 
Just Jelly Beans and Jealousy

By Tammy Falkner

Night Shift Publishing

For my readers, because they make this job worthwhile.

Copyright © 2013 by Tammy Falkner

Just Jelly Beans and Jealousy

The Reed Brothers

Smashwords Edition

Night Shift Publishing

Cover design by Tammy Falkner

Cover photo © Hongqi Zhang (aka Michael Zhang) | Dreamstime.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dear Readers,

I hope you enjoy this short story. I had a lot of fun writing it and thought you might like a glimpse at Logan, Emily and the Reed brothers in "real life." After Logan and Emily's books ended, their lives went on, but we don't get to see every page. Here are a few pages from their future, and we meet Sean and Lacey in this installment.

Don't worry – if you haven't met Logan and Emily yet, you won't be lost! And I have included sample chapters from every book available in the Reed Brothers series at the end of this short story for your enjoyment.

I hope you enjoy it, and wish you a joyful new year!

Tammy

Just Jelly Beans and Jealousy

By Tammy Falkner

Sean

"I don't think this is a good idea," I protest, watching my best friend in the world as she paints her face. I think she's even more beautiful when she doesn't wear makeup at all. But even I'll admit that this Lacey is smoking hot. Her legs are a mile long, and her dress dips deep enough that the round swells of her breasts are taunting me. Look at me, Sean, you stupid fucker. You can't touch them. Nanny, nanny, boo, boo.

"It's not like I'm offering up my virginity to the highest bidder," she protests, blinking her eyes as she applies heavy coats of mascara to her lashes. The brush slides slowly down the miniscule strands of hair, and she sits back, bats her lashes, and looks at me over her shoulder in the mirror. She sticks her tongue out.

"You might as well be offering up your virginity," I grumble. Some college-age, hormone-ridden asshole will guess the number of jelly beans in her jar, and the lucky bastard will get to kiss her. He'll get to kiss my girl. Well, she doesn't know she's mine, but she has been for as long as I can remember. I can't recall a time when Lacey wasn't in my life. And the thought of some dickwad putting his mouth on her has my heart tripping in my chest like it's going run away without me.

Lacey begins to paint her pretty, full, perfectly kissable lips with a horridly sexy shade of bright red. She smacks her lips together and makes a kissy face toward the mirror. I can't watch anymore. I just can't. I fall back across the bed in her dorm room and throw my arm across my eyes, groaning to myself.

It's not fair that she can undo me with a simple kiss at a mirror when she doesn't even see me as a real, live, flesh-and-blood man. She still sees me as the boy who grew up next door to her. She seems to forget that I'm the one who held her hair back as she threw up her first few shots of tequila. She forgets that I'm the one who carried her luggage up three fucking flights of stairs when I moved her into her dorm room. I'm the one who hugged her when Dusty Forbes dumped her at the homecoming dance. I'm the one who left my own date—who was a sure thing, by the way—standing alone by the wall while I retrieved Lacey from the ladies' room and stroked her hair until she could breathe.

She forgets that I saw her naked. All right, so she wasn't completely naked, but it was close enough. Whoever designed bikinis with those little triangles that cover the naughty bits should be given a fucking medal. Or buried six feet under. I'm not sure which.

The bed dips as she sits down on it, and she lifts my arm from over my eyes. She's so fucking beautiful with her strawberry-blond hair hanging down over her shoulders. It looks like she's been rolling around in bed with someone, but I know she hasn't because I watched her work for an hour to get it to look like that.

Her hip touches mine, and she leans across me, bracing herself on her forearm. She looks down at me but doesn't say anything. I go hard immediately. I'm glad she's looking at my face and not at my crotch because she would get the shock of a lifetime if she glanced down right now. But she doesn't think of me like that. She said so. She said, loudly and clearly, that she wouldn't go there with me. She didn't want to lose her best friend if things didn't work out. She needs me, she says, as more than an ex-boyfriend. She needs me to be her best friend. So I am.

But good God, I want her.

"What?" I grouse.

"Stop pouting," she says quietly. She pushes up off her propped arm and lays that hand on my chest, her elbow digging into my belly as she looks at me.

"Stop trying to impale me." I grunt and adjust her elbow. But I don't want her to move. I like having her this close. If this is all I can get, I'll take it. I set my hand on her naked knee and draw swirls on it with my thumb.

She shakes her head, her face soft. Her green eyes blink at me as her gaze skitters around my face. "It's just a kiss," she says softly. "Why are you all torn up about a kiss?"

She's studying me way too closely. "I'm not torn up," I protest.

"You've been moping ever since I told you about the fundraiser, Sean," she says. "What's your problem? It's for charity, for God's sake." She lays her free hand on her chest. "My kiss is going to feed victims of domestic violence. I'm doing my part for a better community."

I look down at her mouth. God, I could just slide my fingers into her hair, pull her to me, and kiss her right here and now. But I won't. Because she doesn't want me. "I can't believe you're going kiss some stranger," I bite out. "Don't do it."

"I've kissed men before, Sean," she reminds me. I wish she would keep that shit to herself.

"What if it's some big, goofy guy with really bad breath?" I ask.

"What if it's some big, brawny guy who smells like you and kisses like a god?" she asks. She smiles, the corners of her lips tilting up so prettily. Her fingertips touch my forearm lightly, and she traces the tattoos that decorate my arm from wrist to shoulder. Every hair on my body stands up, and I lift my hand from her knee and thread my fingers with hers so she'll stop. "If I'm lucky, he'll be all tatted up, too." She looks off into the distance, her gaze no longer on me.

"Honey, if you want to kiss someone who looks like me and smells like me, I think I can accommodate you so you don't have to kiss some stranger."

Her eyes shift back to meet mine, and she may as well have just punched me in the gut. She looks into my eyes and stares as if she's looking into my soul. She can look into it anytime. Shit, I'd give it to her, if she wanted it. But it's not me she wants. She's made that abundantly clear.

"If I ever kissed you, I would never be able to stop," I say quietly. My voice sounds like it's been dragged down a gravel road and back, and I fucking hate that she can affect me this way.

"Prove it," she says, and then she licks her cherry-red lips. She doesn't break eye contact.

I move quickly. This is the first time she's ever made an offer like this, and my gut tells me that she's going to take it back. I cup her neck with my palm and pull her toward me. My gentle tug brings her flush against my chest, and the weight of her settles against me and feels so right. Her lips are so close to mine that her inhale is my exhale. My hand quivers as it holds her nape, so I work my fingers into the hair at the back of her head. I hold her still and look into her green eyes.

"Tell me you want me to kiss you and you got me, honey," I whisper. She shivers and inches up my chest ever so slightly, her mouth moving closer to mine. So close. Just a little closer. I can almost taste her.

"I want you to kiss me," she whispers. "Please."

Suddenly, the door opens, and Lacey jumps up, separating us in one final, powerful leap. Fuck. I pull the pillow from behind my head and shove it in my lap, sitting up on the side of the bed.

Friday, Lacey's roommate, walks into the room. Friday stops, her gaze moving from Lacey to me and back.

Lacey's breaths are heavy, and I can tell she's upset about being caught like that. "Great timing, Friday," I say quietly.

"Were you guys about to get it on?" Friday asks, her grin cheeky. She points to Lacey and then at me, and then goes back and forth. "Look at you two," she crows. Her gaze narrows. "What did I miss?" she asks.

Friday works at the tattoo shop I like to go to. It's called Reed's, and I've known Logan, one of the artists, since we started college. He and Friday are pretty tight. "Where's Logan?" I ask. We need to change the subject. "Did he come with you?"

She nods and jerks a thumb toward the door. "They're right behind me." Logan's broad shoulders fill the doorway. He steps back and his girlfriend, Emily, walks through the door before him.

"Jesus Christ," Logan says. Logan's deaf, but he lost his hearing when he was thirteen so he has really great speech. He's also very intuitive, and he's really good at reading situations. "You could cut the tension in here with a knife," he says. He looks back and forth between Lacey and me. His eyes land on me, and I assume he sees me floundering when he cracks a smile. "Did you cut the cheese, dude?" he asks. "Because she looks like you did something that tilted her world on its side."

Lacey arches a brow at me as if she's tossing the ball into my court. I can lob it back or I can choose to let it lie there. "Something like that," I say, but I'm looking at her and not at him. I see Emily translate for him in sign language out of the corner of my eye. "Sorry," I murmur. Usually I'm more careful about facing him when I talk, but I wanted to watch Lacey's face. Her cheeks are rosy, and she's shuffling her feet. I want to rewind and go back to where we were before Friday burst into the room.

"You look really pretty," Logan says to Lacey.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

She's fucking gorgeous. Pretty doesn't begin to describe how wonderful she is. She's witty and she's smart and she's... She's not mine.

"I'm going to go do my laundry," I say. I need to get the fuck out of here.

"A likely excuse," Friday says. But the smile on her face dies when I scowl at her. She's questioning me without saying a word, and I can't answer her.

"I'll go with you," Logan says as he gets to his feet. He leans over and kisses Emily on the forehead, and she grabs his shirt, fisting her hand in the fabric and pulling him down so he can kiss her for real. "I'll be back in a little bit," Logan tells her.

She nods, and Logan opens the door so I can follow him out. My gut tells me not to leave this unfinished.

"Wait," Lacey calls.

I turn back, filled with hope. Does she want me to stay? We could kick everyone out and go back to what we were doing. I could kiss the girl that I want more than anything or anyone. I could make her mine. I could pour my heart out to her. I could tell her that I love her and always will. "What?" I ask quietly.

"Are you coming to my booth?" she asks. "For the results of the contest?"

And watch another man kiss her? I don't think so. "I have a lot of laundry to do," I say.

She inhales quickly and blinks even faster. "Are you going to meet us for dinner after?" she asks, her voice quivering.

"Where are you going?" If I go, I'll have to see her with her lipstick sucked off her face, and I really don't want to.

She picks up a sticky pad and writes something down. I take it from her hand, which is shaking ever so slightly. "Are you all right?"

She nods, looking everywhere but at me. "I'll see you at dinner," she says.

I shove the note into my pocket, not even bothering to look at it.

I motion to Logan, and he precedes me out the door. I follow, closing it behind me softly. I want to slam it, but I don't want her to know how I'm feeling.

"What the fuck happened between you two?" Logan asks as soon as the door closes.

I shrug. Logan is famous for his shrugs. He should accept mine. But he doesn't. Instead, he punches me in the shoulder.

Shit, that hurt. "What the fuck?" I ask.

"What happened?" he asks. He looks straight into my eyes.

"Nothing," I say. I shake my head. "Not a fucking thing."

"Dude, you had a pillow shoved in your lap, and you were getting off her bed when we walked in. Something happened." He shoves my shoulder, almost knocking me over. Logan's a big boy. A little bigger than me, and I'm a big guy. "Not to mention that she looked like she'd just been fucked."

I stop and turn to face him. I lay both lands flat on his chest and shove him as hard as I can. "Don't ever fucking talk about her like that again," I warn.

Logan takes a few steps back. Then he grins. "It's about fucking time," he says. He holds up a hand to high five me.

"Fuck you," I say instead, and I keep walking toward my dorm. I can't get there fast enough.

"Did you kiss her?" he asks. He grins at me again, and I feel a smile tugging at my own lips. But it doesn't last for more than a minute. His joviality isn't contagious.

"I was about to.... Then you guys busted in," I admit.

"She wants you, man. She's got it as bad as you do. Trust me."

I shake my head. "She doesn't."

"She does." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "She told Emily. Emily told me." He pauses and then says, "You're welcome."

"What did she say?" I ask. I probably don't want to know.

"She said she wants to have your babies." He jumps back when I go to punch him, and he laughs.

"Shut up," I say. "This is serious."

"Why's it so serious all of a sudden?" Logan asks. "This shit's been going on between you two for a long time. Why does it suddenly matter so much?"

"The contest is today. They're raffling off a kiss from her." I heave a sigh. "One lucky winner is going to get to kiss the woman I love. In front of everybody."

"Oh, fuck," Logan breathes. "That's shit."

"I asked her not to go," I confess.

"So, go buy all the tickets," he says with a shrug, as though he just solved world poverty or AIDS.

"It doesn't work like that. You have to guess the number of jelly beans in her jar. If you get the wrong number, you don't get anything. If you get the right number, you get to kiss her."

"So, we need to figure out how many jelly beans are in her jar," he says simply. He looks at me. "Did you see the jar?"

I nod. "It's a pickle jar." I hold out my hands to show him the size. "The big kind."

"So we need a jar that size, and we need to fill it with jelly beans and then count them. At least then you can get close, right?"

I scrub a hand down my face. "This is stupid. I'll never get it. Every guess costs a dollar." I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. It's nearly empty.

"You're just going to let somebody else kiss her?"

"If I'm not there, I won't see it." I shrug my shoulders, trying to hide the fact that I feel as if I'm being gutted.

He stares at me. He doesn't say anything. "If it were Emily, I'd buy every fucking pickle and every damn jelly bean in the state of New York. There's no way my girl would kiss some asshole."

"You're right," I say. "We need to go to the store." Hope swells inside me. Do I have a chance? I won't know until I try, I guess.

Logan and I go shopping, and after we get all our supplies, he looks at me and says, "I hope you like pickles, dude, because we're going to have to eat this whole jar so we can fill it with jelly beans."

I look at the jar. "I don't like pickles that much. You?"

Logan pops the top while we walk back to the dorm and starts eating. This is what friendship is all about. He crunches each bite over and over until he swallows, and then he reaches for a second one and passes it to me, taking another for himself. He stops a stranger on the street. "You want a pickle?" he asks. The stranger sidesteps him. "What?" he asks. "You act like it's every day somebody offers you a free pickle."

The man keeps going. "Dude, I think he thought you mean a pickle." I make air quotes when I say the word pickle.

"How could I mean a pickle when I'm standing here holding a jar of pickles?" he asks.

I shrug. "You didn't look like his type anyway."

"I'm too pretty for him, right?" he asks. Logan's all tatted up, on top of being huge.

"That has to be it."

By the time we get to the dorm, all but two pickles are gone, and we've left a trail of people eating pickles in our wake.

I burp into my closed fist. "I'll never eat another pickle again."

Logan dumps the last two in the bushes outside the dorm. "I can't eat another one, man," he says, belching.

He washes out the jar and dries it, and then we start dumping jelly beans into the empty container. Bag after bag goes in. When it's full, I look at Logan and say, "How many is that?"

"You weren't counting?" he asks.

"Was I supposed to?"

"Shit," he says. Then he dumps them onto the bed, and we start to count.

I'm going to win this contest if it's the last thing I ever do. "If I buy twenty numbers, ten before and after our count, do you think I'll be safe? I only have twenty dollars left after the pickles."

He points to my phone. "You have FaceTime on that thing?" he asks.

I nod and pass it to him. He opens it up and props it on the desk in front of him. It rings, and finally, Logan's oldest brother, Paul, answers. He stares at the screen until he recognizes Logan.

"What the fuck do you want?" he asks. "And whose phone are you calling from?" He's signing while he talks out loud.

Logan laughs and pulls me into the frame. "It's Sean's."

"What up, Sean?" Paul asks.

I wave.

"You got any cash?" Logan asks.

Paul's eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Sean needs to buy a kiss from his girl."

Paul's brow rises. "You paying for sex now, dude?" he asks. He holds up his hands when I start to protest. "Not that I think that's a bad idea or anything. Man's got to do what a man's got to do."

I laugh. I can't help it. "I can't ask you for money, man. Don't worry about it. Logan shouldn't have called you."

But Logan rushes on. "So, you got any money?" he asks.

Paul heaves a sigh and empties his pockets. I see a few dollars float around. He yells toward the back of his apartment. "Sam! Matt!" Both brothers walk into the room.

"You bellowed?" Matt says.

"Asswipe there needs some cash so he can buy a hooker." He points toward me.

"She's not a hooker," I protest.

But Logan's laughing like hell by now. And Matt and Sam look amused, too.

"Cash?" Logan asks.

"Some," Paul says.

"Can you bring it?"

"Where?"

"To school. To the kissing booth. In the quad."

Paul heaves a sigh. "I'll be there." The phone goes dead.

"Do you think we'll have enough?" I'm getting anxious now.

"You'll have more than you thought you did." Logan claps a hand onto my shoulder and squeezes.

God, I hope this works.

Lacey

I groan loudly as soon as the door closes behind Sean and Logan. "Aghh!" I want to hit something. I want to scream. I want to...kiss Sean. I want to kiss him so bad.

"Spill it," Friday says as she sits down beside Emily and props her head in her hand. She doesn't say anything more. She just waits.

"I don't even know where to start." My voice cracks, and I hate that it does.

"Start at the ending," Emily says. "What was happening when we barged in?"

"Nothing," I grunt. "Not a thing. Just like always."

"There was something going on. Something more than the usual sexual tension between you two. Did he finally make a move?"

I shake my head. He didn't. Not really. "He hinted that he might make a move. So, I gave him an opening. That's all."

"He was taking it," Friday says. "The opening that is."

Emily grins. "He wanted to take her opening, all right." She snorts.

I throw a pillow at her, but she just catches it.

"I thought this kissing thing would make him step up. But I guess he just doesn't care as much as I thought he did."

"He cares," Emily says.

I shake my head. "He doesn't."

"He does. He told Logan. Logan told me."

My belly flutters. "Logan must be hearing things."

Emily snorts again.

"I mean..."

"I know what you meant," Emily says, smiling. "Logan can be pretty intuitive about some things. And he feels certain that Sean wants you. Bad. And Sean said as much."

Friday bites her lip, then adds, "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but..."

"What?" I ask.

"You know how he got a new tattoo last week?" she asks.

I didn't know so I don't answer. "What did he get?" I ask instead.

She inhales, weighing her decision to tell me. Then she blurts out, "It's a honeybee."

"Oh shit," I say.

"What?" Emily asks. "What did I miss?"

"He calls me honey when he's being all sweet."

Friday nods.

"I blew it when I told him I just want to be friends."

"Logan says boyfriends are friends that get to make girls come." Emily snickers. She gets this dreamy look on her face and sighs. "Over and over and over."

"What if I blew my chance forever?" I ask. Tears sting my eyes.

"Oh, don't cry," Friday says. "You'll mess up your makeup."

"You look hot, by the way," Emily says.

"Thanks," I murmur.

I adjust the top of my dress. I never show this much cleavage. "I better get down to the booth. The sale will only last an hour, and then the kiss happens."

Emily frowns. "What happens when you have to kiss some strange guy?" she asks.

"Then I guess I get to kiss some strange guy." I shrug. I can't get out of it now. "I'd hoped that Sean would, you know... But he didn't."

"You've got yourself in quite a predicament," Emily says.

I flop down in a chair. "Tell me about it."

"Why did you want to be just friends?" Friday asks. "I don't think you ever told me. It's pretty damn obvious you have feelings for him."

"I was afraid," I admit. "I can't live without him. He's my best friend. What if we start dating and then it all falls apart? I will lose him forever." I shake my head. "I just can't let that happen." I wince. "I may have made a mistake giving him that piece of paper, but I'm going to chance it. If I don't, I'll never know. I love him. I just need for him to love me back."

"What mistake?" Emily asks.

"What piece of paper?" Friday asks right after.

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter. He'll either show up or he won't."

I slide on my sandals and pick up my jar of jelly beans. It's big and heavy, but I don't have to walk too far. "You guys want to come?" I ask.

Friday snorts this time. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

We walk up to the booth, and I set up my display. Emily and Friday help me take pledges for a solid hour. People write their names and guesses on a piece of paper, and Friday sorts through them as they turn them in, tossing out the ones that aren't even close. We keep the two closest to the actual number, both over and under. There will only be one winner, but it's whoever comes the closest that will get to kiss me.

I see Sean in the crowd. He's walking with Logan and three of his brothers. There's a wide path around them. They are some fearsome-looking boys, that's for sure. They're also head-turners in every sense of the word. But none of the Reed boys are as handsome as Sean. His brown eyes meet mine, and he looks away. He pulls his baseball cap down low, shielding his eyes in shadow so I can't even see them.

Logan hands me a ten-dollar bill and ten guesses.

"Oh, I don't think so," Emily breathes.

He winks at her, and she crosses her arms under her breasts. He crooks a finger at her, and she shakes her head. She signs something to him really quickly. He laughs out loud and signs back. All the tension leaves her body, and she deflates.

"I'm not going to kiss you," I tell Logan. "Give him his money back." I motion toward Emily.

But she just sorts through his entries and keeps one out to the side. I take it from her. It's close. It's really close.

"Emily," I warn.

She smiles at me. I have no idea what's going on.

Logan's brothers all have guesses, too, and each of them hands me a stack of tickets. Emily and Friday sort through them and pull another one out, discarding the one that belonged to Logan. Thank God. Emily would kill me if I kissed her boyfriend. I wouldn't be able to do it. I just wouldn't.

So far, Logan's brother Matt is the closest, but I can't tell him that.

Friday and Emily keep taking the money as I talk with the men who stop to buy tickets. When the hour is up, my heart is racing and my pits are sweating. Logan hands me a tissue and points to my brow. I blot it dry.

On the hour, the bell rings and the announcer calls me to the stage. "And now for the results of the kissing contest," the announcer says. He looks at Friday who has the winning ticket in her hand. "Do we have a winner?"

She nods and walks across the stage. She stops and takes a bow when she gets catcalls and whistles. She's very Katy Perry-pretty with her tattoos, vintage dress, and old-fashioned hairstyle. She puts the winning ticket in the announcer's extended hand.

"And the winner is," he sings. He waits, opening the folded piece of paper slowly, drawing out the suspense. I can barely hear him over my own heartbeat, which is thumping like crazy. Is it too late to back out? Shit. I don't want to do this. "The winner is the person who guessed twelve hundred and forty-eight!"

The crowd is silent, and all the participants look to one another. But then I hear a thump, thump, thump, thump as someone comes up the stairs onto the platform. I see the baseball cap before I see the rest of him, and I hope to God that's Sean's cap. But Sean didn't even buy a ticket. Not a single one.

Yet it's his brown gaze that meets mine. It's his baseball cap, and they are his tattoos. They're his broad shoulders and his long strides that eat up the distance between us.

He turns his hat backward and looks down at me. He stops with less than an inch to spare between us. "Congratulations," I squeak out. "You didn't even buy a ticket. How did you...?"

"I bought one hundred and forty-two tickets, dummy," he says.

My heart trips a beat. "You did?" All he had to buy was one. I put the winning number on the piece of paper I gave him.

He nods, and he takes my face in his hands. His thumbs draw little circles on my cheeks as his fingers thread into the hair at my temples.

"You didn't look at the paper I gave you...." My heart is pounding like mad.

"What paper?" he asks. His smile is soft and inviting, and I want to fall into him.

"The one you put in your pocket."

His brow furrows.

"Never mind," I say, breathless. He spent 142 dollars for a kiss he already owned in more ways than one. If I loved this man any more, it would be dangerous.

He looks down into my eyes, not moving. He's going to kiss me, right? "What's the plan here?"

"I'm going to kiss my girl," he says, smiling at me.

My breath hitches.

"But you have to say yes, first." He hasn't let me go. He's holding me tightly, forcing me to meet his eyes. "This isn't going to be a one-time thing."

I can't even think, and he wants me to commit?

"It's not," I breathe.

"You promise?" His gaze searches mine like he's going to find the secrets to the universe there.

"I swear on your life," I say.

He chuckles. "My life?"

I nod.

His eyebrows draw together. "Aren't you supposed to swear on your own life?"

"My life means nothing if you're not in it."

His hands start to tremble against my face, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Logan's brothers start to chant, "Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss...," and the crowd joins in.

"You better kiss me," I say, "or they're going to get restless." A tear rolls down my cheek, and he brushes it back with his thumb, his gaze soft and warm.

His eyes open, and he leans closer to me. I step onto my tiptoes to get to him because I can't wait one more second. He stops a breath away from me, just like he did in the room. He waits. "You have to close the distance," he says to me. He's making me choose.

I fall into him and press my lips to his. He freezes. But then he starts to kiss me. And all the fireworks at the state fair couldn't compare to the ones that go off in my head. His lips are gentle but urgent. They're kind but insistent. They're soft but firm. His head tilts, and he licks across the seam of my lips. I open for him, a whimper leaving my throat completely unbidden. His tongue touches mine, and the velvet rasp of him searching my mouth makes my knees begin to shake. I tangle my tongue with his, and nothing ever felt so right as being with him. God, this man can kiss. He steals my thoughts, taking me inside him and refusing to let me go. I don't want to let go. I want to kiss him forever and never even come up for air.

Somewhere in the distance I hear the announcer as he coughs into the microphone, but I don't care. And neither does Sean. He kisses me and keeps on kissing me until he wipes the memory of every other kiss I have ever experienced from my head. There will never be another kiss like this. Not for me. He's the one. He will always be the one.

"We're going to have to get the hose, I think," the announcer says. I open my eyes, and Sean opens his at exactly the same time. His withdraws his tongue from my mouth and closes his lips, kissing me quickly, again and again, and then he lets me go. I wobble on my feet, and he reaches out a hand to steady me, chuckling as he does.

"You okay?" he asks. He holds onto my elbow until he slings an arm around my shoulders.

I nod. I can't speak. I can't gather enough wits.

The crowd goes wild. Sean takes my hand and leads me to the edge of the stage. My wobbly knees will barely carry me, but I follow. Logan and his brothers high five Sean as we approach, and Emily and Friday just laugh.

"How was it?" Emily asks.

I don't need to answer. They can see it on my face. I look up at Sean, and he smiles down at me. He's everything I ever wanted. I can't imagine my life without him. "Earth-shattering," I admit. He squeezes me, his face glowing. I narrow my gaze and smack my lips. "But for some reason, he tastes like pickles."

"Oh my God," Emily squeals. "So does Logan!" She shoots them a quizzical glance.

Sean flushes scarlet. There's a story there. I just don't know what it is. But he'll tell me. I won't let him avoid it.

He reaches into his pocket and pops a handful of jelly beans into his mouth. Logan does the same. Logan points to Sean's mouth. "Dude," he says. "That color's not great on you."

I look at Sean again, and my lipstick is smudged all over his lips. I laugh. I must look a sight if he looks like that. He wipes at the corners of my lips with his thumbs. "Next time, I'll wear pink," I whisper.

"I don't care what you wear," he says. His gaze is hot, and my belly flips. "I'd like to see you wearing nothing." He looks into my eyes, his expression full of longing. He presses his lips to mine briefly. "I can't get used to the fact that I can kiss you whenever I want."

"Says who?" I taunt.

"That's what boyfriends do, Lacey," he says, as if he needs to remind me. My stomach flutters again. I step onto my tiptoes and pull his head down to mine. I kiss him, holding onto the back of his neck, until we're both breathless, and I'm whimpering.

"Yea," I agree. "That's what boyfriends do."

If you haven't read Tall, Tatted and Tempting, Smart, Sexy and Secretive, or Calmly, Carefully, Completely, you can keep reading for a sneak peek at each of the books! They're all part of The Reed Brothers series.

Tall, Tatted, and Tempting

Smart, Sexy, and Secretive

Calmly, Carefully, Completely

Finally Finding Faith

Tall, Tatted, and Tempting

Book 1 in The Reed Brothers Series

Logan

I don't know her name, but she looks familiar to me. She's a tight package in a short skirt that makes me imagine the curves under her plump little ass. That skirt is made to draw attention, and she has all of mine. I'm so hard I can't get up from behind the table where I'm drawing a tat for a client on paper. I reach down and adjust my junk, the metallic scrape of the zipper against my dick not nearly enough to calm my raging hard on. I shouldn't have gone commando today. I hope Paul did some laundry this morning.

Her nipples are hard beneath the ribbed shirt she's wearing, and she pulls her sleeve back to show me something. But I can't take my eyes from her tits long enough to look at them. She shoves her wrist toward my face, and I have to jerk my eyes away. Shit. She caught me. I would tell her I'm a guy, I can't help it...or at least I would if I could talk.

I see her mouth move out of the corner of my eye. She's talking to me. Or at least she's mouthing something at me. No one really talks to me since I can't hear. I haven't heard a word since I was thirteen years old. She's talking again. When I don't answer, she looks at my oldest brother Paul, who rolls his eyes and smacks the center of his head with his fist.

"Stop looking at her tits, dumbass." He says the words as he signs them, and her face flushes. But there's a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth at the same time.

I roll my eyes and sign back. Shut up. She's fucking beautiful.

He translates for her. I would groan aloud, but I don't. No sound has left my throat since I lost my hearing. Well, I talked for a while after that. But not for long. Not after a boy on the playground said I sounded like a frog. Now I don't talk at all. It's better that way.

"He says you're beautiful," he tells her. "That's why he was ogling your tits like a twelve-year-old."

I flip him off, and he laughs, holding out his hands like he's surrendering to the cops. "What?" he asks, still signing. But she can hear him. "If you're going to be rude and sign around her, I'm going to tell her what you say."

Like I have another choice besides signing. You never heard of a secret code between brothers? I sign.

"You start whispering secrets in my ear, dickhead, and I'll knock your head off your shoulders."

You can try, asswipe.

He laughs. "He's talking all romantic to me," he tells her. "Something about kissing his ass." She's grinning now. The smile hits me hard enough I'd be on my knees if I wasn't stuck behind that table. She brushes a strand of jet-black hair back from her face, tucking it—along with a lock of light blue—behind her ear.

I watch her open her mouth to start to speak. But she looks over at my brother instead. "He can read lips?" she asks.

"Depends on how much he likes you," my brother says with a shrug. "Or how ornery he's feeling that day." He raises his eyebrows at me, and then his gaze travels toward the tabletop. Shit. He saw me adjust my junk. "I'd say he likes you a lot."

This time, she closes her eyes tightly, wincing as she smiles. She doesn't say anything. But then she looks directly at me and says, "I want a tattoo." She points toward the front of the store. She's still talking, but I can't see her lips move if she's not looking at me. I want to follow her face, to jump up so I can watch those cherry-red lips move as she speaks to me. To me. God knows she's speaking to me. But I don't. I force myself to keep my seat. She looks back at me as she finishes talking and her lips form an O.

"Sorry," she says. "You didn't catch any of that, did you?" She heaves a sigh and says, "The girl up front said to see you for a tattoo."

I look over at my brother who just finished a tat and isn't working on anything at the moment. Friday—really, that's her name—laughs and signs, "You're welcome."

I scratch my head and grin. Friday set me up. She does it all the time. And sometimes it works out well. She sends all the hot girls to me. And the not-so-hot girls. And the girls who want to sleep with the deaf guy because they heard he's amazing in the sack. I'm the guy they don't have to talk to. I'm the guy they don't have to pretend with because I wouldn't know what they're saying regardless.

If this girl is just there to sleep with me, we can skip all the tattoo nonsense.

"Don't even think about it," my brother says. "She wants a tat. That's all."

How do you know what she wants?

I just know, he signs. This time he doesn't speak the words. Don't try to lay this one.

I hold my hands up in question asking him why. "She's not from around here," he says, but he signs, Not our kind.

Oh, I get it. She's from the other side of the tracks. I don't mind. She might be rich, but she would still love what I can do for her. I reach for her hand and squeeze it gently so she'll look at me. I flip her hand over and point to her wrist. My fingers play across the iridescent blue veins beneath her tender skin, and I draw a circle with the tip of my finger asking her, Here?

Her mouth falls open. Goose bumps rise along her arm. Hell, yeah, I'm good at this.

I stand up and touch the side of her neck, and she brushes my hand away, shaking her head. Her lips are pressed tightly together.

I look directly at her boobs and lick my lips. Then I reach out and drag one finger down the slope of her breast. Here? I mouth.

I don't even see it coming. Her tiny fist slams into my nose. I've had girls slap me before, but I've never had one punch me in the face. Fuck, that hurt. The wet, coppery taste of blood slides over my lips, and I reach up to wipe it away. My nose is gushing. Paul thrusts a towel in my hands and tilts my head back.

Fuck, that hurts. He presses the bridge of my nose, and I can't see his mouth or his hands over the bunched-up towel, so I have no idea if he's talking to me. Or if he's just laughing his ass off. He lifts the towel, but blood trickles down over my lips again. I see her standing there for a brief second, her fists clenched at her sides as she watches me suffer.

Shit, that hurts.

Then she turns on the heels of her black boots and walks away. I want to call out to her to get her to stay. I would say I'm sorry, but I can't. I can't call her back to me. I start to rise, but Paul shoves me back into the chair. Sit down, he signs. I think it might be broken.

I see a piece of paper on the floor and it's crumpled. I take the towel from Paul and press it to my nose, pointing to the piece of paper. He picks it up and looks at it. "Did she drop this?" he asks.

I nod. It's damp from her sweaty palms. I unfold it and look down. It's an intricate design, and you have to look hard to find the hidden pictures. I see a guitar, the strings broken and sticking out at odd angles. At the end of the strings are small blossoms. I turn the picture, looking over the towel I'm still holding to my nose with one hand. Paul replaces it with a clean one. My nose is still bleeding. Son of a bitch. I look closer at the blossoms. They're not blossoms at all. They're teeny, tiny shackles. Like handcuffs but more medieval. Most people would see the beauty of that drawing. But I see pain. I see things she probably wouldn't want anyone to see.

Shit. I fucked up. Now I want more than anything to know what this tat means. It's obviously more than just a pretty drawing. Just like she might be more than just a pretty face. Or she might not be. She might be a bitch with a mean right hook that will eat my balls for lunch if I look at her the wrong way.

I spin the drawing in my hands and look around the shop. It's late, and no one is waiting. I punch Paul in the shoulder and point to the drawing. Then I point to the inside of my own wrist. It's the only place on my whole arm that's not tatted up already. I have full sleeves because my brothers have been practicing on me since long before it was legal to do so.

No, Paul signs with first two fingers and his thumb, slapping them together. You've lost your mind if you think I'm going to put that on you.

He walks toward the front of the store and sits down beside Friday. He's been trying to get in her pants since she started here. It's too bad she has a girlfriend.

I get out my supplies. I've done more intricate tats on myself. I can do this one.

He stalks back to the back of the shop where I'm setting up. "I'll run it," he says. "You're going to do it anyway."

I hold up one finger. One change.

What do you want to change? He looks down at the design, and his brow furrows as he takes in the shapes and the colors, the handcuffs and the guitar and the prickly thorns. And I wonder if he also sees her misery. That's some heavy shit, he signs. He signs a lot when it's just me and him. I'm kind of glad. It's like we speak the same language when we're alone.

I nod, and I start prepping my arm with alcohol as he gloves up.

Emily

It has been two days since I punched that asshole in the tattoo shop, and my hand still hurts. I've been busking in the subway tunnel by Central Park, and it's somewhat more difficult to play my guitar when my hand feels like it does. But this tunnel is one of my favorite spots because the kids stop to listen to me. They like the music, and it makes them smile. Smiling is something leftover from my old life. I don't get to do it much, and I enjoy it even less. But I like it when the kids look up at me with all that innocence and they grin. There's so much promise in their faces. It reminds me of how I used to be, way back when.

I'm considering singing today. I don't do it every time I play, but I am seriously low on funds. The more attention I get, the more change I'll get to take home with me. Home is a relative term. Home is wherever I find to sleep that night.

I'm sitting on the cold cement floor of the tunnel, back a ways from the rush of feet with my guitar case open in front of me. In it, there are some quarters, and a little old lady stopped a few minutes ago and tossed in a fiver while I played "Bridge Over Troubled Water." Old ladies usually like that one. They haven't seen troubled waters.

I'm wearing my school-girl outfit, too, because I get more attention from men when I wear it. It's a short plaid skirt and a black ribbed short sleeve top that fits me like a second skin. Ladies don't seem to mind it, and men love it. I sure got a lot of attention from that asshole two days ago. He was hot, I had to admit. He had shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway and a head full of sandy-blond curls. He towered over me when he stood up from behind that table, at least a head and shoulders taller than me. Tattoos filled up all the empty space that used to be his forearms, and it was kind of hot. He had lips painted on his left arm, and I wanted to ask him what those were. Were they to remember someone? A first kiss, maybe? Or did they mean something the way the tattoo I wanted did?

I'd dropped my tattoo design as I ran out of the shop, which pisses me off. I thought I had it clutched in my hand, and when I'd stopped to take a breath, it was gone. I'd almost expected the asshole to follow me, but he was still bleeding when I'd left him.

I shake out the pain in my hand again. A towheaded boy stops in front of me, his hand full of pennies. He is a regular, and his mother had stopped to pray over me once, so I switch my song to "Jesus Loves Me." Jesus doesn't. If He did, He wouldn't have made me like I am. He would have made me normal. The boy's mother sings along with my tune, and the boy dips his face into her thigh, hugging it tightly as she sings. When the song is over, he drops his handful of pennies into my guitar case, the thud of each one hitting the felt as quietly as a whisper.

I never say thank you or talk to the kids. I don't talk to the adults unless they ask me something specific. I just play my music. Sometimes I sing, but I really don't like to draw that much attention to myself. Except, today, I need to draw attention to myself. I had saved up three hundred dollars, which would pay for a place to sleep and that tattoo I thought I needed, but someone had stolen it while I was asleep at the shelter last night. I'd made the mistake of falling asleep with it in my pocket instead of tucking it in my bra. When I woke up, it was gone. I don't know why they didn't take my guitar. Probably because I was sleeping with it in my arms, clutched to me like a mother with her child.

I wish I'd gotten the tattoo yesterday. It was a useless expense, but it was my nineteenth birthday, and it's been a long time since anyone has done anything for me. So, I was giving it to myself. And trying to free myself in the process. Who was I kidding? I'll never be free.

This city is hard. It's mean. It's nothing like where I came from. But now it's home. I like the noise of the city and the bustle of the people. I like the different ethnicities. I'd never seen so many skin colors, eye shapes, and body types as I did when I got here.

A girl reaches her chubby hand to touch my strings, and I smile and intercept her hand by taking it in mine, instead. Her hands are soft and a little damp from where her first finger was shoved in her mouth just a minute ago. I toy with her fingers while I make an O with my mouth.

Her mother smacks her hand away with a sharp, cracking blow to her forearm, and the girl's eyes immediately fill with tears. You didn't have to do that, I think. She didn't mean any harm. But the mother drags the crying child with her toward the subway and picks her up when she doesn't move quickly enough.

I draw a small crowd between subway arrivals, and one man yells out, "Do you take requests?"

I nod, and keep on smiling, playing with all I'm worth. He calls out, "I think you should suck my dick, then." One of his buddies punches him in the shoulder and he laughs.

College kid. His mama never taught him any manners. I let my eyes roam over the crowd, and no one corrects him. So, I start to play "All the Wishing in the World" by Matt Monroe. The irony is lost on the jock, and they walk away as the train pulls in behind them.

The platform fills with new people getting off the train, so I switch to some more familiar tunes. Money drops into my case, and I see a dollar float down. I nod and smile as the person walks by, but she's not looking at me. A big pair of scuffed work boots steps up beside my case next. I look at them for a minute and then up over the worn jeans and the blue T-shirt that's stretched across broad shoulders. And then I'm looking into the same sky-blue eyes as the other day. My pick stumbles across the strings. I wince. His eyes narrow at me, but he can't hear my mistake, can he? His head tilts to the side, and I turn my body to face the other direction.

My butt is freezing and my legs are aching from sitting on the cold floor for so long. But I don't have anywhere else to go. My three weeks at the shelter were up yesterday. So, I have to find somewhere new to sleep tonight. I look down into my case. There's enough there for dinner—but not for anything else. So, I keep playing.

Those boots move over so that he's standing in front of me. I scoot to the side and look everywhere but at him. But then he drops down beside me, his legs crossed criss-cross-applesauce style in front of me. He has tape across the bridge of his nose, and it makes me feel competent for some reason. There are very few things in my life that I can control, and someone touching my body is one of them. I say when. I say where. I say with who. Just like in Pretty Woman. Only Stucky would never get to backhand me. I'd take him out first.

Tattoo guy leans on one butt cheek so he can pull out his wallet, and he throws in a twenty. He doesn't say anything, but he points to my guitar and raises his brow. I don't know what he wants, and he can't tell me, so I just look at him. I don't want to acknowledge his presence, but he's sitting with his knee an inch from mine.

When I don't respond, he puts a hand on my guitar. He points to me and strums at the air like he's playing a guitar. I realize I've stopped playing. But he did put a twenty in my case, so I suppose I owe him. I start to play "I'm Just a Gigolo." I love that tune, and love playing it. After a minute, his eyebrows draw together, and he points to his lips.

I shake my head because I don't know what he's asking. Either he wants me to kiss him or I have something on my face. I swipe the back of my hand across my lips. Not that. And the other isn't going to happen.

He shakes his head quickly and retrieves a small dry-erase board from his backpack.

Sing, he writes.

I have to concentrate really hard to read it, and there are too many distractions here in the tunnel, so I don't want him to write anymore. I just shake my head. I don't want to encourage him to keep writing. I could read the word sing, but I can't read everything. Or anything, sometimes.

He holds his hand up to his mouth and spreads his fingers like someone throwing up. I draw my head back, but I keep on playing.

Why does he want me to sing? He can't hear it. But I start to sing softly, anyway. He smiles and nods. And then he laughs when he sees the words of the song on my lips. He shakes his head and motions for me to continue.

I forgot he can read lips. I can talk to him, but he can't talk back. I play all the way to the end of the song, and some people have now stopped to listen. Maybe I should sing every time.

He writes something on the board. But I flip it over and lay it on the concrete. I don't want to talk to him. I wish he would go away.

He throws up his hands but not in an "I'm going to knock you out" sort of way. In a "what am I going to do with you" way. He motions for me to keep playing. His fingers rest on my guitar, like he's feeling the vibrations of it. But what he's concentrating on most is my mouth. It's almost unnerving.

A cop stops beside us and clears his throat. I scramble to gather my money and drop it in my pocket. I've made about thirty-two dollars. That's more than the nickel I had when I started. I pack up my guitar, and Blue Eyes scowls. He looks kind of like someone just took his favorite toy.

He starts to scribble on the board and holds it up, but I'm already walking away.

He follows after me, tugging on my arm. I have all my worldly possessions in a canvas bag over my right shoulder and my guitar case in my left hand, so when he tugs me, it almost topples me over. But he steadies me, slides the bag off my shoulder in one quick move and puts it on his own. I hold fiercely to it, and he pries my fingers off the strap with a grimace. What the heck?

"Give me my bag," I say, and I plant my feet. I'm ready to hit him again if that's what it takes. But he smiles, shakes his head, and starts to walk away. I follow him, but getting him to stop is like stopping a boulder from rolling downhill once it gets started.

He keeps walking with me hanging on to his arm like I'm a Velcro monkey. But then he stops, and he walks into a diner in the middle of the city. I follow him, and he slides into a booth, putting my bag on the bench on the inside, beside him. He motions to the other side of the bench. He wants me to sit? I punched him in the nose two days ago, and now he wants to have a meal with me? Maybe he just wants his twenty dollars back. I reach in my pocket and pull it out, feeling its loss as I slap it down on the table. He presses his lips together and hands it back to me, pointing again to the seat opposite him.

The smell of the grill hits me, and I realize I haven't eaten today. Not once. My stomach growls out loud. Thank God he can't hear it. He motions toward the bench again and takes my guitar from my hand, sliding it under the table.

I sit down, and he looks at the menu. He passes one to me, and I shake my head. He raises an eyebrow at me. The waitress stops and says, "What can I get you?"

He points to the menu, and she nods. "You got it, Logan," she says with a wink. He grins back at her. His name is Logan?

"Who's your friend?" she asks of him.

He shrugs.

She eyes the bandages across his nose. "What happened?" she asks.

He points to me and punches a fist toward his face, but he's grinning when he does it. She laughs. I don't think she believes it.

"What can I get for you?" she asks me.

"What's good?" I reply.

"Everything." She cracks her gum when she's talking to me. She didn't do that when she talked to Logan.

"What did you get?" I ask Logan. He looks up at the waitress and bats those thick lashes that veil his blue eyes.

"Burger and fries," she tells me.

Thank God. "I'll have the same." I point to him. "And he's buying." I smile at her. She doesn't look amused. "And a root beer," I add at the last minute.

He holds up two fingers when I say root beer. She nods and scribbles it down.

"Separate checks?" she asks Logan.

He points a finger at his chest, and she nods as she walks away.

"They know you here?" I ask.

He nods. Silence would be an easy thing to get used to with this guy, I think.

The waitress returns with two root beers, two straws, and a bowl of chips and salsa. "On the house," she says as she plops them down.

I dive for them like I've never seen food before. Now that I think about it, I can't remember if I ate yesterday, either. Sometimes it's like that. I get so busy surviving that I forget to eat. Or I can't afford it.

"How's your brother doing?" the waitress asks quietly.

He scribbles something on the board and shows it to her.

"Chemo can be tough," she says. "Tell him we're praying for him, will you?" she asks. He nods, and she squeezes his shoulder before she walks away.

"Your brother has cancer?" I ask, none too gently. I don't realize it until the words hang there in the air. His face scrunches up and he nods.

"Is he going to be all right?" I ask. I stop eating and watch his face.

He shrugs.

"Oh," I say. "I'm sorry."

He nods.

"Is it the brother I met? A the tattoo parlor?"

He shakes his head.

"How many brothers do you have?"

He holds up four fingers.

"Older? Or younger?"

He raises his hand above his head and shows me two fingers. Then lowers it like someone is shorter than he is and makes two fingers.

"Two older and two younger?" I ask.

He nods.

I wish I could ask him more questions.

He writes something on the board, and I sigh heavily and throw my head back in defeat. This part of it is torturous. I would rather have someone pull my teeth with a pair of pliers than read. But his brother has freaking cancer. The least I can do is try.

I look down at it, and the words blur for me. I try to unscramble them, but it's too hard. I shove the board back toward him.

He narrows his eyes at me and scrubs the board clean. He writes one word and turns it around.

You, it says. He points to me.

I point to myself. "Me?"

He nods and swipes the board clean. He writes another word and shows it to me.

"Can't," I say.

He nods and writes another word. He's spacing the letters far enough apart that they're not jumbled together in my head, but it's still hard.

My lips falter over the last word, but I say, "Read." Then I realize that I just told him I can't read. "Wait! I can read!" I protest.

He writes another word: Well.

He knows I can read. Air escapes me in a big, gratified rush. "I can read," I repeat. "I can't read well, but..." I let my words trail off.

He nods quickly, as though he's telling me he understands. He points to me and then at the board, moving two fingers over it like a pair of eyes, and then he gives me a thumbs-up.

My heart is beating so fast it's hard to breathe. I read the damn words, didn't I? "At least I can talk!" I say. I want to take the words back as soon as they leave my lips, but it's too late. I slap a hand over my lips when his face falls. He shakes his head, bites his lip, and gets up. "I'm sorry," I say. I am. I really am. He walks away, but he doesn't take his backpack with him.

While he's gone, a man approaches the table. He's a handsome black man with tall, natural hair. Everyone calls him Bone, but I don't know what his real name is. I just know he's trouble. Everyone knows that.

"Who's the chump, Kit?" he asks. The people in this city who know me call me Kit. It couldn't be farther from my real name.

"None of your business," I say, taking a sip of my root beer. I fill my mouth up with a chip and hope he goes away before Logan comes back. And I hope deep inside that Logan will come back so I can apologize.

Logan slides back into the booth. He looks up at Bone and doesn't acknowledge him. He just looks at him.

"You got a place to sleep tonight, Kit?" Bone asks.

"Yeah," I reply. "I'm fine."

"I could use a girl like you," Bone says.

"I'll keep that in mind." It doesn't pay to piss Bone off. He walks away.

"You all right?" I ask Logan.

He nods, brushing his curls from his forehead.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. And I mean it. I really do.

He nods again.

"It's not your fault you can't talk. And..." My voice falls off. I've never talked to anyone about this. "It's not my fault I can't read well."

He nods.

"I'm not stupid," I rush to say.

He nods again and waves his hands to shut me up. He places a finger to his lips like he wants me to be quiet.

"Okay," I grumble.

He writes on the board, and I groan, visibly folding. I hate to do it, but I can't take it. "I should go," I say. I reach for my bag.

He takes the board and puts it in his backpack. He gets it, I think. I'd rather play twenty questions than I would try to read words.

He opens his mouth and I hear a noise. He stops, grits his teeth, and then a sound like a murmur in a cavern comes out of his mouth.

"You can talk?" I ask. He put me through reading when he can talk?

He shakes his head and bites his lips together. I shush and wait. "Maybe," he says. It comes out quiet and soft and his consonants are as smooth as his vowels. "Just don't tell anyone."

I draw a cross over my heart, which is swelling with something I don't understand.

"What's your name?" he asks. He signs while he says it. It's halting, and he has to stop between words, like when I'm reading.

"People call me Kit," I tell him.

He shakes his head. "But what's your name?" he asks again.

I shake my head. "No."

He nods again. The waitress brings the burgers, and he smiles at her. She squeezes his shoulder again.

When she's gone, I ask him, "Why are you talking to me?"

"I want to." He heaves a sigh and starts to eat his burger.

"You don't talk to anyone else?"

He shakes his head.

"Ever?"

He shakes his head again.

"Why me?"

He shrugs.

We eat in silence. I was hungrier than I thought, and I clear my plate. He doesn't say anything else, but he eats his food and pushes his plate to the edge of the table. He puts mine on the top of it and looks for the waitress over his shoulder. I'm almost sorry the meal is over. We shared a companionable silence for more than a half hour. I kind of like it.

He gets the waitress's attention and holds up two fingers. He's asking for two checks. I should have known. I pull my money from my pocket. He closes his hand on mine and shakes his head. The waitress appears with two huge pieces of apple pie. I haven't had apple pie since I left home. Tears prick at the backs of my lashes, and I don't know how to stop them. "Dammit," I say to myself.

He reaches over and wipes beneath my eyes with the pads of his thumbs. "It's just pie," he says.

I nod because I can't talk past the lump in my throat.

Smart, Sexy, and Secretive

Book 2 in The Reed Brothers Series

Emily

My dad doesn't want me to go back to New York. He's wholeheartedly opposed to it. But New York is where my heart is. It's where Logan is. And we're in a plane on our way there right now.

I met Logan in the fall. He took care of me when I needed a place to stay, and I took care of him when his brother got sick with cancer. Matt needed an expensive medical treatment, and the only way to get the money was for me to suck it up and take one for the team. So, I did. I went back to California, leaving the only man I've ever loved in New York, and returned to my estranged family—the one I'd run away from. Matt went into treatment, paid for by my father, and Logan went on with his life.

I have wanted to contact him so many times. But talking is difficult between us. Logan is deaf, and he communicates by writing. I have dyslexia, and reading is hard for me. So letters and phone calls are not possible for us. The Reed family is poor, and they don't even have a computer. I considered buying them one and shipping it to them, so Logan and I could talk using sign language on Skype, but they are both poor and proud, which is a killer combination.

It's been almost three months since I last saw Logan. It has been just as long since I've talked to him. I want to look into his eyes. I need to see him. Soon.

The pilot announces that we'll be arriving in New York in twenty minutes over the intercom. Mom and Dad look over at me. Mom is smiling; Dad is not. Dad's bodyguard sets his newspaper to the side and buckles his seat belt. My dad has money. Lots and lots of money. My mom spends money. Lots and lots of money. I am so glad my mom married my dad because no other man on the face of the earth could ever afford her.

Dad owns Madison Avenue. Not the street—the upscale clothing and accessory line. It's a popular line of really expensive items that started in California and has now spread nationwide. My parents have more money than God.

"Are you excited, Emily?" my mother asks as the wheels touch down. I take a deep breath. I can already breathe easier just knowing I'm in the same city as him.

I look directly into her eyes since she knows how much I love Logan, and she's actually in favor of us being together. "More than you know."

"I don't know why you feel the need to go to college, Emily," my father barks. "You could have just gotten married and lived a life of ease and privilege."

Last year, my dad tried to marry me off to the son of one of his business partners. That's why I left California with nothing and took a bus all the way to New York. I didn't take a dime of my father's money, and I supported myself by busking in the subways with my guitar for change. My dad doesn't know everything about my life away from him. Like how I lived in shelters when money was tight. And how I went for days without food sometimes. He chooses to think I lived an upscale life while I was away. But I didn't. It was hard. I wouldn't trade the experience for anything, though. Because it's what brought me to Logan.

God, I want to see him so badly. I want my parents to go away, too, but they want to see me settled into my new apartment. It's around the corner from the college I'll be attending, Julliard. I've always wanted to study music, and now I can. That was my mother's doing.

My mother smacks my father on the arm. It's a breezy wave, but it gets his attention. "We've already discussed this, darling. She doesn't want to get married. Least of all to the young Mr. Fields."

I snort. I wouldn't marry that ass if he were the last man on earth.

"Fields is a fine young man," my father says. What's really bad is that he believes it even though Trip is really just an opportunistic asshole who wants to climb the financial ladder, and he wants to use me as the top rung. He'll never get over this rung, I can say that much.

"Mmm hmm," I hum noncommittally.

"Fields is an ass, darling," my mother says. She gets her purse, and we disembark the plane. The limo is waiting for us outside, and we all slide in while someone I will never see unloads the luggage.

"He blows his nose constantly, Dad," I say. "And he doesn't shower after he plays basketball." And he called me stupid in front of all his friends. But we don't talk about that part.

My dad's lips twitch. "That boy has a lot of potential. Great vision. He would make a fine husband."

What he means is that we could combine the two families like a business deal, increasing the net worth of both. I have no interest in being richer. In fact, the happiest time in my life was when I lived with Logan and his brothers. He has four of them—two older and two younger. They live alone since their mom died and their dad left. They don't have much, but they love one another like crazy.

My parents love me, but it's not the same thing. Not by a long shot.

"You should partner with him, Dad. Because I never will," I grouse. I can't count the number of times in the past few months I have had this conversation.

My dad heaves a sigh. He is a master at business, but he knows very little about relationships.

"Do you plan to see that boy while you're here, Emily?" my dad asks.

Only every chance I get, if he'll have me. "I doubt he'll want to see me. I left him without a single word and haven't talked to him since." He's probably angry at me. So angry that he has moved on. My heart lurches at the very thought of it.

I knew that I was giving Logan up when my dad paid for his brother's treatment, but I didn't think it would be permanent. I look down at the tattoo on my inner forearm. My father hates it; I love it. It's a key with Logan's name printed down the shaft. Logan unlocked my world. He accepted and loved me exactly as I am, or at least how he thought I was. I just hope he still does.

It's taking forever to get to my apartment. I have to listen to my dad talk about how fit Trip would be as a husband the whole ride. My mom makes a face at me. She makes me laugh. We have a new understanding since I spilled my guts to her after coming home. I think she gets it, and she's on my side. But that doesn't make things any better with my father.

"If that boy is smart, he'll stay far, far away from you," my father nearly snarls. He's adamantly opposed to me being with someone so poor.

Logan is rich in all the ways I wish I were. He's rich in family, steeped in love and compassion, and he loves what he does for a living. Logan's an amazing artist, and he works at his family's tattoo parlor, putting his fabulous art on people's skin. The last time I talked to him, he wanted to go back to college. He got a scholarship, but he had to get a deferment when Matt got sick. They took out a lot of loans to pay for Matt's first treatment, and when Matt couldn't work anymore, Logan quit school and took over for him.

"If that boy has any sense at all," Mom says, "he's just waiting for you to come back to New York."

I hope that's the case. But so much can happen in three months. Women throw themselves at Logan every day. It's asking an awful lot for him to wait for me for three full months while I find my way back to him.

Mom pats Dad on the knee. "How is his brother doing, darling? I know you get reports."

I scoot to the edge of the seat. Please tell me he's okay. Please. I have asked him this more times that I can count, and he refuses to answer me, reminding me of the bargain we made.

"Fine."

That's all he says. Just that one word. I flop against the seat back.

"Elaborate, please," my mom says, smiling at my dad.

"The treatment is working, but he's not out of the woods. He has to have scans every month, and then they'll start spreading them out as time goes on."

My heart clenches in my chest. Matt is better. My sacrifice wasn't for nothing. Tears start to burn my eyes, and Mom reaches over to squeeze my knee. "That's good, darling," she says to Dad. "I'm so glad you were able to help him."

"I did it so she would come back home," he says. He glares at me. "Our deal was that she would come home, not go to Julliard."

Mom pats his knee again. "She did come home, darling. And now she's going to Julliard."

"I just hope he stays away from her," Dad grumbles, more to himself than to either me or Mom. We all know who he is. And he had better not stay away from me. Not for a day. Not for an hour. Not for a minute.

We arrive at my apartment, and my dad scowls. "This is the best you could find?" He glowers at my mother.

"It's perfect," I say. It's pretty, with a small garden out front. I'm on the tenth floor, and that's all right with me. There's a doorman, an older gentleman, and he smiles at me, bowing to all of us as we walk into the building.

"Ah, Mr. Madison," he says. He knows who my dad is. He doesn't hold out a hand, though he does take mine when I extend it. I am not better than this man, and I want him to know it. "Miss Madison," he says, grinning at me. "Henry is my name."

"Mr. Henry," I say, squeezing his hand in my grip.

"Just Henry will do." He looks over at my father's scornful face.

"Don't make friends with the help, Emily," my dad warns.

Henry's face falls.

I wink at him. "I wouldn't dare try to make friends with Henry," I say. "He's way too good for the likes of us."

Dad's eyebrows draw together. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Kindness trumps money, Dad," I say. I learned that the hard way. And even though I can't read well, I feel so much smarter than my dad right now. I bump knuckles with Henry, and he smiles at me.

He holds up a finger and goes to a locked box beside his desk. He retrieves a key. "I'll be sure your luggage is delivered, Miss Madison."

"Thank you, Henry." I wink at him again as my family walks to the elevator. He smiles back at me with genuine kindness.

My parents are quiet on the ride up. My dad taps his thumb on the railing, and Mom just stands quietly.

"I don't know why you felt the need to come here. I can settle myself in."

"I'm not sending you off to a strange city all by yourself." He glares. He knows I was all alone in this city last year. "That was your choice," he says quietly. "Not mine."

I step up on my tippy toes and kiss his cheek. He looks down his nose at me, which makes me grin. "I'm glad you're here." I just hope they don't stay long. I want to go see Logan. It's Friday night, and he's probably at the club working. He's a bouncer there.

My dad walks around my new apartment, appraising it with a critical eye. It was rented furnished, and it's actually really cute. It has two bedrooms, and an alarm system that Homeland Security couldn't beat.

I wanted to be in the dorm, but Dad felt like it was a bad idea. At least I'm close to the school.

My mom winks at me and then turns to Dad. "Darling, I think we should get to the hotel, soon."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Already?"

"Yes." She doesn't say more than that. Just yes.

Dad heaves a sigh. Then he kisses my forehead, wrapping my head up in the crook of his hefty forearm. "We'll see you first thing tomorrow."

I nod. "I'll be here."

"Are you sure you don't need anything?" He worries. Excessively.

I need Logan. That's all I need. I shake my head.

My mom whispers in my ear, "Use protection, dear."

A grin tugs at my lips. "Yes, Mom."

The door closes behind them. I need a shower, and I need to find Logan. I need him like I need air.

Logan

A hand lands on my back, its fingers light and teasing as someone draws a figure eight. I look back over my shoulder and flinch inwardly when I see Trish. I take her hand in mine and pluck it from my back, then set it to the side as gently as I can.

"Oh, Logan," she says, her lips tipped upward with laughter. I'm really glad I can't hear because if her laugh is anything like her, it'd be as grating as that fake smile. It's one of those smiles without any real happiness behind it. She puts her hand on my chest, her fingers pressing insistently against me. "How long are you going to pine for that girl? There are so many other fish in the sea."

I can talk, but sometimes I choose not to, and people accept it from me because I'm deaf. I lost my hearing when I was almost a teenager. I tap the face of my watch and look at her, arching my brow. She's due back on stage in two minutes.

She heaves a sigh and tromps off in that direction.

If I had been forced to answer her question, I would have said "forever and always." Emily is supposed to be back in New York any day now, as spring courses are starting at Julliard. I just began my own classes at NYU, and she shouldn't be far behind. That is, if she's coming. I haven't talked to her since the day she left and that was months ago.

I have, however, seen her in the tabloids. She's been to lunches, clubs, and social events with her ex-boyfriend, Trip Fields. The media outlets never cease talking about the way they fell apart and then came back together. But when I see them in the papers, she doesn't look happy, not like she was when she lived with my brothers and me. I like to think it's all a ruse. I hope to hell it's all a ruse. My gut aches at the thought that it's not.

Emily sold herself back to her father in exchange for Matt's life. He's my brother, and he means the world to me. Matt's alive because of her sacrifice. I'm glad she did it, but since she's been gone, it's like the oxygen is missing from the air I breathe. I miss her like crazy.

I haven't looked at another girl since she left. Not one. She's all I think about. When girls like Trish touch me and say let's go with their eyes, I can't imagine anything that might make me want to go. Or remember what made me want to go in the past. All I can think about is Emily.

I look toward the door where Ford, one of the other bouncers, is barring the entrance. Bone, our resident thug, is in the doorway and Ford knows that if he comes within five feet of me, I'll try to kill him with my bare hands. My younger brother, Pete, is going to get himself into trouble hanging out with Bone. I caught them together talking in the street a few days ago, and I don't like it. Bone is trouble, and I told him last week to stay the fuck away from my family. Pete doesn't seem to understand what kind of problems Bone attracts.

I take a step toward the doorway, but Matt is suddenly in front of me, getting between Bone and me. It's not worth it, he signs.

Would be to me, I reply. I've been trying to catch that bastard alone ever since the last time I saw him with Pete. Our little brother suddenly has a phone, and he suddenly has money in his pocket. The boy has a job, but he's not making enough money to pay for the things he now has. And he puts every dime he legitimately earns into the family kitty to pay the bills.

He's scum. My hands fly wildly as I talk, drawing the attention of several people around us.

I know, Matt replies. We'll take care of it, but we don't need to do it here. He looks me in the eye. You know he's packing.

One more reason to keep him out of here.

Matt shakes his head. Not tonight.

Dammit. Ford moves to the side and admits Bone when the owner of the club walks over to force the issue. He glares at Ford.

Ford's a good friend, and he knows how I feel about Bone. All things considered, I don't want to put Ford into Bone's line of fire, either, so I'm glad he let him through just for that reason.

Bone smiles at me, looking directly into my eyes as my gaze follows him across the room. Then he slides into a booth and breaks eye contact.

A fight begins at the front of the bar. I clap my hands together to get Matt's attention. He's not working tonight. He's not strong enough for bouncing yet, but he's here as a wingman of sorts.

I see it, he signs. The big one is drunk.

The big ones always fall the hardest.

And they're a bitch to pick up off the floor.

Matt laughs. I'm so fucking glad he's getting back to normal.

I'll take the little one if you'll take the big one. He cracks his knuckles and grins at me.

You're such a pussy, I sign. And you can't even claim chemo did it to you because you were a pussy before you got sick. I grin at him.

He shrugs his shoulders and smiles unabashedly back at me. It makes me so happy to see him like this. I watched him deteriorate last fall to the point where we thought he wouldn't pull through. He still might not, but we have hope.

At least I can get some pussy if I try. He looks down at the crotch of my jeans. Your dick, however, is going to rot off from lack of use.

I can't help it if I'm a one-woman man.

He claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. When do you think she'll be back? I need to thank her.

She wouldn't want any thanks. I shrug my shoulders. I wish I knew.

Matt points toward the fight, which is about to escalate into a full-out brawl. The little guy is dumb enough to shove the big guy. He falls into a woman behind him, and then her boyfriend starts swinging.

Now, Matt says.

Now. I fucking love this part of the job. It takes four of us. Matt, Ford, another bouncer, and I all jump into the fray and quickly have it under control. But the big man is on the floor with his eyes closed. He has a smile on his face. He's murmuring something, but I can't read his lips.

I think he's singing? Matt says, his eyebrows arching in question. Girl you make my speakers go boom boom?

I laugh. People look over as noise bursts from my throat, but I don't care. Laughter feels good. Emily taught me that. Help me get him up.

Matt takes one arm while I take the other, and we hoist him onto his wobbly legs. His girlfriend, who is pretty unsteady herself, says, "We need a cab."

Matt and I haul him out to the cabstand and throw him into a taxi. The girlfriend gets in behind him. I feel bad for the cab driver who will have to throw his big ass out on the sidewalk.

I dust my hands off. At least it's done.

Snow is falling on us, and I brush my hand across my hair. Suddenly, Matt tenses beside me. What? I ask.

He smiles, claps me on the shoulder and says, Take the rest of the night off. Then he points behind me.

I turn around and freeze. My lungs refuse to do their job, and I stand there, not breathing, not moving, trying not to feel anything. But there she is. Emily is standing on the sidewalk looking at me.

She shifts from foot to foot, looking nervous as hell. Snow is falling on her hair, and she's not wearing a coat. Surely she can afford a coat. Her family is worth billions. Her dark-blond hair, so unlike the black hair with the blue stripe she had when I met her, falls down to the middle of her back, and she has it tucked behind her ear. She's not wearing clothes from around here. She's full-on Madison Avenue right now.

But the best thing about it is... she's mine.

Matt says something to her, but she doesn't speak to him. She doesn't break eye contact with me, and I feel like there's an invisible tether between the two of us.

I look at Matt to tell him I'm going wherever she goes. He grins. I guess we won't have to worry about your dick dying from lack of use after all.

I'll see you later.

I doubt it, he says. But he's still grinning that goofy smile. I want to go and hug her, but I guess you get first dibs.

And last dibs. And all the dibs in between.

He waves to her and signs the word later.

She nods, throws him a kiss with the tips of her fingers, and then starts toward me. Her boots leave footprints in the snow, and I force myself to stay still. I tuck my hands in my jeans pockets to keep from grabbing her.

Hi, she signs.

I can't stand it any longer. I reach for her so quickly that she startles, but she's reaching for me, too. I haul her against me, needing to feel her heart beating against mine.

Her breath brushes my ear and fucking tears sting my eyes. I tuck my face into her neck and breathe in the scent that is uniquely hers. She wraps her arms around my waist, and her hands slide into my back pockets. We stand there in the snow like that until I feel dampness on my shirt. I tilt her face up to mine so I can look at her.

"I'm so glad you're home." I use my voice because I don't want to take my hands off her.

"Me, too," she says. A lone tear tracks down her cheek. I wipe it away with the pad of my thumb.

"You're back?" I ask.

She nods, turning her head to kiss my palm.

"For how long?"

"Always." She smiles. God, she can undo me with that smile.

"Promise?" My heart is pounding in my chest.

She nods and draws a cross over her chest. "I swear it."

"What about your father?"

She shakes her head. "I don't want to talk about my father right now."

"I'll never survive it if you leave me again." I swallow the lump in my throat.

"Can you come home with me?" she asks.

If I take her home right now, we won't get to talk at all because I'll be all over her. "Let's go get some pie," I say instead.

Her face falls. "You're mad at me."

"I love you like crazy, girl. How could I be mad at you?" I drink her in from the curve of her lips to the way her eyes look almost black in the darkness of the night.

She squeezes my hands. "Is Matt all right?"

I nod. "Thanks to you, yes."

She exhales, and it's like a balloon has been emptied inside her. "What do we do now?" she asks.

"Pie," we both say at the same time. I take her hand in mine and lead her to the diner where we had our first meal together. Pie is safe. Pie is good. Pie will buy me enough time to be sure she still loves me as much as I love her.

Calmly, Carefully, Completely

Book 3 in The Reed Brothers Series

Pete

Nobody fucks with you in prison when you're all tatted up.

Not a single, solitary soul.

It could have something to do with being big, too. I haven't asked. I've just enjoyed it.

At home, it's a completely different story. At home, everyone fucks with me. I am the youngest of five, all brothers. They're all as big as me, if not bigger, and they have even more tats than I do. You don't get any points for being adorable. At my house, all you get points for is being a good person, contributing to the household, and supporting your family in every way possible.

It's too bad I sucked at all the requirements. I fucked things up royally two years ago.

I never should have done what I did. But I did it, and I did my time behind bars. I just hope that they can forgive me at home and not hold it over my head.

A hand clapped onto my shoulder jerks me from my internal dialogue. I look up and see my pro bono attorney, Mr. Caster. "Good to see you again, son," he says as he sits down across from me. He opens a file folder in front of him.

"Why are you here?" I blurt out. I wince immediately, realizing how rude that sounded. But his brow just arches as he shakes his head. "I mean, it's good to see you, sir."

He chuckles. "Nice to see you, too, Pete," he says. He takes a brochure from the folder and turns it so I can read it. "I have an opportunity for you."

My oldest brother, Paul, says opportunities are other people's problems. "What kind of opportunity?" I ask hesitantly. I open the brochure. There are pictures of horses and children and climbing structures and a pool with lots of splashing going on. I look up at him.

"This is a brochure for Cast-A-Way Farms," he says.

"And?" I ask.

"The opportunity," he says. "I talked to the judge and told him you would be good for this program." He raises his brow again. "I hope I'm not wrong."

I hate to sound like a numbskull, but... "Not following, Mr. Caster."

"I need a few good young men to help out at the Cast-A-Way camp for five days this summer." He starts to reload his folder and closes it. "I read your file. I liked what I saw. I think you have potential. And you have the skill set that I need for this particular camp."

Skill set? All I can do is ink people. I work at my brothers' tattoo shop when I'm not behind bars. I don't know how to do much else. "You want me to tattoo them?"

He chuckles again. "I need your signing ability," he admits. "We have a camp every year for special needs kids. We have a very special boy this year who has MS, so he has a tracheostomy tube. He can't speak. He signs. His mother's going, but she can't be with him 24-7. So, I thought you might be able to come and help." He shrugs. "There will also be a small group of boys there who are hearing impaired. You might work with them some, too."

I look at Mr. Caster's forearms and think I see a tattoo creeping out of his short-sleeved dress shirt. He follows my gaze and shrugs.

"You think you're the only one who wears your heart on your sleeve, Mr. Reed?" he asks, but he's smiling.

I shake my head. "Your opportunity sounds interesting," I say. "But I'm on house arrest for a year. I can only go to work and/or approved activities."

"I already talked to your parole officer," he says. "He's in favor of it." He crosses his arms in front of him on the table and leans on his elbows. "Only if you want to, though. No one is going to force you."

I pick up the brochure and start to read. It actually looks kind of interesting.

"You'd be doing me a big favor," he says. "I need another man present who can be a good role model for the boys we'll be taking from the juvenile detention facility. They'll be there working, getting service hours. I need someone to help me with them. That's why I need you." He narrows his eyes. "You're big and scary looking enough." He grins. "And your file looks good."

"You'll have the youth offenders at your camp? Working with the kids?"

He shakes his head quickly. "They'll interact some with the kids. But not much. They'll be there more to help with the daily living tasks—feeding the horses, moving hay, stacking boxes, doing odd jobs, helping with meals..."

I've never been afraid of manual labor. My brothers have drilled it into me from day one that I am going to work hard at everything I do or I'll have to answer to them. I heave a sigh. I'm slowly talking myself into this.

"There's a perk," he says. He grins.

"Do tell," I say. I sit back and cross my arms in front of me.

"If your time spent at the camp goes well, I can ask for leniency with regard to your house arrest, based on merit." He looks into my eyes. "If you earn it, that is."

Wow. I could get leniency? "It's for five days?" I ask.

He nods. "Monday through Friday."

I heave a sigh. "When do we leave?"

He grins and holds out a hand for me to shake. I put my hand in his, and he grips it tightly. "We leave tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" I gasp. I haven't even gone home yet. I haven't gotten to spend any time at all with my brothers.

He nods. "At oh-dark-thirty." He smiles again. "You still up for it?"

"It can really shorten my sentence?" I ask.

He nods. "Maybe. It's up to the judge. And depends on how things go at camp." He sobers and looks directly into my eyes. "Pete, I think you could help with the boys I've invited to the camp. With all of them. You can help with the hearing-impaired boys, the ones who can't talk, and the ones from the youth program. I think you can do brilliant things. I believe in you, Pete, and I want to give you an opportunity to prove you're better than this." He makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the room.

Better than jail? Am I better than what I have become? I am not so sure.

"Do we have a deal?" he asks.

I nod and stick out my hand again for him to shake. "We have a deal."

"Do you need for someone to pick you up in the morning?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I can get here."

"I'll see you at six a.m." He claps a hand on my shoulder and points toward the door. "I believe your family is waiting outside."

My heart trips a beat. It's been so long. I can't imagine what it's going to be like to be with them again. To feel normal.

I nod and bite my lower lip. But I steel my spine and walk out the door. The guards lead me by the guard station and toward the door, where they give me a bag of my belongings and ask me to check it. I slide my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans. I put my watch back on my wrist. I drop my piercings into my pocket. I might be able to get at least some of them back in later.

"Ready?" Mr. Caster asks. I don't realize he is right beside me until I look into his eyes. Very softly he says, "Stop worrying so much. They're the same family you left two years ago."

They might be, but I'm the one who's different. I nod my head, though. I can't speak past the lump in my throat.

I shove against the door, pressing hard on the lock bar, pushing, and then I find myself outside the walls of the prison for the first time in two years. I take a deep breath and look up at the sky. Then I see my brothers waiting at the end of the walk and the lump in my throat grows twice the size. I blink hard, trying to squeeze back the emotion.

Paul, my oldest brother, is standing beside Matt, who has the biggest grin on his face. His hair has grown back, and it's gotten longer than I've ever seen it on him. He told me in a letter that he had decided to let it grow out now that he knows what it's like to lose it all to cancer. He's recovering. I missed it all because I was behind bars. But that's one of the reasons why I was there. I thought I could help him and just ended up getting myself in trouble.

Logan is standing with his arm draped over his girlfriend Emily's shoulder. She looks up at him like he hung the stars and the moon. He points and smiles toward me, and she looks up and yells. Then she wiggles out of Logan's arms and runs toward me full force. She hits me hard in the chest, her arms wrapping around my neck. I lift her off the ground and spin her around as she squeezes me. She murmurs in my ear. "I'm so glad you're coming home," she says. "We missed you so much."

I look around. Someone is missing. "Where's Sam?" I ask. Her face falls, and she looks everywhere but at me. Sam's my twin, but he's not here. My gut clenches. I really hoped he would be.

"He's stuck at school. You know how tight school schedules can be." She won't look me in the face, so I know she's lying. I put my arm around her for a second and walk toward my brothers, but it's only a few steps before Paul jerks me away from Emily and wraps me up in a big bear hug. He squeezes me so tightly that my breath jerks out of me.

"Let me go, you big ox," I grunt out, but when he does, he grabs my head in his hands and runs his fingers through my prison cut. My hair's so short it's not much more than fuzz on the top of my head.

Logan punches me in the arm, and I turn to look at him. Logan's deaf, and he uses sign language. But after eight years of silence, he started to talk right before I went to prison. He signs while he speaks.

"Somebody scalp you while you were sleeping?" he asks, pointing to his hair. It's so strange hearing words come out of Logan's mouth. He went so long without speaking. But Emily brings out the best in him, including his voice. "It looks like you went three rounds with a weed eater. And lost."

Before I can answer, he's pulling me in for a hug. Logan's special. He's wicked smart, and he's ultra talented. Emily's his and everyone knows it. They're meant to be together forever, and no one doubted it from the first night he brought her home with her ass tossed over his shoulder and her Betty Boop panties showing.

Logan lets me go, and I look at Matt. He looks so healthy he's glowing. "Speaking of haircuts," I say, pulling on a lock of his hair. "When do you think you might get one?"

He cuffs me gently on the side of my head and pulls me into his shoulder. God, I have missed them.

"We're going to start calling you Goldilocks," I warn. We're all blond, and some of us are more blond than others.

"Try it, asswipe," he jokes as he punches my shoulder. "It's been a long time since we've had a good match."

Emily wraps her arm around my forearm and squeezes. "I think you're bigger than when you went in," she says.

"Not much else to do but work out and read." I shrug.

"I can still take you," Logan says. He flexes his muscles. It's so good to hear him speak.

Logan was injured in a car accident right after I went to jail, and he almost died. I wanted to go to him so badly. But they wouldn't let me out. "I heard you're an old man with a limp now." I duck when he tries to grab my head for a noogie, and I dance away from him.

"Nothing about me is limp," he says with a chuckle. "Right, Emily?" he says, grinning. She punches him in the arm. He bends at the waist and tosses her over his shoulder. She squeals and beats on his butt, but he pays her no mind. He never does when they do this. He starts toward the subway so we can go home. The rest of us follow.

Emily gives up and dangles there over Logan's shoulder. She's right by my face, so I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. "You all right?" she asks quietly. It's fucking ridiculous the way she's just bobbing there.

"It's good to be going home," I admit. "Strange, but good."

She wraps her hands around her mouth and whispers dramatically. "We have beer at the apartment! For your birthday!"

I grin. I spent my twenty-first birthday behind bars. But I had a feeling they wouldn't let it pass by without some kind of celebration. "Just beer?" I whisper back playfully.

She winks. "There might be some other stuff, too. Like wine."

My brothers don't do anything more than drink occasionally. "Is there cake?" I ask.

She nods. "Sam made it." Sam's the baker in the family. It's too bad he had to play football to earn his way into college because he'd make a damn fine baker. And he'd be happier doing it.

"So he was home this weekend?" Hearing that he was home this weekend but he's not there now is like a knife to my gut. It fucking hurts. I can't say I blame him, though.

She nods, and she does that thing she does where she doesn't look me in the face. She'd be terrible at poker because she can't lie worth shit.

"How long do you think he'll avoid me?" I ask.

Matt looks over at me, his face searching mine, but he doesn't answer my question either.

Reagan

I sit in my dad's truck and drum my thumb on the steering wheel along with the music. I dropped Dad off an hour ago, and he sent me on an errand because he hates the idea of me sitting outside a prison by myself. I finished his errand, and now I'm waiting. He can't fault me for that, can he?

I freeze when I see three tatted-up men walk by where I'm parked. They're blond and huge. But one of them is holding hands with a girl, a pretty lady with dirty-blond hair. I sit up taller and watch them. They're friendly with one another, and you can almost see how happy they are to be together. The one holding hands with the girl slaps her on the bottom and runs from her, and she streaks off after him until she can jump on his back. She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. He puts her down because she's signing something to him. My heartbeat stutters. This is the family. I'm almost certain of it. They're Peter Reed's brothers.

Peter Reed is someone I have wanted to meet for two and a half years. He saved me one night when I really needed saving. He found me huddled in a room in the back of a frat house after the unthinkable happened.

I'm huddled by the wall, still shaking from what happened. He turned out the light when he left, so I sit in the dark with my teeth chattering so hard that my jaw hurts. My panties are still wrapped around my ankle, dangling there like the useless piece of cloth they are. One side is broken from where he ripped them off me, but I can't make my arms unwrap from around myself long enough to pull them up. Or off. My skirt is hiked up around my waist. He didn't bother to even pull it down when he was done. He just whispered in my ear about how no one would ever believe me if I told and how I better keep it to myself if I knew what was good for me.

My phone dings beside me, its bright face a beacon in the darkness, and I look down at it. I want to pick it up. It's probably one of my friends wondering where I've gone off to. But I can't unwrap my arms long enough to reach for it, either. If I unwrap, I'll fall apart. I can't fall apart. I just can't.

The door opens, and a sliver of light tumbles into the room. A young man laughs at someone as he closes the door in a girl's face. He flips the light on and leans back against the door, cursing playfully. I crawl on my hands toward the shadow in the corner. Maybe he won't see me. But he does. I can tell when he freezes and curses for real.

My teeth are still chattering, and I can't draw in a complete breath. He drops down to squat in front of me. "Hey, are you all right?" he asks. He reaches a hand toward me. An animalistic sound leaves my throat. It's one that scares even me, and he jerks his hand back like I'm a rabid dog and he's afraid I'll bite. The guy who just left, he wasn't afraid of me at all. After a few minutes of really nice kissing, I was ready to stop, but he pushed me down, tore off my panties, held me still, and raped me.

I look into this man's sky-blue eyes, and they're so different from the brown ones that hurt me. I open my mouth to speak, but only a squeak comes out. My phone dings again, and I look toward it.

"Do you want me to get it for you?" he asks softly. He reaches for it and then puts it within my reach. I take it, jerking it from his hand as I crouch further into the corner. He pulls back like I scare him. I look down at the screen.

Rachel: Where are you, hussy? I saw you locking lips with the douchebag. Did you leave with him?

I need to reply. But my fingers are shaking too much.

"Do you want me to do it?" the man asks. He gently takes the phone from my grasp with a twisty tug, and I let it go. It's of no use to me. I'm shaking too badly to use it.

"What do you want me to say?" he asks.

I swallow hard. I screamed when it started, before he covered my mouth with his hand, right before he banged my head on the bathroom countertop, and now my throat hurts. "Help me." The words are a whisper, and he leans closer because he can't hear what I'm saying.

"What?" he asks softly.

"Help me," I say. He looks at my face. He doesn't look down at my exposed body. He just looks at my face, like I'm not sitting here with my skirt hiked up above my hips, like my shirt's not torn open. Like I wasn't just raped. Defiled. Used. I tug at my skirt, and he looks around the room, opens a cabinet, and lays an unfolded towel over me. I start to adjust my clothes beneath it. He looks down and picks up my shoes, which I must have kicked off when I was flailing. He sets them next to my feet. He sees my panties hanging over my ankle, and he reaches for them, lifting my leg gently so he can pull them off my foot. "I need those," I say. I really, really need them.

He shakes them out and holds them up, as if I was putting them on. "They're torn," he says.

"I need them," I say again. A tear rolls down my cheek, and his face softens. He finds the scraps of fabric where the man who hurt me ripped them at the hip, and he ties a knot in them. He holds them up, like I'm two and need his help getting dressed. I put my feet in them and stand up, unsteady on my legs. He reaches out to support me. My hands are shaking so badly that I can't pull them up. He helps me. He hisses in a breath when he pulls them past the blood on my inner thighs. He lifts his gaze, looking into my face as he pulls them over my hips, and then he tugs my skirt down to cover them. I lower the towel, and he closes my shirt with gentle fingers. He bends over and picks up my phone where I dropped it.

"Can I call someone for you?" he asks.

I nod. But I can't think of who. I can't call my parents. I wasn't supposed to be at this party. I was supposed to be in my dorm room studying.

"Call Rachel," I say. I lean against the counter, feeling like I can't hold myself up anymore.

He scrolls through my contacts until he finds her name. He calls, and I can hear the faint ring through the phone. "Hello, Rachel?" he asks.

"Who are you and why do you have that hussy's phone?" I hear Rachel ask.

He looks at me. "Do you want to talk to her?" he asks me over the phone.

I shake my head.

He closes his eyes and says, "My name is Peter Reed, and I'm here with your friend..." He stops and looks at me, his eyebrows scrunching together. "What's your name?"

"Reagan," I whisper.

"I'm sorry," he says. And he really looks like he is. "I can't hear you." His tone is soft and much more sympathetic than I deserve.

"Reagan," I bark. I groan inwardly at the way I said that. It was a spurt. But he heard me. That's what matters.

"I'm here with your friend, Reagan. She needs you."

"Where?" I hear Rachel say.

"J-just tell her the party. M-master bathroom, I think." I look around.

"Do you want me to just go find her?" he asks, looking at me over the phone.

My gut clenches. "Don't leave me," I whisper. My jaw quivers, and I hate it. But this man makes me feel safe.

He reaches out and very gently lays his hand on the side of my head. I jerk back, and he immediately realizes that touching me was a mistake. "I won't leave. I promise," he says. He turns back to the phone. "We're in the back bedroom, in the bathroom. She's hurt." He looks at my face while he says it. Not at my abused body. His eyes stare into mine. "She's strong," he says. "But I think she needs you." He looks down at the phone. "I think she hung up on me."

I nod. "Thank you," I say.

"I'm going to stay with you," he says to assure me. "I'm not leaving. I promise."

I nod and lean against the counter, crossing my arms beneath my breasts.

"I'm going with you so I can be sure you go to the hospital," he says.

I shake my head. "That's not necessary."

He looks into my eyes. "A rape kit is necessary."

Oh, I'm going to the hospital. I need to be tested for STDs. And get a morning-after pill. And do all the things I never thought I'd have to think about, much less do. "I know. I'll go."

"I'll go with you."

I shake my head. He's already seen enough of my shame.

"I can't walk away and leave you like this."

There's a quick knock on the door, and he calls out, "Who's there?"

"It's Rachel," says a muffled voice. My soul cries out for her. I nod, and he opens the door. She rushes in and stops short. Her face contorts, but she bites it back quickly when she sees a tear roll down my face. "What happened?" she croons. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me in tight. I sob into her shoulder as she holds me. I look up at him through the curtain of her hair and see that he's blinking furiously. He sniffles and straightens his spine when he sees me looking at him.

"She needs to go to the hospital," he says quietly.

"I'll take her." She looks around. "How can we get her out of here without everyone seeing her?" she asks.

He pulls his hoodie over his head and walks over to me. He bunches it up like he wants to put it over my head, but he asks for permission to do it with his eyes. I nod, and he drops it over me, and his scent wraps around me. It's like citrus and woodsy outdoor smells combined. It wraps me up and holds me close, still warm from his body. I tug it down around my hips. Rachel wets a corner of the towel he gave me earlier and wipes beneath my eyes. "You have scratches on your face," she says. Then she sees my neck. "Did he choke you?" she gasps. But she quickly recovers. I cover my neck with my hand. That's not the worst he did.

A growl starts low in Peter's belly, but I can hear it. He's angry for me. "Thank you," I whisper to him as she leads me to the door, her hand holding tightly to mine.

"Can I come with you?" he asks.

Rachel looks at me for confirmation, but I shake my head.

"Can I at least check on you later?" he asks. "How can I find you again?"

"We need to go," Rachel says.

He follows us down the hallway and through the noisy kitchen and the even noisier living room. He shields my body with the width of his and opens the door for us so we can walk in front of him. Rachel's hand is in mine, but I feel the need to reach for his, because he represents strength for me. "Thank you, Peter Reed," I whisper.

"You're welcome," he whispers back. He opens the car door for me, and I gingerly sit down. I'm sore so I hiss. He stiffens. "Are you sure I can't go?"

I nod. I lay my head back and close my eyes. And let Rachel drive me to the hospital.

A shriek jerks me from my memories. I watch as a blond man walks out of the front of the jail, and the girl who was with the three men launches herself at Peter Reed. I know it's him. I haven't seen him since that night, but I am completely sure that my savior just walked out of the prison.

A knock sounds on the passenger window, and I jump. I look over at my dad, who makes a face at me through the glass. I unlock the door, and he gets in. He looks at the scene in front of us. "Are you happy now?" he asks.

My dad's an attorney, and he took over Pete's legal needs when I found out where he was. I went looking for him a few weeks after the attack. I asked around campus until I finally found someone who knew one of his brothers. Pete was in jail for a foolish mistake. So, I asked my dad to help him. He's been working to have him freed ever since.

My dad's well known in this town for his work with the youth detention program, and he does a lot of pro bono work for people who can't afford representation. Dad found out that Pete had legal counsel that someone else set up for him, so he asked to assist in the case. Pete still had to go to jail, but he got a much lighter sentence because of Dad's help. Pete doesn't deserve to be in jail. He deserves to be given a medal of honor.

I look at Dad and smile. "Yes, I'm happy now. Did you get to ask him about coming to the farm?" I ask it very shyly because my dad reads me like I'm a book.

He nods.

"And?" My insides are flipping around, and my heart is racing.

"He's coming."

I lay a hand on my chest and force myself to take a deep breath.

"What do you hope to get out of seeing this boy?" Dad asks.

"I just want to thank him, Dad."

Dad grins and rolls his eyes. "I was thinking you might want to have his babies."

I snort. "Not yet."

I'll see Pete tomorrow. I can't wait.

"Hey, kid," he says softly. "He's been in jail two years. He may be a little harder than that boy you met that night so long ago."

Dad talks about it like it happened years ago. But it happens again and again in my head, every single night.

"He still saved me, Dad," I say quietly.
Finally Finding Faith

Book 4 in The Reed Brothers Series

Daniel

Bells over the door jingle as I step into the tattoo shop. The big red flashing sign said Reeds', and they appear to be open. I brush snow from my hair and blow warm breath into my cupped hands. It's fucking freezing outside. It's officially midnight, which makes it December thirty-first in New York City. Of course, it's cold. One day until New Year's Day, and I have twenty-four hours to cram in a lifetime of memories. Because by the stroke midnight, the last second of 2013, I have to be done with my list. I pull the piece of paper from my pocket and scan down it really quickly.

  1. Get a tattoo

  2. Ride a horse-drawn carriage in the snow

  3. See a Broadway play

  4. Buy hot chestnuts from a street vendor

  5. Eat a one-pound burger at Rocko's

  6. Drink hot chocolate on a bench in the park

  7. Fix my watch

I look around the shop. There's a bunch of interesting art on the wall, and a little pixie of a woman approaches me. She's dressed in a retro style, and her hair is all curled up and pinned like she's a sixties model. Her nametag says Friday. It fits her. "What can I do for you?" she asks, and she blows out a slow breath. She looks tired and I immediately wonder what happened to her to put that look in her eye. But I don't dare ask.

"Did you leave Wednesday and Thursday at home?" I blurt out.

Her right eyebrow arches and she looks down her nose at me. I immediately wish I could take it back. But then she starts to laugh. And it's not a little laugh. It's a great big belly laugh. She shakes a finger at me and motions for me to follow her. She sits across from me at a table and says, "I assume you're here for a tattoo?"

I look around the shop. "Actually, I thought this was a brothel. Am I in the wrong place?" I move to get up, but my stupid prosthetic leg won't let me play around the way I want to. It clanks against the table and I grimace.

"You okay?" she says quietly. Her eyes don't drop to my leg. She looks me in the face. Most people at least glance at my leg before they jerk their eyes back up to meet mine.

"Fine," I bite out.

"Well, we can't help you out if you were looking for a brothel," she says. She looks toward the men who are doing tats. They're all big and blond and a little bit intimidating. And they don't seem to like my brand of humor as much as she does. She drops her voice to a whisper. "The last time I tried sell my body in here, the boys didn't like it." She laughs. The men scowl even more, and I wonder if I should leave.

I glance down at my watch. I don't know why I still look at it. It hasn't worked since the blast in Afghanistan that took all my friends, my leg, and my sanity. I still wear it like I expect it to start up any second now. But that's not going to happen. My life is over. Or at least it will be at midnight tomorrow tonight. I glance at the clock on the wall. Twenty-three hours and fifty-two minutes from now, I'll get to finish what fate started. I'll get to right the wrong.

Friday waves a hand in my face and jerks me from my thoughts. "Hello-o," she sings.

"Sorry," I murmur. I heave in a sigh. It's so easy to get sucked into the memories. The screaming. The hurting. The chaos. I look into her beautiful face. "I'd like to get a tattoo," I say. "A clock, maybe. One stuck on midnight. With fireworks shooting off around it." Fireworks. Bombs. It's all the same thing.

She nods. "We can do that." She starts to draw on a piece of paper. After a few minutes, she turns it to face me. It's pretty fucking perfect, actually. "Like this?" she asks.

I nod. I can barely speak. By the time on the watch, I'll be gone. "It's perfect," I croak out. I look down at my watch. It's what I do when I'm nervous. I don't expect to see the time change.

Friday calls over her shoulder and one of the men responds. He's cleaning his table, and he motions me forward. She shows him the drawing and he nods, chewing his pierced lip thoughtfully. "I can do it," he says. "This is the last one, though, for tonight." He grins at me. "I have a hot woman waiting in my bed at home."

"Gee," Friday chirps. "So do I." She grins at me.

One of the men, the biggest one, shoves her playfully in the shoulder. "You're every man's fantasy, Friday," he says as he sticks out his hand toward me. "Paul," he says. He talks to Friday again. "Cut it out, or the man's going to get all excited, thinking he has a chance in hell of joining you." He narrows his eyes and leans toward me. "Not going to happen," he says quietly. "I've tried for years." He motions for me to sit down. "Where do you want it?" Paul asks while the one whose nametag says Pete washes his hands.

I lift the edge of my sleeve. My upper arm is one of the few places on my body that's not scarred up from the burns. "Here?" I say.

"You might want to take that off so it won't be in the way," Pete says. He motions to my shirt.

I was afraid of that, but this is my last day on earth. Who cares what my chest looks like? I reach behind me and pull my shirt over my head the way men do, and I hear Friday gasp as she sees my naked chest. It looks a lot worse than it actually is.

"Sorry," Friday murmurs when Paul shoots her a glance. She sits down across from me, and her eyes finally land on the thin length of titanium that comes from my shoe. "What happened?" she asks quietly.

Pete transfers the design onto my arm and starts to ink the tattoo into my skin. It doesn't hurt nearly enough. I heave in a sigh. "There was an explosion," I say.

"Was it awful?" she breathes. She lays her chin in her hand and props her elbow on a table.

I nod. "It was pretty terrible. Every one of my men died." I lift my pant leg. "I lost my leg and was burned pretty badly. But I lived."

"The universe must have better things in store for you," she says.

Paul snorts. "Friday, please," he warns.

I should have died with them. "I doubt it," I say. "I ship out in twenty-four hours," I inform her. That's a lie. Well, sort of. But not really. "I'm going to join my team."

Friday brightens. "Well, that's something to look forward to."

Yeah. It's all I've looked forward to for a long, long time.

I want to change the subject, so I think about the list in my pocket. "Do you guys know where I can find a clock shop in town? Someone who can fix a watch?"

The men look at one another and one of them says, "Henry's?"

"Do you know if they're open tomorrow?" I ask. "Well, today, I guess." I have to have the watch fixed by tomorrow night. Midnight. It's on my list.

"Call him, Paul," Pete says. He pulls his phone from his pocket and tosses it to Paul. Paul juggles it playfully until Pete makes a noise and then he stops.

"Isn't it awfully late to call tonight?" I ask. I look from one of them to the other.

"Henry's wife had a stroke two years ago. They keep odd hours while he takes care of her. He might still be up. If not, Paul will leave a message." He shrugs. "Worth a shot."

Paul nods, and I see him smile as someone answers. Paul tells him I have a broken watch. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and looks at me. "Can you go by there when we're done here?" he asks. "He's still up."

I nod. "Love to."

Paul talks to him for a minute and hangs up the phone.

"How is she?" Pete asks.

Paul shakes his head. "She's not doing well, and she's ready to give up. I think sometimes she just hangs in there for Henry." He blows out a breath. "I'll write down the directions for you. It's right around the corner from here. In the basement of a building."

He hands me the directions when Pete finishes the tattoo. I look down at my new ink and smile. It's beautiful. I can cross that one off my list. "You'll find Faith there," he says. "In the clock shop."

"Faith?" I ask. I almost snort. I don't believe in faith. Not anymore.

"Faith is Henry's granddaughter. She helps to take care of his wife and works in the clock shop when he's not there." He holds up a hand to show she's about as tall as his shoulder. "Short little redhead. Really fucking adorable. In an I-want-to-bang-the-librarian sort of way."

"Faith is a girl?" I ask. It's not some mythical state of being?

Paul nods slowly.

"Oh, okay," I breathe. I'd rather talk to a girl than talk about faith or hope or God or any of those things I don't have anymore. I pay my bill and walk toward the front of the store. But as I'm leaving, Friday tugs on my sleeve. I look down and she stands up on tiptoe and kisses my cheek.

"Best of luck to you," she says quietly.

"Thanks," I croak. I suddenly have a lump in my throat and I don't know why.

Pete shrugs into his coat. "I'll walk with you to Henry's. You don't want to be alone in this neighborhood at this time of the night." He looks over at Paul, who I assume is his brother. They look very similar, but the big one is broad enough to fill a doorway. He doesn't smile quite as readily as Pete does. "You going to walk Friday home?" Pete asks Paul.

Paul grumbles playfully and wraps Friday up in his beefy arms. "If I have to," he says. He scrubs a hand across Friday's hair. She slaps at his wrists until he pulls her back in for a hug. She settles against him and exhales. He looks down his nose at her, like he's confused. She breathes him in, a smile softening her face. He sets her back from him. "You ready?" he asks.

She nods her head and her cheeks color. "Don't walk me home hoping I'm going to invite you in," she chirps playfully.

"One day, Friday, I'm not going to give you a choice about inviting me in."

She freezes and her breaths fall a little quicker.

Pete bumps my shoulder as he walks by me. "You ready?" he asks. I nod, and stick my hands in my pockets. "See you tomorrow," he calls over his shoulder.

"Big plans for New Year's Eve?" I ask as we step out onto the sidewalk. The snow is falling even heavier, and I pull my hood up over my head. I stumble a little in the snow, and Pete slows down. He doesn't mention my leg. He just adjusts his walk. "Thanks," I mutter.

"For what?" he asks. He looks into my face.

"Nothing," I say. Maybe I'm just imagining that he's adjusting for me. I worry so much about my disability that I think everyone else does too.

"I'm taking my girl to watch the fireworks tomorrow," he says.

"Tonight," I correct. I look down at my broken watch.

"Oh, yeah," he says. He smiles. "Tonight." He blows out a steamy breath. Suddenly, he stops and turns, and goes down in to a stairway. "You coming?" he asks, when I stand there looking at him like an idiot. "We're here," he explains.

I walk slowly down the stairs. Stairs are hard for me, and if he wasn't here, I would just hop on one foot down them. That's much easier than taking them slowly, one at a time. But it's much less graceful.

We walk through the door and step into a basement full of clocks. There are grandfather clocks and cuckoo clocks and desk clocks. A train rumbles by on a track above my head, and I smile at the noise it makes.

"Kind of awesome, isn't it?" Pete asks.

It really is, in a ten-year-old most-awesome-thing-ever sort of way.

There's a long table at the back of the room and an older gentleman is sitting at it, and he has gears and parts spread around him. He's wearing magnified glasses and has a bright light shining on his workspace. He doesn't look up, so Pete calls his name. "Henry," he says loudly.

The man looks over the rims of his glasses at us. "Pete," he says. He sets his tools to the side and wipes the grease from his hands. "What a nice surprise." Pete reaches to shake hands with him, but the old man pulls Pete to him and hugs him instead.

"It's good to see you, Henry," Pete says. "How's Nan?"

Henry shakes his head and gets a far-away look in his eye. "She's still hanging in there," he says.

Pete squeezes Henry's shoulder.

"Well, at least she's home," Henry says. He looks at me and points to Pete. "This young man and his brothers came and moved our furniture so I could bring my Nan home."

Pete looks down at his feet and doesn't say anything.

Henry extends his hand. "I'm Henry," he says. "Who might you be?"

"Daniel," I say. "I'm sorry to bother you so late at night, but Pete said you might be able to help with my watch." I take it from wrist and hold it out to him.

He pulls his glasses down and looks closely at it, flipping it over. "This is old," he says. "Can't say I've ever worked on one of these."

It belonged to my grandfather. "Do you think you can fix it?" I ask. He takes it to a nearby table and pops the back off, appraising the gears inside like he knows what he's look at.

"Maybe," he grumbles.

Suddenly, there's a thump from upstairs and the old man startles. He lays my watch down and goes to the stairs. "Do you need some help?" Pete asks.

"Granddad!" a female voice calls from the top of the stairs.

The old man goes up the stairs, and Pete follows him. They both disappear. I shove my hands in my pockets and walk around, looking at all the old clocks. The man must just repair them. He doesn't have a showroom or a place to display them. The train rumbles by on the track by my head, and I feel a grin tip the corners of my lips.

The door at the top of the stairs opens and light feet skip down them. I see puffy bedroom slippers and striped pajama bottoms, and I'm suddenly staring into the greenest, most beautiful eyes I've ever seen.

Faith

I stumble on the bottom step and he reaches out to catch me. He's a little unsteady on his feet and he hops, but he's solid and strong. I have a feeling he'd fall before he let me do so, and that's an odd feeling to have.

"So sorry," I mutter. I tug my sweater close to my body, wrapping it around myself. I should have gotten dressed instead of coming down in my jammies, but I just don't have enough energy to do more. I'm working constantly, and when I'm not working, Granddad's at work and I'm taking care of Nan. I feel like I haven't slept in days. I probably haven't. I nearly got the life scared out of me when Nan tried to get out of bed and fell just now. I shouldn't have fallen asleep. I should have stayed awake to watch her. I knew Granddad was downstairs. He needs a break sometimes, too. He still works during the day as a doorman at an apartment complex. And he fixes clocks in his spare time. And he loves my Nan.

Theirs is a love like nothing I've ever seen. Not even my own marriage could compare. When Nan was at the nursing facility, he went there and slept in a chair beside her bed every night, because he said he couldn't sleep without her, so what good was it for him to sleep at home? I came to stay with them when they brought her home. I don't know if I'm a help or a hindrance. But I feel better being here, until I do something stupid like fall asleep.

The man coughs into his fist. I must have been wandering. Granddad says I do that a lot. It's one of the reasons why I'm good at fixing clocks. It's slow, methodical work and it takes my mind off the rest of the world.

"Didn't mean to fall into you," I say. Heat creeps up my cheeks.

He's handsome. Startlingly so. He has brown hair and deep, chocolate brown eyes. His face is shadowed by beard stubble, and he doesn't smile. Why doesn't he smile?

He reaches down to adjust his pant leg and I see the length of metal that comes out of his shoe. I look up to his face and he's watching me carefully. Is that why he doesn't smile? I stick out my hand, for lack of anything better to do. "I'm Faith," I say. He takes my hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze, his eyes meeting mine, and I might even see a little spark in his dark gaze. But it burns out as quickly as it arrived.

"Daniel," he says. "Everything all right upstairs?" He looks toward the closed doorway.

"Nan tried to get up and fell." I shake my head. Nan's head is still solid, but her body won't cooperate and she just doesn't fully grasp her limitations yet. "Pete's upstairs charming her back into bed." I laugh. That man has a way with people.

"The Reeds," he says. "They seem pretty nice."

I roll my eyes. "All five of them in one room can be a little overwhelming." I had a crush on Pete for a little while, but then he met Reagan, and they are so freaking perfect for one another that I quickly discarded that notion.

"There are five of them?" he asks. He scratches his head. "I think I only met two."

I start to count on my fingers. "Paul, Matt, Logan, Sam and Pete, in order of age. Sam and Pete are twins, although Sam swears he's eight minutes older."

I walk over to where Granddad started on Daniel's watch. "Is this yours?" I ask, as I pick up my glasses and sit down on the stool. I bend Granddad's light toward the watch. I look into it, and, although I've never worked on one of these, I might be able to fix it.

"It was my grandfather's."

I look up at him. "What happened to it?"

He looks everywhere but at me. "There was an explosion. In Afghanistan."

"Was that where you were injured?" I ask, but my mind is already on the inner workings of the clock.

"Yeah," he says and he blows out a breath.

"So your watch hasn't worked since the blast?" I ask. I'm trying to figure out what could be the matter. Because the gears turn when I manually work them.

"Nothing has worked for me since the blast," he says. His voice is suddenly heavy and I look up.

"What do you mean?"

"The clock," he goes on to clarify, but I'm pretty sure he just meant life. "It hasn't worked since."

"Mm hmm," I hum. I start to remove the gears and pieces and lay them on the table in front of me.

"Are you sure you should be doing that?" he asks. He walks close to me and pulls up a stool. He's fidgety, and he makes me a little nervous now that he's close to me. But Granddad and Pete are right upstairs.

I look up at him. "You do want it fixed, right?" I ask.

He nods. "More than anything." He heaves a sigh. "I feel like time stood still that day, and it never started back up."

I nod. But I can't look at him. He's telling me more than he wants to, and I'm afraid he'll stop if he realizes how closely I'm listening. "Did you lose any friends?" I keep working on the watch, removing the parts piece by piece.

"I lost all my men." His voice gets thick and he coughs to clear his throat. "Everyone. I lost everyone and everything."

"Where's your family?" I ask.

I feel the warm breeze of his heavy exhale. "All gone."

I finally look up. "I'm sorry."

He nods. He gets up and starts to wander around the shop. An hour later, I've put his watch back together and I wind it up. It should work. But it just doesn't. And I don't know why. I heave a sigh.

"What's wrong?" he asks from directly behind me. I feel the heat of his breath on the back of my neck, and the hair on my arms stands up.

"Nothing," I say and I start to take it apart again. I look over my shoulder at him. "Are you in a hurry?"

He shrugs and settles down beside me. He picks up a pen and starts to spin it on the tabletop. I look over at him. "Sorry," he says sheepishly, and he stops the pen from spinning with a slap of his hand. "So, you live here?" he asks. "In New York? All the time?"

I nod. And I keep disassembling his watch. Watches are made on a series of gears, even watches this old. I make sure each one works as I put it back in place. There are no snags. No broken gears. No missing parts. Nothing was jarred loose in the blast. "Yep," I say quickly.

"Have you always lived here?" he asks.

"No," I grunt. "I moved here when my grandmother got sick. Before that, I was in Florida."

"Do you like it here?" he asks.

I shrug. "One place is as good as another."

"Why aren't you married?" he asks.

I look up. "What makes you think I'm not?"

He grins, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Because any man in his right mind wouldn't let you out of his sight."

I jerk my head up. He gets up and starts to wander around again, like he didn't just say something profound. "I don't know what you're talking about," I mumble.

He cups his hand around his ear and leans toward me. He grins. "What was that?" he asks.

"Never mind." My gaze drops to his lips. He licks his full upper lip, and I have to force myself to look away.

"Something wrong?" he asks. His eyes drop to my mouth and he walks closer to me. Is he thinking about kissing me?

I look down at the watch. I shrug out of my sweater, because it's suddenly hot in here. "No," I say.

I look at the parts of his watch, which are scattered all over my table. The door to the upstairs opens and Pete walks down. Half way, he slows down, and looks from me to Daniel and back. "What did I miss?" He grins.

"Shut up," I grumble.

"Oh," he breathes. He nods his head and punches my shoulder as he walks by me. I growl at him and he laughs.

"How's Nan?" I ask. "Still upset?"

"Only that you were worked up over it," he says. He ruffles my hair with his big bear paw. "Don't be so hard on yourself," he says quietly. "Could have happened to anyone."

I nod, biting my lower lip to keep from sobbing. Nan has gone downhill so fast. She keeps having these mini-strokes that make her weaker and weaker. There's not much else we can do for her, except wait and make sure she's comfortable.

"She was talking about some old clock," Pete says. He picks up a bag of chips I was eating earlier and helps himself.

I smile. Granddad bought her a funny little clock made in Germany when they first got married. But they sold it when times were lean, about thirty years ago. Granddad has been scouring the internet to find another one. "He'll never find another clock like that, not one that he can afford. They make crappy knock offs, but he doesn't want crap. He wants the real thing for her. Or nothing."

"What kind of clock?" Daniel asks.

"It was a German clock, made with a Black Forest design, and when the hour chimed, dancers came out of the clock and slid back and forth along the front." I shrug my shoulders. "That's all I remember about it."

"Is it rare?" Pete asks.

I nod. "And too expensive for Granddad to buy another." I would buy one today, if I could find one and had enough money. "Nan used to make up love stories about what the people did when they went into the house." I lift my brows at the men. "Apparently, there was a lot of kissing that went on inside that Black Forest house."

Nan and Granddad have always had this crazy kind of passion and I sometimes wonder if I'll ever have that again. Maybe I'm waiting for a love like theirs. I don't know. I don't need to elaborate, because Pete's already grinning.

"Henry was a horn dog," he sings playfully.

I shake my head, but I secretly don't want to scold him. "She started to mention it again a few weeks ago. I know he wants to give her one, but it's just not going to happen."

Pete's phone chirps from his pocket and he grins and types something really quickly. He looks up. "Reagan's going to lock me out if I don't get home soon."

I laugh. "You better hurry."

"She loves me," he says. And he gets this happy look in his eye. Pete's settled and happy, and I couldn't be happier for him. He looks at me. "How much are we talking about with this clock?" he asks.

"Like more than a car," I say. "Even for a broken one."

He grimaces.

"Yeah, I know. I thought about buying one too."

Daniel sticks out his hand. "Thanks for the help finding the shop," he says to Pete.

"Hey, do you want to come over tomorrow night? You could go to the fireworks with us."

Daniel shakes his head. "I have somewhere to be at midnight," he says. "But thank you."

Pete claps him on the shoulder, and then he hugs me way too tightly and leaves. I can hear him whistling as he goes up the sidewalk.

I snap the back onto Daniel's watch and look up at him. "It still doesn't work."

His mouth flattens into a straight line. "I hoped someone could fix it before it's too late."

"Too late for what?" I ask.

"For me," he says.

"It's never too late for you, silly," I tell him.
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