Hunks, Hammers, and Happily Ever Afters (35 page)

“So much for date night, huh?”  Brodie said. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t ever apologize for putting Cilla first,” Regan said and while her expression was stern, there was a hint of regret in her voice.  “If you hadn’t, I’d have been seriously disappointed in you.  Cilla, this is for you.”  She reached behind her and grabbed the handle of the white basket that contained a small porcelain tea set and a selection of new plastic tea cakes and treats.  “For when you’re all better and that cast comes off.”

“Ooooh.”  Had Cilla’s eyes gone any wider they might have popped out of her head.  “Thank you, Regan. Mr. Teddy and Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle will love them.”

“Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle?”

“We found the series of books at Pages Unlimited,” Brodie explained. “They’re fun stories—”

“Oh, I’m quite familiar with Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle,” Regan said with a serious nod. “She’s one of my favorites. I’m glad you think they’ll like them, Cilla. But for now, I think I’d better—”

“Stay,” Brodie said, holding out his hand. “I know it’s not the date night we had planned.”

“Oh, please stay, Regan.” This time Regan didn’t move quick enough to avoid the clunk of plaster.  “Maybe you could read me a Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle after dinner when I go to bed? Please?”

Brodie was certain Cilla didn’t notice the subtle change in Regan’s expression, as if she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do.  The number of topics they had to choose from when they finally sat down and had a conversation could keep them talking for decades.

“Please stay.” He took a chance and dropped his hand over Regan’s, pushing his fingers around hers and squeezing, silently pressing. 

“Sure.”  She let out a long breath.  “I already have the night off, right?”  She set Cilla on her feet and got up and to Brodie’s surprise, squeezed his hand in return.  “Who knows? This could be the best first date in the history of dating.”

“Exactly what I was just thinking.” Brodie grinned, bent down to pick up the dinner she brought, and led her inside his and Cilla’s home.

~*~

“H
ow one little girl can break her arm and still have the energy to beg for two bedtime stories is beyond me," Regan said as she joined Brodie in the kitchen a few hours later. "She’s down for the count, by the way, with Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle the giraffe standing guard.”

“Only two stories?”  He grinned over at her as he dried the last of the dishes and put them away.  “She’s slipping.  Her high count is five.  Coffee?”

“Yeah." Was there anything sexier than a man doing the dishes? "That would be great, thanks.”

“Go have a seat in the living room. I'll bring it in."  He gestured toward the doorway behind her.

The touches of modernity inside the cottage house, from crisp colored walls and decorative ceiling moldings, didn't do much to put a dent in the overly feminine decor. The kitchen, while small, was efficiently arranged in feminine shades of pink and yellows that carried all the way upstairs. No wonder Cilla had fallen in love. Regan could only imagine what his bedroom must look like: either an explosion of roses and daisies or...no. Heat rose up from her toes until her face flushed. She wasn't going to think about Brodie Crawford's bedroom. Instead she'd focus on the fact that nothing about this house said Brodie except for the massive amount of love he had for his daughter.

“Do you feel like you’re living in miniature in this house?”  She asked from her seat on the sofa as he set leftover chocolate cookies in front of her.  With nerves getting the better of her—Cilla was no longer a barrier between them—she nibbled on one.

“Every day of my life.”  The twinkle in his eyes brought a smile to her lips. How easily he did that, she thought. Making her smile just by looking at her. He sat beside her, leaving her coffee in arm's reach. He was close. Close. So close she could smell that spicy combination of citrus and sandalwood that made her head spin in an oh-so-intoxicating way. Who needed coffee as a stimulant when Brodie Crawford was around?

“I had every intention of renting an apartment when we first moved," he said, shifting to face her so she couldn't help but look at him. Those eyes of his. Hypnotic. "But one day we drove by and Cilla saw the For Sale sign. I barely had time to stop the car before she was jumping out yelling that this was the house she’d dreamed about before. After that, there was no other option.”

The halting way he said
before
had cookie crumbs sticking in her throat. “Before what?” She reached for her coffee.

Brodie’s face darkened as he sat next to her, staring down into the steaming mug. “Before I found her.  Gemma, my ex-wife, disappeared with her just after Cilla turned one. Her reaction to me filing for divorce and full custody.”

“I’m so sorry.” Regan reached out and covered his hand with hers. “I knew there was something—”

“Having an addict of an ex-wife isn’t something I advertise.” This time Brodie's smile was tired. And strained. “Gemma always had a lot of problems not the least of which were parents who believed she could do no wrong. I thought I could help her, save her. Fix her maybe. Turns out I was wrong. She’s serving time up at Carlton Correctional. Drug possession with intent to distribute, fraud, vandalism and child neglect. A bunch of other stuff I’ve chosen to forget.”

“For how long?” Regan couldn’t help but worry what would happen when Gemma got out.

“Not long enough as far as I’m concerned.” He set his coffee down and turned his hand over in hers, squeezed her fingers gently. “Too long for her parents, which is one of the reasons we moved. They’ve been calling to ask for my help in getting Gemma's case reexamined. Or they ask me to bring Cilla to see her. Neither is going to happen, in case you were wondering. Cilla had just turned three when I tracked Gemma down. I took a couple of private investigator courses online, learned some of their techniques. I made friends with the police in different areas I thought Gemma might turn up in.  Longest two years of my life, not knowing if Cilla was alive or dead. When I found her...” he broke off as grief and horror flashed on his face. “I can’t even begin to describe the conditions Cilla was living in, but it was enough that I promised nothing would ever going to hurt her again. And that I’d do whatever I had to to keep Cilla far away from that life.”

Regan knew men—fathers—like Brodie existed, but they never had in her world before.  In her experience, fathers holed up and gave up when life turned on them. Part of her wanted to reach out to Brodie, to hold him, and never let go. The other part—the part she’d relied on for the last eight years—told her she couldn’t get involved or invested in Brodie and his daughter. No matter how much she might want to. “What about your family? Didn’t they—”

“Don’t have one of those,” Brodie said. “I never knew my parents. I grew up in the foster system in Miami. Bounced around from home to home, never really settled anywhere. By the time I was fourteen, I’d had enough and made my way to New York.”

“You were on your own at fourteen?”  Regan tried to think what her brothers had been like at that age. They were good boys, but whether they could have managed on their own? That she doubted.

“I lived on the streets until I was nearly seventeen. Had a nice place in an alley behind a tattoo parlor and Chinese restaurants. And by nice, I mean a box that kept the rain off my head.” The humor behind his admission fed into her impression that he truly was one-of-a-kind.  He’d had more difficulties than she could fathom and yet he didn’t seem to dwell on them. Instead, they'd empowered him. “I was lucky,” he continued. “Drugs and booze never appealed; they were a distraction. I knew I was meant to do something, I just didn’t know what. One night the owner of the tattoo parlor caught me tagging his garbage can and instead of calling the cops, he brought me inside, stuck a pad of paper and a pen in my hand and told me to draw him something.” 

He pulled up the hem of his T-shirt and pointed to the image of the soaring eagle embedded in a rainbow of rays.  “Eagles have always fascinated me. They soar above their circumstance. This is what I drew him. He tacked it on the wall and offered me a job cleaning the floors in exchange for a bed in the store room. A few weeks later I was answering phones and moved up from there.  When I turned eighteen, he handed me the picture and said if I wanted, he’d do my first tattoo. Watching him work, understanding the talent and ability it took to empower people with illustrations, I was hooked.”

“So I see.” Regan surrendered to temptation and reached out and trailed her finger around the various images, from the eagle, to the Celtic cross, to the snake winding its way from his wrist all the way up to his bicep. She shifted closer, her heart pounding as he caught his fingers in the length of her hair. “They each mean something to you then?” She could barely get the words out. He fascinated her. Entranced her.

Scared her.

“Every tattoo means something.” Brodie's smile was slow, his eyes darkening as if he understood the emotions swirling inside her. Understood and approved. She took a breath, let it out in a long, barely controlled shudder.

“Some people get them for rites of passage." He stroked his thumb across her lips, his face inching toward hers. She licked her lips, eyes darting from his mouth to his gaze, wanting, wishing...hoping.

He dipped his head, but instead of kissing her, he trailed his mouth along the length of her neck. She shivered, heard the tiniest whimper escape the back of her throat as he continued to talk. "Others use tattoos to mark events in their lives or commemorate goals or someone they’ve lost." He lifted his mouth as his other hand came up to cup the side of her face. "The other day I did a butterfly for a woman over her mastectomy scar. She wanted to embrace the change she’d undergone and commemorate the fact she’d come out the other side of her treatment completely transformed. It’s a responsibility I take very seriously. I take a lot of things very, very seriously."

"Do you?" She whispered, pushing aside any hesitation she should be clinging to. This wasn't right. Not for her. Not for her family, her life. But Brodie was right. 

Right for now at least.

She wrapped her hands around his wrists, keeping him in place as she shifted over him, straddling him on the suddenly too small sofa and then, as he leaned his head against the back of the coach and smiled at her, she pressed forward.

And kissed him.

Teasing at first, hesitant, a slight nibbling as she reveled in the feel of his mouth under hers. His hands released her face, traveled down her arms, around her hips to cup her backside as he shifted her more solidly, so solidly her whimper became a moan.

She gasped as he moved under her, his hips rising slightly in the same tempo as his lips, pressing hers open before he loosed his hold and let her take charge.

The surge of feminine power had her entire body igniting. Everywhere he touched her, everywhere he didn't touch her, felt as if it were coming alive for the first time.

"Brodie," she murmured against his mouth as his hands roamed up under the edge of her shirt, over her bare skin. She wanted more. She wanted everything. She wanted... She wanted him.  She hadn't wanted anything more in her life, as if she needed him to breathe.

"Now isn't the time to be thinking," Brodie whispered. She felt his fingers slip under the strap of her bra, inching to the hooks that once they were undone, she would be, too. She kissed him again. Softly, regretfully, before replacing her mouth with her fingers.

"I'm sorry." She pressed her forehead to his, squeezed her eyes shut as her body continued to throb. "I can't do this. Not now."

His hand stilled, but he didn't remove it and for those long seconds, she knew what it felt like to be branded. "How about now?"

She laughed, and wondered if he could hear the undertone of a sob. It would be so easy to let go. So easy to give in. She lifted herself off him and moved to the far end of the couch, curling her legs under her as if she were cocooning herself against the pull of him. "You were saying about tattoos?"

He took a deep breath, shifting on the couch with a cringe that told her she'd made him just as uncomfortable as she felt. Well. She hid a grin. Maybe not quite as uncomfortable. "What do you want to know?"

"You think they're misunderstood."

"They are," he said with a slow nod. She wondered if he was having as much difficulty clearing his head as she was. “Tattoos aren’t just for gang-bangers, bikers, and felons. They’re people’s way of marking passage through their life and it’s something humans have been doing since the beginning of time.”  He took hold of her hand again, his lips curving at her sharp intake of breath as he exposed the inside of her wrist and traced over her unsteady pulse line.  “I can see you with a heart. Right here.”  His finger pressed, teased, and he inclined his head as if envisioning what he’d forever etch into her skin. “Nothing big, nothing flashy. A simple heart to represent the one that’s too big for your own good.”

“So tattoo artists are part shrinks, too?”  Regan swallowed as she fought the urge to shiver. His touch was mesmerizing, entrancing, and the way he talked about his calling, she completely understood the power of what he was capable of. She'd gotten a definite feel for what this man was capable of and tomorrow, she'd probably be kicking herself for not confirming her suspicions.

“We have to be," Brodie's voice took on a gravely tone, sexier than a lion's rumbling claiming of his mate. "Tattoos are a commitment. I want to know it’s what they want and need, and not something they think is trendy for now.”

Maura came to mind. “I don’t think my sister considered that—”

“I think she did.”  Brodie stopped moving his finger, but laid his hand over her wrist. “She could have chosen any image, Regan, but she chose one of her heritage, her family. Was she wrong?” Brodie shrugged. “Only in the fact she didn’t follow the rules. But what she did she did for a reason.”

“She did it to piss me off.” Regan tried to laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in Brodie’s eyes.

“She might have done it to get your attention, but I’ve seen that image, Regan. It symbolizes feminine power and strength. Whether she was exhibiting those qualities or calling for them, whether she regrets it ten or twenty years from now doesn’t really matter. That tattoo will always be a lesson.”