Kristen Ashley - Games of the Heart

They took off, the wind in their faces, Reesee’s hair drifting against his neck and jaw, the Indiana sunshine burning hot and muggy on them.

A perfect day. Nothing could be more perfect. Nothing. Not anywhere.

Not London. Not Paris. Not Shangri La.

Not anywhere.

But there.

On his farm.

In Indiana.

* * *

Clarisse was concentrating and she wasn’t sure she should do it but she figured if she was going to do it, now was a good time.

She could hide behind concentrating.

So as she brushed the kickass deep, dark burgundy fingernail polish her Mom gave Dusty on Dusty’s toenails, she muttered, “Love you, Dusty.”

She kept her eyes on Dusty’s toes and kept brushing.

Then she heard in Dusty’s sweet, musical voice a soft, “I love you too, Reesee.”

She loved it when Dusty called her Reesee.

She loved it that Dusty loved her.

She loved it bunches.

She smiled at Dusty’s toes and kept brushing.

And since she did, she missed Fin, who was lying stretched out beside his aunt, his arms up, elbows bent, head on his hands, ankles crossed, turn his head on his hands in the pillow and smile at Dusty.

And she also missed Dusty smiling in return.

And she further missed No, who was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed opposite Clarisse with his guitar in his lap that he was strumming absentmindedly, look at Fin and roll his eyes. But he did it being a dork because he too was smiling.

And last, she missed her Dad walking in and stopping dead in the door.

But even if she saw him, she could have no clue as he took in the bed that he was thinking for the first time that that big, ridiculously expensive bed was worth every fucking penny.

* * *

“Soooo,” I drew it out and Mike’s eyes went from the book he was holding open on the pillow beside me to mine.

“So what?” he asked when I said no more.

“Debbie phoned today,” I announced then watched Mike’s eyes flare and his mouth get tight.

“Tell me you did not take that fuckin’ call,” he growled.

“She’s being persistent,” I told him something he already knew.

“Sorry, darlin’, but she does not get to play devoted sister after bein’ a bitch to you thirty-eight years because you gettin’ shot woke her shit up. She’s got penance to pay. And I’m not showin’ if you invite her to the wedding.”

I bit back a chuckle and informed him, “I didn’t answer. She just called. I never answer.”

“Well, don’t start.”

My eyes drifted away as my hand drifted through Layla’s fur and I mused aloud, “It’s probably pissing her off. Me not answering the phone is probably setting her to stewing and giving her something else to hate me for.”

“She takes it that way, I would not be surprised. That would be pure Debbie.”

My gaze went back to Mike to see his still on me, his book still open on the pillow, his head in his hand, his elbow also in the pillow, his chest bared and gorgeous (since it was bedtime and we were dressed to sleep) and his eyes were pissed.

“Gorgeous, stop,” I ordered. “No getting pissed on the day you asked me to marry you.”

“Afraid me bein’ touchy is gonna last a while, Angel.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’ve been tryin’ the gym thing and it isn’t working. The thing that puts me in a good disposition is unavailable yet sleepin’ next to me. So until she’s back in commission, you’re gonna have to put up with it.”

My legs shifted at the thought and I whispered, “We could –”

His eyes went scary dark and he growled, “No fuckin’ way.”

Well that was out.

“I could use my hand,” I suggested, his eyes flared in a not scary way then went back to dark and scary.

“No give without take,” he decreed.

“Then you could –”

“Dusty, talkin’ about it is makin’ it worse.”

I shut up.

Then I grumbled, “This sucks that we can’t celebrate our impending nuptials by doing the nasty.”

Mike had no reply so I kept griping.

“And it’s no fair you saying I can’t bitch because I’m tied to this bed and yet you get to be in a bad mood because you aren’t getting any.”

“I’ll only get in a bad mood if Debbie doesn’t stop rearin’ her ugly head, you stop bitching and jerking around like you didn’t get shot three weeks ago and you also stop talking about having sex or the fact we can’t.”

I shut up again.

Then I asked, “What else is there to talk about?”

“Nothin’,” Mike answered. “So read a book. I bought you twenty of them.”

“I don’t read,” I told him.

“Then use this golden opportunity to pick up a new hobby,” he shot back.

“Is this us? Are we going to become Bicky and Bickrum McBickerson?” I fumed and Mike burst out laughing.

Layla lifted her head and panted happily in his direction.

I glared at Mike’s dog. Then I glared at Mike.

“I wasn’t being funny,” I snapped.

“Yeah you were,” Mike said, still laughing.

I shut up again.

Then I bit out, “I forgot to tell you, I like the ring. It’s beautiful. Probably way too expensive but I’ll only mention that in passing so you won’t get pissed off. And Jerra oo’ed and ah’ed over it for fifteen whole minutes.”

“Pleased you like the ring, Angel. Best part is you rappin’ that information out to me like you just told me the Chinese invaded and their unforeseen attack is ruining our dinner plans.”

I glared at him again.

Then what he said penetrated and I felt the smile spread on my face.

Then I shared, “Bickering with you is fun.”

“That’s good because I’m sensing we got a lifetime of it.”

My body started shaking and Mike’s good humor fled as his eyes moved to my chest and he scowled.

I fought back the laughter and whispered, “Mike, I’m past the point where I can’t laugh. Trust me. I know.”

And I did. When Jerra and Hunter showed the day after I was shot and Jerra made me laugh in the hospital, it hurt like a bitch. They left their kids with Hunter’s parents and Hunter had to go back. But Jerra stayed after declaring she was in for the long haul and, as ever with Jerra, she did not lie.

His eyes came back to me and his scowl cleared.

I kept whispering when I assured him, “I’m gonna be okay.”

His eyes moved over my face then he reached out a hand and glided his fingers along my jaw.

That felt sweet.

Then he dropped his hand to the bed and whispered, “Yeah.”

“And soon, we’ll be able to have sex again.”

He grinned and repeated, “Yeah.”

“And after that, we’ll get married.”

Mike just kept grinning at me.

I kept talking.

“Then we’ll make babies.”

Mike’s grin got bigger.

My hand went from Layla to cover his on the bed, his twisted and his fingers curled around mine.

“I love you, Jonathan Michael Haines.”

His hand gave me a squeeze.

Then he whispered, “Yeah.”

He might just have said, “yeah”.

But his beautiful eyes, so close, staring deep into mine, told me a whole lot more.

Seven years later…

Fin slid his hand up the skin of Reesee’s side, in over her ribs, his eyes watching his hand’s movements.

“Baby,” she whispered in her soft voice and he looked to her face.

Then he couldn’t stop himself. He very rarely could but when they were like this, never.

He dropped his head and took her mouth.

She whimpered down his throat.

His body was pressed to her side. He rolled over her and his hand slid up to cup her breast, his thumb sliding over the hard peak.

She drew in a sharp breath, sucking his tongue deeper into his mouth.

God, she was hot. Hot and sweet, his Reesee.

Fuck, he loved her.

He broke the kiss and slid his lips down her cheek, her jaw to her neck.

“Like this bikini,” he muttered against her skin.

“I’m bein’ bad,” she whispered.

Yeah she was.

Thank God.

His thumb slid back over her nipple and she squirmed under him.

“How’s that?” He was still murmuring against her skin, his lips moving, his tongue darting out to taste.

“I bought this bikini for our honeymoon. You aren’t supposed to see it yet.”

He grinned against her neck.

He was about to hook his thumb in the material to tug it down when her hands that were moving over his back suddenly stopped moving and her arms wrapped tight around him.

Her sweet, soft voice was thick when she whispered, “I’m marrying the first boy I ever loved tomorrow.”

His head came up and he looked down at her, her long, dark blonde hair spread across the blanket, her gentle, dark brown eyes warm on him.

“The only boy you ever loved,” he corrected and her lips quirked in her cute smile.

Then they stopped quirking and she looked deep in his eyes, her hand gliding along his back, in, up his chest so it could cup his jaw.

“The only boy I ever loved,” she said quietly.

His eyes moved over her beautiful face.

Then he whispered, “Yeah.”

Then he dropped his head and kissed her on a blanket by the side of the creek at the watering hole, one of their horses, Dreamweaver chewing at the grass ten feet away, the hot, muggy Indiana sun beating down on their bodies.

A perfect day. Nothing could be more perfect. Nothing.