I watch until she's out of sight, pull my own blank mask firmly in place, and then turn to face Marek with a light smile. "What's up?"
He waves toward the stove. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" I ask pleasantly.
"Family dinner shit," he says with another careless wave, and he proves to me that he still has a whole lot of asshole inside of him.
"Family dinner shit?" I repeat.
Marek takes a step toward me and lowers his voice. "I'm going to be a good father to Lilly. I'm going to figure it out. But I can be a good dad without falling into your little family plot ideas of Sunday dinners. That's not the way it's going to be with us."
The rage rises within me and I have to repeat to myself, You wronged him, Gracen. Suck it up. Let him have his moment.
When I feel like I can speak without scratching his eyes out, my voice is deceptively calm and light. "Don't think so highly of yourself, Marek. This dinner wasn't for you or for any warped idea I might have that we'd be a family. You made clear your thoughts on that four years ago. This is for Lilly. A tradition we had at my parents' every Sunday, and I'm going to continue it for as long as we stay here. And when we move out, I'll continue it there. I'm merely being polite and inviting you to join us if you're hungry. But it makes no difference to me if you have other plans. The meal will be enjoyed with or without you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a kid to wash up and a pie to make for us."
I turn away before I can even gauge how my words might affect him. He stops me cold when he says, "You're not moving out."
I wheel on him so fast his chin jerks in with surprise and he takes a tiny step back. I cross the kitchen to him in three steps, pushing my finger into his chest for emphasis. "That's where you're wrong, Marek. I will move out with Lilly. I just don't know when or where that will be or how to accomplish it, but fuck if we're going to stay here for too much longer. I'd rather have my intestines ripped out of my belly button with a crochet needle than suffer your presence on a daily basis. Until that time, let me politely say, you continue to be a good dad to Lilly and I'll support your right to do that. You make my life much more miserable, I might just cut your balls off while you sleep."
Marek blinks at me in surprise, his mouth dropped into a tiny O. I give him a bright smile and say, "Now...enjoy your Labor Day party."
I feel mighty fucking proud of myself when I turn away from him to jog up the stairs. I know I have a lot to pay for given what I did to Marek, but I'm not going to take more abuse than I deserve from him.
I conjure up an image of cherry pie and feel light and happy on the inside. I have Lilly, Owen's out of my life--although for how long remains to be seen--and I've established that I've got a backbone with Marek.
Oh, and cherry pie. How can you not be happy with that on the horizon?
Chapter 5
Marek
My living room is mostly dark, which matches my mood. The light over the stove is on in the kitchen, and it throws enough of a glow into the living room that I'm not in total pitch black. I sink further down into the armchair, the bottoms of my forearms perched on the rests. One hand holds a highball glass with about two inches of bourbon in it. I'm holding it at the rim by my fingertips, dangling it over the end of the armrest. I've yet to take a sip, and that's only because I'm pretty damn drunk already. Not sure why I even poured it, but since I wasn't tired when I stumbled in the front door a few minutes ago, I figured more liquor couldn't hurt.
The party at Holt's house sucked. Normally, hanging with one of my best buds is one of my favorite pastimes. Holt is a huge extrovert and social whore. He loves people and having them around. He loves women even more, and nothing better to congregate them in one place than a huge party frequented by most of the single dudes on the Cold Fury.
And there were plenty at Holt's house this afternoon. Even more showed up this evening as his party raged on. Holt's getting ready to gut his entire house and remodel it over the course of the season, so this was sort of a last hurrah for him.
It was the pits because I couldn't get into it. The liquor tasted bland, the food dry, and the women? Well, they didn't seem so hot anymore.
Not compared to Gracen, and it's impossible for me not to compare them to her, because she's in my face constantly. I might be pissed at her a good chunk of the time, but I'm still attracted to her 100 percent of the time.
It's left me in an overly surly mood tonight, and perhaps the bourbon will take the edge off. I lift the glass to my lips, take a mouthful, and swallow it down without savoring. My arm drops back to the rest and I sink further into the chair while I brood.
Lilly.
I'm so fucking far out of my comfort zone that my stomach is constantly knotted when I'm around the kid. She's utterly perfect, and I'm not saying that because she looks just like me. But God, my naturally wavy hair that actually forms ringlets of curls is amazing. And she has my eyes.
My fucking eyes.
Both Gracen and I have blue eyes, but the fact that the color is spelled B-L-U-E is about the only similarity. Mine are a deep blue, the color of denim. They can become quite dark when I'm feeling strong emotion, but I've been told they look like sapphires when the sunlight hits them. At least some chick I was hanging with at the beach told me that once, but I saw it yesterday with Lilly. She picked a dandelion for her mom and held it up for me to inspect. She smiled at me as she titled her face back to the sun and her eyes sparkled like gemstones.
Gracen's eyes, though, are completely different. They're pale blue with a darker ring around the edge. When you look close, you'll see flecks of gold in them as well. I always thought they were magical eyes...hypnotizing.
Used to love fucking her and looking down into those eyes.
I take another swallow of the liquor and my head swims.
The noise doesn't penetrate at first because my senses are dulled somewhat from the hours of drinking today. I could barely work my Uber app to get a ride home, so I know damn well I've got no business continuing to drink.
But I hear soft footsteps padding down the staircase that extends upward to the second-floor bedrooms and downward into my basement. The staircase is just to my left on the other side of the half wall that separates the casual living room from the formal area.
Just a wall separates me from Gracen, because I know that's her coming down those stairs. Her steps fall lightly and with caution so as not to make too much noise. If that was Lilly, she would come down with distinctive clops, as she takes one step at a time and with determination as she holds the rail. Of course she wouldn't be up this late anyway.
Yes...I may have studied my daughter a time or two. The way I watch her would be considered creepy if she weren't my blood and I hadn't seen her in three years.
Gracen steps into my line of sight and my lungs seem to freeze up. Classic Gracen wearing nothing but a T-shirt to bed. Not a baggy men's tee, but one of her own well-fitted T-shirts that hugs her petite frame and C-cup breasts that are unrestrained right now. They jiggle a little when she walks. My eyes drop to her ass, barely covered in a pair of white bikini panties that sit low on her hips and ride up just under the curve of her ass cheeks.
Despite the copious amounts of alcohol I've consumed, my body instantly responds to her. My cock thickens and swells, pushing against the zipper of my jeans. I silently lift my glass and polish off the rest of the bourbon, bringing the empty glass to rest on my knee.
My eyes are glued helplessly to her body as she walks into the kitchen. She moves gracefully and lightly. The lower half of her body is blocked by the kitchen island until she gets to the other side where the refrigerator stands. She's in the shadows, looking mysterious and lonely, until she pulls the door open and the light spills across her, the cold air making her nipples tighten and poke through her shirt.
I stifle a groan and shift my hips while my free hand pushes my erection to the side of my zipper for some relief.
Christ, I hate t
o react to her this way. I try to pull forth my anger and will it to make her unattractive, but fuck if all I can see is the most beautiful woman I've ever known made sexier by the fact she fucking carried my kid in her womb.
It's totally whacked.
Gracen peruses the contents of the fridge for a moment before reaching in and pulling out a pie dish covered with tinfoil. I'm thoroughly disappointed when she closes the door and her body falls back into the muted shadows cast by the small light over the stove.
I silently watch as she places the pie dish on the island counter, rummages through a drawer for a fork, then peels back the foil.
That's the Gracen I know. She wouldn't bother with a plate and to cut out a slice. She'd dig right in with her fingers if a fork wasn't available.
She forks out some of the pie and I have no clue what type it is. I imagine the tingle of cinnamon if it's apple, or perhaps the sweet-tart burst of flavor from cherries. Regardless, I stare fascinated and dick raging hard as she opens those plump lips to take a bite.
Her eyes close and her head tilts back slightly, and I'm done when a low, sexy moan bubbles out of her that's loud enough to carry across the living room to me.
"Is it that good?" I ask, my voice hoarse and gruff.
She's unflappable as ever. Most people would scream and probably curse if someone spoke to them unexpectedly from the shadows.
Gracen merely jolts slightly, her eyes snapping over toward where I'm sitting. She stares at me a moment and I wonder if the darkness conceals my attraction to her that's thumping between my legs.
Giving a slight cough, she clears her throat and asks oh so politely, "Would you like a piece?"
God, would I ever like a piece.
And not of pie.
I don't answer her, but push up from the chair. I tilt slightly to the left but correct myself. Ambling over to the wet bar that sits at the base of the stairs and separates the two living areas, I concentrate on walking a straight line so I don't appear as drunk as I feel.
I quietly pour another two fingers of bourbon and swish it suavely around my glass. It spills over the top and onto my hand.
"Shit," I mutter as I turn back around to look at her. She's digging back into the pie, thoroughly ignoring me.
I don't like being ignored.
Walking around the island counter, I come to stop beside her and set my drink down. My gaze drops and I see she's eating a cherry pie. Christ, that's sexy. I'm pretty sure there's some rock song out there about a half-naked woman eating cherry pie.