Grace (The Family Simon Book 5) (5 page)

“You’re a good girl, Grace.”

She slapped at him. “I’m not a girl. Don’t patronize me.”

But that darkness she’d sensed earlier filled his eyes and his mouth was set into a cruel grin.

“I’m not a guy you want to fix. I’m the guy you should be running from. Because I’m the guy who would bend you over that sink and spread your legs as wide as I could. I’m the guy who would yank your pants down, rip off your panties and screw you into next week even though you came here with another man.”

He inched closer still. So close that his body heat scorched her skin. So close that only a whisper separated them. She was trembling and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Holy hell, had she underestimated the power this man had over her.

His breath was warm on her cheek and she squeezed her eyes shut, hating him in that moment. Hating him and wanting him. How insane was that?

“I’m not a good man.”

She thought of the first time she’d met him. Of how he’d walked her sister-in-law Betty Jo down the aisle. He’d been so gentle with Betty. So
loving and protective.
She thought of that long-ago, winter kiss. Thought of the hunger and need she’d felt inside him. Slowly her eyes opened.

“No. You’re not a nice man, Matt. But you could be.”

A muscle worked its way along his jaw, and he stepped back, swearing under his breath.

“So that’s it?” she challenged. “That’s all you’ve got? I’m a bad man, end of story?”

His cell phone pinged and he scooped it out of his jacket before she could blink.
Unbelievable.
He glanced at it and frowned, scrolled through a few messages and then shoved it back inside his coat.

“I don’t have time for this Grace. I’m…look I’m sorry about…I’m sorry about everything. I should never have gone back to your place. I…” He made a guttural sound and shook his head. “I’ve got to get back to Rosie.”

Rosie? Red-hot anger washed over her and Grace thumped him in the chest—hard. So hard that he rocked back on his heels.

“Who the hell is Rosie?” she snapped, thumping him again. My God, she thought. How many women was he juggling?

Matt caught her hands up in his and swore again, barely avoiding her knee in his groin. But Grace was beyond being rational. Sasha. Now Rosie? She kicked at him again, suddenly wanting to hurt him as much as his words hurt her.

“Calm the hell down,” Matt barked, his mouth close to her ear. “Dammit, they can probably hear you all the way to the bar.”

“I don’t care,” she ground out, shoving at him. Winded, she exhaled and tried to shove a thick chunk of hair from her face. She moved her arm and stilled, slowly becoming aware of just how intimately she was pressed into Matt.

She turned her head slightly and froze, eyes riveted to his mouth. Time passed slowly, the only sound in her ear their ragged breaths. Then someone groaned. It could have been Grace. It could have been Matt. In the end it didn’t matter.

His mouth slid over hers and he took possession with a hunger that made her knees go weak. She sagged against him, hands creeping up to his neck and she held him as if her very life depended on it. His kiss was punishing at first, his lips hard. They tangled together angrily. Grace pushing at him with her hands and tugging on his hair.

But then he made a noise that barreled up from deep inside him. It was a sound of hunger and need and passion. It made Grace’s stomach flip, and when his lips gentled…when he slid his tongue just inside to taste her, when he spread small feathery kisses along her bottom lip until he stilled at the corner of her mouth…

She knew something had just changed.

He pulled away and rested his forehead against hers, breathing raggedly. They stood like that for a few more seconds, until his cell pinged again and broke whatever spell it was that had fallen over them.

Mouth bruised, she had to ask. “Who’s Rosie?”

Matt let go of her and that stupid lump was back. She tried to turn from him, her eyes on the ground, but his hand was on her chin and he forced her to look up at him. There was a struggle there—she could see it in his eyes—and when he finally spoke, his voice was thick. Rough. As if he had to force the words out.

“Do you want to meet her?”

Unsure, Grace could only nod.

He paused, as if surprised at her answer. But then his hand slipped to the small of her back and he unlocked the bathroom door. “Okay,” he murmured, his voice low and throaty. “This way.”

They didn’t head back into the bar. Instead Matt’s hand found hers and he led Grace out back into the crisp night air. Out to a large F-150 parked near the dumpsters. They slid inside and the truck roared to life. Matt didn’t hesitate, he put the vehicle in drive and they headed out of the parking lot. She caught sight of her rental as they pulled onto the road.
Shit.
Josh. She’d text him. Tell him to take a cab to the hotel.

“You sure about this?” Matt asked, taking his foot off the gas.

Grace didn’t have to think. She knew.

“Yes,” she answered softly.

“Okay. Let’s go meet Rosie.”

6

M
att must have lost his mind. Really and truly lost his freaking mind. What the hell was he thinking bringing Grace back to his place? Hadn’t he planned on giving her the pleasure of telling him off so that they could both leave that night in Nashville behind?

He cranked the tunes and tried to settle back and relax, but the snow-filled night sky, the lonely stretch of road, and the woman beside him made that pretty difficult. He clamped his mouth shut and blew out a long breath. Hell, when was the last time he’d even brought a woman home?

He couldn’t remember—that’s how long it was—and if he were smart he’d turn his truck around and take her back to town. What was it about this girl that got to him? Sure she was easy on the eyes, with a body that didn’t quit and a mind as sharp as they came. But he’d been with plenty of women who were cute or sexy or sharp.

And yet Grace Simon was different.

When he’d glimpsed the hurt in her eyes, hurt that had been put there by him, something strange had happened.
He’d wanted to make it go away.
He’d wanted her to know that he wasn’t always the cold bastard everyone thought him to be.

And now here he was, with Grace Simon in his truck and he had no idea where this was going.

Shit.

He pulled onto McClung, a side road, and peered ahead into the dark. He’d passed a snowplow a few miles back, but already the road was filling in.

“It’s not letting up,” he muttered, glancing to his right.

Grace didn’t say anything—maybe because the music was too loud, or maybe because she had nothing to say. She sat with her hands in her lap, looking about as relaxed as a cat cornered by a pack of rabid dogs. The truck bed was weighted down, but still the back end swerved a bit and it took some for Matt to keep the damn thing on the road.

Shane and Bobbi’s place came and went, and Matt took the next left. The snowplow hadn’t been down his road and he eased his truck into the tracks left behind by Travis Forest, slowing down to a crawl for the remainder of the trip. Finally Matt spied his driveway and managed to get the truck as close to the front porch as possible. The snow was at least a couple feet deep and he’d be out for hours getting it shoveled.

All that would have to wait.

“It’s beautiful,” Grace whispered.

He glanced at her sharply, studying her profile as she gazed through the wiper blades at his place. Her nose was small, delicate almost, and she scrunched it a bit as she angled her head for a better view.

His home
was
beautiful and a feeling of pride settled in Matt’s gut as he stared up at his place through the eyes of a newcomer. Built in the late 1800’s by one of the founding families to the area, the Whitwells, Matt had bought the place nearly four years earlier when the last remaining Whitwell died without anyone to leave it to. It had been a rundown mess—he’d gotten it for next to nothing—and he’d slowly coaxed it back to life. Sure there were still projects ahead of him, but on the whole he’d put a good dent into the workload.

With a wide expanse of porch on either side of the double front doors, deep bay windows that boasted stained glass, and intricate lattice work, it spoke of an era long gone. The house was two stories and featured an attic that was nearly as large as the second floor. He couldn’t argue that the place was too big for just one man, but Matt was the kind of guy who needed space and this was his refuge.

He cut the engine, slowly pocketing his keys. “You sure about this?” he asked gruffly. “I can take you back to town before the roads get too bad.”

She sighed. A soft sort of sound that made his gut tight and his heart rate speed up. “I think it’s too late for that.”

She glanced at him, those big eyes of hers glistening in the dim light cast from the porch. “So, about Rosie...”

Matt reached for the door. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

He waited for Grace to slide from his truck and the two of them trudged through the snow to the porch. They stamped their boots, getting rid of as much snow as they could and he let her inside. He took Grace’s jacket and hung it in the antique cupboard to his left and then stood for a moment watching her closely as she gazed around the foyer.

The oak floors gleamed in the dim light and the smell of lemon oil scented the air. He’d redone the floors one painstakingly hot summer, and was in the process of stripping the ones in the bedrooms upstairs.

He was a simple man, so there wasn’t a great deal of décor. A lone Shane Gallagher watercolor hung on the wall, while a black and white movie still of Betty Jo sat in a frame on the Queen Anne table beneath it. He hadn’t put either one of them up—that had been all Betty the last time she’d been around.

“This way.”

He led Grace down the hall to the back of the house and into the massive kitchen/dining area. It took up the entire width of the house and had at one time been two separate rooms. One of the first things Matt had done when he’d bought the place was to knock the wall down and he’d ended up with an impressive great room.

The appliances were new, all stainless steel and restaurant grade. The cupboards had been sanded and redone in an antique white-wash and he’d added a large island, high bar stools, and smooth dark gray granite complimented the setup. The lighting was unobtrusive—he was all about clean lines and no clutter—small pendants that hung from the ceiling and placed strategically.

A fireplace crackled along the far wall—Travis must have stoked it up before he’d left—and Matt set his hand at Grace’s back, urging her forward.

“Over here,” he said gruffly, nodding to the pen located to the right of the fireplace. He saw her confusion. He knew she’d been expecting pretty much anyone or anything other than…

“Oh,” she said softly, falling to her knees.

Matt watched her for a few seconds, enjoying the play of light on the soft curve of her cheek, and the way her nose scrunched up as she gazed into the pen.

“Matt,” she breathed, glancing up at him. He didn’t look away. He couldn’t. “This is Rosie,” she whispered.

He cleared his throat and moved closer, squatting beside Grace. “This is Rosie.” At the sound of his voice, the small black lab barked, it wasn’t loud—more of a greeting—and attempted to get up.

“You just stay put princess, and take care of your babies,” he murmured, reaching in to scratch behind the dog’s ears. He counted, eyes on the small squirming bundles of fur. “Hey, Momma. You went and had five puppies while I was out. Could have waited.”

The dog relaxed against the heavy blankets and groaned a bit. He watched her nudge one of the small pups and position herself for better feeding. Not an easy task considering the dog had two broken legs, and a couple of cracked ribs.

“What happened to her?” Grace asked, eyes on the puppies as they snuggled into each other and nursed.

“I found her along the side of the road a few weeks back. Someone hit her and left her for dead. So I scooped her up and took her to my buddy Travis’s clinic, and we fixed her up as best as we could.” He shook his head. “It’s a wonder she didn’t lose any of the pups.”

“So she’s not yours?” Grace turned to him.

“No. No one claimed her. I think she’d been on her own for a while. She was underweight, banged up and I, well, I couldn’t leave her at the clinic.” He cleared his throat, stemming the anger inside him. If he ever caught the bastard who’d left her for dead…

“So you brought her back here to have her babies.”

He shrugged and got to his feet. His chest was tight and he didn’t feel like talking anymore. Heading to the other side of the room, he opened the fridge and grabbed a cold beer. He held it up and raised an eyebrow.

“Sure,” Grace said, slowly getting to her feet to join him at the island. “I’ll take one.”

“Sorry. It’s all I got.” He handed her the Bud Light before grabbing one for himself.

Grace took a sip from the bottle and leaned against the counter. Her eyes never left him and he shuffled his feet, a little uncomfortable with the intensity in her gaze. This girl was thinking. She was going to try and figure him. They all did.

He took a swig of beer, letting the silence of the place wash over him. Usually it calmed the frenetic energy inside him. But tonight? With Grace Simon standing in his freaking kitchen?

It did nothing.

The window over the sink rattled as a gust of wind slammed against the panes, and he frowned, walking over for a peek.

“Shit,” he murmured.

“What’s wrong?”

“Storm’s getting worse.”

She joined him at the window and he moved so that she could have a look for herself. She wasn’t exactly short, but then she wasn’t exactly on the tall side either. She had to get up on her tiptoes in order to see properly, and he couldn’t help himself. His eyes moved hungrily over her body, sweeping over the dip in her back, to the curve of her ass to the…

“What are you looking at?” she asked, voice a little breathless as she turned back to him. The sexual tension—it was there. He felt it sink in and take hold, and Matt met her gaze full on.