“I don’t know who else to tell,” I admit, fiddling with a worn spot in the comforter. “If I tell my dad, he’ll either deny it or side with her. If I tell Kieran, he’ll freak out and demand she’s put in a home.”
“Don’t you think maybe she should be, though?”
My eyes narrow into slits, offense spreading through me. “Are you suggesting I abandon the woman who brought me into this world? The one who used to make me lemon squares when I was too sick to go to school, who attended every one of my cheer competitions even though the other moms tended to ostracize her because of her name? You want me to pretend she never did anything for me and stick her in a nursing home?”
“Hey.” Boyd’s hand reaches out, brushing against my cheek—his touch is so soft and gentle that a chasm splits open in my soul, like he’s reaching inside and trying to grip the seam where sunshine meets darkness. Like he’s trying to hold me together. “I didn’t mean anything by it. But you’re eighteen, Fiona. It’s not really fair that you have to take care of her.”
“I don’t have to.” I try to pull away, but his hand slides down my face and grips my jaw, keeping me in place. “She isn’t a burden, and it’s not like she asked me to do it.” Not outright, anyway. She didn’t have to because I was always offering.
“Kids shouldn’t have to take care of their parents.”
“But sometimes they do.” Tears sting my eyes, burning with the effort it takes to keep them at bay.
His mouth opens as if he’s about to say something else, but then seems to think better of it. My anxiety melts into distant sadness, and when he pulls away, I don’t make a move to bolt or escape his presence. I sink into it, missing the warmth of his skin on mine.
Needing the distraction.
“I’m sorry,” I say when he settles back against the headboard, propping his arms up behind his head. The veins in his arms bulge against his tattooed skin, and I trace them with my gaze, trying to immortalize their existence in my mind. “I shouldn’t have even brought any of this up. Kieran and my dad always say I talk too much or say the wrong thing when I’m nervous, and you make me the most nervous out of anyone I’ve ever met, so...”
I trail off, picking at my fingernails. Boyd just stares, watching me with an unreadable expression, before he sits back up, leaning in. “What can I do to help alleviate your nerves, princess?”
Gulping, I lift my chin to meet his; heat ebbs between us like the start of a chemical explosion, frissons of desire spreading like tree branches throughout my body.
It should make me more anxious, having his undivided attention. But for some reason, if only to pretend there’s nothing else going on in my life, I feel emboldened. Like I could ask Boyd Kelly for anything right this second, and he’d give it to me, no question.
“Tell me a secret.”
His eyebrows raise. “That’s a big ask.”
“Do it anyway.”
Humming low in his throat, he reaches out, slipping his hands around my hips and pulling me into his lap. We’re separated by the comforter as it falls around my legs, but the unmistakable evidence of his arousal prods at my ass, sending a delicious shiver over my skin.
My core throbs as I hook my knees on either side of his waist, his large palms cradling my hips through the thin T-shirt I’m wearing.
Our breaths spill from half-parted lips, heady and full of promise, and when I smooth my hand up his chest, resting over his heart, I can feel its rapid beat in time with my own.
Leaning forward, Boyd trails one hand up my side, ghosting along my ribs and brushing the curve of my breast. He runs just the pads of his fingers above my breasts, nostrils flaring when a second shiver racks through me.
“A secret, you say.” His thumb snares in the neckline of my shirt, pulling it down to expose my collarbone, and then he dips his head, tracing the ridge with the tip of his tongue. As his mouth travels across my skin, his right hand releases my shirt and comes up to grasp my neck.
With his fingers splayed against my throat, I arch into his touch, recognizing that my inexperience might be driving the excessive flames erupting in my pussy right now, but embracing it anyway.
When he touches me, the rest of the world melts away—my mom, the fact that his best friend is my brother and would not approve, the secrets he keeps inside. Nothing else but the feel of his skin against mine matters, and that’s not a sensation I’m used to.
“What if I told you,” he breathes into me, the vibration of his lips bringing heat to my cheeks, “that I read historical romance novels?”
It takes a second for his words to register, but when they do, I rear back, pressing my hands against his chest to keep him away. “Seriously?”
“Would I joke about that?”
“Maybe to make me feel better?” A laugh tumbles from my lips. “Historical romance? Like, viscounts and rakes, that kind of thing?”
“I prefer bodice rippers, but yes, there are a wide variety of titles the characters may hold.”
Shaking my head, I try to grapple with the information, then burst out into a full round of giggles. Covering my mouth with my hands, I can’t stop the tremors that rack my body with each laugh, my stomach cramping alongside them.
“I don’t really see what’s funny. It’s a perfectly normal hobby to have.”