Sanctuary (Family Justice Book 3) (11 page)

What could he say to that? If he pressed further, the evening would become a therapy session, and he wasn’t about that, so he let it go. He half wondered if she’d ask him anything personal and was about to give up on the hopeful notion when she blindsided him with a series of questions.

“All right you. What’s with the charm offensive, huh? And what the hell with the Christmas card? From Arizona?”

He snorted at the apt description.
Charm offensive.

“I wasn’t born yesterday. All of this,” she pithily commented with a wave of her hand, “has been carefully constructed in your head. You’re not a fly by the seat of your pants kind of guy. And since I seem to be involved, how about you let me in on whatever’s going on?”

It was cute how she punctuated her inquisition with a snarky eyebrow arch and a long, slow sip of champagne. She clearly didn’t know it yet, but just by asking, by acknowledging that yeah, there was something going on, she was signing on for whatever came next. This complicated, slightly damaged woman was so worth the effort.

He took a healthy gulp of the bubbly and returned her expression. “I thought we already covered this.”

“How do you figure?”

He sat back in his seat and flat-out leered at her. “You understood perfectly when I said I missed you.” Without missing a beat, he continued despite her stifled hiss. “And if memory serves, you admitted to feeling the same.”

He watched her struggle to find a response. “Oh, yeah. Right.” Heather’s eyes darted around the room. Brody waited to see where her thoughts led. “But how does that explain Arizona?”

Fair enough. Since she took the ‘miss you’ thing at face value and didn’t argue the point to death, he’d start explaining his other life. Slowly. In bits and pieces. She was opening up to him and being receptive, but her breakdown earlier reminded him that she was human. Like him. And could only take so much at one time.

“If you’re going to press for the third degree, let’s take this into the living room,” he suggested rising from the table. “You take our glasses, and I’ll clear the table then bring in the champagne. Deal?”

She frowned at him. Adorably. He’d learned a lot by observing how the Justice Brothers handled things. Ending a command statement with a taunt disguised as agreement was damn effective. It was one of Draegyn’s signature moves. That guy could get both sides of the fucking aisle to agree on the most outrageous points just by manipulating the shit out of them with a few well-placed phrases.

Challenging her with his expression, he waited while she made up her mind. The lady didn’t like taking orders. In her mind, even a placid demand could trigger a loss of control. And that wasn’t okay with her.

Two things connected them. It didn’t matter that they worked for the same school. It was their therapy group and the fact that they lost their clothes with ease whenever they were together that mattered. In bed, she took what she wanted with no apologies, and up till now, he’d been okay with that.

But not anymore. That rigid self-control and inability to let anyone else in was a protective mechanism. A coping skill and a shitty one. They had crazy sex but never, ever, ever were they not face-to-face. Heather wouldn’t allow anything that she couldn’t ultimately control and that started with being able to see what was coming at her. It was time for her to break free from all the crap holding her back.

He didn’t make any effort to disguise the grin that spread across his face when she abruptly stood, tossing her napkin onto the table, and shoved the chair across the wood floor. Her every action came off with a decidedly diva-esque quality that turned his dick to stone.

“Have you always been this evasive? And bossy?”

He bit down on his lower lip and waggled his eyebrows. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security.”

Her roar of laughter surprised him. “Uh-huh.” Snatching up the glasses, she gave him a frosty look. “I’m letting you …” three words on which she placed great emphasis, “clear the table because my mother told me never to refuse a lended hand in the kitchen.”

She stomped away, the dog trailing in her wake. “But the clock will be ticking once you’re finished. And I want answers.” Having gotten the last word, her sexy butt headed for the living room.

What was it about a healthy, curvy woman in a pair of stretch leggings? Some men hated the look. Thinking it tacky or sloppy. Him? He’d never given it much thought until right this second, but watching the seductive wiggle of her butt and the way her hips rolled as she walked away made him an instant fan.

Racing around the kitchen like a crazy man, he wrapped up the leftovers and got everything into the dishwasher in record time. Throwing his arms up in victory when he finished, Brody reached for the bottle of champagne, realized it was mostly kicked, and hurried to the refrigerator for another. Upending the open one, he swallowed the remaining two mouthfuls and tossed the empty into the recycling.

“Alrighty then.” He looked around to make sure everything was in order. “So she wants to know about Arizona.” Tall order. How the hell could he adequately do justice to … Justice?

In the living room, he found quite a scene playing out.

“Aw, my god, George. Come on. Cut me a break.”

“What’s going on?” he asked with a chuckle. Heather was curled against the arm of the sofa with the pup trying to nose and squirm his way under her shirt.

Dropping her head on the sofa back, she muttered, “He likes skin. And if he can’t snuggle against my bare legs, he tries to go under my shirt. Big baby.”

A year-old pup doesn’t quite grasp how big they really are, so seeing George wiggling under her floppy top was practically YouTube gold. And the more she struggled to push him away, the farther he got.

“Here.” Brody snickered and held up the champagne bottle. “This’ll get his attention.”

Ripping the foil wrap off, he made quick work of loosening the cork, met her amused gaze, and asked, “Ready?”

“Oh, my god!” She laughed as the tip of George’s nose poked through the collar of her shirt. “Save me!”

Aiming the bottle where it’d do the least damage if the cork went flying, he thumbed the stopper off with a loud pop. Startled, the excitable dog scrambled backward, making his way out of her shirt.

Dropping to the sofa without landing on her curled-up legs, Brody snapped his fingers twice and pointed at the floor. George’s head swung back and forth looking from him to Heather. With a doggie sigh, he jumped down and obediently sat.

Damn, sometimes he wished people were as easy to manage as a canine. “Good boy,” he praised while giving the dog’s head a good scratch. “Now, go lay down.”

Chuckling at the retreating dog, he met Heather’s dumbstruck gaze. Lowering his voice, he boasted, “Mischief momentarily managed.”

“I forgot about your magic skill with animals. How the hell do you do that?”

Brody snorted and laughed at the same time. “Seriously? I have no idea. Kids and animals, y’know?” He shrugged. She wasn’t the first and probably not the last person to ask him that same question.

He saw her slight flinch and could have kicked his own ass.
Shit.

“Yes, well …” Her tone landed halfway between frigid and miserable. “Not something I would know about.”

What the fuck was he thinking by bringing up kids? Instinct told him he had just seconds to rescue her mood.

“You know,” he prompted. “There’s an easy way to deal with George’s skin needs.”

She wasn’t relaxed and curled up on the sofa’s arm anymore. In fact, her whole vibe was just this side of ‘fuck you.’ Fluffing the hair she normally kept scraped back off her face, her jaw clenched behind a mouth set in a grim line.

He was losing her.

“Do tell.”

Okay. Well, at least, she hadn’t showed him the door. Stalling for time, he refilled their glasses and acted like nothing was wrong.

“Crop top,” he suggested as he pushed the glass into her hands.

“Excuse me?”

Taking a swift sip, he waited while she did the same. When it was clear she wasn’t going to clean his clock for being an insensitive shit, he relaxed against the sofa and turned his best teasing smile on her.

“Yeah, you know.” He deliberately looked at her midsection and pointed. “Crop top. One of those half shirts. Expose some skin. After all,” he joked, “George is a guy, right? Show us some skin and it’s all good.”

Heather was very, very good at guarding her reactions. Part professional and part personal, she rarely got caught out making a face. But there were these fleeting micro-expressions that he found easy to read, and right now, she had a doozy happening. First, her lashes batted, followed by brows snapping together, and finally, her whole face registered thoughtful confusion.

“Are you saying I should show more skin? To my dog?” Mischief tinged the outrage in her delivery. He had her now.

“Sure would be simpler than having him destroy your shirts.” Fixing her with a suggestive leer, he added, “And you’d look hot, so there’s that.”

Heather sipped her champagne and eyed him over the rim of the glass. He could see her deciding how to play the witty exchange.

“You want me to look hot? For my dog?”

He laughed and almost missed what she said next. “Crop tops aren’t my thing but …” The hesitation was deliberate. She had his full attention. “I’d consider it if you wore a man thong. Skin, y’know?” Her smirk was all kinds of sexy. And cute.

Jeez. He really liked that she was being playful. Meant he’d been right to push just a little. This attractive, smart-witted woman had so many other sides he was eager to explore.

“Yeah,” he groaned. “That’s never gonna happen.” Shuddering for good measure, Brody rolled his eyes. “No guy in his right mind would …”

Talking right over his words she snickered, “Phew. Thank god.” Coming off like the lead prude in a sitcom, she crossed her legs, straightened, and sniffed. “Showing off. Ugh.
SO
not my style.”

Aw, this was fucking great. Flirty banter was easy. He’d gotten an eyeful and earful of the exercise by watching the Justice crew, and he knew just how to proceed.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, honey. Was this an actual negotiation? Sounds like it to me.”

She sputtered and went poker-faced when it dawned on her what she’d stepped into.

“’Cause if we’re negotiating terms, ya gotta let me know.”

This time, it was Heather stalling, slowly sipping her drink as she eyed him with obvious doubt. “I’m not putting on a crop top,” she declared after moments of silence.

“Now, hold up. We’re negotiating. I’ll start and show you how it’s done.” Brody laughed internally. Once again, she scowled when he started directing things. “Okay, m’lady. Here goes.”

Looking her over thoughtfully, he relaxed, crossed an arm over his chest, and leaned the other elbow on his wrist, leaving one hand free to tap a finger on his closed mouth. “Hmmm. So many options.”

She squirmed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Warmth spread inside him. Every second that passed when she didn’t withdraw or worse, toss him out, was a huge victory.

“You, wearing those sexy leggings and,” he stumbled mentally when he saw the fire in her expression. Seriously? She didn’t know the stretch pants made her ass look like an invitation to paradise? It was completely fucking wrong on so many levels that she doubted her looks. “And a crop top … with no bra.” That last was nothing short of a thunderbolt of inspiration. She didn’t quite gape at him but damn close. “Now, you come back with your terms.”

The fire in her expression turned to retribution, and he grinned. Dramatically clearing her throat, she fixed him with a cocky smirk that almost ended with his body pinning hers to the sofa. Woman better watch herself ‘cause if she kept that shit up, he was more than fucking willing to take up the challenge.

“Me. These pants. A conservative crop top. Sports bra,” she added before briefly sticking her tongue out. “You … wearing whatever the hell David Beckham wears in those underwear ads. Button-down shirt, half undone.”

Should he tell her that she just gave a whole hell of a lot away? He’d be shopping for a crapton of white button-downs tomorrow. The Beckham briefs he had covered in spades. “Long leg cotton boxers or the body briefs? Solid color, print, or plain white?” Her shocked reaction was absolutely perfect.

“Uh … the briefs. White, I guess. Or gray.”

More info. Fantastic. The desire to feed her fantasies was an unexpected plus for him. One that reminded Brody he wanted to be so much more to her than just a fuck buddy.

Time to up the ante. “Me. My favorite Harley Davidson t-shirt. White briefs from the Beckham collection. You. A teeny tiny crop top. The sexiest bra you have.” He thought for a second and hurriedly added, “Oh, and stretch lace boy shorts. I know you have some. You’ve worn them before. Blue, I think.”