “I never had brothers . . . not until I met Brent and Stanton.”
That’s when I make my presence known. Stepping from the hallway to the living room, still wrapped only in a towel. Which Jake doesn’t appreciate.
“Jesus—I’d rather not go blind from an accidental glimpse of your nut sack. How about putting some clothes on?”
I shrug and lob an arm around Kennedy’s shoulders. “Clothes are senseless at this point. What brings you by, big guy?”
His black eyebrows lift, and reproach reflects in his steel-gray eyes. “I’ve been calling—is your phone broken?”
I tease, “Mom, you look different. Did you change your hair?”
He flips me off.
Then I give him the real explanation. “I’ve been busy—a lot of sex has been happening.”
Kennedy pinches my chest—and it fucking hurts.
While Jake’s face remains blank. “Congratulations.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So what’s up—why the house call?”
I’ve barely seen him at the office this week. He’s been in court a lot, working a murder case. And he’s been really busting his ass over it, because he truly believes his client is innocent. That’s an uncommon, double-edged luxury we aren’t often afforded.
“We’re having a barbecue this afternoon. You’re invited,” he tells me. Then he turns his rare, charming-Jake-Becker smile on Kennedy. “You’re invited too.”
• • •
That afternoon, Kennedy and I head over to Jake and Chelsea’s place for the barbecue. Their house has a great layout for entertaining—a built-in pool, a gorgeous garden, and an outdoor kitchen Jake just installed.
Sofia smiles warmly at Kennedy, the bond of being a woman in the legal profession overcoming any lingering animosity from their showdown in court a few weeks earlier. The fact that Kennedy is here with me, that she’s important to me, probably helps too.
I introduce Kennedy to the McQuaid brood, and her head is practically spinning by the time I get through Riley, Rory, Raymond, Rosaleen, Regan, and down to the littlest, three-year-old Ronan.
We enjoy the clear sky, the hot sun, and a few beers, until Jake sets a platter of burgers and hot dogs in the center of the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth and we all sit down at the picnic table to eat. While the pleasant hum of kid chatter fills the lower end of the table, Riley McQuaid sits down with a huff in the chair across from me, her mouth fixed in a pout and unhappy blue eyes throwing sharp glances in Jake’s direction. A palpable silence flows between the teenager and her father figure—it’s heavy and awkward.
So, of course, I have to mention it.
“Everything okay here?” I ask, looking to each of them.
Jake takes a bite of his burger. “Yep.”
Riley’s eyes narrow. “If you consider living under the fascist rule of a dual dictatorship ‘okay,’ then yeah, I guess it is.”
Jake’s mouth pulls up at the corner. “Fascist? That’s cute.”
I lean into Kennedy and whisper, “This sounds juicy.” Then I lift my chin at Riley. “I thought we’d moved passed the angry-nobody-understands-me-teenage phase and were happily settled in the responsible-working-part-time-young-adult stage. What gives?”