Old habits and all that.
He clutched my neck, moving so his forehead pressed against mine, both of us let out ragged breaths as the movement brought us both closer to the edge.
“You’re a good mom, even though you’ve barely changed a diaper in your life,” he said. “You’re strong and bitter enough to handle whatever sweet this town throws at you.” His hand moved to lay atop my chest. “And your ability to breathe through pain is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. So you can do it without me.” He kissed me, long and hard. “But you’re not going to.”
Then he moved.
Then we both went over the edge.
Mia
I found Zane in the garage, after wrangling the hellions I called children into bed, a task usually reserved for him, since he had all the muscles and strength needed to force two small humans hell-bent on staying up all night into going to bed.
As it was, I’d had to tie Rocko to his bed frame.
Not all night.
I’d go in soon and untie him.
But likely he would’ve already figured a way out by then.
“You owe me big time,” I told Zane, from where he was sitting on the sofa in the garage that had once been Lexie’s jam space.
Now my daughter was a big rock star getting Grammy’s and all that stuff, she didn’t exactly need our little garage, but we kept it for her.
Not just because she and the boys had filmed a music video in here a few years ago and I could charge people to take photos, but because it meant something to Lexie. To all of us.
It would always be here. Not as a reminder of where they came from or whatever crap people pulled about keeping humble. I wasn’t humble about my daughter being one of the most famous and talented people on the planet. But she was a total weirdo and she would’ve been humble with or without the garage reminder.
“I’m thinking diamonds,” I said, moving toward my totally hunky, broody hubby. He was scary to everyone but me, our children and his grandchildren.
His grandchildren.
Not mine.
No way was I a grandma.
I was too young and beautiful.
“Or a car,” I continued, taking him in for all of the things that the outside world saw. The muscles, the cut, the tattoos, the seemingly permanent hot guy death stare that communicated he ate puppies for protein or something.
But as you got closer, metaphorically of course, if you didn’t know him and got up real close, he’d not only still look menacing and scary, he’d probably punch you or shoot you or something. Closer, in the metaphorical sense, showed Zane as a damaged, broken, beautiful man with a heart bigger than his biceps.
The love of my life.
And I didn’t even care if I sounded like a twat thinking that.
I stopped in front of his motorcycle boots. His eyes were on me, as they had been since I walked into the garage, because my husband was obsessed with me. Even though I was wearing his tee—tied at the back because otherwise it would go to my ankles—and cutoffs, flipflops, and no makeup.
I still looked great for my age and how many kids I popped out, but the way he looked at me was like I was J Lo or something.
It was nice.
Warm.
Beautiful.
Because a soft, reverent gaze from a hard, violent man was pretty much like crack. But more addictive.
“I know,” I said as my lady parts responded to his gaze and general nearness and hotness. “A new kitchen.”
Something moved in his face. Zane’s version of a smile. Way hotter than Colgate’s version. “A new kitchen?” he repeated, voice low masculine and delicious. I could eat it by the mouthful, like frosting.
I nodded. “Yes, I already have a lot of design ideas on Pinterest.”
“Babe, you don’t even use the kitchen.”
I scowled at him. “I do so. I store snacks in there.”
“You don’t cook in there,” he countered.
“I do so,” I snapped back. “I make coffee.”
He put his beer down with a grin and snatched my waist, yanking me into his lap. I immediately curled into his warmth, inhaled him in long and deep.
“Still weird when you smell me like that, baby,” he murmured against my head.
“It’s not weird,” I snapped. “It’s adorable.”
“It’s how a serial killer smells their victims,” he replied dryly.
Ugh. I was totally happy about Zane coming back to life, smiling more, yada yada yada, but too many of his jokes were being made at my expense. They needed to be made at other people’s expense.
I leaned back, locking eyes with him. “You never know, I could be a serial killer.”
To his credit, he didn’t laugh. Not with his mouth anyway. “Yes, baby, you could totally be a serial killer,” he placated, pushing hair from my face.
I rolled my eyes. “You still owe me.”