Anyway, it didn’t matter because he loved the kid. This was because Tripp was lovable. He’d always been a good kid. Once or twice a week, always, Tripp called, from the time the kid could pick up the phone and dial, the whole time Layne lived away. They’d talk, or Tripp would. The kid could talk for ten. Whenever Layne came home for a visit, from when he was little, to when he got older, the minute Tripp saw Layne he’d dash to him, throw his arms around him and give him a tight hug. When he got older, he tried to make the dash cooler but there was no mistaking he was happy to see his Dad.

 He felt pressure and heat at his abs and looked down to see Raquel was pressing the coffee mug there. Automatically he took it and looked to her. She was close, close enough for him to smell her perfume.

“Inviting you to dinner,” she answered Tripp’s question. “Dad has a leg of lamb.”

Layne looked to Tripp. Tripp was staring at Rocky like she was a movie star, pink in his cheeks, eyes dazzled.

Layne looked back at Raquel then at Tripp who still hadn’t torn his eyes away from her.

Fuck. She was an English Lit teacher at his school and he had the hots for her.

He would, she was fucking gorgeous. She wore those skirts, those shirts and those heels to school every day, probably every boy went home and jacked off, thinking about her.

Even his son.

Fuck.

“Tripp, breakfast,” Layne ordered.

Tripp blinked, looked at his Dad, then he moved forward and toward the pantry.

“A leg of lamb?” Tripp asked as he moved.

Rocky headed back to the island, her heels clicking on the tiles as she went and, to put distance between them, Layne headed to the sink.

“A leg of lamb,” she replied.

“I’ve never had a leg of lamb,” Tripp could be heard from the pantry, although not seen.

“You’re in for a treat. Greek night. Homemade pita. Homemade tzatziki sauce. You’ll love it.”

Tripp came out of the pantry with a box of cereal.

“Cool,” he said, smiling at Rocky. “Uncle Dave a good cook?” he asked when he made it to the cupboard to pull down a bowl.

“I’m cooking,” Rocky informed him.

He was still smiling at her when he put the bowl and cereal down at the island and headed to the fridge.

“You a good cook?” he asked.

“I’ve had no complaints,” she answered, smiling back at him.

She wouldn’t. She had been a fucking great cook. Eighteen years of practice, especially not cooking on a budget, she was probably a master chef.

Layne felt his jaw get tight again as he saw Raquel’s eyes fall to the box of sugary cereal and her smile faded into a frown.

“Tripp, you should have oatmeal or something,” she advised as Tripp hit the island with the milk. “Sustained energy. That cereal will burn out halfway through first period.”

“That’s okay, I always get a candy bar from the vending machines between first and second period,” he told her and her eyes shot to Layne, communicating, clearly, that he should do something about his son’s lack of nutrition.

That’s when he’d had enough.

That was also when he was interrupted yet again in doing something about it.

“Hey Mrs. Astley,” Jasper said and he saw Rocky start to turn then his eyes went to Jasper.

Now Jasper was undoubtedly his son. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin that looked tan even in the dead of winter. He had Layne’s body too, but at seventeen, and dedicated to football, as well as being a stud and therefore at Layne’s weight equipment more than Layne was, he was ripped. He was nearly Layne’s height at 6’2” whereas Tripp was still growing and he hadn’t broken six foot yet, but he would.

Jasper was slowly pulling down a t-shirt as he stood at the edge of the kitchen counter. This was so Rocky could get a good look at his chest and six pack.

Layne’s eyes rolled to the ceiling.

His first born son was also cocky. Further, he was already sexually active. Layne knew it and supplied condoms because his efforts at discussing sex with Jasper had been unsuccessful and eventually volatile. So he bought condoms and put them in Jasper’s nightstand as well as slid packets in his wallet. He knew Jasper was active because the boxes were opened with condoms missing and his wallet was almost always empty of stash. Jasper had no girlfriend, a serial dater, working his way through his school and the rest of the schools in the county.

Jasper knew he was a good-looking kid with a sculpted, teenage boy body and he wanted his thirty-eight year old English Lit teacher to know it too.

The minute his son pulled his shirt down, Layne put his teeth to his lip, his tongue to his teeth and gave a sharp, low whistle. Jasper’s head swung to him and Layne tossed his car keys to him. With quick reflexes, Jasper caught them.

“Breakfast, Jas,” Layne ordered.

“We’re going to Uncle Dave’s tonight,” Tripp announced, shoveling cereal into his mouth. “Mrs. Astley is cooking.”

Jasper tossed his keys by the coffeepot and went to the cupboard to get a bowl.

“Awesome,” Jasper replied, turning to the island with his bowl. “Merry going to be there?”

“Yes, Jasper, a family affair,” Rocky answered and Jasper gave her a grin so she grinned back.

A family affair.

A fucking family affair.

Fuck her.

Layne was done and he moved.

“Eat,” he growled as he strode behind his sons at the counter with Rocky.

He made it to her, grabbed her bicep in his hand, yanked her coffee cup out of her other hand and slammed it on the island. Then he pulled her toward the door.

“Layne,” she said softly.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, but quietly.

She tried to twist her bicep out of his hand and he let her but only to run his hand down her arm until it caught hers. He dragged her through his front door, the storm door, down the walk and straight to her car in the drive.

She drove a sporty, black, Mercedes coupe that probably cost a quarter of what he paid for his house.

Jesus Christ.

He walked to the driver’s side of the car and yanked it opened, using her hand to maneuver her around and in, her back between the door and the car and he moved in, pinning her there.

She tipped her head back.

“Layne,” she whispered.

“He don’t do it for you?” Layne asked low.

She blinked then asked back, “What?”

“Jarrod,” he snarled her husband’s name, watched her wince and thought that was telling. “He don’t do it for you? Don’t make you burn? Don’t make you come so hard you stop breathing? Think to go slumming, find a way to get off?”

“Layne!” she hissed, her entire body getting visibly tight.

“We were good, baby, you remember. So good, I’m surprised it took you a year to make that play.” He jerked his head to the house.

“I’m not making a play!” She was angry, he could tell by the fire in her eyes, the line of her body and the way she spoke and he didn’t give a fuck.

He ignored her. “But I’m not interested. You want, I can shop around for you. Bet a lot of boys in this ‘burg would jump at a shot at you.”

“I was just asking you to dinner!” she snapped.

“Bullshit,” he clipped back.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not twenty-four, Roc. Not a man to be led around by his dick anymore. Had eighteen years to learn how to be the one who does the fucking, not the one who gets fucked.”

Her body jerked then locked but not before he saw pain carve a path through her features before they blanked.

She took a breath in through her nose, so big, it expanded her chest.

Then she asked, “What can I tell Dad?”

Rocky, he couldn’t tolerate. Dave and Merry were another story. This meant he was wrong, she’d fucked him.

Again.

“We’ll be there. Six thirty,” he growled.

“Brilliant,” she snapped and then whirled so fast in the small space he’d given her, her shoulder brushed roughly against his chest and her ponytail slid across his neck but she didn’t stop moving. She folded herself into the car and didn’t hesitate to reach out to the door handle. He moved out of the way just in time to miss getting hit when she slammed the door. She hit the ignition and backed out too fast, yanking the steering wheel at the end of the drive, then her expensive, high performance vehicle shot forward and he lost sight of her in seconds.

He stared after her for longer than their entire conversation in the drive lasted. Then he sucked in breath to calm his frayed temper and walked into the house.

“What was that?” Jasper asked the minute he hit the kitchen.

“Nothin’,” Layne answered.

“That wasn’t nothin’, you were pissed…” he hesitated, his eyes sharp on his Dad, “at Mrs. Astley.”

His last two words were said disbelievingly, like wealthy, polished, sexy, high school English Lit teacher, wife of the Chief of Surgery at a big hospital in Indianapolis, charity-working, pillar of the community Raquel Merrick Astley was a step away from the ‘burg’s own Princess Diana.

He stared at his son and noted Tripp was also watching him.

Then he made a decision.

“A long time ago, before your Mom, we were together. We lived together. It was good. Then it went bad. Very bad. I’m not a big fan of Mrs. Astley.”

“No shit?” Tripp asked and Layne looked at his younger son.

“No shit,” he answered.

“Wow,” Tripp whispered.

“How’d it go bad?” Jasper asked and Layne’s eyes went to him.

“Maybe, you still care, in about five years I’ll tell you,” Layne answered.