Falling For The Brother. Tara Quinn Taylor
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shook that thought away—far away—as she entered the bar fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. She was going to have a beer in front of her before he started shooting questions at her.
Happy to find the back booth clear, she slid in, facing the door, and looked out the window beside her, imagining she could see the ocean she knew was mere yards away. She could see the beach, but The Cove’s outside string of lights didn’t penetrate enough of the darkness for her to delineate waves. If the moon had been out...
He slid in across from her before she’d had a chance to order. The last time they’d been together in a bar, the only other time, they’d sat side by side on stools.
Pulling a small, leather-bound pad from the back pocket of his jeans, he flipped it onto the table and settled in.
“Did you order?”
“Not yet.”
Glancing around, he signaled the waiter. “You still drinking the same kind of beer?” He gazed in her general direction, but not directly at her.
“Yeah.” She said nothing else, knowing she was challenging him to remember, sure that he wouldn’t. And didn’t really care either way. Being perverse again, which seemed to be something he brought out in her. She’d have to rein in her lesser self when he was around.
Her hands folded on the table, she noticed that his hair was longer than five years before, and still as thick. Not as long as Bruce’s, which usually fell past his collar, since he worked undercover so much of the time. She’d also noticed that Mason had not only changed into jeans, but the black shirt was different from the one he’d had on that morning, too.
It was unbuttoned down to midchest.
She stared down at her hands. And then out toward the ocean again.
Why was his shirt unbuttoned? Surely not for her? Had she told him she liked running her fingers through the hair on his chest? Parts of that night they’d spent together were a blur.
Other things she remembered as though they’d happened yesterday.
He was talking to the waiter about beers on tap and specials. Her preference was neither on tap nor on special. She waited.
He ordered a tall dark lager for himself. And the light beer, bottled, that she’d always preferred.
“You changed your clothes,” were the first words out of her mouth when the waiter left. She wished she’d bitten her tongue.
He nodded. “I was up most of the night and hit the sack as soon as I got home.”
And then he’d obviously showered when he got up. That was why the musky aftershave he wore was reaching her nostrils so clearly. He’d just put it on.
“Where are you staying?”
“At home, why?”
“You drove back to Albina this morning?” And then another two hours to meet her for questioning?
“Yeah.”
“You going all the way back tonight?”
His shrug distracted her. Those shoulders... She had a mental flash of tanned, smooth skin. And a strength that allowed him to support his own weight, and hers, too, as he’d moved them together into the most incredible physical experience...
“Depends on how much beer I drink,” he said, not quite smiling, but she thought he might have if their situation had been different.
“Well, don’t let me keep you.” Their beers had arrived. She took a long cold sip before he could tip his mug to her bottle—something he’d done with each and every drink they’d shared that long-ago night. Their toasts had grown more and more ridiculous as the night had worn on. If she was remembering right, they’d tipped their glasses to see-through bras and boxers at one point.
He opened his pad before he took a sip. Got out a pen. Asked a series of questions that she knew were designed to put her at ease. Did she and Bruce purchase their house together? Had she liked it? Did she help choose the furniture? Yes, to all of the above. He wanted to know how she liked Santa Raquel. She liked it fine. Did she miss Albina? Not really.
She missed being closer to her parents, but since he didn’t ask, she didn’t reveal that piece of information.
It dawned on her, as she sipped twice as fast as he did, that he’d been driving for the past couple of hours. “Did you have dinner? They have great bar food here.”
His weakness. She knew that from Bruce.
Funny that she’d only ever seen the guy a handful of times in her life and yet knew so much about him.
Knew him intimately...
She took another sip. Her limit was three. He’d better be done with his questions by then because that was when she was leaving.
“I made a sandwich and ate it on the road.” He glanced at the tables around them, presumably to see what others were consuming, and she reached for a menu, placing it in front of him.
Her tentative theory was that if he was busy eating, he couldn’t be worrying about getting information for that pad he’d yet to write on. She really had nothing to give him that could in any way prove that Bruce had hurt Miriam. She had proof of him not keeping his word. Proof of unexplained absences. She’d caught him looking at normal adult porn on the internet once in the year they’d been married.
None of that added up to anything worthy of an investigation. Or anything criminal, either.
It just added up to a man she couldn’t accept as her partner in life. And one she tried to keep from disappointing her daughter.
“I think I’ll have this combination platter,” Mason said, looking up from the menu. “Will you share it with me?” He was getting fried green beans, onion rings and barbecued chicken niblets.
“I’ll have an onion ring or two. If you don’t eat them all.” She’d shared an appetizer platter with him once before. Really late at night, when she’d been too drunk to be aware of what was on it.
Or so she’d told herself.
In actual fact, she’d been tipsy enough not to care, enough to deaden the pain, but she hadn’t been too drunk to know about the choice she’d been making. She’d known, when she went to bed with him, exactly what she was doing. She simply hadn’t cared how wrong it had been.
Not until she woke in the bright light of day and found herself naked in his bed.
Mason ordered and tacked on another round of beers to be delivered with his dinner.
“Everyone has some kind of temper. Everyone gets angry.” His gaze met hers with total focus now.
“Yeah.”
“What did Bruce do when he got mad?”
She wanted the truth as badly as he did, so she met his eyes. Tried to recall a time when her husband had been in a bad mood, or upset about something. Other than when she’d told him she was leaving, of course. That had been a once-in-a-lifetime bad morning for both of them—inarguably the worst of her life. She’d said things, called him a loser, with colorful language attached. Her only comfort in the whole situation was that at three months old, Brianna had been too young to understand her words. Or remember them.
“You know Bruce,” she finally said. “He’s always so self-assured, so confident. If something doesn’t go his way, he looks for the bright side, sure he’ll find one, and then convinces everyone else that the darkness is gone, too.”
“I asked about his anger.”
She had a flash of the time a prosecutor had refused to press charges after Bruce had worked six months to make an arrest. She explained the circumstances, then said, “He sat for over an hour with this...chiseled look on his face, staring at a blank television screen. His jaw was clenched. Whenever