India
I’d convinced myself I was prepared for this moment when it inevitably arrived. Told myself that I could not only handle it, but I wouldn’t be moved by it. Two years was a long time, and I’d used them to get over the man I’d loved and given my fidelity and heart to for four years. I’d used them to assure myself that kissing his best friend had been an aberration, an emotional blip due to stress, hurt, and the shock and anger at finding out Jessie had betrayed me.
But standing here, meeting Asa Hunt’s piercing dove-gray gaze, I could admit I’d been overconfident and a fool. All the internal pep talks and “I am not the same broken woman” mantras in the world couldn’t have equipped me for finally facing the man who’d haunted my dreams like a stubborn-ass ghost with an attitude problem.
It didn’t seem possible, but he appeared larger than he had when he’d only been Jessie’s best friend, and not the man who’d reshaped the definition of a kiss for me. A mechanic, he’d always been muscular, but now, with his long-sleeved black Henley clinging to his powerful shoulders and bulging arms for dear life, it was as if those muscles had spawned offspring. Well over six feet, his sheer height and width seemed to shrink the spacious office to the size of a cubbyhole.
A wide, deep chest. A flat abdomen that I’d bet my Happy Planner boasted a ladder of taut ridges. A tapered waist leading to lean hips that his faded jeans settled on with the help of a dark brown leather belt. Solid thighs whose thickness rivaled the trunks of the soaring oaks outside of the school building.
“India.”
My name in that whiskey-poured-over-gravel voice sends a shiver through my body as it drags my gaze back to his. And I immediately want to look anywhere but at that craggy but stunning face of angles, slants, and dips. His broad forehead, sharp cheekbones, lean cheeks, elegant slope of a nose, hard as flint jaw, and wide, criminally full and sensual mouth, framed by a brownish-red scruff.
God, that mouth.
I know the texture of it, the ratio of soft and hard, the intoxicating taste of it. Like dark chocolate dipped in the finest, most expensive brandy. Sweet, strong, and burning.
It’s been two years, but there are times when I can still feel the brand of his lips on mine. The delicious tingle his demanding, ravenous kiss left behind…
No. I give myself a rough mental shake. I’m not doing this. I’m not falling down this particular rabbit hole where nothing but hurt, rejection, and confusion await me at the bottom. I decided two years ago never to give myself to another man who doesn’t want me—and only me—as much as I want him. And even if I lost my ever lovin’ mind and fell for Asa Hunt, it would be a one-way, first-class ticket to heartbreak and disappointment. Other than that night, he’d never exhibited the slightest interest in me. Hell, there were times I questioned Jessie if his best friend even liked me.
And there was the other reason Asa was a no-fly zone. In a choice between me and Jessie—well, there wasn’t a choice. That bromance exists up there with Ben and Matt, Seth and James… Beavis and Butthead.
Nothing and no one, especially not a woman, will ever come between them. There’s something in their past—something Jessie never shared with me—that binds them together tighter than brothers. Blood brothers. And somehow, I think the term literally applies to them.
Briefly closing my eyes, I gather every scrap of hard-won composure I possess and smile politely at him as if I don’t know what his groan tastes like.
“Asa,” I say, moving forward with my hand extended toward him. “It’s been a long time.”
There. I sound professional, cool, and most importantly, unaffected.
He blinks, and the shock slowly ebbs from his eyes. His gaze dips to my hand, his brows arrowing down into a forbidding V. My belly flutters at that frown, but I refuse to lower my arm. We’re going to be adults here if it kills us.
Eventually, he raises his arm and clasps my hand in his bigger one. Swamping mine. Callouses roughen his palm, lightly scratching my skin, and before I can shut them down, images flood my mind of those large, long-fingered, and surprisingly elegant hands stroking up the sides of my naked torso, those same callouses scraping my tender skin, leaving heat and shivers in their wake. Of those hands cupping my breasts, completely covering them. Then his wide thumbs sweeping over my nipples, drawing them into tight, this-side-of-painful points.
I snatch my hand back and force myself not to rub the palm down my pencil-skirt-covered thigh. Instead, I nod toward Lena, our administrative assistant.
“I heard Lena tell you about why your meeting is with me instead of Mrs. Reyes. I hope that’s okay.”
“You?” he asks, still wearing that frown. “She said the assistant principal. I thought that was Mr. York.”
“He retired at the end of last year,” I explain. “If you’ll…” I wave a hand toward my office, not really wanting to have this conversation in front of God and Lena. I really like the woman, but she loves gossip the way I crave Idris Elba—with an insatiable lust.
With a barely there dip of his head, he follows me into my office, and I close the door behind him.
“Hey, Uncle Asa,” Rose greets her uncle with her outside voice, popping up from one of the chairs in front of my desk. “Isn’t it cool that India’s my principal? I guess I forgot to tell you that.”
I stifle a sigh. The little girl has two volumes. Loud, and holy-shit-dogs-in-a-five-mile-radius-are-howling. Gone is the sweet-tempered, shy child I remember from the handful of times we met at family barbecues and other get-togethers. And in her place is the boisterous, unruly little girl that has become the terror of the fourth grade.
Yet, I have the softest of spots for her. And not just because she’s Asa’s niece. My heart breaks for her because I know the grief and pain of losing a parent. We’re members of a club that no one in their right mind wants to be a part of.
“Rose,” I calmly say, arching an eyebrow as I peer down at her. “What did we talk about how to address me at school?”
Her grin fades, the corners of her mouth turning down. “I should call you Ms. Roberts,” she mutters, hunching her shoulders around her ears.
My heart squeezes even as I continue in a gentle but firm voice. The worst thing I can do is let her get away with anything. Forget the mile. She’ll take I-90.
“Yes, and it doesn’t mean we’re not friends. Why do I need you to call me Ms. Roberts?” I press.